When You’re A Boy
After last week’s hen night/day/extravaganza where all participants in the day trip to a shooting range were given stick-on moustaches, mine actually looked like it belonged on my top lip. In minutes my demeanour changed, and I started to walk like a man, talk like a man, my son. It occurred to me: I’m a good boy, I am. I suppose what I’m doing here is my annual Halloween post, because when I look back I’ve often opted to be a bloke. One year I’m Blackadder, the next I’m Zombie Rod Hull (complete with dead Emu), the next I’m Prince in his Purple Rain period. This year, at the annual Halloween Party of Legend, I’m dressing as a bloke but I won’t divulge as many of my co-halloweenies read the Misssives and these things are always best revealed on the night. But would I have liked to be a bloke? Hmmm…I think not. Here are my reasons: 1. Recent readers will have read that my Mum wanted to call me Kenny. No rock stars are called Kenny. And before someone phones in, you can’t count Kenny Loggins. He only did Footloose and that was ages ago.
So I’ll maybe not save up for the op and get my eye laser treatment instead of an expensive and painful trip to GirlstoBoys R Us.
And there’s always Halloween to indulge the inner geezer.
By the way, thanks for voting for me in the The Blogger’s Choice Awards. It ended today. I made a wee bit of a dent. The Misssives finished in 18th place for the Best Blog About Stuff category, which is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick and I believe I’m the only blog from the UK to make it that high, but don’t quote me. I know for sure I’m the No1. Transvestite blogger. Special thanks to those who commented- some of them words made me weep a bit. And if you’re sitting there going, “Aw man, I didn’t vote, I feel like such an utter git!,” then you can vote for me in the 2009 awards which start today. And those of you who voted for me originally can vote again. Chin, chin!
Your Cut Out and Keep Guide to Man Speak
Ladies, learn to understand your man! By learning the hidden meanings behind these few simple phrases you can unlock the mysterious vault of your man’s psyche. Please feel free to add your own in the comments box.
1. Uh-Huh: “Uh-huh” is the man-sound equivalent of the snooze button on an alarm clock. In response to piercing annoyances along the lines of “Will you take the dog out?” or “Can you take the kids out of the bath?” the sound “Uh-Huh” will buy men another five minutes until the noise starts again.
Note to men: Uh-huh snooze button can only be pressed once. Pressed a second time it will only cause the piecing annoying request to be repeated more loudly with possible expletives and a frying pan thrown in .
2. Very reasonable, actually: The phrase “Very reasonable, actually” is one of a collection of phrases belonging to the monetary group. It is used to fob a partner off after a large amount of money has been spent on an expensive yet frivolous gadget or item. Other examples of this include the phrases: “Quite cheap”, “less than you would expect”, “A giveaway” and “an opportunity of a Lifetime”.
Items that are “very reasonable actually” can usually be bought on Ebay, late at night after 4 glasses of wine.
3. Five minutes: “Five minutes” is the time it takes for anything to happen that won’t be soon. “Five minutes” can be anything from 1 hour to never. Often used in the phrase, “I’ll be home in five minutes” or “I’ll tidy up in five minutes” or “It’ll be done in five minutes”.
4. “Where’s my…(+ noun)?”: The phrase “where’s my...(+ noun)?” is a lifelong man phrase that has been oft recorded as a male infant’s first sentence. In the first 16 years of life it is directed at a man’s mother, but then converts into being directed at a man’s wife or partner. It is used in lieu of ever actually looking for anything one’s self and can be an important time saver. Variations include the more pointed “Where did you put my…(+ noun)?” and the more casual”Have you seen my…(+noun)?”.
Note: the phrase “Where’s my.. …(+ noun)?” is often bellowed from an adjacent room to the recipient.
The +noun element of the phrase rarely involves anything that the woman herself will use.
5. “Hardly”: A staple of the man vocabulary, “hardly” is key component of any good male sentence. Its main use is to mask copiousness. Examples include, “I hardly drank anything”, “I hardly touched it” and “I hardly noticed/know her”.
Note also the phrase “hardly anything” which can be used in place of any of the phrases in Phrase 2.
6. “Sorry”: The word every female dreads hearing. In the male vocabulary “sorry” is rarely used as an apology. Sorry is a portent of doom which can involve indiscretions with money, women, employment and gloss paint which there can be no hiding from.
Note: The word “sorry” used on its own and shouted can also mean the opposite of its dictionary meaning.
7. “OK” the word “OK” in short means one thing: “I’m not going there” or “I’m not touching THAT one”. It is often used when a man doesn’t want to commit to any one polemic view for fear of his life. Here are some uses.
Woman: “What do you think of Dave’s new girlfriend?
Man: “She’s OK”
or
Woman: “How did you and my dad get on, then?”
Man: “OK”
or
Woman: “What do you think of me in this bikini? Do you think I can still get away with it?”
Man: “It’s OK”
This post was written in response to the very funny post written by The Ben Lomond Free Press’s Big Rab, 9 Words Women Use.
Don’t ever miss a Misssive, subscribe!
What Women Want?
One night after coming home from the pub before Meeester and I were hitched, we sat channel surfing the then four television channels and found one of those worthy late night discussion shows on Channel Four. The topic was “What Women Want”. This is the kind of bollocks Channel Four used to force feed us before satellite TV came along to provide some competition and made them buck up their ideas a bit and put daft slutty lassies getting pissed in Ibiza on for our viewing pleasure.
This kind of show would normally have been flicked over immediately to some more mindless nonsense on a rival channel but for the fact that one of the pundits on the studio couch was a girl I went to university with.
At university she had been one of those smug, overbearing high-achieving girls that you couldn’t hate outright because there was nothing overtly nasty about her. She was pretty, intelligent, mature, right on, and totally superior. Me and my underachieving, immature, gawky mates hated her.
She was equally loathsome on telly and she had some bollocks pressure group type position befitting her general smugness and superior disposition. I couldn’t bear her but felt compelled to watch as she pontificated on “What women want” with the sort of authority that a 23 year old just shouldn’t have. What did she know what I or anyone else wanted? Who was she to sit there with her privileged background, perfect hair and complexion and lecture anyone on anything?
Even through the cathode ray she managed to make me feel small and insignificant in my own living room a world away from the bizarro world of uni. There she was on actual telly being all smart and important whilst I was struggling to get out of a theatre box office filler job and get on with the career I thought I would have had by now. The sight of her on that show plagued me for weeks.
Two years previously at university I had gone out with a bloke who had at an earlier point been her live in boyfriend. Irritatingly he was still friends with her and she would routinely turn up at his flat unannounced to remind him how much more worthy of his affection she was compared to me, and simultaneously how he wasn’t going to get any, even if he wanted it. Not by saying so, just by being there. In my paranoid mind, anyway. My relationship with the bloke didn’t last long. My insecurity was the reason looking back. How could someone like me compete with someone like her?
I don’t know how you would categorise how I felt about her. Envy and jealousy are the obvious ones, but they don’t quite cut it on their own. There was more in there. The woman brought me out in hives.
It’s funny how people like that stick in your mind years on and bring all the worst traits in your personality surging to the surface. Even twenty years on as I read her pontificating again in a magazine this week about work and motherhood.
Over achieving cow.
Fit Fine and Fancy Pieces
For the first time in six years I have been spending some time in an office environment doing a job for a client. In college I was so busy that any time spent in the office was fleeting between classes and we had little time for time-wasting bollocks.
So, it’s with much mirth and more than a little disdain that I observe things about spending an entire day in an office that I had, until now, forgotten about. I am certain I can stretch this one out into a series, so I’ll deal with the issues one by one instead of writing a novel of a post.
Oh, and before I start, this office is in the North East of Scotland and I will be using some of the local language. This will be underlined and I will helpfully add a glossary at the bottom of the post for those of you not conversant.
1. Office Women and Major Food Issues
When someone goes to the bakery or the chip shop and brings their booty back, it will cause a great stir. If that person is a woman, then doubly so. Fat or thin.
This is enough to make me not want to eat anything in front of anyone. An entire discussion of how naughty someone is for eating chips or a cake will ensue. This will be peppered with envy from other chip-less or cake-less ladies.
“What’s that you’ve got Deirdre”
“Chicken Nuggets and Chips”
Chorus of Ladies, “Ooooohh! Fine!”
“I ken, I’m going to hae a salad the night for my supper”
Someone else will then enter the room, “What’s that fine smell?”
Chorus, “Chicken Nuggets and Chips. Fine!”
Enterer, “Ooooh…..Fit fine!”
Five minutes pass, “Deirdre, I canna concentrate with that fine smell from they chips.”
Deirdre smugly giggles whilst stuffing her face, “I ken. They’re really fiiiiine.”
Someone else enters, “Fa’s got chips. They smell fine! I’m starving now and I’ve jist hid ma sandwiches”
Deirdre, “Me. And I’ve a vanilla slice for after”
Chorus, “No!!!!”
And then after slight thought, “Finnnnnnne….!”
This will last until chips and slice are devoured.
1 hour later Deirdre will make an announcement.
“I shouldn’t have had they chips and chicken nuggets”
Someone will helpfully add, “And that vanilla slice”
“I just won’t eat tonight. And I’ll hae a salad for ma dinner the morn”
2 hours later someone will announce they are going to the bakery.
“Does anyone want a funcy piece?” they’ll shout.
Chorus, “Bakery. Fiiiinnne!”
Everyone will want something including Deirdre who will order a scone.
“With no butter!” she’ll shout, presumably labouring under the misconception that a scone with no butter falls into the category of health food.
Glossary
Fine: How delicious! (It is no indication of quality.)
Fit fine!: Oh how absolutely delicious! (Nothing to do with fitness in any way.)
Supper: Dinner or tea. An evening meal. (Not a bit of toast and tea you have before bedtime.)
Fa: Who. (Not a musical note or a long, long way to ruuuuun.)
Ken: to know. (Not a bloke’s name)
The morn: Tomorrow. (Not this morning. Nothing to do with the morning, in fact.)
Funcy Piece (fancy piece): A yummy cake. (Not someone’s live-in-lover.)
Helter Skelter!
Instead, and because I’m frightened of my Mum, I will turn the critical mirror to me and tell you why I think I am starting to show signs of being a nightmare old bird.
1. I have complained to the BBC and Ofcom this week. You don’t need to know why (but it’s Kirsty Wark- time for her to go.)
Now, this is the first step to madness. At first you make a legitimate complaint, then in ten years you start doing things like phoning the BBC to complain about the “Fruit and Fibre” ad that isn’t even broadcast on the channel. My gran, Anna has done this. Although it might have been a rival cereal, I can’t remember.
2. I badgered my husband to……
3. I badgered my husband to write a letter of complaint to the local private school after attending an army recruitment day for schools. The kids from my husband’s school put all their rubbish from the burger van in the bin, the private school kids left their patch full of trash.
Nothing incenses me like litter dropping. Second only to private schools thinking they are better than everyone else (this is an old wound. Its origins lie in losing a match to cheating radge bunch of girls from a private school team in secondary school) .
Meeester took photos to show me because he knew it would enrage me. He didn’t bargain on me wanting to phone the local press like a wild white haired, tartan skirted harridan demanding that they publish them.
4. I growl at groups of stationary teenagers I don’t know. Look at them hanging about! If they’re moving, they’re fine. It’s when they loiter that it bugs me. I am a total hypocrite, I used to loiter at the village phone box making crank calls.
When Meeester worked as a social worker he had one elderly lady “client” who would mutter obscenities under her breath completely unaware that she could be heard. A conversation would go like this:
“Hello Jean. Would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit?”
“Hello son, that’d be lovely…(loud whisper)…. you long-haired fucking idiot bastard”
6. I bought “Calms”. Slippery slope to Valium!
“I’m a MARTYR to my neck and shoulders”
8. I MIND bad language. Except when I am using it.
9. I kept a pair of shoes that should go in the bin, “for the garden”. Slippery slope to buying a gardening HAT.
10. I am currently wearing a thermal vest ( but I bought it for going to Finland. That surely is OK). I tell you, it’s so warm and lovely. Are big pants round the corner? (Please God! No!!!! I don’t want to turn that corner…but, Ooh! I bet they’re comfy…)
11. I wore my slippers to drive round to my sister’s house last night. I did the same thing to my Mum’s last week. It’s going to be my new thing. Those who are long time fans of “Coronation Street” will remember when Emily Bishop went a bit senile and they found her at the train station wearing her nightie and slippers. Slippery slope.
Ha! Ha! Hah! “Slippery” slope!
12. Feeble puns amuse me in lieu of actual wit.
