best thing ever?

how I laffed.

you guys...

OMG I'M A LAZY BLOGGER!!!!1!11!!one

Been travelling, it's been awesome. In San Sebastian at the moment, slight break in our whirlwind tour of Europe to relax on the beach. Here's some fishfood for my AWESOME, LOVELY AND SEXUALLY EXPERIENCED READERS!

Non-Blondies one sentence (or maybe two but definitely not three) reviews of places she has been

Naples: love it, no matter the rubbish and the smell and the dodgy dodgy people. Maybe you just always love the first place you go to, but I really felt at home here...

Rome: meh.

Croatia (various islands and some mainland): beautiful place, if you're planning a holiday this is the place to go. And do a boat trip if you can, they are awesome.

Venice: you only need a day. Canals, woohoo.

Vienna: love it so hard, I think I'm gonna live there someday. Got to learn German first.

Salzburg: meh. It has a fortress though which is pretty cool.

Munich: underwhelming. Go to Dachau though, apparently it's the camp that all other camps were modeled on.

Berlin: frigging awesome. Love the hookers out in jeans, puffer jackets and TIGHT TIGHT ORGAN SQUISHING CORSETS.

Amsterdam: made me remember how much I hate stoners. Anne Frank is huge with Americans, can't figure it why since it doesn't have a happy Hollywood ending...

Paris: heart.

Bordeaux: it's kinda cool, out of the way. Just don't go on Le Petit Train, you can't get that hour of your life back and you will hate yourself for it.

Bayonne: Basque area, the people hate Englishers (not shocking really) and are much more upfront about it than most other places in Europe where they wait until they take your tourist Euros before insulting you.

San Sebastian: cool place. Sangria = best invention ever, and why don't bars in Melbourne have awesome tapas?

And that brings you all up to speed on where I've been. I'll be back in London for 3 weeks and super bored so will probably be posting daily about the trip. And I'll tell you all about the toys we bought in Amsterdam.

an essay on why it's tough to be really, really ridiculously good looking.

Yes, seriously. Actually, no, not seriously. This post is not about how much I love myself (though it's a lot). This post is about boys, the boys in England, and goes down the well trodden path: does anyone actually think that yelling 'nice tits' from a moving vehicle will get them pussy?

Before I begin the whingeing, let's just start with a little disclaimer. I grew up in a family where needing encouragement meant you were too weak to make it on your own. Where you always knew that you were wrong and bad, but never told if you were good or right. And so it's hard for me to take compliments now. I just don't know how to accept them - or deflect them gracefully. Truth be told, a compliment just makes me more insecure about whatever particular thing was commented on.

"She likes my hair? Is it usually so bad that it has to be brought to my attention when it's less terrible than usual? What did I actually do to get it this way, can I get it to look like this permanently? Or is she being a sarcastic bitch? Does it look awful, am I being mocked? Will she think I'm full of myself if I accept the compliment? Will she think I'm rude if I don't accept it?"

I know I have said before that I judge people. I do, but not against some kind of strict aesthetic standards, and certainly not against myself of the benchmark of perfection. And I certainly never vocalise a bad judgement to the person. Yes, maybe I'll whisper it in a corner to someone else, but seriously, sometimes heinous atrocities need to be shared with like-minded friends! I tend to make judgements more along the lines of "love her shoes, want them" or "that shirt's not exactly flattering". I'm actually quite tactful in my head...

Anyways. All of this is a long winded way of saying that I judge people, therefore I expect and accept that people will judge me. The thing is, I would never dream of telling someone they need to get their roots done, or that the new dress they are in love with makes them look like an exploding sausage. That's not constructive criticism, that's just plain nasty. And so I don't expect people to come out and tell me I look like a chipmunk with this hair colour, or that skinny jeans are not my friend. I don't care if that's what they think - it's all about what they say.

But it goes the other way too. I find it really infuriating to be ogled on the street, to have customers tell me I'm too pretty to be working in a place like this, to have sexual positions yelled at me from a car. I know this is all sounding a bit "wow, she loves herself hard and wants people to know that everyone else does too". It's not like that. I'm under no illusions that I'm some kind of supermodel. And I've never been hit on so much in my life as I have in my year in England. I don't understand what it is about British guys, and even some non-Brits, that they feel the need to try it on with everything that moves.

And I know that some guys just can't help themselves, they see a hot chick and they just have to let people know that DAAAAAMN she can do something no doubt hot and sexual to them anytime. They think they're being nice and boosting that girls self esteem. Because nothing says "hold your head up high and be proud of yourself" like being told you've got lovely jubblies.

I really, really object to being told that I have been judged on someones fuckability standards and I've passed. Is that really a compliment? I mean, seriously. Here this guy stands, as if they are God. I'd rather fail, frankly. I'd rather not be made constantly aware that I am being checked out, judged for my physical appearance, and being allocated as kill/fuck/marry. It is not a compliment to say "you're decent enough looking that I would have sex with you". It just isn't, ok. It makes me feel so awkward and uncomfortable, just walking down to the supermarket, or while I'm at work or wherever.

And don't even get me started on the guys that get pissed off with you if you ignore their 'compliments', and for some reason don't immediately get down on all fours for them.

I mean, why would any sane, rational girl not?

whimsical wednesday

Yes, okay, that title totally sucks. Sue me.

I've been so uninspired lately, here's the best I can do. Enjoy, my favourite song of the moment. Don't try to read anything about me and my circumstances into it. I just really love the simplicity of it, her voice and the lyrics.

a day in the life

Last Thursday, a day that will live on in infamy, was seriously crappy. To the point of being a joke - a great lark played by the big jester in the sky, or I don't know, the camera crew that follow me around like the goddamn Truman show.

The first little annoyance was my boyfriend. He'd been bugging me for a week to pick up our passports from the Vietnamese embassy so we could submit our visa applications for Cambodia. Only problem is that I'd been working every day that week, and the visa office is only open between 9.30 - 12.30 on the twelfth day after a new moon after an albino dwarf crosses your path three times. Which is completely inconvenient when you're training a Polish girl who is misguidedly using you as an English teacher (actual question "You use these words a lot: actually, basically. What do they mean?". She's been taking notes of how I spoke, and oh man she is screwed now if she wants to learn how to speak proper English!)

So as my dear, dear, darling boyfriend would not take the suggestion to go fuck himself and or do it his goddamn self, on my sole weekday off I resolved to do the visa thing. Thursday was it, and I was up, cleaned, and out of the house by 8.30am - on my way to the local library (which by the way the council has 'wittily' named the IDEA STORE. Losers) to print off our flight details as per stupid Cambodian visa guidelines. The next little annoyance was that the library didn't open until 9am. Didn't they realise I was on a super-tight schedule? Got to get to Gloucester Rd, possibly queue to collect our passports (hopefully with Vietnamese visa enclosed) then get to Willesden Green and drop off our applications before 12.30. GAH! And I didn't know of any internet cafes in the local area, so was stuck with the library. Come 9am I sprinted up to the computers, armed with the boyfriends library card only to be confronted with "enter PIN".

GAH!

So I texted the boy, asking for his library card PIN. He helpfully texted back his bank card PIN. Then called and went through about a hundred options, none of which worked. At which point I hung up and lovingly texted him to helpfully point out that he was fucking useless. After having cajoled a librarian into giving out his PIN, I went back upstairs to print the itinerary, which he had emailed me the night before.

Only, the security settings wouldn't allow me to view the PDF. It came up with a notice that it had been banned for pornographic content - how the FUCK does a fight itinerary seem at all pornographic? And I couldn't save anything to the desktop - smart move, dudes who set this whole thing up, but this is freaking ridonc. More happy and smiley conversations with the boy and finally he emailed a different file format that was able to display and print.

So at 9.45, I set off for the tube. That's right, I was in the damn library for 45 minutes trying to sort out the login and printing. Apart from being trapped behind every meandering, purposeless, double-wide person on my way to and from the Vietnamese embassy, nothing of note occurred. I think we have the correct visas, unfortunately it's not in English (hmm don't know why) so I will have to wait and see if the border guards shoot me. Fingers crossed, eh?

After much walking from Willesden Green tube, I got to the Cambodian embassy, scrabbled around trying to find two passports, application forms, sets of photos and copies of itineraries to hand in. Had to fill out some last minute details on the boyfriends application, and then proudly handed the lot to the clerk. Who had a quick rifle through and handed everything back to me, telling me that it was too early to apply as the Cambodian visa is valid for three months from the application date. Which is so goddamn ridiculous I cannot believe it, also that I could swear it was not mentioned at any point on the embassy website. But I invite you all to go prove me wrong (I will hunt down and poke in the eyes anyone who does). Turns out we will have to apply for the visa in Vietnam. Am I alone in thinking this is fraught with problems and maybe we should just blow off Cambodia and observe it by plane as we go direct from Ho Chi Minh to Bangkok? Anyway, so by this point I'm mad. Probably even hopping mad, if it didn't sound so unco. It's a hot day, it's my only day off, and I'm wasting it fucking around in Willesden Goddamn Green? Fuck this right off.

But on my way back to the tube station, I walked by an internet cafe. Determined not to let the day be a complete bust, I thought I'd at least print off the Indian visa application and
sort that out on my next day off. But it turns out there is an application centre literally around the corner from the boyfriends work, and what's more it's open until 2.30pm. Huzzah! The day is saved!

I print the forms, head to his work and fill out our details. The Indian visa application is by far the most in-depth I've ever had to fill out. When does anyone else need to know about your parents nationalities? Like, seriously? So all settled, I head off to the Indian visa office. Still rather cranky, I resolve to punch in the kidneys the first person that gets in my way. And nobody does, it's a clear path all the way to the application centre and I'm in the door, I can taste success and...wait...what's this piece of paper taped on the door? Due to a system error they cannot accept written applications but can accept online applications?

You have got to be kidding me.

And that was the point when I said "fuck this, boyfriend, you can deal with the rest of the visa crap". Problem solved.