Saturday, 30 June 2012

Long Hair, Don't Care

Girls (and possibly boys- I'm never one to discriminate!), I’m about to share with you my biggest beauty secret...
Once I reveal it you’ll be thanking me for the rest of your little lives.
It’s something that I hear so many of my friends moaning about: wanting, needing, not-seeing-the-point-in-continuing-life-without MERMAID HAIR.

And you see, I am in a position to give you advice on this matter. I have hair. And it’s very long.
It’s belly button length, and it's the funnest thing I own. So much joy comes from shaking it around, flicking it backwards and forwards, and dangling it over the sides of buildings Rapunzel-style. I really, truly, honestly, believe that there's a direct correlation between the amount of laffs you can have in life and the amount of hair on your head.
So mes petites choux, are you ready to hear how I’ve achieved it?
Seriously though, because you can't un-read this information once you've seen it.

Here it is: Just Don’t Cut It. Ever.

It seems so simple, because it is. If you don't want short hair, then don't cut bits of it off...
People who feed you that bullshit about having regular trims to encourage it to grow are LYING. My hair’s long as fuck, so I’m the one you should be listening to!
True, if you look closely my ends are as frayed as an old carpet, but you gotta take the highs with the lows, guys. Length over health.
One of my bezzie M’s comes from a family of hairdressers, and when she reads this she’s probably going to kill you for listening to me, but that's just because she wants you to go and spend money at her establishment.

I'm always slightly jealous when I see all these smug French girls with their healthy blunt ends, but what it comes down to is this: can they wear their hair as a bra?
Didn't think so. 
Just follow my example, and you too could look like this!
All natural. I know it's hard to believe. Also modelling my most beautiful Gypsy Boy Fringe to date...
Just like spun gold.

So girls, the moral of the story is: wear your split ends with pride! Aint no shame!

Thursday, 21 June 2012

Horrifying (Toilet) Chain of Events

When I signed up to this babysitting business, I didn't realise how many life lessons (all grim) would surface. And yet, 2 months on (waaaaah, it's going waaay too fast!), I know more about myself, about children, and about general coping mechanisms, than I ever thought possible. I'm being a drama queen (quelle surprise!) as usual, but it has been a rocky road at times.
Let me share with you a few of my favourite (and when I say 'favourite', I actually mean 'most upsetting') moments thus far:

Toilet Trauma
A few days ago I had to wipe a bum that was not my own for the first time in my sheltered life.
So upsetting.
I was with the twins, and we were playing chase. They were in their socks; I was in my brogues; the immaculate wooden floor was getting scuffed to within an inch of its life; there were 6 year old boys slipping and sliding dangerously all over the shop... A laugh all round.
Suddenly a twin cried out 'PAUSE', and ran to the toilet for a much-advertised poo. Not a problem. Even if, at the ripe old age of 6 years old, I feel as though he could have shown me the respect of closing the door (it's not much fun to accidentally make eye contact with a child who's pulling concentrated faces, whilst dangling their little legs off the toilet...) So I continued to spin around the front room like a Beyblade (I'm becoming an expert in these!), while Twin 2 grew gradually more and more violent with his catching methods.
After a few minutes I shout out a tentative, 'Are you okay in there?' to Twin 1. Wish I hadn't.
'Peux-tu m'essuyer?!', he calls back. No need to tell you what that means... Well, I will if you really want. Homeboy was asking me to be designated wiper. Yup. My job just changed from something light and cheery to... my worst nightmare.
Let me explain... I'm kinda squeamish when it comes to bodily functions. I've only recently learnt how to say the word 'poo' out loud (and even then only with my closest friends.) I once stopped seeing a boy because we walked past some spilt chocolate on a floor, and he said, 'Siiiiilv, have you shit yourself again?!' He thought it was hilarious; I thought it was a dealbreaker.
Obviously I couldn't leave Twin 1 stranded on the toilet (and believe me, I contemplated it), so I mustered up all the courage I had in me and proceeded into No Man's Land. Once there, I gathered approximately 16 sheets of toilet paper, and then struggled to find a way of wiping without actually seeing, or getting too near to, anything. Luckily, Twin 1 was completely o b l i v i o u s to my discomfort, humming away, happy as Larry, while I performed professional gymnastic moves to try and get the job done without actually using any of my own limbs. It was a proud moment in my career when I'd disposed of the pile of paper and stepped back to breathe a sigh of relief, until... a little voice shouted, 'Encore!!'

I swear to god.
So the whole charade had to start again, and by this time I'd lost the will to live, and was genuinely considering leaving my post (always one to take things calmly...) How did my cutie little babysitting job turn into this horror story?! How.
Once His Majesty was satisfied with the result, he clambered down from his throne to continue playing as if nothing was wrong with the world, while I frantically washed my hands 20 times.
And then the game of chase continued.

Toilet Trauma Take Two
This story involves a different 6 year old, a completely different situation (i.e. it was me on the toilet, not a child), but the same level of upset and unease.
I was with J.L., the little bubba who lived in Boston for a year, therefore understands every word I say to him in English (even when I say, 'cannot be arsedddd with this today'- whoops!) I excused myself for 30 seconds, telling him I was going for a quick wee, and was surprised to notice that while I was in the toilet he was beautifully quiet.
Until... he charges the bathroom door open (I'm still sitting on the toilet at this point, but clearly J.L. doesn't see the point in shyness among friends...), and comes stomping in in my 5 inch wedges. He looks so pleased with himself, and keeps looking down at his feet, as if to say, 'LOOK SILV! NOTICE! LOOK AT MY TINY BABY FEET IN YOUR ENORMOUS SHOES! DON'T I LOOK PRETTY?! TELL ME I LOOK PRETTY!!!!'
So I humoured him, and said, 'awww, that looks funny!', before dealing with the more pressing matter in hand, and saying, 'but you shouldn't really walk in on people when they're in the toilet...'
He completely ignored my ludicrous suggestion, and continued to parade up and down the landing in his new shoes (actually handling the heel height very professionally- props where props are due).
So that was nice. 

Piddle Party
Okay, so, I probably shouldn't say this (but then again, I probably shouldn't say most things that I do say), but I have a favourite child that I look after, and that's E.V. He gives me every single possible reason to dislike him, and yet I just think he's a dude. He's the youngest, at only 4 years old, and he's an only child like me, but the kind of only child that gives only children a bad name. He is the manager of the tantrum team, and the director of the strop association. When he's in a good mood he is the most fun, cutest little cherub anyone's ever laid eyes on. When he's in a bad mood it's the end of life as anyone knows it.
So last week I found him in one of his most impressively horrible moods. That's okay. We all have off days.
But ooooh shit, this one took the crown.
I dealt with him relatively nicely until bath time, and then all. hell. broke. loose. All hell broke so loose. He did his usual trick of making me think he's going to comply, by taking off all his clothes and standing near the bathroom. But then once he looks as though he's all ready to jump into the bath, what he actually does is jump... away. And then runs all around the house. Really fast.
Or else, he'll put one foot in the bath, SCREAM that it's too hot (it's never too hot; in fact, a lot of the time, it's almost too cold), and then jump out and run all around the house. Really fast.

Or, on special occasions, he'll put two feet in the bath, lulling me into a false sense of security, and then SCREAM that he needs a wee, and then jump out and run all around the house. Really fast.
A personal favourite, and alternative method of distraction, that he uses, is the Snail Watering-can Trick. He has a watering-can, and it's in the shape of a snail. This is the Snail Watering-can. The Snail Watering-can Trick goes a little something like this...
He'll put his two little feet in the bath, SCREAM that he needs a wee, and then when I offer to run him quickly to the toilet, he'll shake his little angelic head, and point to the Snail Watering-can. Yep, you've guessed it. What this 4-year-old joker is suggesting is that I hand him the Snail Watering-can, so that he can urinate inside it, saving the unnecessary job of getting out and going to the toilet, so that I can have the unsavoury job of emptying and washing out said Snail Watering-can. Lovely.
The first time he suggested this I was absolutely horrified, and point-blank refused to hand him the Snail Watering-can. However, he was incredibly insistent, and his voice got higher and more distressed, until his live-in nanny (yep, he has two ladies looking after him at a time. He's royalty, my friends, he is royalty), came in to see what all the commotion was about. As he SCREAMED about his predicament, I turned to Live-In Nanny to find some solidarity, and to share the hilarious joke about him wanting to use Snail Watering-can as a personal potty, only to find her conspiratorially handing him Snail Watering-can and putting her finger to her lips to indicate a secret shared.
As E.V. happily urinated into the poor unsuspecting snail, I put my head in my hands, and considered changing my methods of persuasion. I mean, if a child really wants to piss on his toys, should I let them?
You'll be glad to know that I decided that it was a definite 'no'. I may come off as the bad guy occasionally, but I do think the line needs to be drawn when piss starts being thrown around. One day it's the Snail Watering-can, the next day it's you. 
You need to nip it in the bud, you guys, you really do.

Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Backie with a Babe

What a fucking night.

So... B.F. tries to make me sleep over again (sneakily), even though I have zero intention of doing that tonight (haven't had any kind of wax for nearly a month, wearing gay pants... all the usual precautions). Once I say I have to leave, he keeps coyly grabbing me, and cheekily wrestling with me to try and get me to stay, and then I lose it and literally roll myself off his bed, saying, 'NO, SERIOUSLY NOW.'
So he huffs and puffs all the way to the metro stop with me (don't particularly need him to do that), and then keeps me lingering by kissing me a lot and as usual, I have to physically run down the steps to get him to stop.
I know I'm risking missing my curfew, so I'm tense until I get to my metro change, and then the fucking screen says '7 minutes' until the next train. Christ almighty. Waiting for the metro for any longer than 3 minutes feels like a life.time. So I get to my stop at literally 10 minutes to 1 (and we all know that my foyer closes its prison gates to the whole world at 1...)
I run all the way through the metro station to my exit, with fucking smart dicks laughing at me, and when I get to the exit the fucking DOORS ARE CLOSED. My God. If I wasn't panicking before then I'm panicking at this point. So I run back through the station, having to hop over various ticket booths, run past same smart dicks as before, who by this time can't believe their luck at getting the opportunity to laugh at me a second time... Then emerge on the other side of the world, and I am not the most natural with directions, so being on this opposite side is disorienting to say the least...
So I run blindly, until I see another human being (an unsuspecting waiter). By this point I'm panting, and a sweaty, stringy, Gypsy Boy Fringe is in full swing, so when I squeak, 'excusez-moi, mais c'est ou l'hopital?!' (nearest landmark to the foyer), he's probably thinking I want to go and check myself in. Barely stop to properly listen to his directions. Carry on running. So lost.
See another girl, zooming past on her push bike. By this point it's about 4 minutes to 1, and I'm envisaging having to crawl back into the metro station to snuggle up to a tramp/the men who'd been taking the piss out of me and my less-than-Olympic running. When I shout, 'Excusez-moi, je cherche Rue .......', I think I may look slightly/enormously desperate. But alas, she tells me the way, and then as she turns away I make a sort of animalistic wail. Luckily, she's a nice girl, because she basically says, 'just get on the back of my bike you outrageous creature.' So another 1.5 minutes are lost with me struggling to get a grip of her waist/slipping off the back/almost having a self-pitying crying session. So this angel struggles her way round a few corners with me clinging to her, and also feels it necessary to say a significant amount of tines, 'I really don't think you'll make your curfew you know.' Yeah, cheers. She then drops me off SO. FUCKING. FAR. AWAY. FROM. MY. FOYER. (I mean, I'm grateful for the help, but if you REALLY want to help, can't you just pedal to my door?? Help a sister out!) 

Needless to say, by now I am a train wreck, and I feel like I'm going to pee my pants; can't even bring myself to check my watch anymore, and just it feels like it's all over. But the worst is yet to come, as I run across roads without even looking left, right, and left again, hurtle my way around corners, and speed (let's use that word extremely loosely) down my road. Which feels like the longest road anyone's ever come across. THE LONGEST. I swear to god, it's never ending. It never ends. I can't even see the end of it. And yet in the daylight, it feels like a very reasonable and manageable length. I make the fatal mistake of looking at my watch, and it definitely says 1am. 1am. 1 a fucking m. Christ. I don't want to sleep on the street. I don't even like camping.
As I approach the gate (which I do, eventually), I literally know I'm too late. I know it's not going to open. And yet I don't know what to do about it. In the last 5 seconds of my relay, I decide that I'm going to call B.F. to ask him for a taxi number, which I'll use to take myself to his house, where I'll charge the taxi to him, and then refuse to ever leave or some shit, just to get him back for this fucking ordeal I've had to go through just because he wanted to stroke my hair for an extra 10 minutes.
Guys, you may not believe this next bit, but as I swipe my key fob on the gate, the little light goes green, and the gate O P E N S. IT ACTUALLY OPENS!
And not only! The main door opens too!!
Just all the doors open that I need to open, and I'm inside, and I can't even believe my luck, and I look at my watch, and it's 1:01, and I must have JUST made it, and shit, I haven't run this far or this fast since school/ever, and shit I can't breathe now, and I think I'm maybe definitely going to collapse, and where's the nearest chair?, and oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.
I sit very very very still for a good 10 minutes, and then I start to regain my senses, and I take myself veeeeeery slowly up to my floor, where I collapse on my bed, and send B.F. the bitterest text I can muster. I use my angry French, and let him know that next time (not that he deserves a next time after this), when I say I have to go, I have to fucking go. No messing around anymore.
He replies, and corrects my French. I. SWEAR. TO. GOD.
Never fucking speaking to him again. He says his pillow smells like my perfume, and now he can't sleep. GOOD!! BECAUSE I NEARLY FUCKING HAD TO SLEEP ON THE STREET!
In future, if it's not Ryan or Gerard then I am NOT risking anything like this ever again.

Now that I've had an hour or so to recover and vent, you may be interested to know that I've really rather warmed to B.F. in the last week, regardless of all the piss that I take out of him, and all of the scoffing that takes place regarding his affectionate ways.
Don't you dare fucking tell anyone this... but sometimes I even kinda like him kissing my head.
Oh God...