Monday, 22 June 2015

Feeling broody

I've never particularly liked children. Actually, that's not entirely true. From a distance, kids have always seemed really cute. You see them running along with ribbons in their hair and dirt on their trousers that makes them look like they're being filmed for a Persil advert, and you think: awwwww. They're so cute! And so tiny - their fingers are so little, how do they even hold stuff???

But then you start talking to a child. And it's the most annoying thing in the world. The conversation goes around in circles and it's like you're on an Annoying Roundabout - every question they ask you gets more and more annoying!
Like: "what are you doing?" Yeah, that sounds cute enough when the kid next to you on the bus asks that.
So you reply "I'm reading a magazine"
And then they ask: "What's it about?"
So you answer: "Clothes and women and stuff"
So they ask: "Why are you reading it?"
And you say "I just like it, it's interesting"
And they persist: "But why do you like it? Why don't you want to read something else?"

And suddenly it's like you're being interrogated at a police station. Nothing you say will be good enough and, thus, you are on the Annoying Roundabout.

But lately I've been feeling that kids aren't actually that bad?! I think it's because I played Hide and Seek with my little 5 year old cousin and his friend, and it was really fun. I'm such a kid at heart. And then my cousin kept cuddling me and climbing into my lap like I was a Kangaroo and he was my little kid sitting in my pouch. It was so adorable!

And now BAM! Broodiness has begun. Rahhhhh I want a baby!!! (OK, but not in real life - please, God, don't do that thing where you now give me a child. Like Virgin Mary. Only, I'm not a Virgin. But then, was Mary really...? It's all very controversial!)

Anyways, yeah. Babies are adorable. And so cute and little and aw.
Totes adorbs!! Keep you posted,
Grammar Gal

Misadventures in Cooking

My mother has made what can only be described as a catastrophic mistake. She has left me home alone and trusts me to cook my lunch and dinner. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a good cook. I’ve always been told that my toast and jam is Michelin-Rating-Worthy. And as for my Microwave Ready Meal – you’d think you were cooking something by Jamie Oliver.

But, alas, she has asked me to make myself boiled eggs for lunch. So, naturally, I went shopping and bought some sweets, thinking I could just eat loads of those and pretend I’d eaten lunch. But she’s quite a smart lady, my mother. And she called me to ask how the eggs were going. And, of course, they are still sitting snugly in the fridge. And I’m a terrible liar, so now I’m here in the kitchen trying to make Eggs and Soldiers. Mum says it’s “dead easy” and I just have to let them boil in water for 3 minutes. But what if it goes wrong and I boil the eggs for too long? What if there’s still a chicken in one of them and I end up eating a little baby chick by accident??

But I have far more qualms about dinner. Mum wants me to make Pork Chops. Pork. As in meat. I’ve never cooked meat before – do I need foil? I feel like in cooking shows they  use foil. But isn’t foil flammable? Would the foil set fire to my kitchen? And meat is just scary to cook – if it goes wrong then I’ll get food poisoning. And who knows if that could be fatal??

Nonetheless, I’m literally starving so I’m going to force myself to become a Domestic Goddess.
Keep you posted when I burn my house down,
Grammar Gal

PS How long does it take to boil this water for my eggs? Swear I’ve been waiting for at least 3 days…

Cooking Update
It turns out that the pork chops are out of a date by almost a month. Now, does that mean I can still eat them because they were in the freezer?? The back instructions are very ambiguous – it says “use by the sell by date” but also “use within a month” – does that mean use within a month of purchase or within a month of the sell-by date?
The chops themselves look a bit minging – there’s blood coming out of them. That indicates that they’re still fine to eat because otherwise wouldn’t the blood have mould on it or something…?
Heyho, I’m not taking the chance. After today’s culinary triumph with the boiled eggs (I mean, they did crack whilst in the pan but that was just a minor hiccup) I’ve decided to make scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. I might even throw in some of my critically acclaimed toast. So now I just need to google how to scramble an egg/eggs (do you use one or more??!).
Wish me luck!

Grammar Gal

At the Clingy Crossroads

(I wrote this blog post a LONG time ago but my internet was being a little knob, so I'm only uploading it now!!)

There comes a time in every relationship when a guy starts to withdraw a wee bit. Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus will tell you that this is because men are elastic bands who need to stretch out and feel independent before they can spring back to you. I’ve already called bullshit on that theory. But, regardless of why the boy draws away, it inevitably happens. As a girl, you find yourself at the Clingy Crossroads, faced with two paths ahead of you.

A.      You cling on for dear life. Your phone becomes your new source of Oxygen. Wake up? Check it. Go for a bath? Take it with you. On the toilet? Check he hasn’t read your Whatsapp yet. Not only do you obsessively pray he will reply to your messages, you actually send him more than is normal. It starts with one ‘Good Morning Text’ (because he no longer sends those any more) and then you decide to tell him about what you’re doing with your day. And then you read an article that you obviously need to tell him about. And then there’s a new sandwich you just tried that tastes exactly like the one he had the other day from Pret… And soon you’ve sent 20 messages. Each has been seen and not responded to. And how do you feel? Like a clingy koala bear who’s unworthy of love.

B.      You distance yourself. He’s trying to be an elastic band? Well, let’s see who can stretch the furthest. My mamma has always said that if you treat ‘em mean then you keep ‘em keen. Pros of this tactic are that you feel fantabulous about yourself – why reply to him when you can instead spend the day focusing on you. Maybe today is the perfect day to start doing Pilates (or maybe not…). Yet by distancing yourself, you create…well, distance. And that’s not healthy – soon the conversation trickles down and neither side is willing to start a conversation. Take it from the professional – this is the path I took that made my relationship with Humbug go from Pretty Bad to Completely Tits Up.

As we can see, both paths are recipes for disasters. I wish there was a way that we could stay sassy and independent, but also be cherished so we don’t feel clingy.

But guys have lives too! Hmmmm… I’m not really sure what advice to give now! I guess, we should just try our best to stay independent but also loving.

Well that’s what I think anyway. Keep you posted how that turns out…

Grammar Gal 

Friday, 5 June 2015

Farting in front of the boyfriend

It's my least favourite 'F' word. When I say/write/read it, it makes me cringe and involuntarily say 'urghhh'. Nonetheless, it's something we all do - we can't help it, we're animals!

But it seems to be an unspoken rule that one must not...'pop off' in front of one's partner. According to urban legend, the moment that the wind breaks, the relationship is changed forever.

And that does make sense - he hears/smells you 'pop off' and then what next? Will he expect you to have burping competitions? Will having a shit become an activity you do together? When farting in front of your partner, the main concern is that it sounds the death toll of romance in your relationship.

Yes, this all sounds like such hogwash and you may think I'm a total pillock for being so dramatic. But...


I did it. I was drunk and throwing up at the aforementioned predrinks  and as I was bent over and straining to throw up all of the Vodka I had mistakenly consumed, a little 'pop' came out of my bottom. And he heard. And I paused the throwing up to consider how best to die in that moment (drowning in my vomit was the best option I came up with) and said "I'm so sorry". He said not to worry and acted like it hadn't happened. Then the next day at lunch he mentioned it with a little smile on his face.

And I knew that things would never be the same again.

I farted in front of my boyfriend. Will he now think he can fart in front of me??? Well.... To be honest, farts don't bother me too much. It's burps that get me. They have the worst sound ever - it's like a duck being drowned and uttering it's last quack (can ducks drown???). And the smell...It's like when a dustbin truck is parked outside your house and wafting towards you. Ugh it's the definition of grim.

So maybe we will be OK if he just doesn't burp in front of me. I mean, maybe this is all actually a good thing. Normally when I need to pop off I go to the toilet, turn the tap on, pop then spray an entire can of Lynx to cover the scene of the crime. Maybe it would be nice to not have to go through all that effort and to just...let it go (literally).

Here's hoping!
Keep you posted,
Grammar Gal

Taking a Leap of Faith...And Landing in a Pile of Vomit

May the record show that I was on my best behaviour. After deciding that my boyfriend's ex was not a threat and that she seemed perfectly lovely, Mr Melon and I went to her house for predrinks.

Naturally, we were rather late because I got a wee bit flustered trying to find an outfit that said "friendly" for her, but also "sexy" for Mr Melon. I settled for a blue swing top and skirt, then realised that I looked ridiculous because my bra was 10000% on show. And I wouldn't have minded, but it was my granny bra that was really gross and bobbly. But, alas, my other bras were hidden under the blanket of clothes that is my floor, so I decided that the Granny-Meet-Stripper look would have to do. Besides, time was ticking and Mr Melon was huffing and looking at his watch a lot.

So I turned up at these pre-drinks with Vodka and a desire to make friends. But it soon became apparent that the entire room was off their faces. They were literally such drunk skunks - in a very explicit game of Never Have I Ever people were confessing to 'ejaculating and evacuating' and making sex tapes. Mr Melon and I knew that we needed to catch up on the drinking front.

Being a Convent Girl (aka a wee bit of a prude when it comes know, sexual things), I didn't have much to drink for in Never Have I Ever. So instead I played my own game, called Drink 3/4 of a Vodka Bottle in 15 Minutes. Not my smartest idea.

Oh, but it gets worse. Mr Melon's ex then asked him/'us' (it was 100% directed at him) if we wanted a tour of her house, namely of her bedroom. So off we went off, the strangest threesome (not in that way, hey!) to have ever had a tour. And upon going into her room it became apparent that stood in front of me was the female equivalent of Mr Melon.

Same taste in books? Check. Same taste in posters? Check. Same taste in films? Check. It dawned on me that she was his ideal girl. And then she excused herself to go to the toilet because, as a wee bit of a drunk skunk, she had broken The Seal.

And then I threw up in her friend's bathroom. I'm not talking cutesy throwing up either. My sister is adorable when she's sick - she coughs so lightly and you literally cannot tell that chunks of grossness are coming out of her mouth. But me? I was retching as loudly as a car being revved on Top Gear. And Melon's ex actually heard me from the other room. Before I knew it, me and Mr Melon were surrounded by a group of people (whom, aside from telling us a wee bit TMI during Never Have I Ever, were complete strangers). I was mortified. I tried to stop being sick but, alas, it was as if I was throwing up everything I had ever eaten in my life.

And Mr Melon's ex was so nice about it - she said I could use her bed to have a nap in if I wanted. And after I unstapled my head from the toilet, I did go and lie down there. And then proceeded to tell Mr Melon all about my irrational jealousy for his ex. It seems that being drunk and being sassy are mutually exclusive when one is around your partner's ex.

But things did finally pick back up - he told me that she is definitely only a friend and that he likes the fact we aren't too similar. Phew.

But I'm naturally still mortified about the whole evening. And I had to see his ex the next day, and oh I wish I hadn't looked like I'd been eaten by a whale (I was pasty white and had unbrushed hair, wearing a cardigan that definitely clashed with my dress but was all that I could find in my room).

Heyho. The moral of this story is: Vodka is never the answer.