Tag Archives: cool

The fake Facebook me: an open letter to my FB friends

Hmm.                         Awkward.                         You see… I have a confession to make. I haven’t been entirely honest. My profile is a set up. I’ve crafted, sculpted and de-tagged it to death in an attempt to appear as smooth as possible – the ‘best’ version of myself. Who I want you to think I am.

I haven’t lied to you. Nothing on my profile is untrue. It’s what I’ve left out that has resulted in a less than complete picture of myself.

However, I’ve decided to cut the crap. That’s right, I am now on a mission to officially become A Bull-Free Zone.

Here’s what I would add to my profile info if I were being completely honest:

Movies

I like to give off the impression that I only ever watch super arty films with subtitles so tiny you have to endure the entire movie understanding almost none of the dialogue, but connecting on a higher level with what the director is trying to “say” through the subtly placed set props.

However, around 80% of the time, it’s actually quite unlikely that I’m watching a French language film with Arabic subtitles about post modernism in a post-colonial world. I’m actually watching Cheaper by the Dozen 2. And enjoying it.

Photos

Until recently I blocked all friends from seeing each and every photo I’m tagged in and limited access to profile pics and backpacking photos only. I have now seen the light and have officially Got Over Myself (it really is official – you get a certificate and everything.) If we’re FB friends, please do take a look. There’s a particularly fetching one of me lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Music

I would love you to believe that the first record I ever purchased was something uber cool like Blue by Joni Mitchell. But it wasn’t. It was Let’s Get Ready to Rumble by PJ and Duncan. I used to, and still do, have a big thing for comedy rapping. In fact, two weeks ago I subjected a car full of people to a rendition of ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’ word for word. I’m still not sure if they were amused or just thought I needed help.

Activities

I do enjoy politics, music and reading, but if I were being entirely honest I would also add the following to my list:

  • Walking into lampposts
  • Skipping down the road when I think no one is looking whilst giggling to myself like a crazy person.
  • Aimlessly browsing the internet for hours when I should be doing something waaaay more useful. Like sleeping. Or reading Tolstoy. Or watching an Arabic-subtitled French film with a post-modern interpretation of the post-G8 consumerist culture in middle Britain.

Nope, I’m not entirely sure what that sentence means either.

Crumpled heap: Officially the best photo of me on Facebook


How not to attract a man (and other fun stories)

Life. For most it passes by with the occasional fail. For some, however, (cue: me) life is a series of slightly humiliating disasters of hilarious, yet epic proportions.

For example, take my track record on interaction with attractive men. For some reason this area of my life seems to resemble a Will Farrell movie.

Rather than moan, I thought I would share my in-depth experience with the bloggasphere in the hope that some of you may avert dating disaster by following this one simple, yet highly effective rule: don’t. copy. me.

Over the next few weeks I will share a few of my most embarrassing moments in the hope that some good can come out of the more ridiculous things that I have done have happened to me (against my will. Through no fault of my own. Whatsoever.)

Part 1: The slide of horror

I was ten years old and on my way back from a walk in the welsh mountains with my trendy parents (yes – my mum and dad were cooler than me even then. Not a good sign of things to come.)

Upon passing a small park I begged my weary parents to stop and let me play for a few minutes. In retrospect I now realise that the park was, in the words of my mum,  “a bit run down” (i.e. a total dive/ death trap) but all I saw was the possibility of five whole minutes of unbridled fun rather than the fact that this was Not A Good Idea.

On entering the play area I realised I was not alone. There was another kid sharing the space with me, and not just any kid.

A Boy.

When I was ten A Boy was a big deal. Especially one that was a little older than me. I struck my best confident walk, striding up to the rickety slide that towered above me. I climbed the stairs tentatively, making sure that the wind didn’t whip my flowery elasticised skirt over my head. I made it to the top. He was watching. Result.

Throwing myself onto the slide I began to wiz down, trying not to bang my elbows on the large iron hooks that poked upwards along the sides.

Allow me to narrate what followed:

Young girl begins descent. Girl’s skirt catches on hooks. Girl’s torso flies through centre of skirt with technical flare.

At least this is what the onlookers remember. All I can recall is starting the descent with my skirt on and finishing in my underpants, skirt still half way up the slide.

I wish I could tell you that this is an isolated incident in an otherwise uneventful life. But we both know that I would be lying.

Next week : Part 2 – The Tuscan pizza of degradation


Bad ass mumma

Something rather worrying occurred in my family six years ago.  My mother – my calm, middle-class, softly spoken mother – took up kicking ass as a hobby.

Growing up, my sisters had 21 facial piercings between them.  While they tattooed their ankles, I spent every Saturday playing violin in the local orchestra.  When they invested in dreadlocks, I invested in a maths degree.  When my bro developed a love for art house film-making, I developed a love for honey & marmite sandwiches.  While they had their fingers on the pulse, my finger was firmly stuck to the remote control for a Deep Space Nine episode marathon.

My parents were my one solace.  I could safely look at them and fool myself into thinking that by comparison I was vaguely cool.

Then my dad grew his hair long and my mum joined a club where people fly through the air for fun.  My sandwich-making skills hardly shine in comparison.  How very dare they.