'You should get a cat'

'You might as well get a whole bunch'! This is what it has come to. My friends recommending the ultimate spinster accessory. What happened to the times when the cat was a symbol of power and sensuality? What about the times when Cleopatra sat lazily stroking her cat with men bowed at her feet? Now it's that crazy cat lady down the road who spends time lazily stroking her cat with men throwing beer cans on her roof.
This is the new perception of a single woman owning a cat. Of course we all think ourselves aware of how the woman feels and what's going on in her lonely head, as she starts talking to her own shadow. However it's the poor cat that I think about. Is a depressed single woman owning a cat actually animal cruelty?
When that little darling arrives at your home everyone is happy, including the cat.
'Wow look a new house. I wanna touch this. Can I scratch this? I'm going to scratch this. Purrrr cuddles'.
All very well, however eventually the cat must become aware of the lack of other humans around and the continuing dependence on the cats attention.
'I'm bored. There aren't many other humans here. Wow this lady's affectionate. Meh it feels good right now.'
Like all relationships there are ups and downs.
'How dare she. How fucking dare she. They were my balls and I should get to decide what happens to them. I'm not talking to her ever again. No I don't care if you stroke my chin you took my balls. I may be purring right now but honestly I'm really pissed at you right now'. 
The real confusion and abuse starts as the surrounding friends start having babies. As she sits there looking through baby pictures all she can do is look lovingly into her cats eyes.
'Where do I come from? I AM a cat right? Yep I am a cat, got a tail and everything. So why does she keep calling me her baby. I'm all grown up now, she thought me grown up enough to take my balls. I'm still bitter about that.' 
Life goes on and in an attempt to not die alone she tried dating.
'She's crying again. She keeps crying. I want to run away but if I sit on her lap she strokes my belly just right. She's depending on me to sit on her lap and I want to. This is so confusing. Is it right to take advantage of her emotional state. Sod it I'm going in'.
Soon she starts to accept that there is only one thing she can depend on and it comes with fur and a tail.
'Ooooh yeah this is the life. She buys me everything. We don't need anyone else in our lives, we're happy just us. Wait that can't be right can it'
'The cat from the family down the road keeps laughing at me. He would laugh so much if he could see that plasticine the kids have stuck to his arse. I like my human. She looks after me. She loves me. I love her. I do I love her she strokes my belly'
'It's starting to get confusing now. She's not going out any more and, and I do't want her to. She called me her fluffy husband today. I panicked but she stroked my belly and brought me a new scratching post so I didn't care too much.'
'I'm her husband. I'm her fluffy husband. And that's ok'
'I don't think I'm a cat any more. How can I be a cat when a human spends this much time with me. How can I be a cat when I spend all my time with the human. I don't go out any more she doesn't like it when I do.'
'I'm so confused. I cant take this any more.'
'Look a car'

Vomitgate: The prequel

Being a bridesmaid is an honour. However it also commits you to spend the day in an outfit that you have not chosen and that breaks one of the first girl rules at any party: Never wear the same dress as someone else. Why does this suddenly become OK with bridesmaids? It also prevents me from wearing a top hat. I look awesome in a top hat! I spend weddings staring at the grooms-men with jealousy as they penguin suit it around the wedding, tipping their hats to whoever they like. I want to tip my hat at random people, I may even do the double guns. It's not lame when you're wearing a top hat.
Last year I was a bridesmaid for my sister. Luckily I got to wear a nice dress and occasionally steal my mums miniature top hat. The only thing I had to deal with was the armpit fat that occurs when you wear strapless. It squishes like a dead slug. It protrudes from your arms like a bald man forcing his head through a plastic bag. I already have 2 breasts, I don't need a miniature pair slipping out the sides of my dress. God damn strapless. However whilst this was the only thing I had to deal with at my sisters wedding, my brothers first wedding was a different story. The vomitgate story.
My brothers first wedding involved baubles, a Jabba-whale and me clinging to a toilet like I had spilt super glue. I was of course glad to be in the wedding but my enthusiasm turned sour upon the sight of the bridesmaid dresses.
I can understand making your own bridesmaid dresses when money is tight. However I will never understand looking at cheap, stiff, gold net curtain and thinking 'That will look so pretty'. No it wont look pretty, what it will do is scratch my thighs, causing me to look like I have crabs that have migrated down my legs.
I can understand that a subtle gold at a Winter/Christmas wedding may look quite good. However I will never understand looking at the plastic baubles in the 99p store and thinking 'That will look so pretty'. No it wont look pretty, what it will do is make me look like a plastic bauble from a 99p store.
As stated these dresses were being made. They were in fact being made but what can only be described as the illegal offspring of when Jabba the Hut attempted bestiality. My brothers soon to be mother-in-law. This made the whole process of being fitted for the dress absolutely terrifying for me. This was almost 8 years ago. I was tiny. Every time she moved I grabbed hold of something quick for fear of dying in post-quake tremors. However I bravely stood upon the stool whilst Jabba-whale wrapped me in plastic bauble material. As I looked down at the material I started to feel very warm. Maybe if I was allergic to it I could wear my jeans instead. Then I started to get the same feeling as I would in a few years on my boyfriends porch. As I explained to Jabba-whale I felt sick she ordered me to stay in place. One look down at the bestiality child, the metallic, crab crawling material reflected on her face and my mouth filled with chunks. I at least made it to the bathroom floor amid screams of 'Don't you dare get vomit on that beautiful dress'. It was a good job that the chunks forcing their way past my throat prevented me from making a witty come back. Vomitgate made it's opening all over the Jabba-whales bathroom floor and the bauble-crab dress. Unfortunately it was fine by the day of the wedding, however I had full blown flu and spent the day looking like a ghost Christmas tree.
So now my brother is getting married again. Emma I make this pledge to you: There will NOT be a vomitgate returned.

'It will happen to you before you know it'

'I am so happy for you, really, really...............really happy.........really'
This is the usual response when a friend/family member tells you they're getting married when you're single. It's not that we're not happy for them, it's just that whilst our face is smiling our ego is setting up a noose whilst drinking its own tears.
Now, I am getting pretty used to my surrounding group getting married and leaving me drowning in chocolate and wondering how beautiful mine, Ben and Jerrys children would be (the answer is VERY, very beautiful). However it still seems to be exhausting. Yes, that's right; exhausting. Have you ever tried to hold a conversation whilst your brain is at war? Whilst my mouth is saying 'I am so happy for you, really, really', my brain is trying to get me to say:
'You? Seriously? Seriously? You're getting married? In high school you used a tissue to blow your nose and then stuffed it in your bra?'
'How the hell did you get a man to fall for you after you proved you could bite your own toe nails?'
I work very hard to make sure that this does not come out of my mouth, although apparently something does come through as I often get the response:
'It will happen to you before you know it'. What a great philosophy to hear while I flick through the cat adoption pages! 'It will happen before you know it'? If I don't know its happening, what exactly is the idea here? One day I will meet a man. This man will keep me half drugged throughout the next few years. Until one day he listens to Beyonce and decides to put a ring on it. Being half drugged I don't even know I'm walking down the aisle until I wake up from my forced high to see a ring on it. Call me crazy but if I'm going to get married I will want to know about it. I've got to make sure that the man isn't a fan of spiderman!
Last week I put on the smiley face again. This time I was genuinely thinking of their happiness for a whole five minutes. Then I used it as a confirmation that an arm hump from an armadillo was the best it was going to get for me. I felt I owed them 5 minutes as it was my brother and amazing friend. This time I at least had an accomplice in the newly single gay. We agreed that we were 'happy........really, really happy.'
'We're both really happy for them...............................bastards'



Epilogue: On the Monday that was my birthday, I got a great present in being asked to be a bridesmaid. However this request gave me a mixture of both happiness and fear.............. Vomitgate: The prequel!

"He's a nice guy"- The tale of the space invader.

If anyone ever say's "He's a nice guy", you know what they really mean is that the guy has absolutely no personality. His completely unassuming personality and the fact that he has shown no incidents of misplaced masculinity, has left his surrounding companions with the impression that he is a 'nice guy'.
I don't like 'nice guys', they're too unpredictable. You never know when their reabsorbed-sperm filled bodies are going to explode, jerking out the pent up testosterone over the surrounding crowd like a swingers concert. It ultimately ends with the 'nice guy' doing something stupid and everyone else feeling like they've just been used like a teenage boys box of Kleenex.
However it seems that me and my friends have been fooled by the 'nice guy' act too. Having not seen a male friend for over 2 years I thought reconnecting with this 'nice guy' would hold no harm. It would also allow at least one of my weekends to be filled with something other than expanding my waist line with chocolate, and calculating the variables that could be used to determine how sad ones life is. Now I would like to make it clear that I have never and will never have any emotional or sexual attraction to this male. Having had a lot of guy friends throughout my life, I did not think it would mean anything different in my later years. I was wrong.
When 'nice guy' arrived I figured it would be just like when I caught up with my friend, Michelle. After almost 13 years apart it was easy talk, a great laugh and a friendship I am glad to have back. 'Nice guy' did not repeat this experience.
 As it was late I thought pizza, a movie and a catch up was in order. There was talk. Then it happened. There's looking at someone when you're talking to them, and then there's staring. 'Nice guy' was attempting to hold eye contact after the sentence was finished for slightly too long. Throughout the evening it pissed on the line of 'I have an absolute interest in what you're saying' and proceeded to journey into the area of 'I'm staring whilst lost in my thoughts of how to contact Fritzl's contractor'. I desperately text Michelle to make sure that someone knew where I was and who may ultimately be the last person to see me alive. I decided it was best to shake this off and continue with the evening, as he was staying for the weekend and I would have to deal with this particular (and disturbing) character flaw. I made sure he understood we would be sleeping in separate rooms and moved on. Unfortunately my sofa is only a 2 person and with his bulk I felt uncomfortably close for the night. However I could put this down to my own character flaw of reserving close proximity to family.
Out the next day things were improved as I placed the pub table between us and pulled on my sunglasses to avoid eye contact. Then it happened. As I got into the taxi he sat right next to me, in the middle seat that's usually reserved for small children, who does that? SPACE INVADER. I immediately looked around for a small white laser that might save my personal space and allow me to no longer feel like I had a large Siamese twin attached to me, that spent its time staring at me, waiting for its testosterone jerk-off event. The close proximity was making the staring so much worse. However I was sat on the wrong side of the car to be able to safely leap from it. Maybe if I tucked and rolled. Which is better death by car or life imprisonments? Hmm.... if he still fed me cheesecake it wouldn't be that different to my single person seclusion. After these thoughts my over active imagination jumped through my DVD collection; Silence of the lambs, The bone collector, Kiss the girls..... I really need some new DVD's.
Upon arriving home to watch another film I formed a plan. I would sit on my bean bag. No small sofa for me. Then it happened. He sat on the floor. I decided that I was obviously going to be turned into a skin suit, whilst my bones were used for a ritual sacrifice  and my poor outdated DVD collection would burn in the resulting blaze. I moved slightly across. Then it happened. He moved over using my bean bag as an arm cushion. SPACE INVADER. I text Steph to be sure that someone will be able to identify my mangled body, as it lay next to a plate showing the remains of my brain and a portion of refried beans.
After covering the whole of my living room floor like a cat and mouse game I concluded that he had to go. Then it happened. He would not leave. Despite several hints that must have been clear, knowing that subtlety is not my strong suit, he still wouldn't leave. I was forced to take drastic action. I pretended to go to work. I made the excuse and actually changed into my work clothes before he got the hint to phone the taxi number I thrust into his hand. I ensured that he was locked in the taxi before returning home, showering, washing all my sheets and making a solemn promise. I will never invite a 'nice guy' to my house again.

What does your vagina say about you?

Men will never understand. Never.
Never has a man been through anything as intimate and medically violating as a smear test. Whilst many women avoid such tests (come on girls these tests save lives), many will at some point find themselves on that plastic bed with their knees uncharacteristically far apart. Whilst a man has nothing to do but slap it out like an uncooked sausage on a bbq, we women have to endure the fact that the person who's head is just visible above our stomach line will see more of our anatomy than we ever will.
Some of these invasive people should be awarded for their skills. As me and Steph discussed today, obese women must represent a whole new kind of danger. A person could be crushed under the fat apron that has prevented many women ever seeing their own vagina. I conclude that it would take at least 4 people to complete the test for someone I know. 1 person at each thigh. 1 to use the forklift to hold the extra stomach back. Finally 1 to administer the test, allowing the vagina to finally take a breath of fresh air. I imagine it's very pale. People who live in dark caves are very pale. The Gollum of the vagina world.
My first time on the plastic bed I pondered the etiquette of such a situation. It would be harsh to make a person feel like they should have brought some braids and start plaiting. It was also probably best not to resemble an Ewok. Although I imagine furry legs would provide a nice warmth around the side of the face while you stare into the abyss.
If the whole position itself wasn't enough to endure, in true personal style my 2 violations were accompanied by moments of embarrassment and quite frankly utter confusion.
As I sat there with my legs a-spread trying to ignore the fact that she was about to put a ducks head up my lady region, I heard the last words that I ever expected to hear:
'You can tell you don't have kids'!
What do I say to that? It's nice to know that of the whole of my anatomy it's my un-stretched vulva that gives the most clear statement that I might as well be barren.
'Errr thanks' was the only response that I could give. Whilst mentally I was smiling that all my assumptions of gunge-like vagina flaps were correct. I don't really mind that my vagina makes it clear I don't have children, however apparently this isn't the only thing it says.
This week I returned once more to the exposed position that only women with heads popping from their bodies should be in. I was pleased to find that it was my good 'no kids for you' friend again. This time my attention was taken away from the duck head to the hard plastic plate scrubber she would apparently be invading my cervix with. Collect cells?! You could scrape out my ovaries with that thing.
'Still single?'
What the fudge?! First of all the only thing we established last time was I don't have children, not that I was single. Secondly ......... I knew I should have spent more time grooming. But no, instead my treacherous vagina winked up through the forest stating 'It's been a while'. I'll never trust my vagina again. I never know what it's saying behind my back.

Lies, lies it's all lies.

Disney made me believe in several things as a child 1) My hair will always be full and beautiful as it flows in the wind. 2) A handsome man will find me and fall deeply in love with me. 3) I can be a mermaid. Who would have thought number 3 would be the most likely for me to achieve. Honestly I have access to a lab and there was that child born in China with a mermaid tail. OK, so that was the fall out of an atom bomb being dropped on their homes, but there's a nuclear power plant up the road so fingers crossed. The handsome man on a horse who falls deeply in love with me is just not going to happen. There is no man who has the grace and masculinity to pull that off in the modern day.
The point of the matter is that man has changed. Over the past decade the ideals of chivalry and gentleman conduct has faded as violently as the suited commuters who trample you for a place on the tube. Never mind being a gentleman or the fact that there will be another train in exactly one minute, anyone in the way might as well be a zombie in a video game.
As the ideals change do does the vanity and icons. Nowadays a man has as many facial products as Jackie Stallone has had pumped into her face. It's not like men haven't had positive icons in their lives. Whilst I was being fooled by un-feminist, perfect haired beauties, for 60 years men have had the suave icon of James Bond. All man and action he was the role model of boys everywhere. Whilst I fully believe that he will die of syphilis  leaving behind a string of illegitimate children, at least he had some charm. However as I stated the James Bond idea is 60 years old. What does the James Bond of today look like? Let me paint you a picture.
'Vodka Martini shaken not stirred'= 'Jagger Bomb, glass out'. Never has a man been seen ordering such a sophisticated drink since the makes of Red Bull figured out how to make their customers really feel like they have wings; Add alcohol to the highly caffeinated bull piss.
Poker God= Candy Crush wizard. Am I the only one who has missed this phenomenon? Suddenly my Facebook is full of peoples scores on a game that has absolutly no masculinity. It's crushing fruit. I could do that in my kitchen with a wooden spoon and a strawberry.
License to Kill= Call of Duty Black Ops. I can't quite remember the exact number of minutes however I'm pretty sure I've lost over 3 decades of my life whilst waiting for a guy to finish his game. It always manages to make me feel wrong. I feel like his baby sitter. I have often baby sat kids, patiently letting them play their video games whilst I flick though a magazine designed to make me feel bad about myself. All well and good but very very wrong when you find yourself comparing your boyfriend to a 12 year old. Whatever you do with the rest of evening is tainted like most 1970's kids TV shows.
So the James Bond of today is a Jager Boomb swigging 12 year old, stuck between squishing fruit or virtually shooting people. If only more boys had followed Batman. No matter how much you destroy his quirks he's still rich!