What Rachel Did...

I thought I told you to fuck off?

I am so, so angry with myself this morning.  Last night, when a delivery guy turned up at my door and proceeded to tell me how nice my nipples were, leering and salivating like a pervert, I was so shocked I didn’t retaliate.  This was on my own doorstep.  I chickened out of telling him to go fuck himself, which is what I told the ‘gentleman’ who was harassing me on my way to work that same morning.

I’m so over the constant jeers, leers and disgusting comments aimed at women daily, women who are merely trying to walk down the street.

I’m sure everyone by now is aware of the furore caused in January of this year, when a Toronto police officer advised women not to dress like ‘sluts’ if they didn’t want to be victimised.  This is the kind of sucky, misogynist attitude which deters women from reporting harassment, sexual assault and rape.

I for one am sick of strange men thinking they can comment on my breasts because I’m daring to show a bit of cleavage, then being called a ‘slag’ and a ‘bitch’ when I reject their perverted advances.  I, along with many friends, have been groped, verbally abused and even followed home.  Some instances may make for a funny Facebook status or Tweet, but it’s mostly downright frightening.

I can’t remember ever shouting out of a car window telling a man how lovely his penis looks.  I don’t see why women should have to deal with the equivalent.

http://www.facebook.com/LASHcampaign

The Secret of Life

Ok, so I’ve been a little unmotivated recently in terms of writing, socialising and generally getting out of bed in the morning.  I have now discovered that my motivation lies in Sunday afternoon drinking.  This is something which I’ve largely shunned in the past for fear of underachieving during my working Monday (how very conscientious of me).

The key to happiness and numbing the week ahead is all-day Sunday boozing, climbing into bed at 9pm and staying there until 7am. 

Never felt better.

Feeling inspired.  More to follow.

Scarred For Life

No, I’m not talking about my last dating experience.  I’m talking about actual physical scarring.

I was too busy taking photos of the leg that looked as if it had been mangled by coyotes to administer first aid/whip out the Bio-Oil.

Attractive, eh?

Fuck you Upper Street and your deceptive kerbs.

I now sport a delightful scarred knee.  Summers will never be the same.

Down With Dating

Rather than my usual thrill-seeking, cradle-robbing approach to dating, I thought I’d give the 30-something gentleman a whirl. What could possibly go wrong?  A real man with a real job with no (obvious) drug problem or wife…you get the idea.

I agreed to have lunch with this particular fella.  A nice, grown up Sunday tapas session. I instantly knew that I didn’t actually fancy him, but my newfound adult nature told me to stick this one out, sip your wine, eat your croquettes and be mature about it.  I don’t have a problem with small-talking my way through a Sunday afternoon, but what I do have a problem with is someone trying to hold my hand over the table.  Over the table as in full daytime view of civilised weekend diners. Unless you’re trying to keep me upright or I’ve made it abundantly clear that I fancy you, please don’t try to touch me.  Ever. 

To me, tactile = needy and there’s nothing needier than a guy you don’t really know trying to stroke the palm of your hand like some sort of predatory fortune teller.  I stupidly thought that he’d realise that I DON’T DO TOUCHING if I kept on pulling my poor little hands away from his vice-like grip, but no, that would be far too simple.  Instead he gets up off his seat, leans over the table and tries to kiss me.  I nearly vommed my chorizo all over his face.  It was one of the most mortifying moments of my life.  Probably not as mortifying as when I tried to run away from him, but he was watching me from the other side of the room like a stalker, witnessing me cancel his call and scurry out the door like the coward I am.  In my defence, this incident happened at the end of the date, and who could blame me?.  I had to endure a lot more hand-touching, arm stroking and attempts to kiss me.  I specifically told him not to try and kiss me again and I believe he felt this was a challenge.  If there’s anything I’m not (with the right guy) then it’s a challenge.

Did he give up?  Did he fuck.  “Rachel, Rachel, can I see you again?”

Uh, that would be a no.

Freak.

The Cold Light of Dating

Ok, so he’s good looking, intelligent, creative, funny and drinks good gin but wants to have Sunday lunch and go vintage shopping.  Before you scream, ‘gay!’ and start whispering behind my back, he most definitely is not.

My fear is that meeting him in stark daylight will be date-suicide.  Take the lovely Miss Ricci for example… 

Which instance do you think she got laid?  Exactly.

Now I’m not saying for a second that I’m even half as attractive as the delightful Christina, but unfortunately ^^this^^ contrast I can totally relate to.  I need makeup.  There, I said it.  I’m not one of those girls who can wear minimal war paint and look fabulous.  I require the full works.  Sadly, the full works during daylight hours = RuPaul.

Fuck.

After having a minor panic attack earlier simply walking past JD Sports, I decided that 2011 will be the year that I take charge of my activity-related anxiety.  Shopping and drinking are not considered cardiovascular exercise, apparently.

Now I’m not the ‘Adidas’ type of girl, and all my shoes have had heels of at least three inches since I was about 15 years old (with the exception of the good old ballet pump - my achilles tendons breathed a sigh of relief that day, let me tell you).

With a quick mental scan of all possible exercise options, I immediately dicounted running (not with these tits), the gym (I’d rather die) and swimming (not until I look like Cindy Crawford circa 1990).  I decided on yoga.  Yes, yoga.  I’ve signed up for 8 weeks.  Move over Julia Roberts, I’ll be starring in my own real-life journey of self-discovery, this time set in East London.  The book will be called ‘Eat, Pray, Fuck’.

So now that I own a coffee machine, use night cream and do yoga, am I a bona fide grown up?

2011: Another Washout?

I really would like to begin this year with a hopeful, positive outlook but unfortunately I’m not Lorraine Kelly or someone of a similar sunny disposition.  2010 was a bit of a cunt.

Waking up in your knickers, clutching your Blackberry on New Years Day does not bode well.  I do suppose it’s better than waking up clutching a bottle of Gordon’s.  My automatic fear was that I’d been partaking in some obligatory drunk dialling, but no, it was a touch worse.

I discovered a draft email, detailing my ‘resolutions’ for 2011.  Firstly, who the fuck I was planning on sending this to?  Creating goals for the year ahead in a state that one could oly describe as twatted is not one of my most inspired ideas, but that I did.  Here goes, for your reading pleasure:

1.  Make friends with the epilator. 

I can’t believe my life is so banal that this was my No1 aim.  My main goal for the year is to smile when I’m ripping out pubic hair.  Excellent start.

2.  Lose 2 stone. 

Normal, doable.  Fucking hard work though.  Maybe I suit a few extra lbs?  That’s what I’ll tell myself in December when I can’t squeeze into my jeans and my friends can’t squeeze the peanut butter cups out of my hands.

3.  Drink clear spirits only. 

Jesus.  As much as my love affair with Gin is a lifelong commitment, I believe this is destined for failure.  No wine/beer/amaretto?  Mental.  Unless I wasn’t restricting this to alcohol intake and this resolution covers total liquid ingestion?  In which case I will probably spend 2011 in The Priory. 

4.  Not to be a bitch to new men. 

That’s so attractive.  Form an orderly queue.

I did decide, soberly, that I will update this blog religiously throughout the year.  My failures and (occasional) triumphs will be permanently documented for mainly my embarrassment.  Enjoy.