Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!
Do you know what? Sometimes everything gets right on my nerves. I feel like I’m permanently on the edge of going a bit psycho. I looked up the symptoms of a nervous breakdown and it appears I’ve been having one for about 25 years.
There’s no real reason for this other than my own inability to just be. And refuse to accept that ‘This is the way things are’ or, refuse to ‘Do things the conventional way’ or to accept that ‘You just can’t change some things.’
Can’t do it.
Is this because I have a vagina?
The Monologues
As fortune would have it, one of my friends was directing this old favourite at my local, small-town theatre and suggested I come and see it one night. I didn’t know if I’d cope very well with the material but decided it would be an experience. I’m always a bit dubious of anything pro-feminist that could have no basis in real feminism whatsoever. This vaginal-venture would either make me even more recalcitrant or cure me of my present unnecessary hysteria. It’s a bit like trying goat yoga – you just don’t know if you’re overstepping boundaries or opening new doors.
I bought two tickets and then contemplated at length which friend I’d take with me. I have an eclectic range of pals and it had to be someone who would give me a rational and sound opinion of the show afterward in case it did my head in. After some careful consideration, I chose a very right-wing businesswoman who is gay but hates lesbians. I figured this was as balanced as I was going to get and would provide me with fair insight.
“Do you think they’ll say the C word?” she asked.
“What? Clitoris?”
“No! The real one!”
“I don’t know, but the way I’m feeling of late, I might.”
Coochie Snorcher
Was one of the words used to name the vagina which I found quite playful. I think Victoria’s Secret or Anne Summers should produce a line of exotic panties and call them this as it sounds rebellious, fancy, and a little bit filthy which might appeal to guys.
“Oi, darlin’, ya got those Coochie Snorchers on tonight, eh eh?”
I can hear that line going down at the pub after a few pints to some fair game. If you made them edible and taste like bacon you’d be on to a winner.
Just a thought.
Another part of the show that I found amusing was this:
“The clitoris is simply a bundle of nerves: 8,000 nerve fibres, to be precise. That is twice…twice…twice the number in the penis. Who needs a handgun when you’ve got a semiautomatic”
Parts of the evening made me dreadfully uncomfortable and I had to take my cardigan on and off a few times when I got hot and bothered; and not in a good way. Some of it was very funny, and some of it sad and moving. But mostly, it was weirdly interesting.
Did I enjoy it, is the question…
The friend who directed the show asked me this and my reply was, “I think it’s made me much more vagina confident.”
Which is true. I would never say that word out loud before but now I’m doing it on purpose, randomly, because it makes people flinch. I find that being obnoxious and inappropriate is helping a lot with my irritability.
International Women’s Day
This came up on the same week. Again, not something I pay attention to but I’m currently acknowledging “Special Days” for a marketing project and this was one of them. However, it has to be said that some kind of magical unity takes place on this day between women that doesn’t usually.
Women, in my opinion, tend to fail each other on so many levels. A woman is the first to judge you on your appearance, the first to find your insecurities, the least likely to support your endeavours or like your profile pic, the first to bag your bloke, and the first to call you names behind your back and kiss you on the cheek with the same bitter lips moments after. It’s called biological competition. And this has, and will, continue to happen to all women, at some time.
Unless, of course, it’s your female besties or family who will protect you with a sisterhood that knows no fear or bounds when necessary. Although, they will still have committed one or more of the above sins at some point because we are all a bunch of insecure bitches. It baffles me and yet I understand why it happens.
But, on International Women’s Day, the support is palpable. Truly.
The following day, it’s all over and we revert to type: Sally will be telling Tracey that Sarah looks a slut in her new top from Zara that she’s too fat for and, oh-by-the-way, it totally doesn’t match her inferior lipstick.
Men do not behave like this with each other.
Nor do they wear lipstick.
Or have vaginas.
Sit Your Chirper on the Chair, Chicken!
Still feeling somewhat fractious after my long week of bedlam, bitches, and beavers, I decided to go out for a coffee yesterday morning to meet some work colleagues. Sara Blizzard (our local BBC weatherwoman) had just wound me up with more news of hail/snow/sleet/rain/and 70 MPH winds all in the space of a day. The fact her surname is Blizzard and she’s a weather girl makes me smile and want to puke at the same time. That’s an example of a woman taking the easy road and not trying to think outside the box.
I got blown into Costa Coffee by the ferocious wind and found my posse already doing the crossword at a table.
I put my wet, cold finger on the puzzle grid and said,
1 Across: LOSERS
2 Down: ENEMIES
3 Across: VAH – GYYYYYYYY -NAH!
“Sit down! What do you want to drink?”
“Something strong, dark and masculine. But with a touch of sprinkle. I need to find balance before I tip over. I’m on the flippin’ edge today, AGAIN! I don’t know what’s up with me but one more thing and it’s going to get proper nasty. I can tell.”
A few minutes later, warming up nicely with a group of sensible, level headed people, and a coffee away from the throng of madness, I started to feel a bit better. Quietly and systematically we began to complete the puzzle in the paper and discuss upcoming projects. Nice. Pleasant. Soothing. Right up until a woman at a table next to us kept getting up and down like her arse was on fire.
Up down, up down, up down.
I looked over at her. She seemed like a regular sort but obviously wasn’t.
I looked at my group.
“Just leave it alone,” someone said.
I tried. Really hard. But through my peripheral vision, I could see her Jack-in-the-box-ing constantly and it started to irk the hell out of me. A visceral dislike took hold.
“Somebody make her stop cos if she gets up again I’m going to take her chair away and then pin her to the floor with it.”
Thank God, because He saved her life. In that very second, as my friends took my hands, very tightly I might add, the Tigger in tights was greeted by her pal rushing in.
“Sorry I’m late, traffic was a nightmare!”
So’s your friend… I whispered. I WHISPERED. OK?!
“Oh, I’ve been up and down looking for you because I left my phone at home…”
and brain…. I whispered.
“And didn’t want to think I’d missed you, missed a call or a text….”
or missed your seat, oops too late …I whispered.
“Now we can relax and have a coffee!” she giggled.
And then I noticed her name. Written on her cup. Written in bold, black ink by the resident barista. It was like Karma was mocking me. You’ll never guess what it was. Never.
“GINA”
If only I’d had a Sharpie pen….
