I think I have acidic armpits

I bought this amazing cream jumper from Jane Norman in November, it's beautiful and warm and yummy. I wore it a total of three times and I was as happy as a clam. After I moved, I wore it for a fourth time and suddenly my world was turned upside down as I went to yawn and discovered this.



A hole!!

I was sad. In fact I was near on depressed. I mean this jumper had been my interview jumper for the job I now work in. It had lived such a short life but it had already served me so well.

It was when I wore the darker jumper I had also bought from Jane Norman a mere week later that I started to really fret because, even without sleeves it had somehow been ripped and had suffered the same fate.



Although this saddened me deeply, I placed it with my other jumper and assumed it was a Jane Norman thing. One day, when I was truly grown up, I would be able to go back to those jumpers and sew them back up. But until then, I would have to settle for a simple memorial service most weekends where I would take them out of the drawer, hold them up in front of me, and sigh.

This week, I went from being accepting of what had happened to being downright outraged. I pulled out one of my favourite (non Jane Norman) jumpers, put it on, went to work, yawned and saw this!!



It's an epidemic!! My clothes are disintegrating and all in one place, under my armpits! It can only mean one thing. My armpits must be secreting some acid like substance which is leaking into my clothes and causing holes to appear. It's the only explanation that I can think of and I'm sure you'd agree.

This would be all well and good but as I mentioned before I am not far enough into my independent woman experience to know how to sew up holes and breakages in clothes. I don't even own a sewing kit... I have a cross stitch that I'm working on but if I use those threads then I'll never finish Tutankhamun's head.



But if my acidic armpits continue to strike then I will soon have no clothes left and that simply won't do. So I am asking people, if you happen to have either one of the following you will be helping a rather confused woman out.

A: A sewing kit that you are happy to give away (for free, I could pay you in hugs perhaps?)

B: A cure for the acidic armpit. Be it in tablet form, injection form or liquid form, I'm not fussy in fact I'm desperate.

or

C: A fashion line you are able to make instantly famous which includes holes in the armpits of garments as its main feature.

Of course the other alternative is that I simply never get tired again and so never have the need to yawn and expose my gaping armpit holes. I'll probably just go with that option, I'm already partially addicted to caffeine anyway, might as well go the whole hog.

A woman who is prone to (L)OCD's

I would like to add a disclaimer to the following blog: Due to me not actually having been diagnosed with the following issue, it is purely my own observations and kick ass thoughts that lead me to believe it is true. I will leave you to come up with your own theories. As I am not a doctor I will change OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) to LOCD (Lisa's Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) which is what I have personally diagnosed me as having in my capacity as a real life person.

I have a little problem with LOCD. I have had since I was 14 and sat in a caravan with three friends whilst watching Tim Henman lose once more in Wimbledon. It was bizarre the way it came about but basically I was sitting there, my friend Lauren turned the volume up to 33 and suddenly I became overwhelmed in a flurry of emotions and asked (or demanded, I can't remember due to the long period of time since then) that it be changed to either 32 or 34. The moment Lauren changed it I felt a lot better and that started the period of my life that was forever governed by even numbers.



This was a rather awkward period of my life and it lasted in it's extreme for about 8 years. Literally EVERYTHING had to be done in even numbers,

Eating: I would always eat my crisps in two's and if there was one crisp left at the end then I wouldn't finish it. Burgers were eaten only in even bites. Gum if offered would have to be given to me in two's or, if I didn't know the person well enough to ask for that, then I would simply break the gum in half and eat it that way. NB Now, although I no longer eat gum in two's I still break them in half out of habit.

Volume/Temperature: Anything that was measured with a number to indicate how high it was must be put to an even number, even better if I could get all numbers even; EG: 42 instead of 32. NB Now, this is still exactly the same. It just plain creeps me out being any other way!

Drains: I couldn't walk over one or three drains, only ever two or in those rare occasions 4. NB: Out of habit I still do this without thinking however I have developed enough as a person now that if I am thinking about it then I get a little rush by walking over three drains like I'm doing something I wouldn't normally do and therefore pushing my boundaries!!

There were others but I think you get the gist. Basically even = good, odd = bad.

Out of the birth of such a silly little LOCD came a lot more interesting ones that I have picked up on. I would like to stress that these do not make me 'slightly insane' or 'bizarre' or 'not quite there' as some people have said in the past. I just simply work by the theory that if you do something a certain way and enjoyed it that way then why not do it that way all the time?

An example of this is one that I have picked up in the past couple of months in my little maisonette. The way my home is put together, the moment you come into the house you're confronted with stairs that take you up to the second floor where all my rooms are. There is a light switch at the bottom of these stairs for the downstairs light and two light switches at the top for upstairs and downstairs. My biggest rule in the house is this, upon arriving home of an evening, the two light switches at the top of the stairs must be facing the same way once I turn the light out to the corridor.

Confused? I thought so, so here's a photographic aid:

A good example of the light switches.



A bad example of the light switches.



I don't think I am asking for much for this to be done. And sure it means that I have had to sit down and work out what position they should be in in order for it to work when I leave the house. And yes it has meant that on more than one occasion I have had to feel my way down the hazardous stairs in the dark to rectify the situation if they have somehow managed to come out of sync. But look at how beautiful they look the right way up!

There are more LOCD's I am guilty for but I shall leave them for another time.

I fell over today

It wasn't a graceful stumble or even an embarrassing unbalance. No. It was the kind of falling over that you did when you were five and you spotted the last free swing on the other side of the park so made a run for it with such momentum that your body seemed to end up going faster than your legs and before you knew it, you're face down in the wooden chipped floor with grazed knees, bark in your hair and an overflow of tears brimming to the surface of your eyes. That was the kind of fall I had.

I even grazed my knees like a proper five year old.



I wasn't even doing anything fun like a child does. There were no swings involved. no climbing frame to be seen. Not even a see saw! I wasn't running or skipping. I was just walking home.

I was walking down the hill from the train station after picking up my shopping of milk, soap and deodorant. I had my ipod on and I was listening to the Burlesque soundtrack, once again imagining a world where I had a voice like Christina's. I had also begun writing today's blog in my head and was going through the finer points of how I would put my ongoing musings into words. I was defenseless, innocent and being completely responsible and grown up.

Then out of nowhere this curb just appeared and attacked me! I didn't even trip on it. No. My foot just scuffed against it and the next thing I know I'm flying through the air, leaving one of my shoes behind me. During my flight, my carrier bag of shopping spun 360 degrees into the air before landing with an almighty crash onto the floor. Fearing for the safety of my face I had let go of my bag and threw both my hands in front of me so as to break my fall...

The moment it had happened, my British fear of making a spectacle of myself immediately kicked in and I shot back up into the standing position with the speed and agility of a meerkat whilst simultaneously looking around me to see if anyone had witnessed it. No one had. Relief rushed through my veins followed by a brief moment of feeling sorry for the rest of the world for not having caught what I was sure would have been a highly funny fall first hand. My personal bits and pieces (including shoe) had scattered themselves into a large circle around me and so I rushed to grab it all again and ensure that I did not lose anything aside from my dignity.

It wasn't until I got home that I inspected my shopping. The resilience of my soap and Deodorant impressed me as they emerged from my bag unharmed. My milk however was another story.



I tried to open the lid but it wouldn't move. However I am a lady on a budget so I refuse to buy a new milk just because I can't get to the perfectly good milk I've already bought. I will find a way, even if it means using my secret weapon.

Pork... oh dear

I've just cooked pork for the first time in my little flat (FYI, it did not look at all like the above picture, my actual food was guzzled before I thought of taking a picture. I know, careless). The house I lived in prior to this one was with my parents and my dad was a very big pork cooker so I've never previously had the privilege of cooking this particular meat myself.

When I initially bought this meat on my Tesco delivery shop I was overcome with the excitement of being a proper cook who cooks meat from scratch and without the use of the microwave. The meat arrived with the rest of my shop and I cleverly realised that I should put it straight in the freezer as I would not be eating my meat for a while and did not want it to go off.

Step one of being a proper cook was complete and I was proud. I walked around the place with my head that little bit higher because I was on my way to being a true independent woman who does true independent cooking.

A week passed and I was finally ready for my big Pork Chop cook. I strutted proudly to the freezer a whole night early so as to allow the pork to thaw (I remembered to do this due to me being a supreme cook) and opened the packet of four pork chops. Knowing that I couldn't possibly eat all four chops at once I went to pick just one of the porks out of the plastic box and gaped moronically as all four followed it. Ah. They had frozen together.

Not a problem. I had recently purchased a massive butcher knife that couldn't possibly let me down in being awesome and separating the frozen meat.


EDIT: Upon looking at this photo I would like to stress that, contrary to how it may look on this picture, the knife was in fact in front of me whilst I posed and I was not trying to slice my cheek open.

The huge knife alas then proceeded to letting me down. I was heart broken for about two minutes and spent a few moments staring at the knife whilst fighting back angry tears and overcoming my feeling of betrayal. After I'd put the knife down however I realised that I had no option but to defrost all four chops and see what I could get away with doing with it without poisoning myself.

What I could do, I found out the next day, was not much at all.

I went out for a late lunch with two of my lovely ladies, Claire and Rachael, who have openly told me they will not be reading this blog due to not enjoying reading on computers... it makes me feel slightly giddy with power at their flat out refusal because I could say anything and they would never know!

....

Damn it, I can't think of anything. I wish there was a T shirt for this kind of thing. Oh wait there is.



Anywho. I mentioned my pork fiasco to them and how I now had to cook four pork chops when really I only had the stomach to eat one... maybe two. Claire and Rachael are my 'i've lived independently for years and know what I am doing' grown up friends. They are very useful in these situations as well as being very fun to play cards with and watch Kill Bill with.

Claire began shaking her head in that way that said, 'Lisa you have made a rookie mistake' and automatically I felt my cook pride dwindle within me and my head dropped a few inches from it's previous high place. This lead to the following conversation.

Claire: Oh Lisa, you don't freeze four pork chops together
Lisa: You don't?
Claire: Not unless you're hungry for a whole pig.
Lisa: What did I do wrong?
Claire: You should have separated them before hand. Then the meat could be eaten individually.
We sit in silence as I slowly deflate inside.
Lisa: Ah. That seems entirely sensible. I probably should have thought of that.

It was after this point that I then found out just how dangerous cooking pork chops is. The following rules needed to be followed completely in order to escape the possibility of death.

1. You must cook all the meat within 24 hours or you will throw up and die.

2. You must ensure that there is no pink in the meat at all once you have cooked it otherwise you will throw up and die.

3. You must not reheat the meat (even in the microwave) once it has cooled as doing so will cause you to throw up and die.

4. Do not cook meat in the same pan as any other meat otherwise eating either of these meats will cause you to throw up and die.

5. You must ensure that the meat is cooked just to white and not for any longer otherwise... well you won't throw up and die, it just won't be very nice.

I went home, took the pork out of the fridge and stared at it, a thin bead of sweat poured down my forehead as I contemplated all the rules there were in order to keep myself from dying a violent and puke filled death. It almost didn't seem worth it anymore. If only I had known when I had been internet shopping with Tescos.

However I am no quitter. I had bought the pork. I had defrosted the pork. I was darn well going to eat the sodding pork. I talked myself up, reminding myself that I was a strong independent woman who had her own flat and her own grocery list. I was capable of this, no, I was BORN to do this. Once I had worked myself up into a cooking frenzy, the heights of which would make any independent woman proud, I reached across the counter, picked up the phone and called my mum.

Mum and 'pork cooking expert' dad talked me through it step by step. They told me exactly what I had to do, the exact temperature to grill my meat and when to know to take it out. Re-iterating over and over, 'just as long as it isn't pink on the inside, you should be fine.'

I put the phone down, cooked some noodles to go with my 'mission impossible' food and once I double and triple checked that the pork wasn't pink I added them with the noodles, crossed myself, said a little prayer and ate the meal.

About halfway through I noticed my new rookie mistake of course. I'm one of those really classy ladies that eat everything with ketchup. I had smeared the ketchup over noodles and pork and as a result the juices soaked into the meat. Several times I caught pink sections in my otherwise beautifully white meat. I made a judgement call and ate the rest. I fear that may have been the wrong call. I don't feel too well...

NB: In case you're worried, I wouldn't be, my body likes to think it's a hypochondriac. I had a standard safety training session at work today, when they mentioned rashes I started to itch and examine my skin. When they talked about diarrhoea and vomiting virus, my stomach did a somersault and insisted it was going to try and throw up. When we were discussing bacteria passing through hand hygiene, my hands suddenly felt sticky and disease ridden. Luckily my brain was there to keep them all in check and tell them they were being stupid. I'm sure it will rescue the day for this situation as well and argue the logic to my body before it tries to give up on me altogether.

The day comedy caused me to impulse buy into feeling sad.

Every so often I have the urge to let the whole world know that I am witty. Now this urge is fine for the Sarah Millicans and Flight of the Conchords of this world but for the rest of us who are sometimes not able to think of things on request when such an urge comes to us, we turn to the classic 'funny T shirt.'

The funny T shirt has done wonders for the lives of so many. If you can find just the right comic t shirt you can walk down the street proud and with your head held high, knowing that there is nothing you cannot achieve because people are looking at your chest and laughing. (NB: Funny T shirt is integral to this being a good thing, not so good if this happens whilst your wearing a t shirt that simply says Billabong (NB to NB: That was a poor example, Billabong is in fact a very funny word))

When I am finding myself overcome with this particular emotion I tend to turn to one of my favourite websites: David and Goliath. Now for those of you who are already aware of the wonders that are David and Goliath: How funny are they?? For those of you who are unaware of their existence, please check out their website and see full examples of their funnydom.

My one and only problem with going on this website is I simply do not have the money to buy all the T shirts that I like so I have developed a system. One that has proven fool proof until my most recent internet purchase. This system is as follows: I pick the two T shirts that give me the biggest initial laugh.

So when my latest urge came I went to the trusty website and scrolled through their latest comedy gold (have I mentioned that their T shirts are awesome?) The picking was tough and after much laughter and tears I managed to dwindle it down to five. After more tears than laughter as I realistically looked at my bank account, I cut those down to the two that had simply made me almost pee when I had first seen them. The two I picked and consequently bought were the following.





I was stupidly happy with my purchase and while I waited (rather impatiently) for these hilarious T shirts to arrive I had countless moments of daydreaming the happiness I would feel as I walked down the street with my chest out whilst people stared and not in a pervy way.

After two of the longest weeks of my life, the T shirts finally arrived and I have a vivid memory of running down to the post office to collect them. Once I had them, I simply could not wait until I had walked the ten minutes back to my house so I had run into the portable toilets next to Tescos and locked myself into a cubicle to observe my T shirts and make the impossible decision of which one I would choose first. I opened the 'Forbidden love' T shirt first and thought, to save myself the heartache of having to make a choice, I would just throw this one on straight away.

Happy as a clam I walked around. People looked. People laughed. People commented. People thought I was awesome. Life was good.

It wasn't until I got home and opened the second T shirt that I suddenly came face to face with my dilemma.

At first things were fine and I threw my T shirt on and beamed happily as I checked myself out in the mirror.



Though as I read it again, with me wearing it, something didn't seem right.



Then it dawned on me. I wear this, I'm calling myself a hooker.



It was heartbreaking. I really tried to weigh the choices and argue the case of the T shirt. I mean it was so funny. I had truly cried with happiness when I had first read it. If I wore this one around the town, people would have to laugh too.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like. Me walking down the street. A couple walking up to me and clocking the T shirt. The laughter that would undeniably follow once they were close enough to read it. My own feeling of self loathing as I hear the words "What a whore" escape their lips as they walked past.

For about an hour I sat and stared at the T shirt, seriously considering the possibility of giving up my dignity and reputation for the sake of comedy. It was at the point where I found myself wishing that I was an actual whore so I could get away with wearing it when I decided that maybe the T shirt should be removed and safely tucked away in my drawer.

So I took it off. I put it away. But every so often, when I know it's going to be too cold to ever take my jumper off for the whole day, I will put it on. On those days when I know I'm going to hang around in the house and be lazy (like today) I will wear it proudly. But even then, I will catch the comic genius in the mirror and sigh. Alas I will never be able to do it proud. I am FAR too much of a prude.

Living on my own is awesome/pitiful, depending on your outlook on life

I moved into my very own space for the very first time just four months ago. It's a tiny little second floor maisonette with a nice big living room, a bathroom that tries to kill me (a story for another time), a nice big bedroom, a cute little kitchen and loads of storage space.

At first everything was new and exciting and I found myself missing my little home when I wasn't there. Sleeping away from my new bed was physically painful for me. Eating food that I hadn't bought and stored in my own fridge or freezer just tasted wrong. Conversations that didn't involve something to do with my beautiful little flat at some point seemed empty. Yes I was a woman in love and (as has always been the way with me) it was with an inanimate object.

After a couple of weeks the flat attacked me viciously (through the bathroom, I promise one day I will explain) and we fell out temporarily. This was a little inconvenient as due to the attack I was house bound and so couldn't leave it, but you know what they say: keep your enemies closer than your friends or something.

We made up after Christmas when I had to stay away from it for four days. Absence certainly did make my heart grow fonder and all was forgotten by the new year. We went back to being sickenly in love again for another good two months.

We're now at that place in our relationship however where we are comfortable with each other. It doesn't need to hear me compliment it for being awesome all the time anymore and a couple of weeks ago when my arm decided it hated me and stopped working, my flat was lovely and looked after me well.

All of this being said, I feel we reached a new place in our relationship last night. We experienced a moment that I think was truly beautiful but others may think is grounds for me getting a room mate. I had gone into the kitchen to make a hot chocolate and decided to sit on my kitchen counter by my window to drink it. Opposite me was the sink which I soon noticed had not been turned off all the way and as a result every five seconds a drop of water escaped from the faucet.

With the fascination of someone stoned (I wasn't actually mum/dad, don't worry) I sat, my eyes glued to the tap and watched as each drop formed and fell into the sink. It was at this point that I came up with my little game. Could I time my voice to say the word 'drip' at the exact time the water hit the bottom of the sink? The answer is yes, yes I could.

In fact this game was remarkably easier than I had initially thought and once I had got the timing right I was getting it spot on every time. It wasn't until I looked at the clock and realised that I had been playing this game for five minutes solid that I realised for the sake of my sanity I should probably stop and do something society would deem as normal (I went and straightened my hair Society, you can be proud).

I think me and my flat reached a new level of comfortable that night. It didn't laugh at me for playing my little game. In fact I like to think that it was happy with me for noticing the little things it does (like warning me my tap is still slightly on by making a large dripping sound) as well as the big things (like keeping me warm and dry and giving me somewhere to sleep).

I do appreciate that I am already at this level and I am only four months into the solo living experience. At this rate I'll be on the verge of being committed within a couple of years. But think of the fun we'll have as we get there.

I'm a super hero and I never even knew it

For those of you who are friends with me on Facebook you may have noticed a certain status update recently announcing my new and exciting power. I shall now explain the accounts of how I discovered this amazing super power and allow you all to soak in my marvellousness.

The day of discovery
It was a Tuesday, I had just had an incredibly intense day at work. It had been good, but exhausting. I had taken off the 7 inch stiletto's I use at work to give people the illusion that I'm the same height as some of the 'small to average' people that walk around me and had slipped into my 'very old but very comfortable' trainers for the hour and a half journey home.

The first stretch of my journey home is a ten minute walk to get to the bus stop. This I tend to do in a sleepy haze with very little attention made on where I am going. On this particular Tuesday however my sleepy haze lasted only five minutes into the walk as everything changed after that.

Near the bottom of the road I walk down there is a speed limit sign. It's one of those flashing ones that tells the driver as they go by to slow down if they are going too fast. This one is set at 20 miles per hour.

So I'm walking, head down, earphones in and singing 'Papa, can you hear me' Glee version in my head whilst imagining myself on stage with a candle singing it to millions of people. (This is something that would terrify me if it ever happened but in my head, where it's safe, it's pretty cool) Suddenly a flash of yellow and red catches my attention and I look up to see what all the commotion is about. There, about twenty feet away from me is the speed limit sign, announcing that something is going over 20 miles per hour and needs to slow down. It seems a little weird to me so I look in both directions on the road to try and find the speeding vehicle only to discover that the whole street is deserted. This could only mean one thing... That speed sign was for me.

I had a super power. And it's fast.

The reason why you have to believe me, even though it sounds as if there could be another perfectly rational explanation.
Now for all you skeptics out there who are reading this and thinking... oh sweetie, your deluding yourself, the sign was clearly broken. I thought so too at first!! I understand how you could have jumped to that conclusion, it makes a lot of sense. But then a thought came to me, one that I couldn't shake, one that made me realise that having a super power could be the only feasible explanation.

I don't run. I don't even brisk walk. I'm lazy and I'm constantly daydreaming so when I do walk, it will always be at a very leisurely pace. The sign is located outside a hospital in a well built up area. There was no way that Boris Johnson, our wonderful mayor, would even dream of letting a sign stay in operation that is so clearly broken it would pick up me walking. I mean I have a lot more faith in Boris than that. I believe that he's not just a reason for me to have a little giggle at his expense during the local news. I believe that he's not just there to say things that are wildly inappropriate and then spend the next week apologising for them. I believe that he cares. I believe that he would not stand for letting a sign so grossly close to causing an accident stay unfixed. And I know you all do too. I mean after all, it's why we voted for him right? (Vote Boris: I'm not political but I love his face and floppy hair)

So the only other explanation there is is that I was in fact speeding faster than 20 miles per hour. Woah... amazing.

Now how fast I was going I'm not sure. You see I didn't even realise I was doing it at the time so my mind must be just as fast as my legs to take in everything around me at just the same speed as a dawdle. I'm guessing though that it's not that much faster than 20 miles per hour due to the fact that not much time is shaved off my journey. I would predict at this stage that I'm probably averaging at 21-22 mph.

Okay, okay. I know it doesn't seem that impressive next to Clark Kent or that little boy from 'The Incredibles' but I bet I could win a few gold medals at the Olympics with it... (FYI: No need to worry, I would never do that, I appreciate that due to my super abilities I would be at an unfair advantage and it wouldn't be fair for the other runners)

Obviously I haven't got it all worked out yet. I mean, no one else seems to notice that I'm going fast at all which I don't understand. My current theory that I'm working on is that with my semi-super speed I can also alter peoples minds so that it appears as if I am just walking. (I think it's very clever of my subconscious for doing that as a way of protecting my identity. Hoorah to you subconscious.) It would explain why I've never been aware of my super ability until now, my secret identity is so secret not even I knew who it was. Interesting.

I think I've proved my case.

I'm gonna go by the supername of 'Almost-quite-fast-girl-woman.' I think it has a ring to it.