Thursday, 30 July 2015

Nothing says 'I'm doing fine and my life is exactly as I planned' like three bowls' worth of oats coming out of your outside drain...

When I was younger, I had the deluded impression that by the time I was 25 I would have my life together and I would no longer be that one person that everyone used as an example of what not to do and how not to live. It turns out that my impression, as with most childhood impressions, was wrong. Nothing says 'I've got my life together' like running out of your house in a panic at 6am in your pajamas to put the bin out and then battling to find a good place by the side of the road after all the smug bastards that got their bins out on time took all the good spots. Likewise, nothing quite says 'I'm doing fine and my life is exactly as I planned' like three bowls' worth of oats coming out of your outside drain after being poured down the sink, creating an effect that makes it look like your drain has had a rough night out on the town and has now vomited all over the pavement. I mean, lets be honest, nothing really says, 'we're an upstanding part of the local community' like making all of the other kids in the village walk through your breakfast oats on their way to school, right?

On the bright side, despite my life not exactly turning out as planned, it at least has some consistency in that it is not just the outside of our house that fails to give off the impression that we've got it all together, the inside is also doing a fine job. Domestic duties have never really been my forte, but in my defense there's only so good you can be when your appliances are more of a hindrance than a help. Our hoover, for example, is so disastrously inept that it took me almost an hour last week just to hoover the living room. Imagine what it would be like to vacuum a room using a drinking straw and you would come close to something similar to the frustration I experienced. I spent most of the afternoon picking things up off the floor when the hoover missed them (which was almost every time), examining them, and then replacing them on the floor to give the hoover another chance instead of just accepting failure and placing the item in the bin. I'm not sure where this need to give the hoover another chance comes from, it's almost as though it's in our human nature to root for the underdog - resilience in the face adversity and all that. Not that it did me much good - eventually I ended up just picking them up and shoving them up the hoover until they disappeared. Obviously, by the time I had done this with all of the tiny bits of paper and twigs and other things that accumulate when you live with children, the hoover had been on for over an hour and was starting to overheat. I turned it off because I was slightly concerned that the spider Cat had hoovered up three weeks ago was still alive inside the hoover bag and was growing larger and larger, biding its time until the hoover inevitably exploded and he could rise from the dust and take his place as ruler of our house once again. Thankfully, the hoover never did actually explode, however it did refuse to turn on again (obviously its minimal effort and my bringing things to it had caused it to feel overworked) so I had to go creeping to my parents and ask if one of them would lend me their hoover. I did phrase it in such a way that gave my mum ample opportunity to reply with, "well, I'm never at home anyway so you may as well just have mine and keep it," but she didn't accept the bait so I just borrowed my dad's with the sinking feeling that a multi-pack of straws was going to have to last us until next Christmas when I can ask Santa for a new hoover, a new drain, and a the promise that by 30, I will have my life together. As it happens, my dad ended up telling me to just keep the hoover when it became apparent that he was either going to a) never get it back, or b) get it back in three years, broken, and filled with twigs.

Domestic traumas aside, I had an extremely distressing experience recently whereby I almost accidentally consumed a metric shit tonne (genuine measurement) of cocaine. Here's how it happened in a nutshell: my friends and I went out to a bar and got chatting to some people who were out for their friend's birthday. Birthday boy was too much of a wimp to do the birthday shot his friends had bought him, so being the tough rebel that I am, I volunteered myself to do it. Shortly after downing the entire mystery shot, one of the strange men I had just met and accepted a drink of unknown provenance from says to me, "Amy, do you do cocaine regularly?" to which I reply, "no, I've never done cocaine in my life. Why?" He looked sheepishly at the ground and went, "oh, it's just... there might have been a shit load of cocaine in that shot you just drank."

You know those moments in life where you just suddenly think, "oh shit, I have just accidentally consumed all of the cocaine in the world and now my eyeballs are probably going to start bleeding?" Suddenly oats spilling out of your house seem like a treat. As it happened, there turned out to be no cocaine in the drink, which I was extremely relieved about. I've never coped well with drugs - I once left the lid off the glue stick for too long and thought my house was a Hungarian Horntail, can you imagine what cocaine would do to me?


By the way, dad - I know that you're going to read this and then ring me and tell me off for accepting a drink from a strange man in a bar and almost accidentally doing cocaine, so I will fill in my part of the conversation now and save you a job:

You: *ranting down the phone about not accepting drinks from strangers*
Me:...
... I know...
...Yeah...
...Ok...
...I know...
...Yeah...
...I know...
...I don't know...
...I know...
...Ok...
...Ok...
...Yeah...
...Ok...
...Ok, bye...

Wednesday, 29 April 2015

R Kelly's Body Would Never Have Told Him Yes If He'd Ever Been To Boxercise

Last month marked the one year anniversary of the last time I posted a blog. I realise that this is a significantly long time to be away from the computer, and there have been lots of goings on both in my life and the outside world whilst I have been gone that I feel I should address.

THE DRESS -
literally the biggest thing to happen to the internet since that time someone leaked naked photos of Jennifer Lawrence. (White and gold, by the way.)

Someone leaked naked photos of Jennifer Lawrence - and it started a big debate about whether it was or wasn't OK for people to search for them, but by the time the verdict came out that it wasn't, everyone had already looked and just had to pretend that they hadn't and agree that it was an awful breech of privacy and the photos should never be searched for again.

Hipsters are out - and, as usual, I have no idea what is in.

I confirmed everyone's suspicions and turned out to be gay - then decided to take things one step further and moved in with my girlfriend and her three kids. Don't feel like you have to pretend to be surprised so as not to offend me - almost everyone I have told so far in the past year has either feigned surprise ("really? No way! But you've always been so... feminine...") or said something along the lines of, 'oh, is that not something that was already a thing?'

I got a new job (finally) - and now I work in a bank and earn a little bit more money and have to wear nice clothes and only work in 8 hour shifts. (Fear not, though - there is still ample opportunity for me to make disastrous mistakes, only now instead of receiving disapproving looks from my superiors, my consequences will come in the form of dismissal and/or a jail sentence.)

So there we are, the internet is all caught up on my life choices and I am now taking it upon myself to pull my socks up and regain my title as Yorkshire's my friendship circle's finest blogger. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my browser, Google Chrome, for being there when Internet Explorer wasn't. I'd like to thank Firefox for stepping in that time Google Chrome broke and wouldn't stop bombarding me with pop ups of naked cartoon characters - I know it was short notice, and I know it can't have been easy for you, but you did a fantastic job and this blog wouldn't be here without you. I'd like to thank TalkTalk for taking three months to set up my internet when I moved out of my mum's house that time. You showed me that if I really needed the internet, I had the inner strength to seek it (at my mum's house that I'd just moved out of). Nothing sparks determination like deprivation. I'd like to thank my loyal fan base, for always giving me a tonne of hits and then not caring about my well being when I disappeared for over a year... Your lack of e-mails meant a lot to me. Dicks. (I forgive you though. Please still read my blog. I don't have the stature to be picky about the fact that my existence is negligible to you). So thank you everyone, this blog would not be what it is what it once was without you. All of you. (Except you, Internet Explorer, but you knew that...)

As per tradition, I am now going to ramble on about the banalities of my life in such a fashion that is slightly humourous and somewhat embellished, but mostly just cautionary. The first lesson I wish to bestow upon my lovely readership regards the hell-born activity that is boxercise. Understandably, I am assuming that most of you either a) don't know what it is, or b) do know what it is and are therefore mystified as to why I would volunteer myself to take part in such a heinous ritual. As it happens, I was coerced by my former colleagues and, foolishly, agreed to take part. (I'm pretty sure that the name hints at what it is, but I'm just going to quickly explain the art of boxercise here for those of you that are uncertain. Basically, it consists of a roomful of belligerent middle aged women beating the shit out of each other until one collapses in a state of distress and the other is declared victor and presented with a prize of chocolate and a box of Kalms.)** I have only been to three sessions as of yet, but three sessions are enough to realise that my acceptance was a mistake. The first session took place on a Monday, and on the Thursday that followed I was still unable to reach behind me and fasten my bra strap unaided or stand up without crying and causing the people around me to look around in alarm thinking I had gone into labour. I'm finding it difficult to find the emotional and physical strength to go back. In the words of R Kelly, my mind's telling me no, but my body, my body is also telling me no.

*Not technically the definition. There is no prize. There is no winner. There are only losers.
**Also, no one actually gets hit. We just hit at pads like kangaroos with PMS until we collapse in genuine distress.