SheBit != Girl
I hurt all down the fronts of my legs. This is what I get, apparently, fo speed walking all over central Brighton in my highest heels. Add this to the nice coldy bug I have and the result is a general feeling of 'urgh!'
moose_biscuit and I went to a hen party on saturday and discovered that we fail at being Girlstm, though according to MB we succeed at being Women, which is more imprtant.
The party was for one of MB's work colleagues, who I've met a good number of times over the years - she's a lovely girl and I get on well with her and her fiance (another of MB's colleagues). The other girls from their work were all nice, but it's the bridesmaids, the bride's old non-work friends, who were terrifyingly... girly. The type of girls who, under other circumstance, MB and I would probably never talk to, because we have nothing in common, other than a mutual lack of a Y chromosome. They probably felt the same way about us.
The day/evening was fun, though. I met them all in the bar of the hotel where the bride and her 'maids were staying and we then went and had strawberries and champagne on the beach, which was lovely. The first indication that we failed as girls came when the proper Girls said, at 4.30, that we'd better all get back to the hotel to get changed, because we had to set off for the evening entertainments at 6.30. MB and I gave each other "but we can be ready in 20 minutes looks", but it seems that proper Girls really do need that long to get ready. So we drank more champagne while they slathered themselves with fake tan and all kinds of unctious cremes and 'did their hair' (which, as MB pointed out, apparently means spending half an hour singeing it with curling tongs so that they all look identical and the curls fall out half way through the evening and hang limply for the rest of the night). For two hours.
I have never taken two hours preparing to go out. This is a clear sign that I am not a Girl.
Anyway, after we got changed we headed off to the restaurant, and yet again proved the above point. The bridesmaid who had booked the restaurant was from out of town and didn't know where it was. She knew the name of the restaurant and the street. I do navigation and street names, so I took us by the quickest route to the correct road. When I am within a hundred yards of my destination and can SEE it I do not feel the need to ask directions on the street or telephone a boy (who presumably had a google map) to ask.
SheBit: Look, there's the restaurant *points*
Girl: *hangs up phone, having received brain download instructions* It's over there.
SheBit: Didn't I just say that?
It was a French restaurant, where I would expect to get a decent steak, but all of us who had the ribeye got it cooked more than we'd asked for (mine was slightly pink, but I'd asked for 'very rare', which it wasn't).
I opted not to get any wine during the meal, to save some pennies (there'd be drinking later). The Girls downed several bottles of rose between the three of them. While we were considering the dessert menu, I was, rather surprisingly, hit by a flying orange. Yes. We were on the first floor, by an open sash window, and someone at the pub over the road managed to lob one up and through the window the glance my arm - it didn't actually hurt but gave me a hell of a start and sprayed my arm with sticky juice. The waiters were extremely apologetic and comped us another bottle of rose. Of which I had one glass before the Girls laid into it. I heard someone say "leave some for SheBit". The next time I saw the bottle it was empty. Thanks. I got hit so that you lot could knock back more vino.
Anyway, our next stop was to be Charles Street for a couple of drinks before hitting the pre-arranged club. We headed into Kemptown, stopping off at a cashpoint. One of the out-of-towners was heard to utter, in shock, that the person who'd queued behind her was (shock horror!) a transvestite! You're in Kemptown, dear - they're not particularly rare.
We failed to get into Charles Street, because the hen had forgotten to bring ID out with her. Poop. So we went straight on to the Funky Fish, at about 10pm, and were about the first people there, though at least it meant no queue at the bar for our first drinks.
Mmm, cocktail shots. I had a Sunshine Spank (complete with a smirk and raised eyebrow from the barman), which is a rather tasty combination of amareto and Cointreau. The music is a pleasing mix of funk and motown and similar, with a bit of the eighties thrown in. Good fun, though the DJ insisted on doing annoying things to it - looping tracks on one word for 20 second or more, just when you were enjoying a tune. And creating bad mashups (good mashups are things of joy - bad mashups just spoil both tracks).
Fun was had. And much dancing. Barefoot dancing for most of us, because we were all suffering in our heels. There was dancing and drinking until about 2am, when we all hobbled back to the hotel (several people walked back barefoot (I put my heels back on) and only one person stepped on glass).
Moose Biscuit gets the prize for being the only person to keep her heels on all night.
Got a cab (I have l33t taxi hailing skillz), made it home, called the cat in, collapsed in bed, woke at 11.30am on sunday, still fairly tired and feeling a little blurgh, despite really not drinking much.
So, apparently being a Girl means spending two hours getting ready to go out; either smothering yourself in fake tan or going on holiday to somewhere hot and failing to use enough skin protection so that you come home looking like a block of well aged oak; drinking like it's going out of fashion and then having a fit when you realise that you've gone over your overdraft limit; taking yourself way too seriously on the dancefloor (while some of us were re-enacting 80s music videos in front of the wind machine *g*); and being obsessed with bagging a husband: when your opening line to a stranger is "Seeing someone? Engaged? Married?" you need to reassess your life priorities - seriously, did we slip back into the fifties and I missed the memo?
I am Modern Woman (with a touch of Geek - mongrels are always healthier than purebreds): I get ready to go out in less than half an hour; I drink according to my means; I gleefully dance like an idiot; I am healthily pale, because I'd rather look a bit pasty than like wood (and skin cancer isn't terribly appealing); I may never get married (though this is partly down to religion - ask me about my views on marriage and religion and I will tell) and I don't plan to reproduce - the world is overpopulated and I'd be a terrible mother.
Perhaps I'm Girl 2.0.
moose_biscuit and I went to a hen party on saturday and discovered that we fail at being Girlstm, though according to MB we succeed at being Women, which is more imprtant.
The party was for one of MB's work colleagues, who I've met a good number of times over the years - she's a lovely girl and I get on well with her and her fiance (another of MB's colleagues). The other girls from their work were all nice, but it's the bridesmaids, the bride's old non-work friends, who were terrifyingly... girly. The type of girls who, under other circumstance, MB and I would probably never talk to, because we have nothing in common, other than a mutual lack of a Y chromosome. They probably felt the same way about us.
The day/evening was fun, though. I met them all in the bar of the hotel where the bride and her 'maids were staying and we then went and had strawberries and champagne on the beach, which was lovely. The first indication that we failed as girls came when the proper Girls said, at 4.30, that we'd better all get back to the hotel to get changed, because we had to set off for the evening entertainments at 6.30. MB and I gave each other "but we can be ready in 20 minutes looks", but it seems that proper Girls really do need that long to get ready. So we drank more champagne while they slathered themselves with fake tan and all kinds of unctious cremes and 'did their hair' (which, as MB pointed out, apparently means spending half an hour singeing it with curling tongs so that they all look identical and the curls fall out half way through the evening and hang limply for the rest of the night). For two hours.
I have never taken two hours preparing to go out. This is a clear sign that I am not a Girl.
Anyway, after we got changed we headed off to the restaurant, and yet again proved the above point. The bridesmaid who had booked the restaurant was from out of town and didn't know where it was. She knew the name of the restaurant and the street. I do navigation and street names, so I took us by the quickest route to the correct road. When I am within a hundred yards of my destination and can SEE it I do not feel the need to ask directions on the street or telephone a boy (who presumably had a google map) to ask.
SheBit: Look, there's the restaurant *points*
Girl: *hangs up phone, having received brain download instructions* It's over there.
SheBit: Didn't I just say that?
It was a French restaurant, where I would expect to get a decent steak, but all of us who had the ribeye got it cooked more than we'd asked for (mine was slightly pink, but I'd asked for 'very rare', which it wasn't).
I opted not to get any wine during the meal, to save some pennies (there'd be drinking later). The Girls downed several bottles of rose between the three of them. While we were considering the dessert menu, I was, rather surprisingly, hit by a flying orange. Yes. We were on the first floor, by an open sash window, and someone at the pub over the road managed to lob one up and through the window the glance my arm - it didn't actually hurt but gave me a hell of a start and sprayed my arm with sticky juice. The waiters were extremely apologetic and comped us another bottle of rose. Of which I had one glass before the Girls laid into it. I heard someone say "leave some for SheBit". The next time I saw the bottle it was empty. Thanks. I got hit so that you lot could knock back more vino.
Anyway, our next stop was to be Charles Street for a couple of drinks before hitting the pre-arranged club. We headed into Kemptown, stopping off at a cashpoint. One of the out-of-towners was heard to utter, in shock, that the person who'd queued behind her was (shock horror!) a transvestite! You're in Kemptown, dear - they're not particularly rare.
We failed to get into Charles Street, because the hen had forgotten to bring ID out with her. Poop. So we went straight on to the Funky Fish, at about 10pm, and were about the first people there, though at least it meant no queue at the bar for our first drinks.
Mmm, cocktail shots. I had a Sunshine Spank (complete with a smirk and raised eyebrow from the barman), which is a rather tasty combination of amareto and Cointreau. The music is a pleasing mix of funk and motown and similar, with a bit of the eighties thrown in. Good fun, though the DJ insisted on doing annoying things to it - looping tracks on one word for 20 second or more, just when you were enjoying a tune. And creating bad mashups (good mashups are things of joy - bad mashups just spoil both tracks).
Fun was had. And much dancing. Barefoot dancing for most of us, because we were all suffering in our heels. There was dancing and drinking until about 2am, when we all hobbled back to the hotel (several people walked back barefoot (I put my heels back on) and only one person stepped on glass).
Moose Biscuit gets the prize for being the only person to keep her heels on all night.
Got a cab (I have l33t taxi hailing skillz), made it home, called the cat in, collapsed in bed, woke at 11.30am on sunday, still fairly tired and feeling a little blurgh, despite really not drinking much.
So, apparently being a Girl means spending two hours getting ready to go out; either smothering yourself in fake tan or going on holiday to somewhere hot and failing to use enough skin protection so that you come home looking like a block of well aged oak; drinking like it's going out of fashion and then having a fit when you realise that you've gone over your overdraft limit; taking yourself way too seriously on the dancefloor (while some of us were re-enacting 80s music videos in front of the wind machine *g*); and being obsessed with bagging a husband: when your opening line to a stranger is "Seeing someone? Engaged? Married?" you need to reassess your life priorities - seriously, did we slip back into the fifties and I missed the memo?
I am Modern Woman (with a touch of Geek - mongrels are always healthier than purebreds): I get ready to go out in less than half an hour; I drink according to my means; I gleefully dance like an idiot; I am healthily pale, because I'd rather look a bit pasty than like wood (and skin cancer isn't terribly appealing); I may never get married (though this is partly down to religion - ask me about my views on marriage and religion and I will tell) and I don't plan to reproduce - the world is overpopulated and I'd be a terrible mother.
Perhaps I'm Girl 2.0.