Today I had to set off for work a little earlier than usual, and believe me, I am not a morning person. It takes a lot of time to look as presentable as I do. All those magazine types who spout about effortless beauty have clearly never had to do their own hair and make up! As a result, I was later leaving the house than I should have been, no time even for a shot of coffee, which is never a good thing.
After locking my door I turned around to find a man wearing a trench coat and trilby leaning on my fence. Now that’s not something you see everyday, considering we are no longer in the 1940′s. What was more alarming however was the fact that there was a rather large and expensive camera hanging from his neck, sporting a zoom lens.
Man: Good morning Miss. You have Great Tits.
Man: You have Great Tits.
Dude!!!! WTF?? (I have been watching way to many american TV shows)
My hands at this point moved protectively over my girlie bits as I shot him a look that would wither stone.
Man: In your garden. You have Great Tits in your garden.
You have remember, that at this stage I was still suffering from morning brain. It takes a little while for all the synapses to start firing, even longer when they have not had an injection of caffeine. So I’m standing there wracking my brains trying to think of the last time I had my baps out in the back garden and there is not one time that I can recall, unless we’re referring to a different kind of bap and there was a burger between them.
Man: Would you mind if I took a picture?
Of my Great Tits? Don’t you think that’s a little cheeky?
Man: Well it is rare to see such amazing specimens.
This is getting a little ridiculous now, I mean who does this man think he is.
Where or how the feck did you see them?
Man: On the table.
The table….you saw my tits on the table, are you off your head.
Man: Yes, I saw them on the table, the bird table.
You saw my tits on the…wait, what, the…ohhhh….the…bird…table.
Suddenly as if the sun had come out I was finally able to see where he was pointing, and sure enough it was at the bird table on which two little feathered things were sitting.
Ohhhh, you mean those ti……..birds? Yes take as many pictures as you like.
Heaving a sigh of relief I finally lowered my hands.
The moral of this story….always leave enough time to have a cup of coffee, unless that is, you want to make a Great Tit of yourself!
I would love to tell you that my life has been wonderful since the last time I wrote just a little over a week ago. The truth is I have spent it sitting in a rubber ring whilst nursing burnt butt cheeks. Trust me to pick the only killer electric blanket in the whole wide world!
Ok, so perhaps I am being a little too dramatic, but that is after all what I am good at. I thought I misheard my teacher when she said I would pass a degree in Histrionics without even having to study, I couldn’t even remember signing up for it. Regardless, back to my arse.
I never was the kind of girl to read instructions. If my brain was not able to figure it out then the batting of eyelashes was always able to acquire assistance from somewhere. This time however owning to the fact that the offending piece of gadgetry was in my boudoir, I thought it best to let the brain figure it out all on it’s own, and considering the instructions had already been binned, what choice did I have.
You may remember I had set the blanket to activate 30 minutes before I went to bed, which may well have been part of the problem as Onda decided to ring me with about 5 minutes left to spare. Now I love that girl to death, but once you get her Onda phone, it’s pretty damn hard to get her off it again, especially when you’ve had a weekend like she’s just had, but that’s a whole other story. To be fair to her, it was a rather interesting tale and I forgot all about the fact that it was now way past my bedtime.
1 hour and 57 minutes later (not that I was counting), I managed to make it to the bathroom to complete the necessities. Had I realised at the time that it was the last time I would have normal bare (bum) necessities for a least a week, I would have savored the moment. I vaguely remember thinking when I went into my room that my mad cow pyjama’s were nice and toasty, but as I had forgotten all about the electric blanket I didn’t put two and two together. Instead, I checked my alarm was set, collapsed into bed and went out like a light.
Sometime in the middle of the night I dreamt about the firemen from that Wicked Weekend at The Wicky Digit. Before I knew what was happening I could hear the Nelly song ‘It’s getting hot in here…’ playing in the background, and the fireman was starting to strip. In my sleep I’m thinking, please don’t wake up, but somewhere in my sub conscious, I’m thinking WTF, it is getting hot in here. I’ve never had a hot flush before, but I’m smart enough to know that it doesn’t normally happen in your backside, so I leapt out of the bed like a scalded cat. Just in time too it would seem, as smoke started to appear from the middle of the bed. I’d like to say I was the one causing all the sparks in the bedroom, but alas no, it was the electric fecking blanket.
Needless to say I dialed ’999′ and called for the very same firemen I was dreaming about not 5 minutes ago. They arrived not too long after and I led them up the stairs as quickly as I could, thankfully there were still no flames. I could hear giggles behind me, but figured that some of them were remembering the antics from the previous night we had met. Last up the stairs was the big fire Chief, who looked me up and down while walking past and said ‘Holy Cow’. ‘I know’ says I, ‘it’s made a bit of a mess of me bedroom’. He replied that it had indeed, but he was in fact referring to the huge hole that had been burnt in the backside of my pyjama’s exposing my red raw and rather well toasted butt cheeks. Well at least I knew what the giggling had been when we were coming up the stairs. I’m not sure which set of cheeks were reddest at that point.
I sat on a rubber ring stuffed with ice packs for about 5 days after that, and had to drag Billy and Seamus out of the pub to assist with the redecoration of my bedroom. The electric blanket has been relegated to the wheelie bin and from now on I am going to stick to a good old fashioned hot water bottle, I figure it’s the safest option. The firemen were even kind enough to send me a card, that said ‘It’s a BUMmer You’re not well!’
I think I can live without things getting too hot in my bedroom from now on!
I always wanted a water bed, although I am not sure why, owing to the fact that I get seasick. I even went as far as to get brochures, and was quite excited at the prospect until one lunchtime Big Bertha told me she used to have one. Naturally I asked if she thought they were a good job, to which she replied ‘it’s all fun and games, till someone gets hurt’. Being nosy concerned I of course asked her what she meant. Blushing a little, she told me about the time her boyfriend was all splayed out on the sheets with a rose between his teeth, and Bertha feeling rather amorous leapt onto the bed with him, catapulting him upwards through the roof tiles. When she told me the only thing that saved him was his Y fronts catching on the fake chandelier I actually fell off the chair laughing. I never thought anymore about a water bed after that.
This winter however I decided I needed to heat things up in my bedroom, sadly not in the way you are thinking, more along the lines of I decided to buy myself an electric blanket. I’m not sold on the idea, let’s call it intrigued yet dubious. The shop assistant had no sense of humour, as when he informed me my new blanket would keep me toasty warm, he was less than impressed with my reply of, ‘So if I sing and keep turning myself over will that make me a pop tart?”. I’ve decided that when I laugh at my own jokes and no one else does it makes me look more deranged that funny.
Regardless I paid sour bake and brought the blanket home . Sadly, when I dispensed of the box I didn’t realise that the instructions were still inside, and now I have no idea what all these buttons, bells and whistles do, I’m just going to have to wing it and hope that I don’t set fire to my arse.
It’s all set up and my favourite ‘Mad Cow’ pyjamas are underneath the pillow in readiness. The timer is set to activate the blanket about 30 minutes before I go to bed, so it should be nice and cosy by the time I jump in.
I will be sure to let you know how it goes….night night now :)
It has to be said, I look amazing in a onsie. I am pretty sure the person who invented them had me in mind when doing so. Only that it would not be considered acceptable fashion for the work place, I would wear mine all the time.
They are not the most flattering outfit, but there is something cute about the soft fur and the little ears that adorn the hood of mine. I feel like a marshmallow being gently toasted by the light of the fire..well it’s more a gas heater, I mean who wants to be bother with the hassle of coal and sticks these days, certainly not me, I have the general well being of my nails to consider.
I dread the cold weather coming in, especially walking in the ice and snow, it ‘s always the day you decide to go commando that you go arse over tit while walking to the bus stop. It’s hard to keep your modesty in check whilst trying to save your handbag at the same time. Worse still is when a child decides to help you and hands back your tampon informing you that you dropped your sweet. Damn you and your fancy wrappers anyway. The look on his poor little face when he realised I was not going to give it back to him as a thank you, what was I to do? I handed him 20p and told him to run along, my face redder than Santa’s suit at Christmas.
Falling leaves, now there’s another curse. Forget what you see in the films, a cute couple kissing as the leaves cascade around them, that’s all bullshit, because what you don’t know is that someone lifted them both and carried them to that spot. The normal people, like you and I, well we’d be lucky to get to there without causing ourselves serious injury. Never mind the ’leaves on the line’ saga, have you ever experienced leaves on the bottom of your Louis Buttons…yes I know, everything about me is just fake, fake,fake. I have heard them described as ‘Killer heels’ in the past, but I didn’t realise that meant they were actually going to kill me. One step in the wrong direction onto a soggy leaf and you might as well say cheerio to any shred of street cred you had.
Ice is the same. With it’s help over the years I have perfected the art of the comedy run, where your feet move but you don’t actually go anywhere. Imagine Bambi on ice, only a little less classy!
So yeah, I can’t wait for Winter…..yay! I wish there was a way to convey sarcasm via text ffs.
Periodically I will get fed up either being single, or of the talent in the Wicky Digit and find myself drifting back to the dangerous world of online dating. I say dangerous, because in some instances it would be of great benefit to have a full suit of body armour stashed at the back of your wardrobe.
I have already written about some of my experiences of Internet dating, and I seriously question my sanity every time I go to re-join, it is certainly not for the faint hearted, but in among the many, no, very very many, eejits, there are a few gems.
It would seem that the most popular way of starting a conversation is with the word ‘Hi’, every time I see it, I have to physically stop myself from replying with ‘ho, hi ho, it’s off internet dating we go’.Some people can even make it to two words, ‘Hi sexy’, how the hell do they know I am sexy, I don’t display a picture, I offer very little by way of a description and you will not find pictures of any bits of my booty on the world wide web…I hope, although there was this one time…..oh never mind.
When you first join there are several options you have to choose from when creating your online profile. I chose the option for Friendship but in the next set the only one available to me was “Not looking to date / Casual dating” or words to that effect. Gentlemen viewing my profile somehow managed to translate this to “Keep it simple boys and give us a buck at ye!”. You’ve read my blog, do I sound shy to you, if that’s what I wanted I certainly would not be signing up to a dating site now would I.
I was however talking to a chauffeur the other day, now he’s a grand fella, unlike the bicycle repair man who wanted to take me for a ‘ride’ and the Fireman who seemed to be rather keen to show me his hose.
Conversation was flowing and the craic was mighty and we were getting along famously when he decided it was time to show me a picture of his cock, and to be fair to him, it is rather impressive.
I in turn, liking his sense of humour thought it only fair that I show him one of my breasts.
Its early days but I might stick around for a while this time…there are so many more people I want to show my breasts too!
Hormones, yes, lets talk about hormones. For those not in the know, they are the thing that women seem to have in abundance, but men, by their own admission have very few of, although we women would beg to differ.
Hormones are like a light switch, flipping you effortlessly between wanting to murder anyone within a 10 ft radius and wanting to cry your eyes out at pretty much anything, including adverts for toilet cleaner, wtf!?
Hormones also make us eat, forget Mr Will Power, he has no chance when going head to head with Mr Hor Mone, who pretty much trumps any one at any thing.
Thankfully I have a few years years yet before the lady hormones invade my body and seek world domination, that said, I am already prone to crying at random adverts, which can be pretty embarrassing when they are on billboards in the middle of a busy street. Worse still when you read on and realise that when they were telling her to ‘Be free’ and ‘be light’ they were talking about a fecking sanitary towel. Oh the shame!
My office however is a hive of hormonal activity, that would be a dream for any starter HRT company looking for guinea pigs. In my pod of 4 alone, there are two who are clutching with just fingernails to the brink and two (of which I am one) who are hanging on with everything they have got to the notion that they are still in their twenties.
There are very few men in our office workspace, which is probably just as well, because they would be eaten alive on any given day that ends with a Y! The few that there are tend to travel in packs and seem to have extremely good hormonometers that tell them when to steer clear. They have learnt the hard way that asking the question “Ooo is it your time of the month?” is just about the stupidest fecking question you can ask a woman who has just thrown her faulty stapler against the wall in a fit of temper an attempt to make it work, and no before you ask, that was NOT me!
So to summarize, hormones are sneaky rotten little feckers…beware!
You’re sitting at a café when a stranger approaches you. This person asks what your name is, and, for some reason, you reply. The stranger nods, “I’ve been looking for you.” What happens next?
Well that’s a no brainer, I’d be up the street as fast as my fake Louis Buttons could carry me. In my experience a stranger, who knows you by name and who just happens to be in the same cafe, is not going to be after anything good.
Now don’t get me wrong I know he’s not Dr Death or anything, I mean come on, everyone knows that geezer wears a big black cape, but still, it’s not going to end well.
Stranger: Are you the Indecisive Eejit?
Stranger: You are her, you look just like her avatar thing.
Me: Look pal I have no idea who you are, but I am May Dupp.
Stranger: I know, made up by The Indecisive Eejit.
Me: I don’t know what you mean and besides, I look nothing like her avatar, according to that guy Rob she’s all oogly boogly and shit.
Stranger: So you do know her!
Stranger: You sound a little unsure.
Me: Totally sure. As sure as a big sure thing schooled at the school of sureness.
Stranger: 50/50…phone a friend….
Me: Listen here sunshine is there some part of no you’re not understanding.
Stranger: I understand perfectly Miss Dupp. Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes.
Me: It won’t work………
Stranger: and that long silky blond hair, it’s just beautiful.
Me: Really, you thi………..it won’t work. What do you want anyway?
Stranger: I was looking for your May Dupp.
Me: So why did you ask if I was the Indecisve Eejit?
Stranger: The girl at the counter said it would wind you up, she said you’re not good with your fate being in someone else’s hands.
Me: She’s right, so are you going to tell me who you are?
Stranger: I’m a tarot card reader.
Me: Ah feck aff, that’s 20 minutes of my life I’m never going to get back!
So it appears I have been approaching this blogging malarkey in completely the wrong way. My lack of posts while not really causing me any great concern, has been a niggle at the back of my mind.
I was chatting to Big Bertha from work about it the other day whilst having a cup of tea and a soggy jammy dodger. It took a while for it to sink in with her what I was actually referring to as for the first 15 minutes of the conversation she though I was telling her I was boggin. For those of you who have no idea what this actually means, wonder no more:
putrid; grotesquely ugly or disturbing; vile smelling
You can understand, can you not, why I was a little bit annoyed at her believing I would ever refer to myself like this. I may not be perfection, but I spend a lot of money at the beauticians to ensure I am far from boggin..ffs! You will just have to believe me when I tell you there is not a spiders leg in sight!!
I happened to mention to Bertha about my lack of posts and she asked how often I do write, to which I replied only when something momentous happens. It was then that I started to think about it and realised that if I sit around waiting for something momentous to happen then I may in fact never write again. In the grand scheme of momentous, my life is a little more mmmm and most certainly lacking in entous!
Bertha said I can write about whatever I want, whenever I want, stressing that there was bound to be some eejit on the world wide wotsit who would be willing to listen. I never thought of it that way before, that I could write about the normal day to day, I thought I had to wait for the days when I was exceptionally fabulous!
When I saw the description, it was the lying ill and helpless bit that I focused on, you see I have not been here for a while because I myself was in that situation. Something terrible happened. I broke a nail!
Now I don’t expect guys to understand the importance of having beautifully manicured digits, but ladies, come on, you get it, right?! It’s like walking out of the house with your skirt stuck in your knickers, mor-ti-fying!!
Owing to the fact that it happened on a Saturday night there was not a lot I could do until the Monday. I phoned into work sick, and unable to think of another excuse I used RSI or Repetitive Strain Injury as it’s also known. Well I mean I wasn’t really telling any lies, because my hand was in agony as a result of the furious filing required to make my poor nail look somewhat decent.
My next call brought nothing but more pain. I had completely forgotten that Monday was my beauticians day off, which left me speaking to Marina, the bitch of the brows. After the previous incident with her and the leggings, there was just no way I was going to sit down and let her work on any part of me. So I asked if there was any chance of an emergency appointment on the Tuesday.
Marina: Broken a nail or something? (said in an extremely sarcastic tone)
Me: I’ll break your face if you don’t put me in the diary for tomorrow (smiling sweetly, even though she couldn’t see me).
Appointment made, it was then back onto the phone with work. Peppering ‘ouch’ throughout the conversation had the desired effect of gaining me another day off, however I was reminded of a meeting I was to attend that afternoon. That’s why I hate Mondays! Horrified at the fact I might have to leave the house in such a state, or worse still attend a meeting in the middle of summer wearing gloves, I started to get a little flustered. My boss, who I have to say is rather good at picking up on my anxiety suggested it might be possible to complete the meeting via conference call, or Skype. Without thinking things through, I readily accepted, I was just glad I did not have to actually go into work.
I spent the rest of the day tidying up a little, I certainly didn’t want my big boss seeing the mess that had accumulated over the weekend, and could not be tidied owing to the broken nail!
I hate waiting for a Skype call, it means you have to walk everywhere with the required device at a short enough distance to ensure the call is not missed. At about 2 minutes to 3pm, the time allocated for the call, my lunch time Tuna sandwich decided to make a surprise reappearance, typical right! But it was better to pay a visit to the loo than have someone hear the gurgling and rumbling of my poor stomach.
Trying to keep myself calm I left the tablet on the dresser and headed for the toilet. I had only just sat myself down, when the bloody thing started to ring. FFS, I’ve heard of getting caught with your pants down, but this was ridiculous! Imagine a rabbit caught in headlights, hovering over a toilet…that was me!
I cannot stress how important this meeting was, and how vital it was that I make some kind of appearance. I certainly did not envisage being naked from the waist down, and was beginning to realise that I might have been safer just going into work.
The device continued to ring and was in the process of vibrating itself off the edge of the dresser onto the the tiled floor below. Holding onto my knickers which were at this point round my ankles I made an awkward dive and somehow managed to catch the kamikaze tablet mid fall.
Me: Oh thank feck!
The Big Boss: Good afternoon Miss Dupp, have we called at an inconvenient time, I hear you are a little indisposed.
Oh balls, balls, balls, I’d only gone and answered the call at the critical point of rescue.
Me: More than you know Sir, more than you know.
The Big Boss: Shall we begin.
My mind was going ten to the dozen with the statement ‘ah feck’ seemingly stuck on repeat. What the hell was I going to do. Here I was back on the toilet, naked from the waist down, trying to hold a tablet at a modest distance, with a broken nail and alleged repetitive strain injury. W T absolute F!!
Me: Ah Sir, I might need a few moments just to compose myself and get organised.
The Big Boss: (there was most certainly laughter in the background) Yes Miss Dupp, I think you might indeed need a few moments. I certainly hope however that you will not ‘pee’ long, umm forgive me, I do of course mean be long. (at this point hysterical laughter could be heard from the Head office of the Captain Cosmetic Company).
I finished the meeting on the toilet and I also learned a valuable lesson, find a beautician who opens on a Sunday!