A weekday off from work has a lot to be said for it, we all crave it, personally I'd kill for it, but when I finally have one, an interesting psychological occurrance takes place.
Since I was a kid (I'm obviously kidding, I was born like Athene, fully grown and ready to talk back to my parents), it's been imbedded in my upbringing that running loose in the daylight hours on weekdays is bad. Why, I never really understood, it may have something to do with too much enjoyment, empty shops with nobody in your way, no queues, no pervs trying to feel you up on a crowded bus, and thus, something oh so sweet is also oh so bad and forbidden.
So I went to school, I went to more school, and I started working, all in the daytime. In my job I have to work every other weekend, which means that I, every other week have a weekday off to compensate (like a boring tuesday night can really compensate for a moist, regrettable saturday night of not knowing where the hell you are). Thus leaving me free to roam around as I please for a whole day.
At first I was excited, woohoo, I'll go walking, go scare some kids or grannies at the park, but you quickly realise that you wake up nearly as late as they go to bed, and when you do get up, you're too afraid to go outside. What if you see someone you know on just a greeting basis, and they think you are unemployed or homeless, or slightly prostitutional, because let's face it, who else roams the streets on weekdays except freaks and mothers with their babies? And you certainly aren't pushing any carriage around, and whilst we're being honest, those love handles come from your chocolate babies. You can't go up to the person and say "hey, I've got a day off from work" because you don't know them that well, and if you did anyway, they'd think you were one of those freaks that talk to strangers on the bus.
Even your neighbours become your own worst enemies. What if they happen to peak out the window just as you're leaving or entering the house at an unreasonable, homeless person time? Naturally you've got the perfect excuse for why your neighbours are also at home at the time, they are either retired (at the age of 35?!), unfit for work (unless it's off the record) or a mom to be (that's surely just a love for chocolate cake that's starting to peak out at the belt line). All this makes you a prisoner in your own home, and let's face it, your place isn't exactly fun central.
You lie in, the extreme version, trot around in ugly clothes your partner would burn in a black ritual if he or she ever saw, over-eat, watch tv til your brain hurts from too much womanhood on display, and sometimes you might even try to take up a lost hobby that once was lost for a reason. You can't knit for fuck, and your paintings are that of a five year old crackhead...no, I take that back, THAT I would pay to see!
Shame creeps in just around dinnertime, boredness, panic at how little of your day off is left, the feeling of skiving, lying to your mum about having tummy aches to stay in because it's snow outside and you know your face will be buried in two feet of white pain before the first bell rings. You grow more and more sure that this day in particular must have been the best day ever at work, something extraordinary happened, everybody got a bonus or free chocolates, a palace in France, a night with Christian Bale (after anger management).
But they never did, and you long for your day off once again. For the shame, for the angst, for the isolation from the pain of public transport.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Feminism versus My Boyfriend
I only just got my first boyfriend. Aaaaw, teenage sweetheart love, you may think to yourself, but no, I'm 26, which I presume makes me insanely picky, or maybe just a freak. What can I say? I'm a big softy romantic freak in that case.
Suddenly having a boyfriend actually introduces changes into your life, and I am not talking about the obvious ones, like waking up to a smelly man every morning and having no say in who gets the biggest cupcake, but rather the traditional clichés you thought was only a remnant of male chauvinism. I have this old antique cabinet I got from my grandmother when she got so old she basically returned to a teenager status and was no longer allowed to live on her own, and for the last five years one of the lower cabinet doors has been completely fucked up, it probably lost a screw back in 1955 and has been hanging all crooked, like a depressed, self-cutting emo, every time it's been opened. Now, one of the first things my boyfriend did after noticing this, was smelling down the nearest hammer in my place, I swear to gods I didn't even know I had one, and going at it, like his life depended on it. Now the door actually shuts completely, no longer spilling out my scary personal stuff to strangers visiting, because let's face it, good things gets put on display, bad stuff is hid in cabinets and drawers.
I've also had this kitchen light that hasn't been working since I moved in here, basically because I stuffed a light tube up there once and no lights came on, so therefore it was deemed broken. I came to terms with being only a meere mortal and lived like a goth for a while, but along comes mr. manly man and pops the tube in place, voila, there is light. I vaguely remember throwing myself around his neck for a second before my strict equality of the sexes-upbringing whipped me back into a couldn't care less-throwing of one shoulder and a thank you.
I must admit I sort of worship my boyfriend in an unhealthy Waco-way after all this magic. I suddenly grasp the fantasy many women have about handymen and men in general wearing tool belts, it's like a sick prehistorical instict telling us "this is the way to things around the house actually working!". Sure, I could have managed to fix it myself, but to me it seems like such a pain in the arse to have to do, something so invisible that I can't brag about it to others. I can spend hours finding the right curtain for a room, but putting in a nail where it's needed is just excessive work. I'll be the first to say it; WOMEN!
Feminists never tell you this, but when you're sick or just really tired, the man will actually hoover the carpet for you, and go to the shop to get your candy for you...it's like some sweet, grown up surprise, like sex was when you were a teenager. We've been had!
Suddenly having a boyfriend actually introduces changes into your life, and I am not talking about the obvious ones, like waking up to a smelly man every morning and having no say in who gets the biggest cupcake, but rather the traditional clichés you thought was only a remnant of male chauvinism. I have this old antique cabinet I got from my grandmother when she got so old she basically returned to a teenager status and was no longer allowed to live on her own, and for the last five years one of the lower cabinet doors has been completely fucked up, it probably lost a screw back in 1955 and has been hanging all crooked, like a depressed, self-cutting emo, every time it's been opened. Now, one of the first things my boyfriend did after noticing this, was smelling down the nearest hammer in my place, I swear to gods I didn't even know I had one, and going at it, like his life depended on it. Now the door actually shuts completely, no longer spilling out my scary personal stuff to strangers visiting, because let's face it, good things gets put on display, bad stuff is hid in cabinets and drawers.
I've also had this kitchen light that hasn't been working since I moved in here, basically because I stuffed a light tube up there once and no lights came on, so therefore it was deemed broken. I came to terms with being only a meere mortal and lived like a goth for a while, but along comes mr. manly man and pops the tube in place, voila, there is light. I vaguely remember throwing myself around his neck for a second before my strict equality of the sexes-upbringing whipped me back into a couldn't care less-throwing of one shoulder and a thank you.
I must admit I sort of worship my boyfriend in an unhealthy Waco-way after all this magic. I suddenly grasp the fantasy many women have about handymen and men in general wearing tool belts, it's like a sick prehistorical instict telling us "this is the way to things around the house actually working!". Sure, I could have managed to fix it myself, but to me it seems like such a pain in the arse to have to do, something so invisible that I can't brag about it to others. I can spend hours finding the right curtain for a room, but putting in a nail where it's needed is just excessive work. I'll be the first to say it; WOMEN!
Feminists never tell you this, but when you're sick or just really tired, the man will actually hoover the carpet for you, and go to the shop to get your candy for you...it's like some sweet, grown up surprise, like sex was when you were a teenager. We've been had!
Friday, January 16, 2009
Die, Speedy Gonzales!
Answer me this; What is wrong with people who ALWAYS, no matter how much time they have, sprint across a zebra crossing either as the green man is turning red, or in between cars as they are passing? They are SO busy they can't bloody wait one minute to not risk their lives playing car bumper tag. Where's the fire?! Where's the naked woman offering herself to them?! Is there a bomb somewhere I need to know about?!
On the positive side...there is a positive side to it. The immensely pleasurable feeling of actually having waited for the green man to lure you over the crossing, and then accidentally catching up with that guy who ran past you like he had a satanic cult meeting to reach. There he is, in all his unhurried glory, not busy at all, just window shopping like the speedy bastard he is. It takes all my inner strength to not give him a sideways knee kick as i pass, but I'm not speedy enough to get away alive.
Friends say I move like a snail, slow, majestic and covered in guck, but atleast I get to stop and eat the roses on the way.
On the positive side...there is a positive side to it. The immensely pleasurable feeling of actually having waited for the green man to lure you over the crossing, and then accidentally catching up with that guy who ran past you like he had a satanic cult meeting to reach. There he is, in all his unhurried glory, not busy at all, just window shopping like the speedy bastard he is. It takes all my inner strength to not give him a sideways knee kick as i pass, but I'm not speedy enough to get away alive.
Friends say I move like a snail, slow, majestic and covered in guck, but atleast I get to stop and eat the roses on the way.
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Menopause Witches of Eastwick
I attended my first official "grown up party" the other day, and I say it like that because I consider myself to be forever floating in an imaginary Peter Pan state, between a naughty child and a responsible adult with loads of money and fancy kitchen tiles. You might remember that special day you were allowed to upgrade your kiddie-table for the grown up-table at birthday parties, it felt sooo emancipating, like a huge rock in a greenhouse, right?
It doesn't work quite that way when you're 26 and end up at a party with 40 - 50 year olds, and yes, you can hold your liquor in a literary conversation, but when it comes to making wicker baskets you whimper like a child with no money in a candy shop. Instead you are left to study the other guests, and especially the middle-aged women.
There seems to be some sort of evil conspiracy going on in the world when it comes to middle-aged women. If you've ever been to an all-girls party for divorced women, you'll know what I'm talking about. When a young woman in her prime of life laughs, it is a beautiful and aesthetical thing, a light whisper of a chuckle, but when she hits her 40's, welcome the Balrog fire monster from Lord of the Rings! It's painful and scary to witness the hoarse gargle all those fairytales taught you to fear as a child, it's loud and shrieking and comes from the deep of the scary female sex, where all is hidden, but nothing revealed. Yet there you are, surrounded by chirping witches. Especially when the laughter happens in unison there will be chills down your back and through your marrow, it's like an over-dramatized replay of The Witches of Eastwick, only there are no ending credits, it just goes on and on. You try desperately to be unwitty and dull, but the nervous sweat on your upper lip makes them snarl for more. Dirty jokes fly across the table, they whip out their brooms and dance in a chilling noisy frenzy that could wake the dead...but only really wakes your dad...who fell asleep in the corner of the sofa.
Maybe it is a natural defence system evolution has given us women. When our husbands find younger wives, when our kids turn against us and choose all-green curtains instead of dotted ones, and we stumble in our own breasts getting out of bed.
Either way every woman in the world should be given a decibel measurer when hitting menopause. Evolution gave us loads of useless things, but we improve them all the time. Let's make it mandatory!
It doesn't work quite that way when you're 26 and end up at a party with 40 - 50 year olds, and yes, you can hold your liquor in a literary conversation, but when it comes to making wicker baskets you whimper like a child with no money in a candy shop. Instead you are left to study the other guests, and especially the middle-aged women.
There seems to be some sort of evil conspiracy going on in the world when it comes to middle-aged women. If you've ever been to an all-girls party for divorced women, you'll know what I'm talking about. When a young woman in her prime of life laughs, it is a beautiful and aesthetical thing, a light whisper of a chuckle, but when she hits her 40's, welcome the Balrog fire monster from Lord of the Rings! It's painful and scary to witness the hoarse gargle all those fairytales taught you to fear as a child, it's loud and shrieking and comes from the deep of the scary female sex, where all is hidden, but nothing revealed. Yet there you are, surrounded by chirping witches. Especially when the laughter happens in unison there will be chills down your back and through your marrow, it's like an over-dramatized replay of The Witches of Eastwick, only there are no ending credits, it just goes on and on. You try desperately to be unwitty and dull, but the nervous sweat on your upper lip makes them snarl for more. Dirty jokes fly across the table, they whip out their brooms and dance in a chilling noisy frenzy that could wake the dead...but only really wakes your dad...who fell asleep in the corner of the sofa.
Maybe it is a natural defence system evolution has given us women. When our husbands find younger wives, when our kids turn against us and choose all-green curtains instead of dotted ones, and we stumble in our own breasts getting out of bed.
Either way every woman in the world should be given a decibel measurer when hitting menopause. Evolution gave us loads of useless things, but we improve them all the time. Let's make it mandatory!
The Wee Dance
I know I've already covered the subject of uncool bodily fluids and the bad timing that usually follows them, but what can I say, it has a lot to be said for it.
Now, if you're a sad person like me, and you think having a good time with your friends is parading around a dark room with epileptic seizure inspiring light shows, sweaty people in skimpy clothing that try to touch you when you walk past, and ear shattering grenade-like sounds some people like to call "music", drinking highly over priced poisonous liquid colour additives in order to actually like the place enough to stay there the rest of the night, you will know what I'm talking about. If not, stop looking at me and keep reading your Bible, little boy.
It's the wonderfully entertaining cultural event that can only be properly enjoyed when it's happening to other people than yourself. It's the wee dance.
You'll see it at night clubs or bars with only one toilet per sex, lines and lines of women, sometimes men (but come on, there's never a line in the men's toilet, bastards), wiggeling, squeezing, stepping, riverdancing, throwing wild tics and tantrums, thrashing and whining, all to keep their lemons intact til that magic toilet door opens. Like fancy shamans from a different world they conjure up the demons of the force of the drunken wee wee relief, like samurai's with no skills or control what so ever, but a very pressing mission. The artform deserves its own music style, something like a cross between Rednex remixed with Enya, you just never know if it will take off in a frantic linedance or end in a mellow hymn to the waters of below.
If only it were a mating ritual, or something useful, but alas, it is an artform doomed to be forgotten with the shady guy in tweed by the bar, who asked you for a dance and a PayPal donation...
Now, if you're a sad person like me, and you think having a good time with your friends is parading around a dark room with epileptic seizure inspiring light shows, sweaty people in skimpy clothing that try to touch you when you walk past, and ear shattering grenade-like sounds some people like to call "music", drinking highly over priced poisonous liquid colour additives in order to actually like the place enough to stay there the rest of the night, you will know what I'm talking about. If not, stop looking at me and keep reading your Bible, little boy.
It's the wonderfully entertaining cultural event that can only be properly enjoyed when it's happening to other people than yourself. It's the wee dance.
You'll see it at night clubs or bars with only one toilet per sex, lines and lines of women, sometimes men (but come on, there's never a line in the men's toilet, bastards), wiggeling, squeezing, stepping, riverdancing, throwing wild tics and tantrums, thrashing and whining, all to keep their lemons intact til that magic toilet door opens. Like fancy shamans from a different world they conjure up the demons of the force of the drunken wee wee relief, like samurai's with no skills or control what so ever, but a very pressing mission. The artform deserves its own music style, something like a cross between Rednex remixed with Enya, you just never know if it will take off in a frantic linedance or end in a mellow hymn to the waters of below.
If only it were a mating ritual, or something useful, but alas, it is an artform doomed to be forgotten with the shady guy in tweed by the bar, who asked you for a dance and a PayPal donation...
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