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.
Friday, January 16, 2009
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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