At the hairdresser, while a woman on the other side of the salon talked loudly and endlessly about weirdly personal stuff:

Me: That woman, um, talks a lot.
Him: She's always like this. Everyone here knows everything about her.
Me: Oh, really?
Him: I know when she had sex for the first time. And I've never even cut her hair.

Questions I was left asking myself after ploughing through a stack of glossy magazines at the hairdresser today

Should I be wearing foundation? Is everyone wearing foundation? Is it bad that I don't own foundation? I'm so confused.

In other news...

... this.
(Via, as so many lovely things in life, McPhee)

That awkward moment when...

 ... You run into that chap who tried to get you into bed foreverago and he's married and you say "wow congratulations when did that happen?" and he tells you and you realise he was totally married at the time and you have to try to stop yourself from sounding all Judgy while your mouth goes "greeeeeat"...

Swings and roundabouts

So today was a pretty shitty day for reasons mentioned in the post below. And I was sitting here, marinating in post-funeral blues until whatdoyouknow I realised there are advance screenings of Moonrise Kingdom on this weekend and I remembered there are still things to look forward to. Also: wine.

So

With very few exceptions funerals are awful, sad and difficult events and I don't want to make light of the one I am attending today, which is for the lovely mother of a lovely friend. But I will point out that this is what happened one of the last times I attended a friend's mother's funeral. So in case anyone was worried... today I'm wearing tights.

"Touch my lie hole... harder"

This one comes via McPhee and Jesus it's been kind of a bad week for dudes talking about rape, right? (Well, except for this gorgeous sonofabitch)

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again

So this is both extremely amusing and has reminded me it's time to re-read Rebecca. It's always time to re-read Rebecca.

Mildly disconcerting texts I have received lately from people whose numbers I don't have in my phone:

"So tell me more about [the name of the man charged with a serious crime, whose trial I have been helping to cover for work]."

I mean, you're going to have that kitchen for a long time so...

Abortion is one of those things I have long felt faintly uncomfortable talking about or writing about for two reasons.

Firstly, I've never had to have an abortion so I feel unqualified to say much and a little bit like I might be shitting on other people's experiences if I voice my own opinion. Merely owning a working (um, so far as I know, I guess) womb doesn't feel like much of a qualification to start shooting my mouth off.

Secondly, until very recently I secretly thought I might be a monster or perhaps a low-level psychopath because, while I appreciate the decision to have an abortion must be very hard for some people, for me it's never seemed like much of a decision. If I got pregnant tomorrow I would wait a polite amount of time for my husband to try to talk me out of it and then say sorry and go and get an abortion. And while maybe I'd surprise myself I can't imagine being overwhelmed with guilt or grief - lord knows the not-a-baby would be better off being snuffed out of existence before it's too much more than a cluster of cells than being born to a mother who has absolutely no desire to have it.

I've always felt this way but never felt comfortable expressing the view until I read Caitlin Moran's fantastic, maybe even life altering and very funny book, How to Be a Woman. In it she writes how, as the mother of two kids, she decided to get an abortion when she got pregnant for a third time:

"I have no dilemma, no terrible decision to make - because I know, with calm certainty, that I don't want another child now, in the same way I know absolutely that I don't want to go to India, or be a blonde, or fire a gun... I can honestly say that my abortion was one of the least difficult decisions of my life. I'm not being flippant when I say it took me longer to decide what worktops to have in the kitchen than whether I was prepared to spend the rest of my life being responsible for a further human being, because I knew that to do it again - to commit my life to another person - might very possibly stretch my abilities, and conception of who I am, and who I want to be, and what I want and need to do - to breaking point."

I remember reading that line about the kitchen worktops while sitting somewhere beautiful in Positano a couple of months ago and bursting into guilty laughter, thinking holy shit are we allowed to talk like this now?

I've gone off topic because this was supposed to be a very short post directing you towards this article, "I Wish My Mother Had Aborted Me", about which I have little to say but which I think might actually be... kind of great. Or at least very interesting, particularly in a world in which this kind of fucknuttery is out there making Australian politicians look positively sane and competent by comparison.

Finally, two pieces of advice.

Number one: If you or someone you know owns a vagina, buy Caitlin Moran's book.

Number two: don't ever try google imaging the world "abortion" in the hope it might throw up an appropriate picture to illustrate some inane blog post you may have written. Just... trust me on this one.

Things I said at the pub that weren't intended to be a burn but apparently came out that way:

Him: I like your outfit.
Me: I got married in this dress.

Things I secretly believe I can do better than most people #12

Pack my shopping bags at the supermarket.

Procrastination

The problem: Should I take my parents' wee dog to the dog beach (my parents are away and she could do with the exercise) or park myself in a cafe and do that work assignment I have been putting off all week that really actually MUST be finished today?

The solution: Do neither and instead lie in bed with my laptop, blogging about my indecision.

Token Smokin' Hottie: Chris O'Dowd

Two incidents.

One, a few months ago during a harmless game of shoot, shag or marry involving various boys in the office. Presented with some fairly unappealing options I nevertheless made my choices and, when pressed to defend my selection for the shag (an unattractive but friendly, chap), did so with the words: "yeah but he'd make you laugh quite a bit during." I stand by my decision.

Two, many years ago when I was in bed with an, ahem, gentleman caller (sorry Mum) who said something along the lines of "do you have something to, um, not get pregnant?" (I'm being disingenuous with my faux recall, that's actually exactly what he said). For some reason, even though I maybe didn't really know him well enough (again, sorry Mum) to make the joke I said, straightfaced: "No I really want to have your child." Things might have got super awkward except that he cracked up, which, of course, made me crack up too and all was well.

I mention these two incidents now to explain the presence of Chris O'Dowd under the tag Smokin' Token Hottie, given that he is, you know, not really hot.

I first noticed Chris O'D in the sporadically funny TV series The IT Crowd, vaguely noticing that he was kinda cute, had a nice t-shirt collection and got most of the best lines ("have you tried turning it off and on again?"). Then I saw him in Bridesmaids and was distinctly smitten, at least in part because of a throwaway bit of super cute dialogue when he's (uh... spoiler?) falling into bed with whatshername and says something like "I'm so glad this is happening". I don't know why that charmed me so much but it really did. My crush was magnified when I saw him this week in The Sapphires, in which he manages to be delightfully amusing and single-handedly carry what is really a good-but-not-great film into the territory of would-recommend-to-a-friend.

And, as I insinuated in the start of this blog, Chris O'D's appeal is almost entirely predicated on his (assumed) sense of humour. You just know that if you got him into bed he wouldn't be tearing off his clothes to reveal a hidden six pack or amazing you with his kinkery fuckery but he would be making you smile and laugh until somehow, before you quite knew it, you were having sex with him, without being entirely aware of having taken off your pants. Humour in bed is a seriously underrated quality, is I guess what I'm trying to say.

Oh shit, and did I even mention the Irish accent? Yeah, um, that helps.

How to not psych yourself up for going out when you're feeling distinctly low:

Glass of wine + woolly jumper + Joni Mitchell = Must... leave... house...

Things I feel fairly confident I will not do again

1. Get a nose stud.

2. Wear a ra-ra skirt.

3. Live with my parents.

4. Watch the (I have no idea why this is even considered a classic because holy shit no just no no no) film The African Queen.

Obviously

I once nearly had to appear on TV for work purposes and I all but shat myself with fear (before brilliantly getting out of it by, uh, effectively resigning from that position) so why am I using this space to make fun of a friend who is a) far more successful than me and b) actually does have to go on TV to shill his wares and thus keep his kids fed and clothed? Because I can, dear reader, because I can.

An open letter to...

This person

And

This person

Please get a fucking grip.

Regards,
The World

"Why was I programmed to feel pain?"

Courtesy of Eye on Springfield.

Unforgivable crimes committed by the girl sitting next to me at work this week

1. Sharing baby photos... of her boyfriend.
2. Eating a tin of tuna in a teeny tiny room.
3. Displaying no remorse for point 2.
4. Crying.
5. Being super nice and friendly, thus making me feel like a heel for thinking bad things.