Girl talk

Another week goes by, and Facebook informs me that ANOTHER friend is engaged. ANOTHER friend is pregnant.

Me? I’m still single. I’m still working on the job thing. I DID eat some pretty life-changing gelato last week… but still, it feels like I might be falling behind.

Fortunately, one of my new London friends has diagnosed my problem:

Apparently, I’m too girly.

Now, for those who don’t know me, here’s a brief rundown: I wear a dress every day. I wear pink shoes every day. My tights are covered in love hearts. I sleep under a floral doona. And the following items in my life are pink: my toothbrush, my hairbrush, my mobile phone, my iPad, my hair straightener, my drinking cup, my cutlery and my handbag.

Now I don’t want to brag, but having a signature colour is actually a GENIUS idea. People just buy you things all the time! In my life, I have been gifted countless pink things just because someone saw them and thought of me: bottles of pink nail polish, cute pink bags, pink measuring cups, a pink computer keyboard, a pink bin… my ex-boyfriend even gave me a pink car cleaning kit!

I know. I really should have dumped him.

ANYWAY, I’m a girly girl. And there shouldn’t be a problem with that, right? Doesn’t every man want a woman who will bake him a cake, while wearing a full circle skirt and pretty pink shoes? A woman who will keep the house full of pink flowers and her glass full of pink champagne? A woman who dresses, well, like a woman?

So the last time I went out with this new London friend, I dressed as I normally do. Vintage floral dress, patterned tights, pink lipstick, bag and sparkly pink shoes.

Thing is, Londoners aren’t so into dressing up.

For London girls out on a Friday night, it’s Casual City. They wear jeans. And flat shoes. And minimal makeup. They’re effortlessly cool.

In comparison, I look like some sort of Drag Queen Butterfly.

Or, according to my new friend, whispered in scandalous tones:

“You’re confusing the men. You look like you’re trying way too hard to prove you’re a girl. They all think you’re a LESBIAN.”

Ah. You win some, you lose some. Any ladies out there looking for a woman who can bake?

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Sugar & spice

The hen’s night was in full swing when disaster struck.

Champagne had been consumed. The karaoke machine was blaring. And evil presented itself in the most unlikely of guises.

The Spice Girls.

Now, I unashamedly love the Spice Girls. Their songs are super catchy. Their harmonies are great. I consider the fact that none of them can ACTUALLY SING as further testament to their genius. And “if you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends” is honestly one of the best pieces of relationship advice I’ve EVER HEARD. Seriously, I quote that all the time. Girls, if your boyfriend doesn’t make an effort with your friends, DUMP HIM! The Spice Girls told you so!

Now believe it or not, the Spice Girls are causing a lot of tension in our little brown brick house at the moment. And yes, I know this argument is about 20 years out-of-date. But the boys insist they hate the Spice Girls. And us girls LOVE them.

Now I reckon there are two types of people in this world: people who say they love the Spice Girls, and liars. Come on! EVERYONE LOVES THEM. I defy anyone to keep still during ‘Stop’, or ‘Spice World’ – it’s physically impossible!

But the boys won’t cave. We have had full-blown shouting matches in the house. And this is a group of people who haven’t had a single tiff about rent money, or the washing up, or who gets the smallest room (though maybe I should have piped up about that one). But if one of us girls dares to put on ‘Viva Forever’, shit goes down.

So, after years of dedication to the Girls Spice, it seemed unfair that they were the cause of my downfall at the hen’s do this past weekend. But here’s what happened. ‘Wannabe’ came on. We all squealed. I jumped up next to the bride-to-be to sing with her. She thought she’d share the mic. And when it got to, “I wanna HUH I wanna HUH I wanna HUH I wanna HUH”, she enthusiastically smashed the microphone into my mouth.

The good news: I still have all my teeth.

The bad news: there was a lot of blood. And two days later, I look like I’ve been in a bar fight. My fat lip is spectacular.

But you know what? It’s just a small battle wound in a long war. I’ll wear it with pride. And when I’m awarded some sort of Purple Platform Sneaker in honour of a lifelong commitment to Geri, Victoria, Mel B, Mel C and Emma, I’ll have a hell of a story to tell.

Now, listen. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.

Really happy. New year.

I haven’t written in 13 days. And I don’t have a great story to make up for it.

I DIDN’T drink so much champagne at New Year, I had to be hospitalised, and have now emerged from rehab, sober, skinny and preachy.

I DIDN’T kiss a mystery man at midnight, fall in love, and run away to Greece for a two-week fling.

I didn’t even resolve to stop writing such self-indulgent rubbish, and spend a fortnight writing a worthy, world-changing novel.

Nope.

I’ve had my family in town.

It’s been really, really great. I am beyond happy to see them again. I am eating three square meals a day. I’ve done the Harry Potter studio tour, taken mini-breaks to Suffolk and Nottingham, and tried just about every cupcake in London. It’s awesome.

But it’s not very blog-worthy.

I am not getting drunk. I am not flirting with boys. I am not making questionable life choices. I am not sitting on the tube, wondering what the point of it all is. Or just watching people lick each other’s faces.

I’m just really happy. And it’s great.