22 posts tagged “stupid people”

Dear Women at the gym,

Hello. I know we haven't properly met, but I wanted to take this opportunity to reach out to you, considering we've been seeing a lot of each other lately.

(Yes, once a week is 'a lot' to me.)

 I'm sure you must know who I am, as you have spent plenty a minute observing me. See, I'm the girl on the Elliptical machine next to you only going for 10 minutes at a speed of 6.7. I know you enjoy how slow I'm going because you keep looking over to make sure you're going faster than me.

I assure you, you are. You're the fastest Ellipitcal machine rider of all time. You win.

(Plus, it's my WARM-UP!!!)

And yes, that was me next to you on the treadmill ranting to my husband that I can't, "FUCKING believe I have to come to THE GYM and then am forced to stare at some dancer's FUCKING ass JIGGLE all over the place!!! This isn't a music video! THIS IS SOFTCORE PORN!!!" in between sweaty pants as I power walk because I "don't do running."

And just because I know you heard it, yes, that was me who farted next to you while you were taking up the whole floor doing your pilates exercises. It slipped. I'm sorry.

I can imagine why this was so alarming for you because clearly, you don't have gas. That would require eating.

I also just wanted you to know that YES, that's me in the lime green bikini from Old Navy two years ago that walked past you while you were perched on the jaccuzzi wall.

And,yeah, I could totally seeing you staring at my ass in horror as I walked by.

Our eyes met when I purposely turned around to catch you staring at my ass, and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed how startled you were that OH MY GOD THE WOMAN THAT THE ASS IS ATTACHED TO HAS EYES.

I know it must be quite alarming, that I dare turn around and catch you in your sneaky past time of staring at other women who dare display the fat on their bodies IN PUBLIC and critiquing them and reassuring yourself that No...My ass is definitely smaller. Thank God. If I ever get that fat, I'll just kill myself. Ugh.

I know I have some nerve obstructing your view of the hallway to the steam room with my stretch marks.

And my cellulite.

And that ingrown hair on my shin.

Dude, I'm totally sorry. I know.

I'm, like, tooootally nastified.

But here's the thing. I'm going to the gym for a reason. And it's probably not why you're here.

I'm here, ladies, for my mental health. I'm here, for my physical health. And yeah, I'm to stay a bit more toned so I can eat my pizza and cupcakes and not have to keep buying a bigger pair of jeans every fucking 3 months.

To the girls in the pink track suits afraid of going any faster than 3.2 on the Elliptical because you're afraid of sweating, GOD ALMIGHTY GO HOME.

If you have nothing better to do than stare at other women and their fat in the pool area, why don't you go busy yourself with a session with a personal trainer, or go suck on a popsicle?

I may not be as dedicated as you are on the Power Plate, or lifting as much weight on the abduction machine, or be afraid of walking around in my bathing suit because everyone will see my thighs jiggle but that doesn't give you any more right to be here than me.

So, ladies. I just wanted to cut you a deal.

If you happen to be one of those women talking in the steam room about the £1million home in Cobham you were just looking at and how crazy you are because you forgot to tell your husband you were going to be at Yoga until 10pm last night I'm going to make you as uncomfortable as possible.

Yes, that was me who farted in the shower. (Again. It slipped.)

That was me standing there naked as long as possible while you and your gal pal Sandy discussed preschool prices and low fat salad dressing.

It may not seem like the most clever revenge I can get on your rudeness and irritating way of breathing, but being all offensive with my size 14 ass, and my offensively large tits, and tattoo, and stretch marks, and PUBIC HAIR (because, sorry, I'm not down with some chick waxing that shit all off) is the best I can think of.

I enjoy that when I do this y'all clearly get really fucking uncomfortable with having a naked chic who clearly doesn't do Yoga at 7:30 every Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday night standing 2 feet away from you.
 
Ladies, I am comfortable with myself and comfortable with my body and CLEARLY that makes you uncomfortable.

Do me a favor and stop staring at my "flaws". If you're staring because you're impressed with my magnificent tits, than just say so. (I mean, you have every right to be. Let's be real.)

Otherwise, if you're staring at me with disgust and I catch you, you're going to get The Stare, and possibly a nipple in your eye if you happen to have a locker near mine.

You have been warned.

Kisses!!!

See you next Tuesday....

-Cate

xx

A mildly-wise man once said, "Opinions are like assholes, everybody's got one."

Perhaps this is why everyone is so scared of other people's opinions.

Assholes can be pretty scary.

However, this doesn't explain why people are petrified of sending back their Cowboy Burger at Applebees because it had a hair in it.

("Well, I could just eat around it. It was just one hair...and it was short.")

We all know that opinions are the sources of all international conflicts.

Religions, philosophies, morals, and beliefs all can be boiled down to naked opinions.

What I think, what you think. Neither one is technically wrong, but neither of us is technically right.

Life's a fucking bitch like that.

However, this doesn't mean that all of us just can't accept and respect that we have different opinions.

Why is that so fucking hard? Because you HAVE to be right?

I do not understand why despite the fact that we're in a day in age where we're apparently free to be you and me, express ourselves, and are given free outlets where we can blab and yack and rant all we want...why are people still fucking breaking out in hives and telling us to SSSSHHHHUUUUSSSHHHH!!!! when we voice our opinions in their presence.
 
It's like, okay everyone...

You can be unique, tattooed and pierced all you want OUT THERE, but just don't bring it to the dinner table.

We love that you're opinionated, but could you please tone down that opinion column that we hired you to write? You're offending one of our sponsors.

I love that you're so honest and blunt about things...but just don't be like that when I ask you for advice, ok?

I respect your culture and think that it's beautiful, but just don't let me hear you speak your native language anywhere around me, ok? It's offensive because I can't understand you, and you might be saying something bad about me. And that's so not okay with me.

I'm totally okay with the fact that you're gay, and that you're the most happy you've ever been...but just don't rub it in my face. Like, I don't want to see it or talk about it. It creeps me out, but I'm totally supportive of you.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

Why is it okay to be different out in lala land, but why when it gets a little too close to home for people, they fucking flip out.

Is that not hypocritical? Is that not fucked?

I do not expect everyone to paint each other's toe nails, roast smores on clothes hangers together, and giggle politely at everyone else's opinions and lifestyle choices, as then I would have nothing to complain or write about (and a world where I have nothing to bitch about is a scary, scary place.)

However, I do think that it's pretty fucked up when the people in your life that claim to be supportive of you and love you but then get all bent out of shape when you say or do something in front of them that contradicts with the Virginal Candy Land Princess image they've have of you in their head.. Out of sight out of mind.

Sally, in front of Uncle Bill and Aunt Jen you are not a lesbian! This is just your special pal from college! We talked about this!

I am aware of the fact that a lot of people of smaller IQ lesser maturity like to run around desperately trying to let everyone know how fucking smart and unique they are.

I'm different! I'm angry! I'm rebelling! See? See me? I'm unreasonably unruly! I defy the rules! I'm a rule breaking maniac!!

(Why don't you just throw on a neck tie and a wifebeater and wear tube socks on your arms and run around a mall  just so everyone knows what a unique rebel you are.)

More often than not, this is just rude. And even more often than not, people are just going to think you're a douche bag, not an incredibly intelligent rebel.

 It's one thing to be honest and give your opinion, and just be who you are

...Its completely different to go out of your way just to test people, forcefully spew your opinionated diarrhea all over your friends, family, co-workers, and well, anyone who makes the unfortunate accident of making eye contact with you.

And if they don't like it, well FUCK them. They just don't GET YOU. They're just ignorant. Hella ignorant.

Things such as tact, manners, and etiquette seem to be incredibly underrated lately. Etiquette and manners do not just consist of which fork to use and minding your "Please" and "Thank You"s.

Knowing how and when to state your opinion is incredibly important.

Yes, you and every other asshole out there has the right to your own opinion.

Example: Rosie O'Donnell is probably one of the most infuriating women in the world, but she unfortunately has the right to state her opinion...

But just saying whatever you want, whenever you want is annoying as shit.

People often think that using the disclaimer "This is just my opinion" frees them from the consequences of "just their opinion" offending anyone, and pissing people off.

("What? Why are you mad!?! It's JUST MY OPINION!!?!?!")

Just as saying, "I don't mean to be rude" or "I really hate to hurt your feelings and be a bitch BUT-" is a load of bullshit. You obviously know that you're being rude and if you really didn't meant to be rude, you would just shut the fuck up. And if you really didn't want to hurt someone's feelings, then you wouldn't say anything.

(And for the record, saying, "I'm sorry you feel that way" in apology is a load of shit. You're SORRY I feel the way I do? That's not an apology. Saying, "I'm an asshole for hurting your feelings, I'm sorry I hurt you." IS an apology. Jaysus!)

Look, I understand and appreciate that people are not going to love, accept, and respect everything that I do.

Duh.

However, what I don't appreciate is people who say that they're here for me, love, and support me, but then shit themselves when I open my mouth and am honest.

Don't say that you think it's great that I'm opinionated and love my views on things, and then turn around and ask me to not make waves.

Don't say that you think I'm strong and independent, and then not understand why you can't pin me down.

Don't say that you appreciate how honest, and straightforward I am, and then try to make me feel bad for giving you my honest opinion when you ask for advice.

I'm sorry that you'd like to have only bits and pieces of me at a time.

But it doesn't work that way.

I never promised to feed cupcakes while I called you on your bullshit.

I never said that I would decorate my honesty with gum drops.

Real friends shouldn't have to serve their love drizzled with maple syrup. If it's real, its sweet enough on its own. It's not always fun and its certainly not always easy...but why can't you just have it the way it is?

I'm not saying that you have to either love it or leave it...

I don't even think that you need to agree with my opinion.

I just need you to not tell me to SHHHHH through a clenched smile, and jab me in the ribs  if I speak up.

Do not try to counteract my opinion with some bullshit excuse and try to erase what I said, and say that I'm wrong.

How can you call advice wrong? It's what I think. That's what advice is!?

ad·vice  /ædˈvaɪs/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[ad-vahys]  –noun

1.	an opinion or recommendation offered as a guide to action, conduct, etc.: I shall act on your advice.

My opinion and advice in itself cannot be wrong. Out of all the advice you've received,you can assess mine as being the wrong advice for that situation, the wrong advice for you. But alone, it's not wrong, it's my opinion.

Why does my voice make you uncomfortable?

Why is it that some people just want you to keep quiet. Keep the peace. No matter what. Don't rock the boat, sit still. Just enjoy the fucking view and shut up, right?

Calm down. Let it go.

Please? For me? Just don't say anything?

While some stuff does need to just be let go...there are also times when you absolutely must speak up.

And in those times, who's right is it to ask for your silence?

To me, that shows distrust. That shows embarrassment. It shows shame. Weakness.

Just because I say something, why do you think that reflects badly on you?

Because you're supposed to be able to control me? Like I'm your responsibility? Like it was your job to have tamed the shrew...and they can't understand why I'm talking?

I'm a grown ass woman. I understand the consequences of stating my opinion.

But do you understand the consequences of your silence?

If little girls are to be seen and not heard....

...Then I am what happens when the 'little girls' grown up.

(We get therapists, turn our lives upside down, and then write about it in blogs...duh.)

Inspired by Ruthypants, I've gotten down with the poem writing, lately. If you have bongos, feel free to bust them out now.

"Be Mine!"

"Be My Valentine!"

"Kiss Me!"

"I Got You Babe!"

Just as the thought of a white, pouffy, wedding made me want to throw myself into a pit of 100,000 burning copies of Martha Stewart: Martha's Wedding Ideas...I'm guessing you can take a wild stab at my feelings toward Valentine's Day.

I was all set to write a "All of My Hilariously Disappointing Valentine's Day Experiences" post, straight Bridget Jones style, yo...

But then I came across this tit of an article, entitled: "Why I Hate Valentine's Day: 6 ways the holiday wreaks havoc".

Before reading, I was like, "Oh awesome, this should be interesting!"...

And by about half way through, I had already broken out into hives, and was desperately searching the flat for a paper bag to breathe in.

According to this article, the  "6 Reasons" that Valentine's Day is so horrible are:

1) Valentine’s Day makes people afraid to start dating someone

2) Valentine’s Day can wreak havoc for those who date around

3) Valentine’s Day can bring a couple to make-or-break status

4) Valentine’s Day can cause a relationship to linger... too long

5) Valentine’s Day ratchets up the pressure to have a perfect night

6) Valentine’s Day forces you to play Kreskin on the gift front

Some of these are just obvious, and very "OMG. Waaah. I'm single. My life is miserable." But JEEZUS, some of the things that were written in this article made me want to hunt down the writer and interviewees, beat them over the head with a copy of He's Just Not That In To You, and raid their homes for whatever "You Must Be In A Couple To Be Worthy Of Living & How To Make Your Crappy Relationship Work At Any Cost!" book that they're clutching to their bosom every night whilst they cry them self to sleep.

The article is just filled with the contradictions and the gaping holes that are in women's "logic" of what Valentine's Day and romance should be, and is just further proof that when it comes to VDay, MEN CAN'T FUCKING WIN.

One of the women interviewed, Heather, said:

“I hate seeing girls carrying home flowers that their boyfriends sent them, because I know that’s never me, even when I have a boyfriend—that’s just not how I am in a relationship. All of the expressions have just become formulaic—why bother if you know what’s coming?"

The writer (whom I'm so stoked to rip on I'm practically foaming with anticipation) went on to talk about Heather's idea of Valentine' Day and said,

"She says she’d rather her boyfriend did something nice for her unprompted than something “romantic,” just because it’s a day when he’s “supposed” to. So much focus on one little day can actually make people start to second-guess the hearts and candy they do get—is he really that into you, or did he just pick up the generic be-a-good-boyfriend package on his way home? "

So far, we've established from this article that "women" don't want their boyfriends to do anything just because they're "supposed to", but don't want to be left out and hate seeing all the "other girls" with the "formulaic" gifts such as flowers or chocolate. And if your partner does feel compelled "be a good boyfriend" and chooses to get you some flowers or whatever, you end up questioning his sentiments?

Well, what I take away from this, is that maybe women don't want the typical romantic Valentine's Day bullshit gifts, but still want effort and romance. Maybe their boyfriend can tell that, and think that he'll get her something thoughtful that she'll actually use! Ya know, not just flowers that will die, chocolate that will get eaten (probably by himself), or a necklace that will get worn once every 7 months...

The author of this column wrote about friend's boyfriend who "had a knack for giving her exactly what she needed" like, for example "a toaster, a rolling pin, a hot-glue gun". That seems thoughtful isn't it? Maybe those are things she always says she wants, but will never go buy. However, apparently these gifts had "so little romantic quotient" that her friend quite frequently ended up spending VDay night "in the bathroom sobbing". Her friend's reasoning?

“I mean really, how could I not take those gifts as a sure sign that he thought of me as a pal he happens to sleep with rather than the sexy woman who rocks his world?”

For fuck sake! Seriously? Would you rather lingerie? Oh no, I imagine that would make him out to be only interested in sex, in your body, or that he wished you looked more like the girls in FHM.

What does a boyfriend/husband get the lady of his life to make her feel like she's "the sexy woman who rocks his world" without having her in the bathroom crying over a gift.

While a toaster or a hot glue gun isn't typically romantic, I can see the thought behind it. It shows that he was listening to her when she said she wanted on. That he remembered. That he wanted to her to have something she could really use! I could understand if he bought her a useful gift that she didn't actually need, but fuck! What do you women want?!!?

I loved how the writer also used women's own blind fantasies of Valentine's Day as "proof" that this holiday is bad because it "causes" couples to "make-or-break" their status. Her proof? Sophie, a lawyer in Putnam County, New York's sad little Valentine's tale.

"'I did the whole bed and breakfast suite in the country thing—very storybook,'she says. When her honey got there, he took one look at the overwhelmingly romantic (some might say stifling) set-up and decided that he really wasn’t ready to move in with her, as they had been discussing. Everything was seeming too couple-y, too fast for him. 'Lovely timing, right by the fireplace,' she recalls."

That poor girl! Just look at what that evil St.Valentine caused her boyfriend to do! Never mind that she clearly wouldn't be able to identify a red flag if it beat her over the fucking head, or that she obviously hadn't clearly gauged her boyfriend's readiness to move in correctly, OR that they obviously had communication problems...It's that Stupid Cupid's fault. This holiday is pure evil.

Just as most weddings and engagements that are fuelled purely by the Bride/Fiancée's psychotic plans and expectations efforts; a Valentine's Day that is planned and organized only by the female half of the relationship is, clearly, not a good sign. Take more of the "proof" that Valentine's Day is evil, this time from another interviewee, Suzanne, a copy editor from Boston:

"One year, I decided to treat my guy, and I made a really fancy dinner—red, heart-shaped lobster ravioli, champagne, chocolate soufflé,” she says. For all her hard work, the one thing she skipped buying was flowers, assuming that her guy would at least pick those up out of instinct. “Nothing, nada,” she says. “Here I thought I really didn’t expect anything, because I’m not into that as a holiday, but I was still wondering if this guy even knew me or cared about me at all."

Can we all pause for a moment to reflect on the aroma of bullshit that is seeping from this quote? Who the fuck spends all day to "treat" their boyfriend by making fucking HEART-SHAPED LOBSTER RAVIOLI and MOTHER FUCKING CHOCOLATE SOUFFLÉ if they're "not into" all the Valentine's Day bullshit? Are you serious? And then to go on to say that you "didn't expect anything" is fucking bullshit! She clearly didn't get flowers to TEST her boyfriend to see if he "knew or cared" about her "at all"!

I can just picture her earlier that day, on the phone with him while she delicately cuts ravioli shells into little hearts telling him,

"No, really sweets, I don't want anything for Valentine's Day. I hate that stuff. Seriously, don't you worry! You know me, babe...Me? Oh, I'm not doing anything. I'm just reading a magazine!" ...Really babe, I'm not preparing Chocolate Soufflé or anything! And I'm definitely not secretly hoping you'll propose tonight or nothin'!

Perhaps the worst of all this, was when the author uses the excuse of "Valentine’s Day can cause a relationship to linger... too long" as one of her 6 reasons VDay sucks a big fat one.

Her proof? She once stayed with a guy who "didn’t even have a TV, for starters" but was "nice enough" and "that all my friends thought he was way hot" because she DID NOT WANT TO BE SINGLE ON VALENTINE'S DAY. She said she knew their relationship was over earlier that winter, but "obviously I wasn’t going to break things off during the holidays" and then stayed with him until after Valentine's day.

"It would have been easier to call the relationship DOA earlier rather than stretch it out unhappily in the hopes of being coupled-up on Cupid’s special day. In my case, it seems, St. Valentine's was the patron saint of emotional inertia."

Oh holy Jesus on rye. Really? Are you REALLY blaming Valentine's Day for your idiotic, pathetic relationship behavior? GAWD! I don't even know where to start with her...

However, things start to make more sense after reading the small print at the bottom of the column. The writer of the article?

Laura Gilbert.

Laura Gilbert who was once the Senior Editor for Maxim magazine. I have no idea why she left the magazine, however, all I really found was a collection of articles she wrote for Maxim while being the Senior Editor.

Articles like: " Take Her Home…Guaranteed!" where Gilbert gives advice to Maxim Men about how to trick a woman into having a one night stand,

"Whether or not we’ll admit it, a night of anonymous debauchery is often exactly what we want!"

Her "we" meaning just women in general. Obviously, her insight into the female psyche is uncanny.

Or perhaps you'll enjoy her "Sexy Coeds Confess" article where she let's Maxim readers in on how "university hotties really get down".

She's like, the nerdy looking "GV behind the curtain" who's the Queen of Female Chauvinist Pigs . Okay, maybe not the Queen...but definitely a Duchess.

So, what's my own personal take on Valentine's Day?

I used to be a Valentine's Day whore.

Prior to being with ye old idiot (aka Spencer) I had only been on one Valentine-esque date with the elf-like lead singer of my second favorite punk band at my high school.

He gave me a mixed tape, and a card, and I was like, soooo totally excited when I got home. I actually had a Valentine!

Cut to 20 minutes later when my phone rings, and it's The Punk Elf, letting me know that he got back together with his ex girlfriend, and advised me to not listen to the tape he gave me...as he had recorded San Dimas High School Footbal Rules for me, and had -so romantically- replaced the name Whitney with my name.

Awesome.

Somehow, over the years, I would manage to morph into a "bitter, single girl" every February 14th, even while I had a boyfriend. I would spend so much time fantasizing about the gifts I could receive, or what my boyfriend might have planned, that by the time the damn day actually came, anything other than a pair of glass slippers and a horse-drawn carriage would caused me to end up sobbing in the bathroom.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to be wooed, swept off your feet, or be so drunk on romance that it's a struggle to not puke on your lover.

I just think that too many women are so starved for any form of romance or happiness in love, that they use this holiday as a "sign". Like, if he can't get his shit together and be romantic enough on VALENTINE'S DAY, then he really doesn't love me.

In some cases, he won't because -you're right- he doesn't really love you.

But there's also the fact that he may really love you, and you just have your head shoved so far up Lifetime and Hallmark's ass, that you wouldn't appreciate his gifts, no matter how heartfelt or thoughtful they were.

I'm not saying that you need to settle in order to be happy...

But, at least for me, I've found that once you have the "Omg this is so great I think I'm seriously going to throw up on your shoes" love...you won't be secretly longing for gifts and heart-shaped lobster raviolis.

Iain and I are staying in. We're cooking curry, using the £14 that's left on a HMV gift card from Christmas to buy a new DVD, gettin' drunk, and maybe we'll go all the way, but we'll just leave that to drunken chance, no?

The thought of roses, or flowers, chocolate, and a candlelight table for 2 doesn't gross me out.

It's the thought of doing that stuff while every other couple in the world is, and for the same reason every one else is, just seems a bit weird.

Plus, anything that is elaborately planned out and arranged simply because of a random date on a calendar isn't nearly as romantic as going to celebrate something simply because you want to...not because it's expected.

Romance is what you make it.

The other side of this is that, when asked, "What are you doing for Valentine's Day!?!!?" you're either supposed to sob and chug wine because MY GAWD you're SINGLE ON VALENTINE'S DAY, or squeal in delight if you have a boyfriend because your man has something super duper special and neat-o planned.

BUT, if you're one of those couples who could give a heart-shaped, organic chocolate-dipped fuck about Valentine's Day...No one believes you!

Valentine's Day isn't supposed to be evil, but over the years, I think our own romance-starved relationships have fueled the wide-spread epidemic of unrealistic expectations of what Valentine's Dya is supposed to be about.

I'm not going to let it drive me nuts or  wear black and I'll even try to resist the urge to pelt every couple I see that's pretending to like one another and trying not bicker for a full 24 hours with those "Fuck You" candy hearts...

It's just a damn day.

Sure everyone is being more disgusting, and fake than usual...and it can, understandably, rub your own unpleasant romantic situation in your face..
.
But why not just take some personal responsibility for your life, and stop placing blame on half naked,arrow slinging cherubs, or on clueless boyfriends who can't read your mind and magically know that that YES YOU WOULD like him to buy you some flowers.

PLEASE do not end up crying in the bathroom tomorrow over an electric shaver your boyfriend bought you, or pointlessly slaving away over heart-shaped lobster raviolis hoping it will beguile your boyfriend into being a grateful lover, when really, romantically shaped pasta cannot, and will not ever change a miserable twat into the loving, appreciative man of your dreams.

Just say NO! to heart-shaped ravioli, this Valentine's Day....

...And just say YES! to alcohol and the possibility of going all the way.

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....

 

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

 If you and your gal pals have formed a special dance routine to "My Humps"...we don't want to see it. If you're in "the winter" of your life and joined a "45+ Dance Class" at your local YMCA to rekindle your sex life, we do not want to see how many different songs you can manage to do the same routine to all night. 

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,

 

 

Google me this, Google me that

Have you ever Googled your own name? How did you feel about the results?
Submitted by elen.

This is, -tada!- my second QotD. My first time went so-so. I was nervous, a little shaky. I wasn't quite sure what to think, or feel. Did I do it for the right reasons? Was I really ready?....I mean, there were no candles, no rose petals. And I certainly didn't' hear any Luther Vandross playing...

Well, QotD. I'm here again. You've called and called, and yet I never picked up the phone. I've been scared, QotD.

But now I'm feeling a little more experienced. I know how it will feel. I have a better idea of how you like it. So. Here. Just don't' expect me to call you tomorrow. It may take a while, until I feel ready again. I'm okay with this being casual if you are. Just, don't pressure me. Let's just keep it real.

So.

Yes. I have Googled myself. (I'm a self indulgent blogger, what did you expect?) I've even come to terms with the fact that 'Google' & 'Googled' have become verbs.

My real name comes up with nothing.

"CupCate" is a all Vox, comments I've left, people's neighborhoods I'm in, plus the occasion link from "dirty whore houswife fuck!" websites, etc, etc.

Every once and a while I'll find a link to my name, or a nice comment about moi in another Voxer's post.

And then, somewhere in Vox's dusty corner, where some little chicky thought she could hide...I found my first Hate Post.

An entire post (ok, it was like a paragraph) about your's truly, and how uninteresting I am. I laughed.

I laughed harder when my "all time favorite blogger" commented with some snarky remark agreeing with her.

Oh man. It's like, hello. The Internet is not some vast, unlink-able, bleak universe were you can say whatever you want and no one will find it.

 (ex: how Heather B. Armstrong coined the term Dooce. )

But ya know. It gave me a laugh, if nothing else.

And if I manage to piss people off as well as make people laugh, then I must be doing something right.

So thank you, angry blogger with nothing better to talk about than an old post I wrote, thank you for popping my Hate Post cherry.

 

I really had no intention of turning this blog into "CupCate talks Weddings.vox.com" but, well, here it is.

I'm engaged, I'm getting married, there's no skirtin' round it in this here blog...

I never thought that my least favorite part of this whole super special time in my life would be telling oth