Hot pills. No, I'm not taking them, but Fenella keeps accusing me of doing so. She also claimed in her last post that "When Vi plays softball she is the flame to the many male moths she plays with." This may be a bit of an exaggeration, but I have gotten an unusually high number of inquiries from men in my softball league, dating back to last year. More recently, I've piqued the interest of two of my teammates, Baldo and Simple Simon. Oh, and by the way: The Cute Neighbor plays on my team.
Baldo actually asked me out at the beginning of the summer. I responded by telling him that the cute neighbor and I had plans that evening, figuring he would get the hint. He didn't. Since then, he has hung out with me and the cute neighbor in group settings, where it's pretty apparent the cute neighbor and I are an item. Still, it wasn't until recently that Baldo finally asked me, "So. Are y'all dating?" It's widely known to everyone (including the cute neighbor) that he's waiting for the day the cute neighbor is no longer in the picture.
Simple Simon once thought Fen and I were a couple. After he found out we weren't, the cute neighbor predicted it would be two weeks before he asked me out. He never did, but he did recently ask my good pal D.B. what my "story" was. D.B. told him he just missed me, that I'm currently spoken for. Simple Simon responded with, "It's the cute neighbor, isn't it?" Real sharp, that Simon.
No, I'm not taking hot pills. I don't get this kind of attention anywhere else. The key isn't even softball. Hell, I've been playing softball forever and it certainly hasn't helped me pick up men before. I am generally a confident person, but I am never more confident than when I am on the softball field. (It is usually more likely to give people the impression I bat for the other team. Isn't it time we did away with this stereotype?) I know what I'm doing. I'm good at it. My dad taught me proper technique. And the key: It's fun. I have fun when I'm playing it, so not only am I confident, but I'm happy and cracking jokes. Confident, happy, funny= Hot Stuff.
I know what you're thinking: "But I'm terrible at softball! I'll never find a man!" Don't worry! You don't have to be good at softball. Or any sport for that matter. All you need to do is figure out where you are most at ease. Maybe it's an academic setting. Maybe it's the beach. Or a dance club. Whatever it is, spend time there. You're relaxed, you're happy, you know you belong there. Hey, you're Hot Stuff.
So there you have it, ladies. A prescription for Hot Pills from yours truly, Dr. Violet. (Doctor of Love! Ha!) Now go out there and knock 'em dead.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Fenella needs a plan
I need a plan.
Grayer's plan was excellent. Unfortunately, I cannot use Grayer's plan due to the fact that the national sport over here is soccer. Soccer fans are not baseball fans. Soccer fans are men that during the 9-5 in the office are quite mild mannered creatures but when they get to a soccer game they become cavemen type hooligans who drink and swear and chant. Yes, they chant. And it's not pleasant. I googled 'football chants' to prove my point:
To the tune of Yellow Submarine:
Michael Chopra loves to beat his wife,
loves to beat his wife,
loves to beat his wife.
This is the calibre of men we are talking about here. And then, if their team loses? Well what better way to cope with the humiliation and defeat by trashing whatever pub you happen to walk into first?
To conclude, I can't use Grayer's plan. I need a new plan.
I have tried to go to areas where there may perhaps be some eligible men lurking about. Well maybe not lurking, that wouldn't be terribly attractive.
* I joined my work's softball team. When Vi plays softball she is the flame to the many male moths she plays with. When I play softball I am but a smouldering wet match, if that. I have fun though - I didn't join softball to meet guys, it just would've been nice if it was an added bonus is all.
* I go out to a variety of drinking establishments in a variety of areas of London. Nada. Just your typical British men.
* Now that I know more people in London I have started to meet friends of friends which people say is one of the most common ways of meeting someone. Zilch.
I am aware that I am starting to sound quite bitter, maybe even slightly desperate. I'm really not. I'm just saying that it would be nice if just occasionally I went out one evening or met up with some friends and there was a relatively normal, relatively attractive, relatively funny guy there. I don't think that's asking too much.
What's most annoying is when people ask the question dreaded by all singletons:
"Fenella, why are you still single?"
BECAUSE THERE ARE NO BLOODY DECENT MEN AROUND. AND IF THERE ARE, I CAN'T FIND THEM.
I'm really not desperate. I swear.
Grayer's plan was excellent. Unfortunately, I cannot use Grayer's plan due to the fact that the national sport over here is soccer. Soccer fans are not baseball fans. Soccer fans are men that during the 9-5 in the office are quite mild mannered creatures but when they get to a soccer game they become cavemen type hooligans who drink and swear and chant. Yes, they chant. And it's not pleasant. I googled 'football chants' to prove my point:
To the tune of Yellow Submarine:
Michael Chopra loves to beat his wife,
loves to beat his wife,
loves to beat his wife.
This is the calibre of men we are talking about here. And then, if their team loses? Well what better way to cope with the humiliation and defeat by trashing whatever pub you happen to walk into first?
To conclude, I can't use Grayer's plan. I need a new plan.
I have tried to go to areas where there may perhaps be some eligible men lurking about. Well maybe not lurking, that wouldn't be terribly attractive.
* I joined my work's softball team. When Vi plays softball she is the flame to the many male moths she plays with. When I play softball I am but a smouldering wet match, if that. I have fun though - I didn't join softball to meet guys, it just would've been nice if it was an added bonus is all.
* I go out to a variety of drinking establishments in a variety of areas of London. Nada. Just your typical British men.
* Now that I know more people in London I have started to meet friends of friends which people say is one of the most common ways of meeting someone. Zilch.
I am aware that I am starting to sound quite bitter, maybe even slightly desperate. I'm really not. I'm just saying that it would be nice if just occasionally I went out one evening or met up with some friends and there was a relatively normal, relatively attractive, relatively funny guy there. I don't think that's asking too much.
What's most annoying is when people ask the question dreaded by all singletons:
"Fenella, why are you still single?"
BECAUSE THERE ARE NO BLOODY DECENT MEN AROUND. AND IF THERE ARE, I CAN'T FIND THEM.
I'm really not desperate. I swear.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
The motherload
I'm sure you couldn't sleep last night wondering how the most brilliant plan of all time was working out. That's ok I didn't sleep that much either. Wink.
For starters the game blew. We lost 16-2. 16-2! That's not a game, that's a beating. I was somewhat concerned this beating might effect the morale of the man fans I was about to meet. However, I think the opposite was true. They were trying to drown their sorrows in cheap beer and even cheaper ladies. My friend Flora canceled on me but I was determined. Instead of hitting the bars with her, I went with my roommate, her boyfriend and his two single male friends. Two single male friends that were vying for my attention. Seriously. I had my pick. I picked the high school math teacher.
So the plan didn't really go according to plan. I basically just got drunk and came home with a friend of a friend. But that doesn't mean it wasn't working. Listen up ladies: Hitting a sportsbar after/near a game is a fucking gold mine. There were single men everywhere. In packs. And they often seemed interested in me.
I was not wearing a Sox shirt. I was not wearing much makeup. I was not showing that much cleavage. I was getting hit on. I got hit on standing in the beer line at the stadium. I got hit on while going to the ladies room. I got hit on sitting at the bar. Yes this was a brilliant plan. I only wish I could have come up with earlier in the season.
For starters the game blew. We lost 16-2. 16-2! That's not a game, that's a beating. I was somewhat concerned this beating might effect the morale of the man fans I was about to meet. However, I think the opposite was true. They were trying to drown their sorrows in cheap beer and even cheaper ladies. My friend Flora canceled on me but I was determined. Instead of hitting the bars with her, I went with my roommate, her boyfriend and his two single male friends. Two single male friends that were vying for my attention. Seriously. I had my pick. I picked the high school math teacher.
So the plan didn't really go according to plan. I basically just got drunk and came home with a friend of a friend. But that doesn't mean it wasn't working. Listen up ladies: Hitting a sportsbar after/near a game is a fucking gold mine. There were single men everywhere. In packs. And they often seemed interested in me.
I was not wearing a Sox shirt. I was not wearing much makeup. I was not showing that much cleavage. I was getting hit on. I got hit on standing in the beer line at the stadium. I got hit on while going to the ladies room. I got hit on sitting at the bar. Yes this was a brilliant plan. I only wish I could have come up with earlier in the season.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The plan
Two days ago I came up with a plan. A plan so brilliant it borderlines evil.
I was at a Red Sox game, scoping out the goods in the outfield bleachers. Suddenly I realized--this is where every single man in Boston is! Why didn't I think of this before. I don't need to find them, I can just sit and let them come to me. Like moths to a flame.
Enter the plan: My friend Flora and I would watch the game at a bar neighboring Fenway, wearing our new Red Sox garb. (I'd be watching it for the baseball, she'd just be sitting there, she doesn't know/care about baseball.) As soon as the game was over they would all come flooding in. Well hello. How bout that game. Can you believe so and so struck out with 2 runners in scoring position?
I know what you're thinking right now. Wow, that's a brilliant plan. And yes it is. But wait, there's more. Two hours ago my roommate texts me. She got free tickets to the Sox game tonight through work. Do I want to come? Yes. Yes, I do. Clearly this plan is meant to be executed. Now I can even talk about where my seats were.
This will be an experiment. We'll see if men like girls that know their baseball (me) or girls that can remember one name to say when asked who their favorite player is (my friend Flora). Since I didn't get a chance to get a decent well-fitting Sox shirt, we're going to hope that a little cleavage will do the trick. And because I am coming from work, I just might stop in my local CVS to get a little makeup. What can I say, desperate times call for desperate measures. And if you haven't noticed, I'm in a bit of a dry spell.
It's go time.
I was at a Red Sox game, scoping out the goods in the outfield bleachers. Suddenly I realized--this is where every single man in Boston is! Why didn't I think of this before. I don't need to find them, I can just sit and let them come to me. Like moths to a flame.
Enter the plan: My friend Flora and I would watch the game at a bar neighboring Fenway, wearing our new Red Sox garb. (I'd be watching it for the baseball, she'd just be sitting there, she doesn't know/care about baseball.) As soon as the game was over they would all come flooding in. Well hello. How bout that game. Can you believe so and so struck out with 2 runners in scoring position?
I know what you're thinking right now. Wow, that's a brilliant plan. And yes it is. But wait, there's more. Two hours ago my roommate texts me. She got free tickets to the Sox game tonight through work. Do I want to come? Yes. Yes, I do. Clearly this plan is meant to be executed. Now I can even talk about where my seats were.
This will be an experiment. We'll see if men like girls that know their baseball (me) or girls that can remember one name to say when asked who their favorite player is (my friend Flora). Since I didn't get a chance to get a decent well-fitting Sox shirt, we're going to hope that a little cleavage will do the trick. And because I am coming from work, I just might stop in my local CVS to get a little makeup. What can I say, desperate times call for desperate measures. And if you haven't noticed, I'm in a bit of a dry spell.
It's go time.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Facebook fuckwittage
I got talking to Grayer today about certain facebook behaviors that annoy the hell out of us. We decided the only way to end facebook fuckwittage was to be proactive about it. We cannot sit idly by and let these facebook fouls continue. So without further ado, may I present Facebook Fuckwittage: Behavior that Must Stop Now! In no particular order, as they are all equally heinous.1. Taking the time to tell the world just how busy you are.
Violet J. Bickerstaff has a busy, busy day! Heading to work, morning meeting, lunch with Grayer, afternoon meeting, GYM, zumba class, dinner with Fenella, then American Idol! Whew!
If you are so busy, why are you taking the time to tell everyone just how busy you are? Does being busy make you more important than me? Let's face it: you are not that busy. Your day is not that productive. Here's what your status should really say:
Violet J. Bickerstaff has a busy, busy day! Heading to work, checking my e-mail for the first hour, then checking to see what everyone else is up to on facebook, as well as checking on my fantasy baseball team, then maybe I'll get a bit of work done before having lunch with Grayer, then more of the same in the afternoon.
Cut the crap. You're not that busy.
2. Letting everyone know just how much you work out.
Violet J. Bickerstaff just had a GREAT workout! Can't wait to do it again tomorrow!
This is especially for the ladies. I do not care how much time a day you spend at the gym. I don't care that you go to yoga class or zumba or pilates or whatever flavor of the week class you're taking. I can see by looking at you that you are not in really great shape. Bottom line: If you're in good shape and feel great and secure about it, you don't need to tell the world how much you work out. (The exception is if you're training for a half-marathon like Fen, and are using Facebook to raise money for it. Keep up the good work, Fen!)
3. Using your sonogram picture as your profile photo.
We're very, very happy for you, but is this really how you want to tell your 362 facebook friends that you've got a bun in the oven? On second thought, why do you even need to tell your 362 facebook friends? You don't even know half those people! Worse yet, never EVER post a picture of your positive pregnancy test. That's just gross. And yes, I've seen it happen. Sadly, it turned out to be a false positive, which made it even worse.
4. Constantly referring to your significant other and calling them baby.
Violet J. Bickerstaff loves coming home to a home-cooked meal and fresh flowers! Thank you baby!
We already know that you are "In a Relationship". Congratulations. And we're sure he's a really, really great guy, but let us figure that out on our own.
And speaking of In a Relationship...
5. Changing your relationship status every 5 minutes.
Sure, it's great to let all your exes and the girls who thought you were a lesbian in high school know that you're capable of actually having sex, but you know what really sucks? Letting everyone know that you are no longer "In a Relationship." You've been dating the guy for 2 weeks. Until you move in with him, get engaged, or better yet get married, leave your romantic life off facebook. (In case you're wondering, the cute neighbor and I are not in a facebook relationship, nor do I mention him endlessly in my status updates. Or at all, really.)
6. Posting vague, sad messages, but never elaborating.
Violet J. Bickerstaff is really, really sad and disappointed.
Grayer X: Oh, no! What happened?
Fenella Middleton-Brown: Are you ok?
Violet J. Bickerstaff: I sent you an email. I'll be fine, I think.
If you don't want everyone to know about it, don't mention it. End of story.
7. Getting your anger at other people out passive-aggressively.
Violet J. Bickerstaff thinks that some people need to grow up. I guess I know who my true friends are.
We are not in high school anymore. There is no need for you to be a cyber drama queen. Facebook is not a place air out the drama. It is a place for you to quietly stalk your exes. (Kidding!)
8. All the kissing.
Fenella Middleton-Brown is tired and needs to go to sleep. xx
Violet J. Bickerstaff can't wait to see Toy Story 3! xx
Fenella is the one who brought this to my attention, and while I've not really noticed it and suggested it to be a UK issue, Fen reminded me that we are an international blog and therefore must discuss international issues. Excellent point. On the same note, please refrain from posting pictures of you and your S.O. kissing. Again, we know you are "In a Relationship." What you do alone should not be posted on facebook for all the world to see.
If you find yourself committing any of these facebook crimes, we have three words for you: Knock it off!
Sunday, August 15, 2010
All By Myself
Would the last person still in Atlanta this week please call me?
The cute neighbor: out of town. My roommate: out of town. Rebecca: out of town. (Ok, not too upset about that one, but she is someone I would have gone out for a drink with.) McNerdy: Soon to be out of town. Me: All alone. But at least I have the cat to keep me company.
With both the cute neighbor and my roommate gone for at least a week (the cute neighbor longer), it is awfully quiet around here. Too quiet. I've been dreading this week for at least a month, and have been working very hard to fill up my social calendar so as not to go crazy. If Fen were here, I would look at it as an opportunity for us to watch rom-coms and eat pistachio ice cream. But she's not.
It did occur to me yesterday that I have gone extended periods of time with neither a boyfriend or a roommate, so what's the big deal? The big deal is that during those periods, I had a full-time job. I'd get home at 6pm or so and go to the gym and make myself dinner, and by that time, it was time to watch Grey's Anatomy or Lost. This time, however, I'm not working a whole lot. Only 3-5 hours a day. That leaves 20 hours to fill. And that's a whole lotta Violet time. As it stands, by the time the cute neighbor gets home from work, I've had hours of alone time, while he is need of his own time to decompress. My desperate need for human interaction at that point isn't exactly helping things.
All by myself..... Don't wanna be, all by myself... any MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRE
(*kicks the air, swigs wine).
I've done a pretty decent job of filling up the social calendar for the week, and hopefully it will involve crashing a wedding next weekend. I'm hoping to begin volunteering soon (as soon as my background checks have cleared) and with any luck, I'll have a job interview or two to attend this week or next. But if any plans fall through, I have a book to back me up: Gone with the Wind. All 1,037 pages of it.
The cute neighbor: out of town. My roommate: out of town. Rebecca: out of town. (Ok, not too upset about that one, but she is someone I would have gone out for a drink with.) McNerdy: Soon to be out of town. Me: All alone. But at least I have the cat to keep me company.
With both the cute neighbor and my roommate gone for at least a week (the cute neighbor longer), it is awfully quiet around here. Too quiet. I've been dreading this week for at least a month, and have been working very hard to fill up my social calendar so as not to go crazy. If Fen were here, I would look at it as an opportunity for us to watch rom-coms and eat pistachio ice cream. But she's not.
It did occur to me yesterday that I have gone extended periods of time with neither a boyfriend or a roommate, so what's the big deal? The big deal is that during those periods, I had a full-time job. I'd get home at 6pm or so and go to the gym and make myself dinner, and by that time, it was time to watch Grey's Anatomy or Lost. This time, however, I'm not working a whole lot. Only 3-5 hours a day. That leaves 20 hours to fill. And that's a whole lotta Violet time. As it stands, by the time the cute neighbor gets home from work, I've had hours of alone time, while he is need of his own time to decompress. My desperate need for human interaction at that point isn't exactly helping things.
All by myself..... Don't wanna be, all by myself... any MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRE
(*kicks the air, swigs wine).
I've done a pretty decent job of filling up the social calendar for the week, and hopefully it will involve crashing a wedding next weekend. I'm hoping to begin volunteering soon (as soon as my background checks have cleared) and with any luck, I'll have a job interview or two to attend this week or next. But if any plans fall through, I have a book to back me up: Gone with the Wind. All 1,037 pages of it.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Need You Now - For Vi!
I hope this works...
When I was in Atlanta this song was on the radio all the time. Vi and I were fans. Amazingly enough Lady Antebellum decided to visit the UK and played one show here. Guess who went and had an awesome view? Me! Fen!
I took a video clip when they played Need You Now and figured this would be a good way to share it with Vi...and make the blog um, multi media?
But remember ladies, even if Lady A sing about it...don't drink and dial.
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