Things I highly recommend you never say to a woman (amongst other things)

A long title I know, but I just finished watching a continental film, so my mind is a bit everywhere. 


So, the other night, somebody said to me, 'Michael thinks your boobs are too big'. This person has a certain knack for saying things like this, which (I'm not altogether sure, but I think he believes them to be 'great' opening lines) tend to offend. Deeply. And this particular gem got me thinking. What are the things one simply should not say to a woman? This is one of them. In fact, it goes at the top of my list. 


Unless she brings it up, leave her chest alone. I personally never believed a woman could have boobs big enough to be acceptable - indeed I thought that for the majority of men, the only truly satisfactory level of boob is just around the level of walking breasts, or breasts on legs (thereby satisfying both the 'leg man' and the 'chest man'). However, with this stunning revelation, I am forced to consider that perhaps I am wrong, now you can be too chesty? Brings to mind 'this porridge is too hot...and this porridge is too cold'. 


The second thing which I find particularly offensive (although this is perhaps because I hear it every single time I'm with a particular group of guys who are talking about the 'best pickup lines' is: 'does this rag smell like chloroform to you?' Just no. It's not funny, nor is it likely to make her take pity on you. Sorry.


Actually, now that I think about it, both of these lines originate from the same source. Perhaps we must consider that he is just an excellent example of what not to do. A case, even, to be studied.
Assuming he reads this, he might even be pleased to note that he is in my blog, as he has repeatedly demanded that I incorporate him into my 'next post'. So he has made it. For those of you who don't know who this is, be glad, for those of you that have an idea, you're probably right, and I hope you have enjoyed this. For those of you who are lost, I do apologise. 


On to one more matter, and a comment, no, I lie, two, you lucky things, which I hope you appreciate.
There are some people who make me get up in the morning. There are some people for whom I would walk over burning hot coals for. One of these such people puts up with me on a far too regular basis, bearing with me to watch stupid, terrible movies with me, at my insistence. You can imagine that comments would accompany this. 
When I told him that I had just (totally legally) downloaded Resident Evil 4: Afterlife, the response was 'oh happy day'. 
When I told him that I thought we should watch Burlesque (in cinemas January 13 in case any of you were interested), and told him to look up the trailer, I received this remark a few moments later: 'Cher AND Christina Aguilera? Fabulous. I just cannot wait. Who ever thought we'd be this lucky.' 
These are things which, if you have a close female friend, I recommend you do say, as they make her laugh. And I know when I find somebody who makes me laugh, I consider them a blessing. 


That being said watching Le Placard, a french (duh) comedy the likes of which only the french can do, also makes me laugh. So...you're all replaceable. 


Just kidding

Blogspot is better than Tumbr

Yes, there, I've said it. Take that, tumblr people. 
But I assume you'll want me to justify this radical claim. Here are some of my reasons: 


First of all, the name, 'tumblr'. I mean seriously, try to say it. There are a couple of problems I have with that, without the vowel at the send, it becomes 'tumBLAGH', and that just sounds like someone's throwing up.


Second of all...(well to be honest, if you need to read past the iffy name I'm not sure what I can do to convince you), being on Tumblr makes you kinda like a whore, because you flash your newest post onto facebook with the little 'integrated into facebook' thingy that posts the first line or so of the newest post onto the facebook wallfeed, and makes you want to read it, even if you weren't intending to!!! (and if you clicked upon this article through a link i posted on facebook, it wasn't integrated into facebook, so hush)


Tumbler, sorry....Tumblr, in face, I think I may refer to it simply as Tumblagh for the rest of this article, is like those annoying hipsters who are trying sooo hard to be 'indie'. And so much of it is just re-blogged. I am not a fan of re-blogged things, although there is something rather fitting about it. The hipster is basically a recycled idea, often unoriginal in music taste or fashion sense (I read a great post about this), and this continues on to re-blogging other ideas or posts. I find it frustrating. 


Anyway, I keep being distracted by Pinkie and the Brain clearly intellectual material that surpasses everything. I leave with my thoughts on Tumblagh. 
Also, for those of you who read it, what does Hyperbole and a Half use? Blogspot. Yeah.... 

Christmas and why I don't enjoy it

No, I have not been a fan of Christmas since I reached the age of fourteen. That was round the time I developed a brain, and began to form my own opinions and reach conclusions based upon my own observations. But anyway, here are a few reasons to support my feelings as to why Christmas is my least favourite time of the year: 


Statistically, it is the time of year when families get together and argue the most, and when the most suicides occur. The pressure to 'have a good time', and 'be with the ones who you love' are often more than we can live up to. Often, the people with whom you would most like to be with, you can't because of the familial obligation. I myself was stung by that sorrow - my dearest husband (facebook, that is) was shackled to his family, and I to mine.


Christmas carols are probably the most hideous sounds ever to be labeled music - including Mahler (sorry, that was a nerdy music joke). Listening to the banal tunes piped through every single store in existence beginning in October makes me want to top myself, if I'm being gentle. I don't know what it is about Christmas music, but the tunes are always, So. Bad. 


Because there are so many people at the gatherings, I find myself disappointed with the food - so many people create the pressure to provide for everyone, so the food is of a lesser quality. And then there is also my personal trap of falling into trying the potato salad. One lady who comes to Christmas always brings a potato salad, and I always try it, thinking that it will be good this year, and I always end up with a mouthful of unsatisfactory potato salad. 


Christmas is the idea of taking a religious festival and turning it into some corporate money-making scheme. I love presents as much as the next person,but unless I get damn good presents, I feel like somebody has wasted their money giving me a gift because 'that's what you do on christmas'.When I ask 'why?', the response is simply 'because that's the tradition'. Oh, and in the search to get other people good presents, I inevitably send myself broke. Damn.


Rest assured, there are more reasons, but I'm going to go and find myself a piece of satisfying chocolate. That's what I want for Christmas. Oh, and world peace, and another trip to Bali, and somebody with whom I can happily spend the rest of my life. 


And to all a good night.

Swimsuit shopping: the perfect torture

Today, I went swimsuit shopping. And wasn't it just merry hell. 


I often find myself hating any form of clothes shopping as you invariably end up feeling utterly horrible about yourself. But I have a special hatred reserved for bra shopping and swimsuit shopping, in fact, pants shopping as well, but that's more because my natural laziness is frustrated by the amount of effort that is required to go pants shopping. Take off pants, put pants on, repeat. 


But. Swimsuits. They are in the same category as bras to my mind. The shop itself is a small warehouse of swimsuits, and decorated with pictures of these horrifyingly thin, tanned, and cheerful women who have most likely been airbrushed to hell and back on the walls. For those of us who do not have the body of a supermodel, the constant reminder of your inadequate body is reinforced by theses posters that decorate the walls. 
Then the swimsuits themselves. Sorted in colour, style, brand, stripe, type, and everything in between without the assistance of a handy shop person you sort of wander around the store in this dazed confusion, picking out things which catch your eye at random. 
That's the easy part. Then comes the actual trying on of the swimsuits. You go into this small cubicle, and take off your clothes. Rather confrontingly there is a mirror right in front of you, exposing every single piece of skin you cover with clothes so you don't wish to see it. As I was staring in the mirror today, I thought, 'I can't possibly be that proportioned - I look like some form of troll'. So the mirrors themselves are the sort that make you look well, let's face it, fatter than you actually are. 
Then you are trying on these swimsuits. This didn't happen to me today (thank god), but the worst feeling is when you have to ask for the next size up. You invariably pay money for this particular experience.


Although it the experience was somewhat tempered for me by the fact that in the changing stall next to me, there was a small child chucking the mother of all tantrums. It was truly spectacular, and I was privileged enough to hear it escalate into the hysterical mode from mere whinge. I was texting my friend about it, as we have this thing where we love to see small children chucking hissy fits, as we both stand there and think 'thank god that isn't me having to deal with it'. 


Anyway, that is the end of why swimsuit shopping is torture.

5 reasons why feminism is bad

(a satirical look into why the women's rights movement has been detrimental to our society)

So I have been wondering about why there are so many people in the world who say that women should not have rights. I have been trying to understand why oh why this could possibly be thought to be the case. Over the course of my mental meanderings, I made some realisations, and came to the conclusion that yes, feminism is of course a plague in our society, a veritable scourge that has brought suffering to those around us. Here are the top five reasons. 

1. Leggings (and short shorts really). Yes. With the growth in women's liberation came women shunning their traditional 'COVER YOURSELF YOU LOOSE WOMAN, I CAN SEE ANKLE' ideas, and donning pants. And the pants got tighter. and shorter. and tighter. and shorter. Until the age of the 'leggings as pants'. No. Society at large has spoken, and there is only a teeny tiny percent of people in the world who can actually pull off the pants as leggings look. I am going to say one word and one word only 'jiggle'. I think that this explains my point. To a lesser extent, this is also the case with short shorts. I think the best way to illustrate my point is the comment made to me by a friend today: 'I think there should be a limit at what size short shorts are made to.'

2. Bimbos. Accompanying the movements for women to be heard, is the women who are heard. Oh dear. Some people should really just not speak. Now, I am not sure about who the 'real' Paris Hilton is, or what she actually does...- in searching for the following quote I read claims that she actually works quite hard doing...whatever she does - but. Let us examine Paris Hilton. Did she change her name to 'Perez'? Someone whose image is that of a blonde twit. I came across this quote which I think proves my point perfectly: 'I first wanted to be a veterinarian. And then I realised you had to give them shots to put them to sleep, so I decided I'd just buy a bunch of animals and have them in my house instead.' ...dunno how to tell her this, but what about when her animals get old and sick and die? 

3. Women appearing onstage. Yeah, in the time of Shakespeare, all the parts were played by men. Saucy man-on-man action was had. Now, women are everywere. I want to see some socially acceptable same-sex love going on in a performance forum damnit!!

4. Gimps. Yes you heard me. Ever since pulp fiction, gimps have been a popular part of pop culture. But more importantly, they exist within a subcultre of society. Why? Well obviously because with the empowerment of women, has come the emasculation of men. How has this manifested? Gimps, clearly. The need to be dominated by a man, and the need for a male to regain his cojones by utterly dominating someone, because the women are the ones in power, it obviously isn't going to be them. Enough said. 

5. Sandwiches. How many times have I been told 'women make me a sandwich'? Quite a few. And I have a problem with this. Because frankly, sandwiches aren't that great. I mean sure, you can have some really decent sandwiches, but what's the fuss. Clearly, this has impacted our society by narrowing our cultural focus. How many times have you heard someone say 'woman! make me a medium rare steak in a creamy mushroom sauce with a side garden salad - perhaps with some croutons'? Exactly. 

The very fabric of our society is clearly under threat. Be aware.

Names and Stories

I was reflecting upon the concept of a name. This was brought on by a conversation I had with the person whom I mentioned in my last post. He demanded a codename - although I attempted to explain that I don't actually make use of code names per se. I genuinely use names that I call these people, all nicknames. 


But what is in a name (a rose by any other name might still smell as sweet)?


I just turned to my trusty friend Google, and apparently my name means 'noble' (and is a variation of Adelaide, which ironically was my great grandmother's name translated from Hungarian). I have no idea what point I'm making with this, however those of you who know me, feel free to jump in with a comment. 


There's a story behind so many of the names that I call people though. Here are a few for example. 
'Soccy' - this came about because he calls me Princess (how fitting considering my name apparently means noble). But Soccy comes from an abbreviation of Socrates, which is relevant because he studies Ancient Greek, and is as wise - in my eyes- as an ancient Greek philosopher, Socrates, for example. 


Another example is 'Status'. This is so because of a rather humorous story I told him some months back about someone's status. The name stuck in screaming it out across the yard as a memory booster whenever we saw each other. 


I think the names we give each other are important, as they do tell a story about a friendship, about a relationship, or a bond that is formed. 
I often wonder what drives parents to choose a name for their child (or even people for their pets). I have a cousin who goes by her middle name rather than her given name. Have you ever played the game where you tried to guess someone's name and said 'no, he doesn't look like a Bernard, more of a Manny' (and props if you get the Black Books reference there). What prompts that suggestion? 


Anyway, I'm going to attempt to write a history essay. God save us all. 

Intimacy

So I was looking through my weekly love, postsecret, and I came across this. Really got me thinking. There's something about some of the things people write up there that just get to me. I also like the EMTs one (first if you go to the initial page btw).


This got me thinking. I had a conversation with a friend (not a friend who I've referenced before actually), about intimacy, and how often there is almost a willingness to reveal secrets and have soul-revealing talks with people who we barely know.
It's safer that way.
I suppose this links into 'alone', but I'm taking the tangent further.
Let's look at my good friend the dictionary. It tells us that intimacy is: a feeling or atmosphere of closeness and openness towards someone else. Although the dictionary (ok it was google) also says that it is the fourth studio album by American pop singer Jody Watley, released in 1993...


Intimacy are those moments when you open yourself up to another person, when you share something, and it leaves you vulnerable. Sex, to me, doesn't come into this particular equation. Intimacy is when you can cry in front of someone (something I very rarely do), or let them see you weak, and still be ok with that. That's what it is to me, at least.


Thinking about the most intimate experience I have had in the recent past, it was when I was staying over at my friend's house, and we were lying in bed (we had been drinking). She possibly won't remember this, but we had a very deep, and very meaningful conversation. And I still remember that sensation of lying in the dark talking.
Before that the one that springs to mind, is when I went over to a friend's house, and I was sobbing, and there were just hugs (and maltesers), nothing else. And that was, frankly, all I needed.




And forgive me for a moment for sounding a touch mushy, but I think a truly intimate moment is when all the layers go, when you catch a glimpse of someone else's soul.




That's all from me.