Mother Nature really cocked up when she designed our lady bits.
If caught short outside, a man can stand and aim his wee at something the size of a coin; with no more prep needed than unzipping his flies.
A woman – on the other hand – has to:
squat down with her legs as wide apart as is humanly possible (not easy with your knickers acting as bondage gear round your ankles)
use one hand to pull said knickers as far forward as they’ll go (while avoiding toppling over and nose-diving into the shrubbery)
use the other hand to collect in, and bunch up, any wayward clothing (if you have even the slightest inkling that you’ll need to pee ‘al fresco’, for the love of god leave the long winter coat at home)
wrestle her bag onto her back (to keep it as far away from the action as possible – water marks will NOT come out of leather)
desperately try to avoid scratching her completely bare arse on any lurking undergrowth (those feckin’ brambles get everywhere)
And yet – even after this HUGE AMOUNT OF PREPARATION – we still manage to pee ALL OVER our shoes!!
I’ve started creating funny MEMES, and find that I’m really enjoying myself hahaha!
If you follow me on Facebook you might have seen them – if the Gods of Facebook have allowed you to that is. It’s all about algorithms you know; you might not have been chosen to see anything from me this week – AT ALL!
If you follow me on Twitter you might have seen the odd MEME as it whizzed past on your timeline. Unless you blinked.
And if you’re one of the 22 people who follow me on Pinterest then…thank you!
So here are a few that show the true definitions of words. They’ll be coming to a dictionary near you, any day now. Keep on reading!
Those of you that have been following my blog for a while, will remember my post about thedaythecameracrewcametothe gym. I described in eye-watering detail my gym outfit: a pair of grey, long cotton supermarket shorts; a scruffy, old green t-shirt; black socks and cheap trainers. Nice!
So, decided I should at least look the part at the gym. It’s no good being able to talk the talk, I have to be able to walk the walk as well – and preferably walk that walk in rather nice matching lycra. So here is my new outfit: Keep on reading!
Saw this advert in a magazine the other day. Apparently I have a hang-up about my stomach; but I’m not to worry! This company has been working hard on developing innovative technology to make me look like Catherine Zeta-Jones in my bathing costume – PHEW! Keep on reading!
I often go to the supermarket looking like I’ve been sleeping under a railway bridge for a week: hair scraped up, no make-up, tracksuit bottoms, scruffy trainers, pyjama top (I kid you not) and shapeless cardigan (buttoned up to hide the pyjama top!) Keep on reading!
Well, it’s that time of year again – the ‘hunt down a couple of dresses for the party season’ time of year. Or as I like to call it – the ‘cross my fingers and hope I find something that doesn’t make me look like mutton dressed as lamb, has an air of Catherine Zeta Jones about it (as opposed to an air of desperation), and doesn’t cost the earth’ time of year. Keep on reading!
Had been at the gym 10 minutes today when a member of staff came over to tell me that a film crew would be coming in to make a promotional film clip, for You Tube . She then asked if I was ok about being in it. No I chuffing was not!
My current hairdresser is hell-bent on blow-drying my hair in a certain way – which is absolutely not the way I want it. So today, to show her how I’d like it done, I actually washed and blow-dried it myself before I went for my appointment – yes, you read that right. Puffed out from my head and wavy; nothing wrong with a bit of Farrah Fawcett of a morning! Plenty of volume. Remember that. It’s important.
She did the roots and trimmed it, then it was time for the blow dry. I’d told her I like volume. I’d told her it doesn’t suit me flat to my head. I’d told her flat hair makes my face look gaunt – I’d told her it makes me look old. She nodded and smiled knowingly.
Confident she knew what she was doing I settled down to read my book. 15 minutes later I looked up. CHUFFIN’ NORA!! An Afghan hound looked back at me. No, NOT a perfectly groomed, swishy, silky Afghan hound – a neglected, scrawny, old mutt with lank hair that any grungy teenager would be proud of!
Flat to my head, my face looked gaunt, I’d aged 10 years and guess what? NO VOLUME!