Sheila The Magic Pumpkin

I've had a lot of flatmates in my life, but possibly my favourite flatmate of all was a guy called Neal that I lived with when I was about 19. He was magnificent. We laughed, we played Super Mario together, he made me G&Ts which we enjoyed on the balcony, watching the light hit the buildings in the afternoon (it wasn't sweet vermouth on the rocks with a twist, but you can't have everything). I may be viewing this through rose-tinted glasses, but let me tell you, some of the funniest and most absurd in-jokes I've ever had the pleasure to share with anyone began in that flat, with that guy.

One great and rather ridiculous in-joke we had began when Neal played his Sheryl Crow albums at an ungodly hour in the morning. After I'd smashed through his door, bleary-eyed, hair crazily porcupining in every direction, and threatened to do a long list of increasingly violent and horrible things to him with the CD, he decided that on reflection, it was better to have a varied musical taste. He began to play a seemingly endless line of Eva Cassidy albums. To annoy him, I would sing along in a mousey falsetto, and thus began the story of Eva Cassidy-Hamster. We created her as a way to explain all those things that Someone Did, but that No One Is Prepared To Admit To, like forgetting to replace the toilet roll, or finishing the milk. We'd blame our little-seen singer-songwriter hamster for anything and everything. The joke grew to such lengths that Neal once came home from work to find me contentedly photoshopping a feather boa and some high heels onto a picture of a hamster with a microphone.


Neal: What are you doing?


Me: I'm creating an album cover for Eva's newest live performance.


Neal: Has this gone too far?


Me: Not even close.


It was somehow comforting to come home from a long day and find little passive-aggressive notes written by an invisible hamster flatmate on the fridge. I do miss those days. 
However, my favourite story of all involves a pumpkin. We bought it at Tesco for Halloween, along with some other cheap and terrible plastic decorations and proudly brought it home, only to realise that neither one of us had ever carved a pumpkin before. Several hours and several G&Ts later, we'd named it Sheila and compromised by drawing a face onto it rather than starting drunken pumpkin surgery (also, I don't know if you've noticed, but after you name something it's somehow harder to scoop out its insides without feeling remorse, even if it is a vegetable). Sheila became an endearing, if slightly odd addition to the flat for the next couple of weeks. We would slip her into conversation when showing people around our home for the first time - "that's the bathroom, this is the kitchen, this is our pumpkin, the bedrooms are down the hall, we have a nice view..."

All was normal, or at least as normal as life can be living with a named pumpkin, until one night when I staggered in, pie-eyed (if you're not from the UK, this means so drunk that you've bought chips and at some point on the way home have performed the Chip Dance, which involves stumbling in zig zags down the street holding the bag aloft, eyes firmly focused on the next chip on your fork like it is the face of your deity of choice) to find that Neal had got home earlier, also apparently smashed, and had left me a large scrawling story on our kitchen whiteboard titled Sheila The Magic Pumpkin: Feed Her Vodka And She Will Tell You The Future. I stared at this for some time, letting my alcohol-soaked brain turn it over gently. I examined Sheila, who was sitting in a pool of clear liquid that on tasting proved to indeed be vodka, so he had definitely tested his scientific theory out. To this day, I still don't know what happened that fateful night. 
 
Sheila lasted for some time after the vodka incident. Indeed she lasted for a good few months before eventually putrifying and had begun to gently but inexorably seep into my food cupboard. We didn't have the heart to throw her away, however, not after all we'd been through, although Neal and I did sometimes stand together in the kitchen and regard her with increasing despair. Eventually it had to be done, for the health and safety of us humans, but it was a sad day for everyone involved. 


Rest in peace, Sheila. You truly were magical.

Twitterfests and Apple Beer

If you read the last post I published, you'll know that I had planned a Twitterfest (or rather, Otterfest, if you will) in order to meet some the awesome people I talk to on Twitter. It was absolutely brilliant. I had a splendidly magnificent time, and I'd like to thank @JenClone, @Oddtwang, @SuperRetroid, @TheNatFantastic, @Trishie_D, @JennieSue and @nicelittlestory for making that possible. We came up with some incredible in-jokes during the time I spent in Leeds and Oxford, and thankfully I managed overall not to embarrass myself too much (I think, although I do recall doing a robot dance as we exited a pub which probably wasn't the coolest or most impressive thing I could have been doing). In addition, one of our crew made little badges with otters on them, to commemorate this special occasion, which was a wonderful and very sweet thing to do. I felt like otter royalty.

There was one moment of humiliation, which I've already enjoyed telling people about, during the brunch meeting on Sunday, when we were all standing in the queue for Bagel Nash in Leeds. I was standing between two people taller than me so I was trying to keep track of the conversation as it flew over my otterhobbit head, as well as deciding what kind of bagel I was going to have. Therefore my thoughts were rather preoccupied when a slight tilt of my head encouraged my floppy Bieberhair fringe to fall into my eyes. My immediate reflex was to flick my head to the side, swinging the hair back from my face in a dignified if slightly camp manner. Unfortunately, I had momentarily forgotten that I was standing very close to a chiller cabinet. What actually happened, instead of the graceful L'Oreal Cheryl Cole style hair whip I had intended, was that I stupidly banged my skull against the side of the cabinet, in front of everyone. From a distance, it must have looked as if I could no longer stand the chat going on around me and had decided to suddenly end my existence in a very longwinded and painful fashion. What's worse, this was the response I got:

Jen: Oh my god! Are you okay? It's fine, I don't think anyone saw - hey, everybody! EVERYBODY! Did you see what Otternator just did?!

In addition to this wonderful memory, we had many exceptional moments of banter and learned some very important life lessons. Jen brought up an instance when a man on a dating website sent her an introductory email that was entirely based around watersports. Thus, the following conversation happened:

Jen: It was awful. Really. Not a good start.

Me: You know, I've always found the name very misleading. Because there are actually proper water-related sports. Jetskiing, surfing, that kind of thing. They should call it something else. Like.....WeeSports. WAIT! NO!

SuperRetroid: If you invite people round for WiiSports, you better be very clear on exactly what you're planning. Otherwise that's just embarrassing for everyone.

Oddtwang: Exactly.

In summary, I highly recommend Twitterfests. Just be certain no one's an axe murderer and be sure to take extra socks. You'll thank me later.

Wuthering Otters

I mentioned in a couple of previous posts that I joined a local book group a few months back. Let me explain a little more about this, which started off as one innocent email and has now snowballed into a giant embarrassing ball of Shame Wool, which even now is twining around my conscience like a hungry kitten. Shame Wool - it feels uncomfortable and itchy on the inside of your soul.

Back in January, I saw an advert on Gumtree for a book group. I decided, as it had been one of my New Year's resolutions to be more social (as for the other two resolutions, let's just say that one of them I kept reasonably well and the other was one of those resolutions you never really intend to keep anyway, it's just there to bulk out the list) that I would email back and ask for the details. I had just missed the January meeting, so the guy emailed me the details for the February meeting instead. We were supposed to read 'A Place of Greater Safety' by Hilary Mantell. I bought the book for my Kindle, and as I am an exceptionally quick reader, made the foolish mistake of leaving myself only one weekend to read it. Turns out the damn thing was 1100 pages long and about the French revolution, which would never have been my subject of choice on Mastermind.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the book - the humour was dry, the descriptions were good and it flowed from character to character nicely - but I hadn't expected it to be such a mountain. I had other tasks to do and they couldn't wait. I eventually gave in to the realisation that I was not going to make that particular meeting. I could have gone without reading the end, but I wanted to enjoy it alone. Foolish Otternator. Hindsight makes everything so clear.

In March, with the meeting fast approaching on my calendar, I decided I would begin reading the new book choice early. I was full of determination and zest for life in a very Bridget Jones kind of way . I got about halfway through it with days to spare, and then Other Half dropped a party bombshell on me. I wasn't too bothered, after all, the book was 'Daisy Miller', by Henry James, and while it had amused me for a bit, I had never really got into it. I told myself I would go to the next meeting. For sure. Definitely. I absolutely will. There's no reason why I shouldn't go. None at all.

And then the next meeting rolled around and I tried to read 'The Castle' by Kafka.

I don't know whether you have ever read any Kafka, but I read 'Metamorphosis' a while back, and I was under the apparently horribly mistaken impression that I liked his work. 'Metamorphosis' was everything 'The Castle' wasn't - it was direct, quirky, delightful to read and didn't make me want to stab myself in the eyes just to get away from it. In short, every time I saw the copy of 'The Castle' lying on the coffee table, I felt my inner otter cry tiny tears of fear and hatred. I don't think I've ever wanted to finish something less in my entire life. To cut a long story short, I refused point blank to go near it again, and as such, sulked for a while before conceding that I was probably not going to go to the book group in April either. Other Half reasoned that i didn't necessarily have to finish the book to discuss it, but I didn't really think that expressing my honest sentiments to a group of strangers who I'd hoped to make friends with would really endear me to them, particularly if those sentiments ran along the lines of "the book contained drivelling long-winded unsympathetic characters who I wish would all just sod off, particularly the protagonist who manages to be simultaneously an insipid fool and a manipulative, churlish dickface".

Unfortunately for me, the next book group meeting is on the 7th May. Sadly my Twitterfest journey also starts on 7th May (when I will meet some of my fellow twitters in different parts of England and spend time getting copiously drunk with them) so I won't be going to that either. In summary, for the last 4 months, I have been continually prepping for something I haven't yet been to. If I go now, it's just awkward. They'll wonder what took me so long. Frankly, I wonder what's taken me so long. I suppose that's just the kind of person I am.

Picnic In The Park

I got a text from my friend yesterday morning, asking if I wanted to come to a barbecue in the park. I'm not normally much of a morning person, but I was already up because I had a hair appointment booked around noon, this time with a real stylist (I got it cheap on Groupon so don't worry, I haven't compromised my haircare ethics), who incidentally gave me a shorter cut on the right side of my head on the basis that it "looks edgy". It actually just makes me look a bit lop-sided. If you can, try to picture a puzzled collie. That's pretty accurate.

In any case, I graciously accepted the invitation, by which I mean I replied with "what you're proposing is actually against the law in this country, so I'll be there shortly". However, I hadn't factored in her ability to give directions which might have worked for a normal person, but had certainly not been translated into Otterspeak for me. Therefore, I got to the proposed park (somewhere I'd never actually been before despite it being about 400 yards from a main road I used to live on) only to find that I couldn't see my friends anywhere.

Me: The east quadrant, she says? My ass, it's the east quadrant (pulling out my phone) Okay, it's fine, I'll just call her. No big deal.

Friend: (picking up) Dude, where are you?

Me: You are not in the east quadrant. At all. When the zombie apocalypse comes, I'm not letting you near the map collection.

Friend: I was speaking in terms of the park itself.

Me: Forgive me for thinking that when you said 'east' you meant 'east' as in compass east. Anyway, where are you?

Friend: You can't see us? Okay, take off your shirt and we'll come find you.

Me: Okay, sure- wait, what?!

Friend: We took a vote and we all agreed that it would make you easier to find. And would in fact be a reward for us for finding you.

Me: This is a children's park. I am right next to a sandpit.

Friend: You're always so full of excuses.

Me: I'll work on that.

It turned out to be a lovely day, even if three of us nearly set ourselves/alcohol/food/grass on fire in an attempt to prove that we were tough and outdoorsy enough to light a disposable barbecue with a firelighter tool. It wasn't until we'd finally managed to get the damn thing lit that we realised we'd forgotten to take the cardboard packaging off it, and let me tell you, if they'd included that as a challenge in one of the Crystal Maze rooms, the program would have benefited from the added suspense and danger. I no longer allow myself to watch Crystal Maze reruns as I can't helping myself hurling the most foul-mouthed and harsh criticism at the contestants ("Steven, you ham-fisted bastarding moron, the long bricks are supposed to slot in the other way! You wasted thirty seconds on reading out the instructions and now this? How can you live with yourself?")

I also discovered that with this particular group of friends, all I need to do to be included in the zombie apocalypse group is to agree to take my shirt off. What was I thinking, trying to impress them with my intelligence and language skills? What need do they have for a Risk strategy expert who is also very good with animals and has an incredibly photographic memory? None! None at all. If only I'd known my appeal from the beginning I wouldn't have had to endure the anxiety about being left behind. At least now I feel reassured. Zombies on, shirt off. It's my new motto.

This Is Not A Pipe

The company I work for is international. We have a lot of different cultures represented in our workplace, and almost everyone speaks at least two or three languages, if not more. This can be incredibly useful and incredibly embarrassing as I found out to my consternation on a dress down day a couple of years ago. I had just bought some new tshirts from Threadless and I was excited to test them out on my work colleagues. On this particular day, I had innocently chosen a green tshirt with a green pipe on it (the kind from Mario games) which had a fireflower coming out of the top. Underneath it said "ceci n'est pas une pipe" (translated: "this is not a pipe"). I considered this the height of cool. Who wouldn't want a shirt that managed to be both a video game reference and an art reference all in one? After all, many of us have experienced the feeling of exasperation when your little on-screen Mario jumps onto one of these, only to be destroyed instantly by something vicious coming out of it with no warning whatsoever. My geekery knows no bounds.

So when I met my French friend for lunch that day, I expected him to congratulate me on my excellent choice of apparel. I did not expect him to glance at my tshirt, double-take and then start laughing hysterically.

Me: Is it that funny? Really?

Him: No, it's just....I don't know how to tell you this.

Me: Oh god, what?

Him: Well, it's slang. Translated literally it means "this is not a blowjob".

Me: Are you telling me that I've been walking around all day, at work, wearing something that has a sex joke on it?! In a language people around here can read?

Him: Um...Yes.

Me: Oh. Crapmaster.

This leads me, in a very roundabout way, to something that was brought to my attention the other day. I have referred to myself throughout this blog as Otternator, or occasionally as an actual otter (complete with bright, shiny eyes, magnificently Biebered pelt and a varied range of expressions) and no one had really questioned it much so it never occurred to me that I should have taken the time to explain myself a little. 45 posts, people. I am rather embarrassed. I do apologise.

Really, the story is quite simple. An ex and I had a running joke that she looked like a gangling, runty pony (yes, I said runty) and so it naturally followed that we tried to decide which animal I looked/acted most like. The otter is small. It can sometimes look rather sweet and cuddly, but it will in all likelihood bite your motherflipping hand off if given half a chance. The otter enjoys rolling about on the ground, romping with other otters (which I think you'll agree, is otterly delightful - the pun potential with this animal is truly amazing) and eating fish. It has moments like this:

Wendy watched the sunset in a deep, philosophical silence. 

Screw him. He could have the kids. She'd take the Kawasaki.

(photo via Drew Avery at http://www.flickr.com/photos/33590535@N06/5584342791/)

But it also has moments like this.

              "Ma! MA! Derek won't let me watch America's Next Top Model! MA! MAAAAA!"

 (photo via Yasaiman at http://www.flickr.com/photos/yasaiman/5511399875/)

In short, I am really quite ottery. I look innocent when I'm not, I'll fight you for some meat and I move much better in water than I do on land. Thus it was decided, and I have enjoyed otter-related products/jokes/stories and so forth ever since.

Rudolph, We Hardly Knew Ye

I've mentioned before in previous posts that I enjoy singing and dancing. These are things I prefer not to do in front of other people, except in cases of serious drunkenness or for entertainment purposes when I can be absolutely certain people are laughing with me rather than at me. Therefore when I am at home alone I tend to take full advantage by cranking my speakers up to 11 and bellowing heartily along to whatever song is playing. I have a fairly varied taste, I think, and my ipod ranges from Music You'd Be Embarrassed To Admit Your Gran Listened To, Never Mind Yourself ("I don't know how 'Ooh Aah Just A Little Bit' got on there, I really don't. Must be an iTunes malfunction. The whole album? Really? My goodness, how odd") to So Down With The Kids, I Even Know What Krumping Is.

However, since my musical taste is so far-reaching and my little ottery mind is so full of other things, occasionally I forget that what I'm singing is not well matched to the current situation - apparently delivering a rousing rendition of Tenacious D's classic 'Fuck Her Gently' at the cats is neither impressive nor parentally appropriate, something I really should remember in case I ever spawn some little Otternators (a day we should all worry about). So it was with relief on her face that Other Half found me in the kitchen, wailing along to 'Baby It's Cold Outside'.

Other Half: You do know it's Spring, right?

Me: (looking at the sunshine pouring through the window and feigning amazement) You don't say!

Other Half: Isn't that a bit too festive?

Me: Christmas songs should be enjoyed all year round. Hey, you know what's weird?

Other Half eyes me with apprehension, because when I ask that question it invariably means we're going to have a conversation which can only end in puzzled expressions, frustrated nose-pinching and a giant, swelling cricket orchestra playing the delicate harmonies of awkward silence against the backdrop of our lives.

Other Half: (sighing) Go on then.

Me: Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Have you ever thought about the lyrics?

Other Half: I can't say that I have.

Me: (brandishing a spoon) Consider this. The other reindeer initially wouldn't let Rudoph join in their reindeer games, correct?

Other Half: Yes...

Me: This was specifically because he was different in the nasal region. The song states that they laughed and called him names. Harassment. Intimidation. Slander. Those are serious charges.

Other Half: (pinches nose) Right...

Me: They only let him into their snooty regular-nosed club AFTER Santa took an interest in Rudolph, right? Only after Rudolph had become a minor celebrity! In an Arctic way, obviously. He wasn't, like, the David Beckham of reindeers or anything.

Other Half: Um...

Me: Therefore, I have proved that reindeer are spiteful, bullying, shallow creatures who immerse themselves in lives of superficial fame and glamour. It is a sad, lonely existence.

Other Half: Have you been drinking?

Me: Maybe a little. Fickle reindeer! You know it makes sense.

Other Half: You and your theories.

Me: Me and my theories are breaking ground. Hey, I forgot to ask you earlier - do you have your tickets?

Other Half: Tickets? What tick- NO! Do not start that again.

Me: The Gun Show just isn't the same without you.

Other Half: (exiting hurriedly) I'm leaving the room! Possibly the building.

Me: (following and smirking) Well then you're in luck, because the Gun Show is on tour! COMING TO A HOUSE NEAR YOU!

Other Half:....Dammit.

With A Baby Louis Vuitton Under Her Underarm

If you read this blog, or if you follow me on Twitter, it won't be long until you notice that I really enjoy bantering with people. It's one of my absolute favourite pastimes. I also really enjoy in-jokes and will go to great lengths to preserve such things by slipping them into conversation even if the conversation does not require it, and generally spreading them around like jam.

Other Half and I have a couple of great in-jokes that we use every now and again, which inevitably ends in both of us giggling like lunatics on a bus or similar. The following link is an advert for Chanel no. 5, which features Nicole Kidman squinting worriedly at the camera a lot and some truly pretentious dialogue, the best line of which is "I'm a dancer! I LOVE to dance!" Every now and again, I will burst into a room that Other Half is occupying, delivering this line in the same kind of breathy, overacted way that Nicole Kidman specialises in, and then flail about dramatically for a few seconds like Kate Bush on speed attempting to reenact The Nutcracker. (link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTO4FHf8MBs) This never fails to crack both of us up.

In addition, there are many video game jokes to be exchanged on Twitter. You've probably heard of, if not played, the game series Final Fantasy. It is a longstanding and brilliant turn-based RPG, which involves a lot of cool magic casting and summoning of mythical creatures to do your bidding. Trust me when I say there is nothing so satisfying as finally bringing down a boss by means of clever strategy (unless it's dominating the world in Risk - a skill which I am convinced is transferable to real world domination, if only I could get a small army of otters together). However, the Final Fantasy games do have a few problems, not least with their plotlines. Each game has different characters and a different premise, but the unifying factor is that it is usually surreal, particularly in the later games. My favourite of all time, Final Fantasy 8, is on the surface a romance set against the backdrop of a political uprising of a sorceress (to simplify it greatly) but in actual fact pulls the story threads together about halfway through by explaining that seven or so of the main characters all grew up in an orphanage together, and then somehow all conveniently forgot this fact due to all the monster summoning they'd been up to.
In addition, Final Fantasy 10's main character Tidus discovers that his long lost father is now what could best be described as a magical whale from the future. Final Fantasy is clearly a folding table and several colonies of ants short of a picnic, but nevertheless the games are highly enjoyable, and I do recommend them.

Back to in-jokes. One of my very excellent and funny friends (Jen of the 'Cheese and Crayons' blog, which can be found on the right of this site) enjoys exchanging song lyrics with me, in the most pedantic and British way possible. I'll highlight one of my favourite examples here. To give a little context, I'd just been paid a bonus at work after slaving on a project for about three months, so I was extremely happy about actually having some money.

Me: I feel so rich right now. It's bloody great.

Jen: If you earned that much every month, I'd marry you. And I'm straight.

Me: Bitch, please. I ain't messing with no golddigga.

Jen: I'm not saying I need someone rich, necessarily. I earn enough on my own. I do date a lot of broke bro's.

Me: The shoes on your feet?

Jen: I bought them.

Me: The car you're driving?

Jen: I bought it.

Me: The house you live in?

Jen: For a very reasonable price, I rent it.

Me: I believe that qualifies you as an Independent Woman.

Jen: Indeed, yah. I do depend on me, if I want it.

Me: Amazing.

And so it was.