Friday, February 19, 2010

What I never got to say

Dear fella
You might not realise this, but you were my first. Yep, it's true. Officially, it was the guy before you that I rolled around on Shelly beach with but to be absolutely honest he was hung like a pinkie finger and I'm still not convinced it actually made it... you know, inside. Which means UNofficially, you were my first. Shocked? Oh really, do use your brain (the brain on the top of your neck, not the one that's saggy, pink, often has the faint odour 3 day old indian food and sits inside the jocks your mum picked out) and put two and two together; when we did it, it hurt like hell, was awkward as all get out and there was fucking blood everywhere. Oh, you don't remember the blood and pain? No, I don't suppose you would considering your brain was a touch foggy after having an orgasm - mine, however, was NOT foggy and did in fact see the blood and yes, registered the pain. Come to think of it fella, you must have noticed something was not quite right because you did take the time to wipe your hands all over my sheets and leave my bed looking like a fucking slaughterhouse at Thanksgiving. But I digress... Yes, you were my (un) official first and while this may or may not have made a blip on your fella-radar, I would like to set you straight on a couple of small points.
1. Even though you were my first, it didn't matter much to me. No, honestly, when I think about you now, I struggle to remember your name (although my friend Holly recalls it quickly, with very little prompting, just proving the point that women friends are the greatest asset another woman can have in the never ending war against male idiocy and fuckwitedness). I don't really recall where I met you - of course, the litres of alcohol purchased from 7-eleven and skulled on the street corner have something to do with that - and I don't really care. I don't think I ever really cared because I was having the time of my life and you may or may not have fitted into the great time I was having. Either way, you were never going to have a monu-fucking-mental impact on my life. In summary of this point = GET OVER YOURSELF, YOU EGOTISTICAL TWAT.
2. I fear you got the wrong end of the stick. The times we spoke on the phone after we did "the deed" I wasn't flicking idling through bridal mags and doodling the names of our children. I genuinely meant it when I said I understood that you were leaving the country. I genuinely meant it when I said I'd had fun with you and would like to have *wink wink, nudge nudge* fun with you again. I genuinely meant it when I said "yes, I am free Friday night" and when you replied "great, I'll call you and we'll go out around 7pm", I genuinely thought we'd come to a genuine agreement to go out Friday night. So when you genuinely didn't call and genuinely forgot to answer you phone and genuinely left me sitting in my bedroom for three hours, I was genuinely upset. HOWEVER, I was only upset because lying to a woman and making a woman wait like an idiot makes me realise that I slept with a genuine coward who thinks women can't handle honesty... best to keep the poor weak flowers in the dark, clinging to the scrap of hope that your previously genuine body has been run over by a genuinely enormous bus whilst en route to pick me up for our genuine date. In summary of point 2: WOMEN ARE NOT EMOTIONAL RETARDS, SO DON'T ASSUME WE CAN'T HANDLE IT. BE. FUCKING. HONEST.
3. Lastly, I'd like to offer my thanks. Thanks for fucking off without a word because now I know that some men do that. Thanks for helping me to realise that being alone is better than being with douchebag who talks rather than does and couldn't find a clitorus with an iphone app called i-clit and a large red arrow pointing the way. In summary - YOU WERE A SCREAMING DISAPPOINTMENT BUT YOU TAUGHT ME A LOT ABOUT MYSELF, SO THANKS.

Oh, and fella, just so we're absolutely, crystal-couldn't-be-this-clear clear, I say this now not because I still care about you but because I think it's about time you heard it. I think you're ready. You're grown now - hey, you probably even buy your own jocks. And not just you, but all men should hear it because unfortunately it applies to more than one of you fucking tree sloths. And, no, I'm not some man-hating femo nazi - I'm a woman. It's what we all think and what I never got to say to you before you left.

Sincerely not yours

Sunday, February 14, 2010

it's home brand bitch

I love grocery shopping - it's a nice, cool temp inside, you can wander and stand and judge and select until your hearts content. NEVER have I had a staff member at Safeway come up and ask if I need a hand? Do I need a different size? Did I realise there was a 2 for 1 special on this style??? No. You get left alone to browse and dream until your basket is overflowing.

Until this: now, I consider myself to be a fairly confident person (note: please disregard previous blogs as I've decided to turn over a new, confident leaf. and if you don't believe that, you can fuck off please). To be fair, if something happens that I don't like, I'll generally be able to articulate what I don't like and through the use of good humour and flattery I'll get the other person to change their mind or at least question their choice. There is, however, one scenario in which I always feel like I should apologise, one scenario that always gives me cause to pause and... well, feel awkward as a hooker in a Mormon modesty suit - buying groceries with a fucking audience.

I HATE selecting my groceries in front of other people. With every item that drops into my basket, I fell them glare and judge - "pfft... you sure you need that jar of nutella? looks to me like you've had enough already"... or the classic "TWO packs of 12 sanitary pads? two? shit, you must bleed like a stuck pig". I skulk by the potato chip racks, snatching a bag like lightning before any curious passers by notice and, in seeing the size of my ass, put 2 and 2 together and dob me in. I'm just waiting for the nasal store announcement - "could the women with the bag of mexican cheese doritos and grated cheddar cheese please put down the family block of Golden Rough chocolate and report to the fruit and vegetable department immediately."

Let me asure you at this point that I am not alone in this issue (yes, it IS an issue) as it plagues many people; a friend of mine said she once cut laps around and around an isle until the shelf packer left and allowed her unobserved access to the tampons. Another friend admitted that she often buy items she doesn't want because she has to waste time fiddling with other less controversial products until the coast is clear and she can swoop in and grab a box of magnum minis from the freezer.

As an aside to this, I ALSO live in food snob heaven - otherwise known on Google maps as Brunswick, Victoria. Honestly, if you dare approach the checkout with one item that doesn't have the words "organic" or "fair trade" or "free range" emblazoned across the box then you're liable to cop a slap across the face from the cashier. I'll just say it right now - I like home brand crunchy peanut butter, I bloody ADORE using the cheapest dolmio sauce I can get my hands on and black and gold label garlic bread is THE SHIT.

So grocery shoppers of the world, rise up and be proud! Let us proudly plonk our bottles of canola oil (at least 1/4 of the price of extra virgin single press olive oil, mind you) into our baskets and boldly eyeball anyone who dares look twice. RISE UP - that's if your fat ass can be bothered... honestly, how do you sleep at night?!?!