Are we there yet?

I've been busy. Affa busy.

I've been adulting. How fucking annoying is that word? Adulting? It's fitting though. It shouldn't be, but it is. We shouldn't feel like we're still muddling through the world, a wary child, only acting like an adult a handful of times. Ironed a pair of pants? Adulting. Putting a bag of salad in a resealable food bag so it doesn't go off? Adulting. Saving money? Adulting. Purchasing mattress protectors? Adulting.

I've been adulting. I'm moving in with Mr K. All I can think of is Monica in friends, crying in to Rachel's arms crying, "and I have to live with the boy". Can you picture it? Can you hear her crying? I'm not crying about it, I'm bloody fucking excited. I've lived with boys for the last two years, two very lovely friends whom I have not know my new town without. Many say, oh but you've lived with boys already so it's not going to be that different. I think it will be. This particular boy will be in my bed… all the time… in my bed… using my stuff… using my expensive face wash… But do you know what? That is exactly what I'm excited about. Being responsible for someone other than myself.

So yes, I've been adulting. I've packed a scary amount of brown cardboard boxes, with labels handwritten in my unreadable scrawl, "bedroom", "spare room", "bathroom". I'm used to writing my name, because my boxes generally just went into one or two rooms that were mine. Not now; now everything is shared.

We have a "flat account". How grown up is that? We have contents insurance. Very adult. We bought a fancy new cutlery organiser after spending a good twenty minutes in Debenhams deliberating what to spend our £25 gift voucher on. Rolling pin vs. cutlery organiser. The latter was needed more urgently. (How urgently can you need a cutlery organiser?)

My current flat seems so bare. All the tat is gone from the walls, the mantle piece, all my girly arty farty decorations are down. It just looks like a space, not a home. And now, and the aforementioned crap is littering my our new home. Mr K loves it. I can tell. There's a wooden love heart hanging from four out of five door handles in the hall… I'm placing bets as to when he will get annoyed at them banging every time you open a door and remove them, hoping I won't notice. There's fairly lights, everywhere. Candles, everywhere. It's a bit girly. I'm going with the 'I'll put in everything I want and see what he removes' tactic… I'll let you know how much I end up with.

I also phoned the bank and requested a new debit card without contactless. I can't keep track of my money, there's nothing new. But I felt so adult. Taking action against my frivolous spending habit, and hoping the hassle of entering my PIN number every time will prevent me from 'popping' in for something.

What adulting thing have you done this month so far?

Are we there yet?

A gazelle

I did a very cool thing today. Cool by my standards.

I cycled to work. And then ran home from work.

Yes, you read it right. CYCLED to work, and RAN home. I’ll say it again, just in case you missed it. I cycled to work. And then ran home from work. Go fucking me. Hell yeah. I have found my perfect routine. A 13 minute cycle to work using the ever so fashionable Next Bikes (think Borris bikes in London), casual 9 hours in the office, then a 20 min run home.

Before a few weeks ago, I hadn’t been on a bike in about six years. That first time, with my super hot boyfriend in front of me in very tight shorts, I nearly fell over, crashed into a post, and narrowly avoided knocking over a small child. It was not good. I blame the shorts.

But now? Four attempts later, I am THE QUEEEN OF THE BIKE. I just glide. You know the way you glide when you have newly shaved every part of your body within an inch of your life? Glideeeeee. I glided to work. Sun in the sky, sunglasses slipping down my nose, bright red running trainers paired ever so effortlessly with my very smart office clothes, runny eyes (thanks wind), bright red freezing knuckles and a nervous twitch at every traffic light. Glided to work I did. Like a shiny smooth leg. Glided.

I had a running bag. Like a zippy, colourful, multi-pocketed (like who uses all of them anyway?) bag. A running bag. It held approximately one bra cup, a pair of leggings and a running top. But, it made me feel like a TOTAL BOSS. I felt like if someone was chasing after me, I could outrun them AND show off my fancy new bag at the same time. They would be dazzled by my running bag. BOSS GIRL.

It chaffed a bit. When I ran home. *Side note: I would like to point out that when I say I went for a run, I really mean a jog. A 10 min mile jog.* It bounced a lot and rubbed against my neck a bit. As I was running, like a glorious fucking gazelle might I add, I found myself wishing I had some vaseline for my neck. Just a wee tin, maybe the green one with Aloe. Next time, next time.

I got home and felt like the fittest person in the whole entire world. Like, I could run a marathon. I should have been at London Marathon. I should be on the Olympic running team. Seriously, you should have seen my gazelle like movement. Beautiful strides, barely out of breath (I think I wasn’t breathing, that was it), not a drop of sweat (it was highlighter I swear). I sat down to a big bowl of pasta, because you need to refuel after a tough workout (2 miles…),  and ate seven Oreos. I still haven’t moved and it’s been 3 hours. My legs hurt. My back hurts. My feet feel like I’ve walked over hot coals for years. BUT I WAS A FUCKING QUEEN TODAY.

Exercise done for the week? You betcha.

How’s your running? Do you even run bro?

Your redhead.

A gazelle

See what I’m seeing, hear what I’m hearing

It’s glorious in Glasgow. Sunny, yes, chilly, slightly, better than usual, definitely.

This week has been a funny ol’ one. Mr K and I had agreed to try and be veggies for April; I did it purely because I didn’t think I could. Actually, that’s harsh on me; I was eating meat and didn’t know why. I didn’t think I would miss the taste, and was convinced I was only eating it because I was brought up believing you had to include meat for a meal to be filling. With a bout of excitement, and armed with a bookmarks folder full of veggie ideas, I was 100% committed. And I did it, I really, really did. Until Wednesday. I caved. I had a sandwich from my favourite sandwich shop in the whole wide world (Where the Monkey Sleeps FYI), and had a Stoofa Deluxe. Fuck those sandwiches are the best. I cowered back to my desk, tail between my legs, oozing guilty from every pore. But it was affa tasty.

Guilt, shame and sheer disappointment aside, I wanted to preach about my current digital/social media/television/music loves. Get ready for a lotta Googling/adding to playlists/subscribing/following.

WATCHING

13 Reasons Why – SPOILER ALERT – I didn’t rate it. I adored the soundtrack (see below note on music for evidence). But the series? I’m not convinced it sends the right message. Yes, it’s important to bring mental health to the forefront, and to ensure the stigma around discussion is dissolved. However, I’m not sure I agree with portraying suicide as a method of getting revenge; or as a catalyst to ensuring the people involved realise their own flaws. I also think the main character is just a bit of a dick. Throughout the programme, she is selfish, and manipulative, and WATCHES HER BEST FRIEND GET RAPED AND DOES NOTHING ABOUT IT. I’m keen to hear your views on this, leave a comment, I wanna discuss.

Big Little Lies – A M A Z I N G. That’s all. Not all actually; I could go on about this for days. The characters are fucking magical. The plot is magical. The importance of the lead female characters is magical. The soundtrack is magical (see below note on music for evidence).

@jessrenogrooming – Holy macaroni. This Instagram account is all my dreams in one. A super cool dog groomer based in NY uploads hilariously endearing and adorable videos of dogs, to amazing music. What’s not to love? Shout out to Nugget. The fact he’s ginger has nothing to do with my bias.

LISTEN 

I am a super obsessive music lover. It’s all I do. I always have headphones plugged in, and have near panic attacks when I can’t find my headphones (who copes on the subway without them?!). My current music loves are varied, vast, and too long to write down. Here are my top three:

  1. Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole‘ – Martha Wainwright – Oh holy mackerel this is wonderful. It’s wonderful. Proper girl power shit. Featured in Big Little Lies. YES. Get it added to whatever provider you listen to tunes through.
  2. The Night We Met’ – Lord Huron – Super cute, super sad, super lovely, super wonderful. Featured in 13 Reasons Why. Whoever picked the sound for that series deserves a medal.
  3. ‘The Afterlife’ – James Blunt – who here loves James Blunt? YES YES YES. He’s hilarious. His music is funny. The lyrics make me laugh. And the actual tunes are fun. No they’re not the most intelligent, or the best sounds, but they are amazingly poppy and perfect for the car/walk to walk/run. Listen to them all. Lose My Number is my personal favourite from his latest album.

Podcasts. Who listens to them? Please tell me you listen to them. I am not a radio person. I don’t like the jumping back and forth between talking, music, adverts and all the shit competitions that go on in-between. Podcasts are the prime chat portions of the radio, condensed into smaller episodes. My current favourites are;

  1. The High Low – first of all, I adore the girls. And their names. Dolly and Pandora. How fucking cool are their names? Their chat/banter/giggles are good too. Their motto is nothing is too high or too low to talk about. They believe in talking and exploring high brow topics including current affairs, politics, and world events. They also believe in talking and exploring low brow topics including Thersea May’s pants, bad adverts, and their current Netflix binges. Always about last weeks news, no longer than 1 hour, and always promising a giggle. Get it subscribed.
  2. The Guilty Feminist – my love for this podcast is deep and far reaching. I call myself a feminist, but then I also bloody love when a man looks at my bum (thank you jeans!). Does that make me a bad feminist? These gals don’t think so. This podcast tackles feminism in our current world, and allows you to be a raging feminist whilst also being a big guilty at the same time. This is laugh out loud on the train and everyone stares at you funny. Always. Go on, subscribe. Even the boys. Everyone will love this.

Drop me a message if you click on any likes and like/dislike what you see. I wanna chat.

Away to eat a medium-rare burger and hang my head in shame.

Your redhead.

See what I’m seeing, hear what I’m hearing

My tits and I

I think I’m going to take up karate. Or kick boxing. Or just boxing.

Listening to a podcast on my way home today got me thinking. What if I was ever in a position of compromise, and needed to defend myself? I don’t have any special skills, unless wiggling my nostrils counts?

My nunga nungas would only hinder my efforts, ultimately disproving the ‘you could knock someone out with those’ theory. Trust me, that would hurt me more than it would them.

Maybe I need to give you a bit of context. I have big jugs. Last time I got measured, they were a GG. Yes, two Gs. But they’re not nice, perky, porn star boobs. They’re sling ’em in your waistband, breast feeding without the baby, more stretch marks than a tubigrip, boobs. They get in my way, all day, every day. Do I hate them? Nah. Mr K certainly doesn’t seem to mind them either. They do cause me a problem though. Read further for the detailed insight.

I could run away. I can run; I’m a runner. I could gather myself, put my sprinting head on, and run. But boobs. I could not run without a sports bra. They’re like tennis balls in socks, and the top of the socks are attached to my body, and they bounce, and they swing, and they thud. They hurt when they are not warned about fast movement. I sometimes contemplate wearing a sports bra during sex… seriously, it’s crossed my mind.

Bralets? Those intricate, pretty, sexy, non-wired, non-supportive, sexy, pretty, lacey things? The ones you can see the models nipples through? The ones that Agent Provocateur sell? Yes, those super hot things. They might just cover my nipple and no more. No under wire = no, no, no go.

Picture this. It’s Wedding/Engagement/Ball/Party/Special Occasion season. You are looking for a new outfit. You go to ANY shop. There’s a pretty sleeveless dress. There’s a pretty off the shoulder dress. There’s a very edgy silk jumpsuit with spaghetti straps. Can you wear a bra with any of these items? Nope. So, can I wear them? Nope. Unless I tuck my tits into my granny pants and hope nobody asks where my extra muffin top came from… Don’t even get me started on sexy pyjamas. Lucky Mr K is regularly treated to lumpy leggings and an old band t-shirt. Hey baby, come get me 😉

They attract unwanted attention. ALL THE FUCKING TIME. On the tube, on the street, in the gym, when I run, when I go to the dentist and don’t wear a polo neck, when I have to tie my shoelaces; the list is endless.

My last moan. They make me hypocritical. They make me forgot all my feminist, strong, body positive views. I have said professed all of these in the past; don’t change your body permanently, don’t have plastic surgery, don’t conform, don’t hate yourself, don’t be jealous of other girls, be happy, be brave, be confident in your skin, be proud of what you have. But me? PLEASE GIVE ME TEN THOUSAND POUNDS SO I CAN CHOP THEM OFF NOW.

Let me know if you have the dolla and I’ll send you my bank details. Cheers chum.

How do you feel about your breasticles?

Your redhead.

My tits and I

The Cows 

I just finished reading The Cows, by Dawn O’Porter.

I wanted to LOVE this book, because I adore Dawn. I love her style; I love her humour; I love her podcast; I love her husband; I love the name of her dog. I just love her. And I really wanted to love this book.

Now, let me start by saying I do like it, I like the story line, I like the characters, and I like the way it’s set out. Dawn has introduced three characters, three strong women who have their own story, each very different from the other. The story is told in each point of view, and in each chapter we hear from each women at regular intervals. This point, I loved. I loved how involved I was with each character, how we knew what they were doing at each moment in time, how it interacted with the other women.

Each character has an interesting life, each strong, each wilful, each a little bit mad. I read the book in two days. That’s a good sign.  Although, I did find myself skipping lines. I wasn’t interested in what filled each invisible dotted line on my page (okay, iPad, but you get the picture). I skipped the dull prologue and searched for the dialogue; that’s where the good stuff lay.

My biggest bugbear? It was all about men.

Ever since I listened to an episode (35 to be exact) of The Guilty Feminist, I carefully and judgementally interrogate everything I read, listen to or watch for the passing of the Bechdel test. Created by graphic novelist Alison Bechdel, a film passes the test if there are two women present, who talk about something other than a man for 2 uninterrupted minutes. (Google it, it’s a very interesting revelation). This book doesn’t pass it. I know that officially, books aren’t included. And I don’t want to ‘diss’ anything that Dawn does; see previous gushing love confession. But I hate that these three women, these three strong women, talk about men ALL THE TIME. Why Dawn, why?

SPOILER ALERT

Why does Cam, a feminist, no shit taking blogger, write about her toyboy? Profess about her man friend? She is such a good, badass character who has made her millions (literally) by blogging about her childfree, carefree, man-free life, and the main fixture of her story is a man.

Tara, a single mum, is a successful TV producer, and a superhero mother. Yet her story line focuses on a man, who after date one, made her so horny she masturbated on a train?

Lastly, Stella; she has an eighty five percent chance of getting cancer; lost her twin sister and mum to cancer; and has a pretty shitty relationship with her boyfriend. She has a crazy plot to get pregnant by her boss (a man).

What’s going on? Why are they all pining after men?

Please read it and let me know your thoughts? I think I’m being harsh, but then again, I’m allowed to be aren’t I? I’m allowed to feel angry and a bit upset that a woman I admire so much, took an excellent opportunity, and spent it writing about men.

Awaiting your opinions.

Your redhead.

The Cows 

The First

I wanted the first post to be something very clever, and funny; I wanted to make you question where I had been your whole life.

Instead, I decided to give you a quick synopsis of me.

In no particular order;

  • I’m 23
  • I live in Glasgow, although I’m not from Glasgow
  • I want to provoke; thoughts not violence (although some of my irritations induce rage)
  • I have a boyfriend; let’s call him Mr K
  • I want to write about everything; I used to write about music, but that felt restrictive
  • I dislike a lot of things including busses; waiting; pickles; the Daily Mail; when people agree just to keep peace; feeling guilty; Sambuca
  • I’m also quite funny when I want to be; await the first funny joke, it’s a goodun’
  • I want to recommend things; books, music; events; articles; opinions
  • I have a job; a good one; an enjoyable one
  • I overuse the semi colon; you’ll get used to it
  • I have dreams; ideas; magnificent plans; I want to tell you about them, and be shy about them
  • I sometimes have unpopular opinions; I will always want you to tell me what you think
  • I have an unhealthy obsession with lipstick; I always wear a lip liner
  • I have four dream jobs; I’m not going to tell you them all at once; oh the suspense
  • I love knowledge; knowledge is power; reading, listening and absorbing give you knowledge; more knowledge makes your cleverer; my blog will make you clevererer (see what I did there?)
  • I swear; a lot
  • I’m not sorry about it; it shows emotion
  • I hate Facebook; I still check it everyday; those dog videos
  • I adore podcasts; I wish I was funny enough to create one
  • I am a ‘curvy’ lady; I’m a bit chubby; this blog may or may not mention it; just an FYI
  • I try to be a runner; edit; I am a runner

I may update this later; I may not. But for now, I am happy to give you a slice of me, to allow you to create an image in your head of who I am, and what I’m going to do (please picture Emma Stone, he’s affa hot). I want this space to be for everything and anything, for my moans and groans, for triumphs and successes and the ins and outs of my daily life. Let’s see what happens.

Your redhead

The First