I suggest you turn this shit up and listen to it as you read.
It will make you jive.
Jive like there ain't no tomorrow.
I'm jiving right now.
Just like Cuba Gooding Jr in Jerry McGuire during his "show me the monay" moment.
Why?
Because "YOU'RE MY MOTHER FUCKER!"
That's why.
I have a lot to say.
A lot has gone on in my personal life (YES! My life does exist offline, and away from my laptop!...Well, sort of...Okay, no, not really. This was through email) and I feel that it would be lying by omission to not talk about it on this crazy little thing called Vox.
This little blurb was going to be a lot longer, but it will soon be written and posted...So it can get up, and out of my heart, as it is a story built over my lifetime that has erupted in a most bittersweet, and anticlimatic way...
I cannot write it tonight, as any writer's soul knows...It has to come out when it wants to. You cannot force it out of your fingertips, no matter how hard your try.
Unless your heart wants it released, it will forever stay lodged in your pen.
I've included this lovely song by Christina called "Here To Stay" because that's how I'm feeling right now...Surprisingly un-meloncholy, a little feisty, but mostly just fed up, and moving on.
I've got that deep jiving in my soul that's keeping me going. It's keeping me feeling light. And keeping me feeling like I'm okay.
Like, "Dude. It's good.You got this! Shiiieeet. It ain't no thang."
Why my motivation sounds like that annoying little ghetto doll from the old 7up commercials, I have no clue.
But it does.
It also comes in the form of a hot British man who manages to listen to the running commentary of anything and everything that is in my brain at any given moment.
Funny how the person who motivates you, can also be the same person who can hold your face and tell you to quiet your mind, and just be.
Thank you.
I am still now.
I'm not usually such a photo whore, but some things just need sharing, posting, and voxing.
The other morning I received a lovely gift from my fabulous online lover pal LeendaDLL, who not only created this wonderful Tshirt, but was gracious enough to send a couple across the pond for me!
Thank you Leeeeeenda, and MelMega for the suggesting this brilliant idea!
Iain and my Mom teamed up to find me the glorious cupcake slippers from Old Navy. They're perfect for sliding around on hardwood floors to "Sexyback".
I have yet to take them off. I even wear them in the bath.
My sister completely spoiled me, and sent me what I like to call "Carrie Bradshaw Ruby Slippers". I would actually never spend the money or have the balls to buy these for myself, so hats off to my sister for getting me out of my cowboy boots.
These will actually match my wedding dress -which YES I will post a picture of soon- so I guess they'll my "Something New" or perhaps my "Something Shiny".
As far as my "Something Old" goes; if the gigantic zit that I begged Iain to photo shop out of the above pictures festers on my face for a couple more weeks, I suppose that will suffice...
And for the final installment of my photo whore excursion, behold the Anne Taintor-esque masterpiece that the ever handsome Iain concocted.
My family has a long running tradition of ordering Chinese food on Christmas Eve.
Why? Perhaps we'll never know.
I have a feeling this tradition came about because my Grandmother had six children and didn't want to have to cook a massive, traditional meal for eight, two nights in a row.
So, Iain and I thought we'd carry on the tradition by ordering Chinese food on Boxing Day.
One of the only Chinese take-away shops open in our entire post code is a place I will forever refer to as 'Little Hong Kong' due to the extreme lack of, um, ENGLISH spoken in the shop.
I honestly felt like I had traveled to China to order my food as the language barrier was about as thick and long as the bloody Great Wall itself.
Thank god we didn't call to order our food, as much pointing, sign language, and interpretive dance was used to just get vegetarian spring rolls, instead of won-tons.
Anyway, as Iain sat mesmerized by the immaculate fiber optics tree, I read the December 8th edition of the London Lite and came across an article entitled, "I got so fed up with builders I became one". Intriguing, no?
This woman named Kerrie Keeling used to be an investment banker, and after one too many run ins with builders that like to "holla" and plumbers that liked to pee in her sink, she started up her own construction business called A Woman's Touch.
At first I was picturing them using pink hammers, wearing yellow, latex overalls ala Benny Bonassi's Satisfaction video. However, I checked out their website, and was seriously fucking impressed.
I won't regurgitate the information for you, as you can check out their website yourself, but let me pause and reflect on how FUCKING AWESOME THIS IS.
Look, I know all builders/construction workers/electricians/plumbers/painters aren't sexist pigs. Nor do you yell at every girl under the age of 75 to come hither, whilst you pretend to wank off with your hammer.
But for FUCK SAKE it's good to know that there is a woman run company out there that exist PURELY to stand out, has policies and a kick ass philosophy:
We will arrange a mutually agreeable time to visit you and conduct the initial assessment and quotation. We will arrive for the quote promptly, with ID to prove who we are, and in the company van so we're easily identifiable.
All 3 of you that read this post of mine, understand how IMPORTANT THAT IS to me. And just in general. You HAVE to be paranoid as fuck with "plumbers" and "I am Xavier? I here to check gas machine? The meter?".
We will arrive punctually on day one of the job. We work from 9am to 5pm with a 45 minute break for lunch, Monday-Friday. We do not take cigarette breaks [we are all non-smokers] or feeling a bit lazy breaks! We work hard all day, and don't waste time. At the end of each day we pack away all of our equipment and clean up extremely thoroughly (including vacuuming etc).
I wonder if they take "Porn Breaks" or "Check out this girl with the big tits" breaks...I'm guessing not. I clicked around the website and when I found this quote from Kerrie Keeling,
"I decided to leave banking when I found myself using phrases like 'shifting the goal posts'."
I fell in love with her. I almost wanted to email her and see if she would be okay project managing and designing the interior of 'my precious'.
When first moving to London it was like I was floating on air. Everything was shiny, new, and tinted with my Union Jack colored glasses.
My fat American ass had to get used to walking everywhere, but it was okay! I was in London. Walk? Fuck it, I will skip to the grocery store if you need me to!
My first kick in the nuts that cracked my glorified view of city life was curtesy of a few lovely Builders from a certain scaffolding company. If I knew their name I would link to it and encourage you to send dead pigeons covered in leftover turkey giblets -and perhaps a few turkey necks- their way...But alas, I do not.
The day before, I had been skipping and jiving walking to the store, dressed in jeans and a Tshirt, and had to walk past some builders who were doing god knows what to a building near the cross walk.
"OOooOOOO BABY! DAAAMN!"
Whistle. Whistle. Throw in a few "OW!!!!"s and you get the idea.
I ignored it because, well, I ain't no holla back girl.
And I certainly didin't want to give them more attention.
A few hours shopping, and I walked my myself back home, and low and behold the Builders were still there..Still, not sure what they were working on, but there they were, perched up on the scaffolding.
"Oi OI OI OI! OoooOOOO BBBBAAAABBBBYYYY!! YOU WANT SOME? YOU WANT SOME!? LOOK AT THOSE TITS!!!!"
Okay, when you mention my tits, that's going too far. The she-devil inside me was immediately awakened so I flipped them off.
They laughed, they cheered.
Not exactly the reaction I had hoped for.
"Awww BABY! Don't be mad!!!"
So I yelled "FUCK OFF ASSHOLE!" so that the pathetic pig on top on the 5th level could hear me.
Yeah. I told them.
So, you can imagine my frustration when the next day, I had to walk past them again, and some shirtless sack of bones twat made kissy noises at me and called me "sweet cheeks".
I should have ignored it. But I can't be silent. I couldn't just walk away knowing that I was the better person.
So I flipped him off, again.
Skinny Twat: "OH Yeah? Then why don't you come here and do it?"
Me: "You couldn't handle it, asshole."
There. That was that. Damn I was good. OooOOoooh yes. No one talks to ME like that.
Too bad on my way home, they were still there...again.
The whistles I ignored. The kissing noises. The "Hey Baby"s...
"Oi! Look at those BIG NIPPLES."
Yeah. They called me 'Big Nipples' in front of everyone on the high street.
Me (Big Nipples): "What the FUCK is your problem?"
Him (Skinny Twat): "............."
Me: "Shut the FUCK UP and GET TO WORK."
Him: "....Well..I -er..."
Me: "Why do you yell at girls when you walk by? Does THAT EVER WORK FOR YOU??"
Him: "Eraha...Sometimes. Not today, though."
Me: "Yeah, I pity the bitch that ever falls for your bullshit."
And the whistling and yelling commenced as I walked the rest of my way back home. Stupid, yes. I should have just ignored them because they got the rise out of me that they wanted...
But I couldn't just keep my little girl mouth shut...Especially when they called me 'Big Nipples'. WHO says that?
However, I believe men suffer from same embarassment and harassment that women go through from people who give builders and electricians a bad name...
For example, when we first moved in, our entry phone didn't work. Our landlord is convieniently friends with an electrician, so he showed up one saturday morning with his 4 year old daughter.
Yay. Beacuse I just love children.
The electrician messed about with entry phone while we tried to keep his daughter entertained with some juggling balls Iain had leftover from his days as a street performer. (I kid...it was Cirque de Sole...)
She was all cute, and would play catch with Iain and giggled as he juggled.
Maybe children really aren't that bad.....
However, when her dad went downstairs to get some more tools out of his truck, her horns poked out and my left ovary immediately collapsed.
She started pelting the juggling balls at Iain's crotch - with great force.
Her dad came back in the house and scolded her,
"Now, now! Be gentle, darling. That's not polite. Stop that."
However, she continued to hurl the balls at Iain screaming,
"BUT HE'S GOT A BIG WILLY! HE'S GOT A BIG WILLY!!!!!!"
"Goodness! Don't say that! That's very rude, young lady."
"Big wiiiiillllly!!!!"
"Be quiet, darling. That's impolite!"
"BIG WILLY! HE'S GOT A BIG WIIIIIIILLLY!!!!!!!"
What do you say to that?
"Oh no he doesn't"?
"She's right, actually...."?
Or
"No, not really...It's just these jeans."?
Basically, I think it's fucking wonderful that A Woman's Touch exists. I love it when people take shit into their own hands (hi there, world's grossest metaphor) and take a stand for what is right.
It's not sexist. It is not encouraging further stereotyping.
It's just, why does shit like that go on?
So what if the company is ran by women; men work there, too.
The philosophy behind it logical. The entire POINT of the company is fucking brilliant.
There are a whole fucking lot some "4 Gurlz, BY GURLZ!!!!!1!!1!!" shit out there that I can't stand.
For example, when women act like, "Oh my golly! We've made a contraption so you TOO can pee standing up! Who says it's just for men? Tee-hee!!" or dye a GPS device pink and say "Look! It's girl friendly!".
But this actually makes sense, and is ran by certified electricians, project managers, decorators and builders that know their shit.
It just so happens that its run by women, and markets to women, but it is fucking legitimate. It' DOESN'T HAVE A PINK WEBSITE, their work van isn't covered in pink, fluffy fur, and they don't paint in Manolos.
Kerrie was even given the 2006 Demeter award for female entrepreneurs by IBM.
Very inspiring. If I ever need some serious painting, plumbing, or my entry phone serviced again, we're calling these girls...
Because something tells me the ladies in this video are just pretending....
My good pal Stuart sent me this link a few minutes ago, and it is a collection of probably the best reivews I have ever read, in my entire life. I kid not, I was weeping tears of glee and delight. Please, for the love of all that is good and holy...
For some reason, I keep meeting people that want to save me.
Not save me the last slice of pizza, or the last swig of beer...
But from the eternal flames of hell.
When I was 15 it was the two Mormon boys that took a liking to me. They were like the holier version of Matt and Ben, but sadly, less attractive.
They were actually good friends. They'd stop by and visit, we'd go to Mel's Diner and talk about the school play we were all in and eat fries with slurp chocolate milkshakes. They'd even use words like "swell" and "neat" and I'd laugh, because darn it, Mormons are fun.
Well, fun in the "I'm always laughing at you, not with you, and only came over to your house to play Bunco that one time to see if your mom really did have a framed picture of Jesus Christ over your dining room table, and spit out my coke when I saw that she totally did" kinda of way.
They pretended to accept me as a friend, despite my inevitable, eternal damnation, while I pretended not to notice their efforts to innocently manipulate my ways....
I'd find LDS handouts in my backpack, and "jokingly" laugh about the fact that I was going to hell...Shucks, we'd even playfully fight over the fact that because I'm a woman I'd never get my own cloud in heaven, or whatever, Generally, though, they were sweet kids.
Sadly, our friendship eventually fizzled out when I destroyed my body/temple with a tattoo, and they went BYU , and on to spread the gospel in Zimbabwe.
Working at Starbucks introduced me to a lot of things; Espresso, The Anal Retentive Corporate World, and copious amounts of God lovers who could see the devil in me, right through my cracked-out-caffeine smile.
First there was the Johovah's Witness who came in the store, and marched straight up to me.
Jehovah's Witness: "Honey, oh honey, I worried about you!"
Me : "Oh, no, I'm fine. Thanks. "
JW : "No, really. Sweetheart, OH how I worry!"
Me : "Thanks. Um, can I get you a coffee?"
JW: "No! THE WORLD IS ENDING. "
Me: "No, no. I think every thing's okay. "
JW: " NOOOO ! It's not! God, he told me. "
Me : "Really. Wow. Okay. Did you want a coffee?"
JW: "God told me he's worried about you. "
Me: ".....So no coffee then?"
JW: holds mobile phone up to my face "Call him. CALL GOD. He wants to talk to you, honey. "
Then I had my own, personal Stalker.
Stalker was about 55 years old, balding, and a BOY SCOUT TROOP LEADER. He's one of those scrawny old men that just look like a child molester.
He'd wear the uniform, and instead of tipping us in money, he'd leave us little jars of jam. Or say "Apple for the teacher?" and hand us fruit.
One day there was a ticket in the back room for a "Singing Songs With Jesus" concert, for me, from the Stalker. After much avoidance and hiding whenever he came in, he managed to corner me in the alley behind our store, at dusk, while I was taking out the garbage.
Stalker: "Did you get my tickets?"
Me: "What?"
Stalker: "The ticket for the concert? I can give you a ride there if you want. "
Me: "Um, no. No I'm not going. "
Stalker: "OH, but it will be so lovely. "
Somehow I managed to escape before I was stabbed/raped/re baptized, but that didn't stop him. I guess he figured that if he couldn't take me out on a date with Jesus, he'd just sit outside our store windows and stare at me while I made lattes all fucking day. Holy, no?
He also thought, for some reason, that I liked to hear him recite Psalms out loud....Yeah, no.
Last fall, I met this guy named, ironically, Ian. And he was British. Strange? Very.
Anyway, he wasn't that cute, but he was British for fuck sake, and the pickens were slim in Sacramento. So I, although being his boss, decided it would be a good idea to ask him out for coffee.
COFFEE . Because, hell, we couldn't do that at work or anything.
Well, I should have probably paid more attention to his personality virus his accent before I did that. I thought it was a good sign when he upgraded from coffee to dinner...during which, I found out some VITAL information that most people should know before asking someone out.
Me: "So, what do you do on the weekends?"
Other Ian: "Work, play football...Go to church every Sunday. "
Me: "Oh? Church?"
OI: "Yes. Now that I have Jesus in my life, it's changed everything. I used to smoke, drink, and have sex...But that's all changed since I've brought Christ into my life. "
To make a shocking, and long story very short, allow me:
Ian USED to be interesting, have a life, and SEX before he overdosed last year on who knows what. He apparently heard HEAVENLY ANGELS singing to him as he awoke from his OD, and has since been celibate, and nicotine and alcohol free.
Oh, he also believes in traditional family values, wants about 6 children, and has a bumper sticker that says, "God said it, I believe it!" on his car...
Oh, the pitfalls of Anglophilia, and MY GOD the things you can find out over a Chevy's chicken quesdilla .
As if I hadn't suffered enough disappointment and disgust that night, after I forked over the $40 for dinner, he decided to turn the tables, and ask - finally- about me.
I thought that maybe, just maybe he wanted to be friends, and genuinely cared about my life,...
OI: "So, what is your purpose in life?"
Me: "Oh! Wow. Okay, um...I just got out of a really bad relationship. I'm discovering a lot about myself, and really just learning how to be comfortable in my own skin...I'm really just trying to concentrate on getting my life to where I want it, and find happiness, ya know?"
OI: "Oh...Okay...So what do you think is important in your life?"
Me: "Well, like I said...Happiness, love...Balance. Finding out your true passions and who you really are.."
I could hear my answers and thought they were brilliant. God I was goooood . I could practically feel him giving up Jesus at this very moment JUST to be someone as fucking fantastic as I was! He looked at me, very meaningfully...This was it, maybe he really did like me!!!
OI: "When all of our numbers are up...And we stand at those pearly gates, God isn't going to ask you what you think about yourself. He's going to ask you what you think about his son, Jesus Christ. "
Me: "....Um, kay ...."
OI: "Because really..YOU don't matter in the long run. All that matters, is how we feel about Jesus. "
I burst out laughing.
Me: "Oh, god. Sorry, it just...It just really sounds like you're telling me I'm going to hell. "
OI: "It's completely up to you whether or not you go to hell. "
Needless to say, it didn't work out. British Celibate Jesus Freaks who condemn me to hell on our first date, aren't really my type...
Ah, and that brings us to Jessica.
Jessica was one of my coworkers at Starbucks . She was funny, and we seemed to get a long pretty well. It was a known fact that Jessica was as pure and chaste as The Virgin Mother herself, so I surprised that we actually got on.
We eventually would go out for coffee, or grab lunch.
I would watch my language, and she wouldn't preach. It was fabulous!
I felt really lucky to have a friend that actually really respected my values, even though ours differed so much.
It was refreshing, after all of the people I'd met in my life that just pretended to like me, so that when I least expected it, they would trick me into going to a Mormon dance, or something.
Until one day, she asked me to go to church with her. And then preceded to ask me to accompany her to church every single Sunday after that.
We met for coffee one day and I tried to explain to her my religious beliefs, so we could get over this hump in our friendship,
Me: "Jess. I love you. But I really am uncomfortable going to church with you, as I'm not really Christian. I was raised Catholic, and have chosen to since become Agnostic. I respect your religion and values and beliefs. I do. I just don't necessarily want them for myself. "
Good answer, huh?
Jess: "But why? How do you think the world came to be? Cate...Jesus loves you. He loves you more than you could ever know. He wants to be in your life. How can I make you see that?"
Me: "Jess...Jesus kinda scares me, to be honest, and I just am not comfortable with that, ok ?"
Jessica : "Scary? Nooooo . Jesus is beautiful. Really. Cate, he loves you so much. "
I tried to keep a straight face but I just kept envisioning this old, bearded Israeli man in a small sarong, reaching out his wrinkly arms saying,
“But my child! I love you! Come, come sit on my lap and confess! There's nothing to fear! I am the Lamb of God!”
We agreed to disagree and to not let our differences ruin our friendship.
I could accept her love of Christ, and therefore she should be able to respect the fact that I was a dirty heathen that enjoyed alcohol, masturbation, fornication, and the word 'Fuck', right?
I tried to ignore the fact that she gave me a copy of CS Lewis' "Mere Christianity" for Christmas. I even tried even harder to ignore the email she sent me saying "she felt like she had the cure to a disease", and that she was "frustrated with me for not wanting to accept the cure"....
aka "You are willingly accepting an eternity in hell, I'm offering you a way out with Jesus, and you're being stubborn, you fool!"
Sometime mid-December , last year, I would like to say that I was drugged or kidnapped, or taken there against my will...But Jessica somehow managed to convince me to go to her, uh, special place to talk to Jesus.
This location being a segregated Christian Community, way up in the mountains, in the middle of bum-fuck-no where....
Her excuse was "It's a baby shower for my friend Mary! She soooo wants you to be there!"...
I had met Mary once, she was really nice, but the thought of being stuck up on a mountain surrounded by people who could corner me for hours at a time trying to convert me with no where to run but off a cliff...scared me. A lot.
But, I sucked up my pride, and went.
Yes, I willingly went to a Christian community on a mountain top, that had their own schools, stores, gas stations, power supplies, cafes and entertainment facilities. I was going to Jesus Town, and I would be the only ' non-believer' there . The Sinner. The Village Witch.
Upon arrival at Jesus Town, I thought I would be showered with tightly squeezed hugs, as to "Squeeze the hell outta me". I thought they would feed me home baked, "holy spirit" shaped sugar cookies or perhaps present me with a leather bound bible, embossed with my initials during that night's camp fire.
But, oh, no no no no .
I was definitely treated like a heathen. I got a few "Hi how are you? So glad you could make it to the baby shower!"s...
But from my lack of enthusiasm to talk about my personal relationship with the Lord over lunch, I'm pretty sure they could gather that I was not Christian.
Not only not Christian, but definitely not convertible.
And where does that get you in Jesus Town?
Oh, That gets you shoved at the end of a sofa for hours upon hours listening in silence while they ignore you and swap "So I was sitting on a log, talking to Jesus" stories, and being forced, IN SILENCE again (because no one cares what your pathetic, non -believing soul has to say about anything) as they watch videos of their speeches they gave in Asia to thousands of "lost Buddhist believers" about how they KNOW THAT JESUS CHRIST IS THE WAY!
The baby shower itself was strange. I had never been to a baby shower at all, so going to a hardcore Christian baby shower on my first go, was probably asking for it.
The shower went a little something like this:
-Help out chopping food and fruit into 'tiny bits'
- Look at about 36 different ultrasound pictures for about 4 different babies
- Meet a woman named Rach that's "heard so much about" me and would "love to have a heart to heart" after the shower!
-Play "Guess the Mysterious Smell in The Diaper!" game
-Pray
-Roll eyes at everyone while they're praying
-Give "thanks and praise"
-Play "Baby Shower Gift Bingo"
-Roll eyes at women "darning" things "to heck" when they didn't put " footie pajamas" and "receiving blanket" on the same line
-Pray
-Eat mini foods
-Hold mini foods under tounge and pretend that I didn't start eating before everyone gathered to pray
-Give more "thanks and praise"
-Wonder if hurling my body out the bathroom window would do enough damage so that would they have to take me home
-Laugh because they would probably had their own hospital on mountain
-Pray super hard that the window was at least big enough to sneak a cigarette or 65
I was at my wits end by the time we started to pack up the car.
I had had enough of being forced into silence because I couldn't giggle about the joys of pregnancy, experiences as a child at Christian Camp, or don't listen to Christian Rock.
I had never felt more awkward, judged, or unwelcome before in my entire life. It was the first time in my life that I actually considered being burnt at the stake a real fear.
To top it all off, as we buckled our seat belts Jessica looked at me with tears in her eyes and asked me,
"Cate...Aren't you afraid of what's going to happen to you when you die?"
Also known as "You're going to burn in hell. Aren't you afraid?"
DONE.
We are no longer friends.
Look, I was raised Catholic. I've done the Sunday school thing, my first communion, and have owned more than a couple rosaries in my day.
I think Jesus was a great guy. I think that people that believe in him and have a "personal relationship with God" are great people. I do. I don't dislike or judge someone for having faith in their personal choice of religion.
Do I believe in a heaven and a hell? I'm not sure.
That's why I'm Agnostic. I believe in something, I'm just not sure what.
I don't have a problem with you if you're Christian.
But excuse me while I JUDGE THE FUCK OUT OF YOU if you're JUDGING ME for NOT believing in Jesus.
Do NOT tell me I'm going to hell.
Do NOT tell homosexuals that they're going to hell.
Do NOT EMAIL ME and tell me that I'm gay for being okay with gay people and that I'm going to hell with them. (Yes, that's happened to me before. )
I've yet to see "the sinners" of the world running around shoving mini yellow books on Darwin at children coming out of catechism.
I don't knock on people's doors saying, "Hey, if you've found God recently, maybe you should think twice!"
I don't EVER corner, email, or try to convince Christians that "Ya know that whole heaven thing? Yeah, I'm not sure it exists, and something really bad is going to happen to you if you don't STOP believing in 'The Lord', whatever the fuck that means!"
Look, I know not all Christians are like this.
I also know that the "true Christians" accept everyone, and don't really care what your religion is...
(Although if you agree to go to church with them next Sunday, they'll have met their "Save a Sinner!" quota for the year and will get that $100 gift card to The Bible House they've been praying for!...I kid, I kid!!!)
I just find it really disgusting that there are a lot of people claiming to be "Christians" out there, that are so pretentious, self righteous, and condescending that they cannot find a way to genuinely have someone in their life because they SIN! And SWEAR! And don't receive the cracker and grape juice of Christ every Sunday!!!!.
I find it really sad that people feel the need to segregate themselves in communities not associated with anyone of a separate religion. Wouldn't you be making your God even prouder by sticking by "the rules" when constantly surrounded by "sinners" and "temptation"?
Doesn't that mean more than putting yourself in a bubble where you can control everything?
I never have ended a friendship, or tried not to be friends with people who love whoever they believe to be God.
I would never condemn someone for having a religion, so why is common and "normal" for them to judge and question me for not having one?
Dude...
It's just like, just cause I'm a picker...I'm a grinner..I'm a lover...And I'm a sinner, and I play my music in the sun...Or the fact that, I'm a joker...I'm a smoker...and I'm a midnight toker ...
I sure don't want to hurt no one.
You know what I mean?
Well gosh darn it.
Had I only known about this book at Oliver Bonas,
I could have saved myself a lot of deep thoughts and
from the wrath of a lot of angry women.
So, I'm lame and am now just NOW doing this. But, eh, better late than never?
I'm stealing/reblogging/totally copying the Fabulous Kelli's post that's even on the much coveted [this is good] section of Vox.
My Blog Crushes:
This is probably the 498th time I've linked to her, but she's just so fucking fabulous I can't help myself. I seriously sat there for a week straight just pouring through her archives. After being discovered on her blog, she got a book deal, has been on David Letterman, and is currently working with Steven Spielberg working on a script for a TV show. OH, and did I mention that she wrote the screenplay for the upcoming movie Juno? Sigh, she's my Blog Idol.
Simply because his Bloggy Is A Wonderland. Witty, smart, hilarious...Love it.
Because you are hilarious. You make my sides hurt, and you're just honest.Very refreshing
Heather is just, I can't say enough good things about her. She's daring, and brave, and writes in such a way that she can make me cry and laugh in every single post. I also devoured her archives like a book. Everything she has been through and everything she stands for I admire. Plus, she's made a living out of doing this. Fuck yes. I, sadly, would probably shit myself if I were to ever meet her in person. Seriously.
Maggie Mason is brilliant. She also runs the blog Mighty Goods, which she was recently interviewed about on NPR and her blog was named one of the top 50 by Time magazine. She also wrote the book "No One Cares What You Had For Lunch: 100 ideas for your blog" which is one of the first blog books that helps you with your CONTENT, not just the design or functionality. Love her, love her, love her.
Plus, all of the ladies that I message and talk to on Vox or all the other nooks and crannies the Internet has to offer...
You know who you are, and I love you all.
I had such a wonderful night. It was such a pleasure to meet each and everyone of you. Thank you so, so much for coming and making tonight so much fun!
We must arrange another LoVox meet up in the Spring!
xx
So how are the Christmas parties going everyone?
Are they good?
How's the free bar that your boss is paying for?
Are you enjoying the crackers and powdered sugar mince pies?
How about the dancing afterwords?
Do you enjoy the dancing?
How about the music you're dancing to?
Isn't having a DJ at your: Hanukkah/Christmas/Holiday/Kwanzaa/Winter/Pagan/Birthday/Wedding/Satanic Sacrificial Ceremony nice?
There's no better feeling in the world than being drunk out of your mind in front of your coworkers, wearing a paper crown, and humping your project manager to Wham!'s "I'm Your Man"...is there?
Suuuuure you had to ask that silly little man behind all the DJ equipment, like, a thousand fucking times to play it...But he finally did!
What's wrong with that silly little man?
God, like, everyone was dancing to that rubbish Kylie Minogue song he put on, but you just know, KNOW that all of the old people sitting in the back of the room, slouched over their coffee would TOTALLY get up and dance if ONLY he played some GOOD MUSIC.
I mean, suuuure, you kept asking and hinting and guiding him through what you thought would get EVERYONE up, but the bastard kept putting complete SHIT on.
Fuck all those people that were actually having a good time and dancing. YOU can't dance to anything other than Rick Astley, so why won't he just PUT IT ON RIGHT NOW?
Everyone will dance to it. Everyone will love it. You PROMISE.
Sound familiar?
Does this happen to you a lot?
Here. Let me hold you.
Let me help you wrap your tiny, fragile brain around why this keeps happening to you.
Are you ready? Are you calm...Okay sweetie...
It's because you're a FUCKING TWAT.
I know this may be hard to understand, but here.
For all of you DJ haters and "frequent song requesters" and "frequent 'hey you forgot to play Avril Lavigne's Sk8er Boi' request reminders" here is a helpful guide, coming straight from the DJ's Super Hot Assistant Whose Breasts You Leer At While Make Your Song Request. (Me).
Part 1: "How to get your request actually played"
Tip #1- Be specific. Do not say, "Do you have any '80s??" or "Can't you put anything good on?" or "Have you got any Madonna?" If you'd like to hear songs from a particular time period, please have a song in mind. We're not fucking mind readers. Have artists names handy, song names handy. And asking " Ya got any Madonna" is like asking "got any beer" at fucking pub. Hello!
Tip #2- Licking your lips, thrusting your hips, and icing your nips will not help you get your request played faster. Do NOT come up to the DJ, no matter how hot he is, and put your mouth really close to his face or ear to request your song. It appears that you're licking him instead of talking.
You are invading his space. You're drunk and smell. You have cigarette breath. You're YELLING and possibly damaging his hearing. Oh, and about your song? It will get played if it fits into our time frame, play list, or if it's not shitty.
Tip #3- Actually be ON the dance floor before you request a song. You can't just waltz in the room and demand to hear a song. Participate. Enjoy. Don't just give orders. For all we know you were in the toilet taking fun MySpace photos with your friends and didn't hear the fact that we JUST PLAYED the song your requested.
Tip #4 DO NOT come up and say, "My friend wants to hear" or "The bride wants to hear". Get UP AND ASK YOUR FUCKING SELF! Are you that lazy? Are you scared? If you want to hear a song bad enough you'll somehow muster up the courage to go ask the big scary DJ for a wittle song just for you...Plus, unlike you, we're not raging idiots. We know that "your friend" that wants to hear Westlife is really YOU, you big fruit cake.
Tip #5 "Can you play _______ NEXT" will never happen. NEXT? Do not ask for something to be played NEXT! Have some fucking patience. If the disco is planned to last 3 hours, and you come up and ask for a song, you may not hear it for 45 minutes if we don't think it fits into the mood. This isn't your own special time to jam out to your favorite songs. This guy was hired and is getting paid to get y'all TO DANCE. If we have a packed dance floor and you ask for "Some slow songs" so you can finally get your lame, rhythm-less date to come dance with you, it's not going to happen, Sally, sorry.
Part 2: "General ways to NOT piss us off"
Tip #1: If you are standing in front of the deck, talking shit about the DJ and his assistant calling them "rubbish" or complaining that "the idiot forgot to play my song!" here's a hint. I know you're drunk. I know the music seems to be deafeningly loud..BUT WE CAN HEAR YOU.
If you're trailing behind your boyfriend whilst he makes a request and turn up your nose in disgust for the song playing, I CAN SEE YOU. You're not invisible, bitch. I can see you rolling your eyes, and pouting that the last song just ended and the 4 Shania Twain tracks you requested didn't get played.
Tip #2 If you're sitting within 3 feet of the speakers, are over the age of 60 and use a hearing aid, it is probably within your best interest to FIND A NEW SEAT and not ask us to keep turning down the music. Or turn down the fucking hearing aid, Auntie Em.
Tip #3
Tip #4 Stop asking to make an announcement over the Mic to make everyone "get their thang on". The mic is not for you. No touchey. Also, don't try to touch me. You touchey, I will not only breaky, but I will screamy and cutty. Okay?
Tip #5 Use some god damn manners. If we played your request, say thank you. Say thank you at the end of the night as we're lugging all of our gear out to the car! For fuck sake, you could even BUY US A DRINK if you're really enjoying the music. Smile, say please when you request a song. Try to not be so twattish.
Tip #6: You do not know what will get everyone dancing. No matter how much you think you do, you really don't. Your grandma won't dance to the Pussycat Dolls. That guy in the kilt doesn't seem like a big "Toxic" fan.
So, my friend. I hope this helps. You see, that silly little DJ man has a brain. He's experienced. This is a JOB for him.
He also has feelings and appreciates free drinks and food. So would his assistant.
Oh, and speaking of his assistant, do not say goodbye to her at the end of the night by saying,
"Goodbye DJ...Er....DJ's assistant...Or Girlfriend, I think. I assume." because I will respond with,
"God no, we're just sleeping together."
If you're drunk, harass the DJ and TOUCH me in anyway shape or form, I will respond by getting in your face and telling you to take your, "pansy ass back home to your Mummy, you fucker" or "if you ever touch me again I'll cut your fucking balls off."
...Just so we're clear, friend.
So, Padawan, go. Go forth into your disco and partying future with the knowledge I have given you.
Enjoy your future Christmas parties, and Bar mitzvahs.
The DJ and I thank you for you time, and wish you many ABBA filled evenings.
Hugs and Kisses,
Okay Everyone.
Before I write another "real" post, I just wanted to give y'all some visual directions on how to get to the London Vox Meetup which is TOMORROW people! TOOOOMMMMOOOORRRROOOOOWW.
I know there are some of you can no longer make it, and that makes my little heart hurt and weep :(
*Glares through tearful, puffy eyes at JodiPodi, Minim & possibly Bookmole*
But, for those of you guys who can still come...YAY!
Here are some fabulous photographs to help guide you on your journey to the Future House of Vox, also known as The Ochre.
(Please note that almost all of the photo cred goes to the ridiculously talented Iain...minus the tube station pic, and the satellite shot. Contrary to prior belief we do not own a shuttle.)
Finding The Ochre:
Step One: Hop on the tube. If you're not exactly a tube guru (or are a silly immigrant like myself) this can help you.
Step Two: Shove past annoying American tourists and get off tube here:
Step Three: Find Exit 2 towards St.Paul's Cathedral which will take you outside into the freezing ass cold weat