My salad dressing days

It seemed important to establish this
January 28, 2007, 11:49 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized
You Are the Very Gay Peppermint Patty!

Softball is the huge tipoff here…
As well as a “best friend” who loves to call her “sir”
What Gay Childhood Icon Are You?

Beholden to my lord and master
January 24, 2007, 10:45 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Posted by Picasa I emailed (nay, gmailed) a friend this evening to suggest we might have lunch next Thursday. No sooner had I hit ‘send’ than a little box popped up on the right saying

Would you like to…
Add to calendar
lunch – looks as good …

Thu Feb 1, 2007

“…come over here for lunch – next thursday looks as good as any…is that good for you?” are the words I used in my email.

Holy cow! And underneath is another little suggestion:

Would you like to…
Add to calendar
coffee-drinking opport…
Wed Jan 24, 2007

Huh? Get over yourselves! It’s almost 10pm. I don’t drink coffee after 2pm.

But seriously: holy cow!

I blog with Blogger, I use Google calendar, I’m gmailed up to the eyeballs. These people OWN me. Never mind knowing about my lunch dates and coffee-drinking opportunities, they probably know when I’m menstruating and will doubtless use this information to send me targeted advertising for products high in sugar and fats to coincide with my raging PMT.

What next? Am I going to get instant messages purveying friendly advice whilst I compose emails? [‘Oooh, you don’t want to say that to her! You know how sensitive she is…’ or ‘I’ve seen your Blogger profile image, pet. There’s no way in hell that bold print skirt is going to flatter your hips. Take it out of your shopping cart.’ or ‘Call your mother – it’s been a week!’]

And, to think, people are worrying about identity cards and function creep and wotnot.

Function creep, schmunction creep.

Google Creep is what we should be peeing our liberal (fairly traded cotton) pants about.

**runs screaming from cyberspace**

Yoga (level: intermediate/highly competitive)
January 22, 2007, 11:32 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

It’s a New Year (sort of) (shhhhh – don’t jinx it) Resolution type of a thing.

Yoga classes.

Although, I’m not new to yoga. Oh no.

‘So, has anyone here done yoga before?’

[Enthusiastic show of hands.]

Me: ‘Yes, a few years ago. But I’m not sure what type!’ [I hoped it was the type that Madonna does, but that’s not what I asked when I signed up.]

Teacher B is sooooooooooo, well, y’know: Zen.

He’s lithe and well-toned and perpetually calm. You just know he eats nuts and berries for breakfast and raw salads for lunch and has never been on a form of transport that requires the burning of fossil fuels. I aspire to be the female version of him (and therefore slightly amend my NYR of simply ‘do yoga’ to ’emulate B in every way possible’).

‘Now, as you exhale, we’re going to get ourselves into [indistinct as the room is quite echoey but it sounds very much like: athasanathasana], OK?’

No-one bats an eyelid. They simply swivel one foot outwards and tip gently to the right, as instructed.

Except, it isn’t B’s right. It’s his left, but because he faces us, he has had to get used to telling us to go right when for him it’s left. Gosh, he’s clever. I would have a great deal of trouble with this, as I can barely tell my left from my right even without standing in front of eleven lycra-clad thirtysomethings.

‘Let’s now try [hathamathafluxcapacitor??] – do grab a block if you feel you need one…’

I toss my block pointedly to one side and look around to see who is doing the same. Only one other woman! (I rock!)

I bend forward and do the ‘extra’ stretch suggested by B. B comes round to inspect and, much to my disappointment, tugs my stomach inwards and tells me to straighten my arms. (I suck!)

But I recover from this setback quickly…before we move into the [yengarsanalanahatha] pose. I truly suck at this but thankfully, so does virtually everyone else and it’s not long before we are all lying prostrate on the floor, our legs and arms quivering.

Then comes the best bit. The bit we have all been waiting for. The bit when we just lie down on the mat and B turns the lights off. (Sadly, this bit only lasts about three minutes and comes right at the end of the class.) Whilst I am lying in the obscurity – opening one eye every few seconds to look at the clock – I am visualising myself on a yoga holiday. One of those ones where everyone gets up at 5am to do headstands on the beach before eating a breakfast of nuts and berries followed by a two hour long session of breathing through alternate nostrils whilst chanting in the lotus position followed by a raw salad lunch and then some sun salutations and a large glass of spring water before an early bed.

I curse the ugliness of my perpetual desire to compete and resolve to shed all grudges I am holding against my nearest and dearest.

As B is doing his little praying/nodding pose thing, everyone leaps up enthusiastically to put away their mats and blocks. Except some people, it turns out, have now got their own mats! What is this? I struggle to imagine B suggesting that people buy their own mats, living life – as he does – as lightly as a feather. What is wrong with using the communal mats, huh?

I stride out of the room (resolving to buy my own mat), get home and scoff two chocolate chip cookies in a bid to calm down.

January 20, 2007, 11:29 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I thought it was something everyone did.

I thought it was normal. Acceptable. Run of the proverbial mill.

I can’t remember how it came out, but it was my mother who rumbled me.

People, I hold my hands up: I am a sheet slut.

We, Mr Chick and I, we’ve always wanted our nearest and dearest to feel that they can drop by any time to be welcomed with a hot meal, some mindless banter, a bed for the night.

Sometimes our new guests turned up just as the last ones were leaving.

Maybe the first time, I was out of fabric conditioner or such like. I forget.

But I had good reason. Good reason not to change the sheets.

Granted, I might turn the duvet over and possibly change the pillowcases. Oh, and brush off the pubic hairs. I always did that!

But the way I justified it to myself (I know, I know) was: well, M knows H. And M only stayed the one night. And he’s a sleepwalking insomniac!

Oh, and if it was family family, well then, no question! Sometimes I would even tell them: oh, hope you don’t mind, but E slept in that bed last week. Only for a few hours, mind, as she came in late from a work night out.

But it appears this practice is somewhat sniffed at. Frowned upon. Thought unseemly. And so my washing machine chugs itself towards an early death, the planet suffers and we all go to hell in a laundry basket.

Can that be right?

A little wisdom from my inner hippie
January 17, 2007, 10:19 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

  Posted by Picasa

Practices unpleasant
January 4, 2007, 8:40 pm
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Whatever your views about the blog Girl With A One Track Mind and her naivety (or not) at not having anticipated being outed when the book of her blog was published, the manner of her outing (courtesy of that shitty little excuse for a newspaper The Sunday Times) was pretty unpleasant.

It must have taken immense restraint to resist the urge to publish it before now, but Abby has just posted the email she received from the News Editor Nicholas Hellen the night before the story was published.

Untold numbers of people – both slebs and mere mortals – are subjected to this sort of treatment by our nation’s media all the time, but it’s interesting (read: sick-making) to get a peek behind the scenes at their ‘methods’.

Nice, huh?