Embarrassing Photo Tag

As often is the case, I got chatting to one of my blog buddies in the comments section of my previous post and we came up with a potentially terrible/brilliant idea! Ritu (from the wonderful But I Smile Anyway) and I decided that it would be just a fabulous idea for us all to share some photos from our teenage/awkward years so we can all laugh at with each other.
The plan is this:

-I’m going to heroically share some of my awkward pictures with you all. I’ve had a difficult time finding pictures since I’m about three hundred kilometres from my childhood home and my carrier pigeon is currently on strike (damn unions) but I was able to dig up some pretty cringe-inducing pictures.

-I’m going to tag three people to continue this trend. Of course, participation is completely optional and I’ll only silently be disappointed if you don’t partake. *sobs in the shower*

-I’m going to text a donation to an Irish charity since I figure something good should come out of all of this (you know, besides our collective shame).

So here goes:
I apologise in advance for the quality of the pictures. But hey, nobody’s perfect…except for the wrestler, Mr. Perfect.

Here is my class picture from primary school. I was either 12 or 13 here, I can’t remember. You can tell I was totally cool and ghetto because I’m wearing a wooly pink jumper that says ‘New York’ and my arm is looped through my friends arm in a show of non-conformist unity. I also had yet to be introduced to a hair straightener. Or a hair brush. #swag


This next picture is from a phase I like to call “black eyeliner? That is sooo passé. Gold all the way cause I’m a baller.” I also had trouble taking a good picture….


….glad that phase has passed:


Moving swiftly on…
This photo was taken on one of my first nights in a pub. You can tell I’m cool cause I’m holding some alco-pop and revelling in my adultivity. The style I was going for was “maternity-wear/bad tan/ghetto hoop earrings” and I think I totally nailed it. Just look at the fake tan between my fingers. Like, ew.


The next picture is very blurry, but I’m sixteen years old and basically….Jack and I were the ’03 Bonnie and Clyde. Pfft, Jay Z and Beyonce. Look at us, how much attitude can one photo have? (This is also the first in a long line of photos that show me sans eyebrows since I got a little pluck-happy with my tweezers. What do eyebrows even do anyway?) I also bleached the crap out of my hair so I had to cut it because I looked like a scarecrow.




Seriously, NO EYEBROWS.

After a few years of looking like this:

Sweet Dreams.

…I decided that something, nay, ANYTHING, needed to be done…so I drew on some super black eyebrows which really complimented my bleached-to-f**k hair:

Note: Jack is going to kill me for this but like I tell him, spider hair is cool, right? RIGHT?
Here I am recently, totally throwing shade at teenage Jane:


Then I cut my own fringe and made this face:


I legit went out with underwear on my head and a whistle and for the life of me, I can’t recall why…other than suspected acid trip.*


Then there was the time Jack sat on me and I was the definition of crestfallen:


And that’s pretty much all I could find. I mean, there are lots of embarrassing ones of my right now but you guys don’t want to see those….amiright?! *laughs awkwardly*

So now I’m going to tag three people to continue this trend of awkward photo sharing. Ladies, you do not have to take part but hey, we’re all friends here! You may have even done something like this before. So without further ado, I nominate:

Ritu from But I Smile Anyway since this was your idea and you’re totally up for it!

Amanda from insidethelifeofmoi because rainbow eyeshadow. Nuff said.

Julie from Random Musings From a Type-A Workaholic because you’re bags of fun!

Also, I donated €4 to Dogs Trust because…well, dogs!


*Just kidding kids. Just say no…there’s no hope with dope…and so forth.

My Awkward Moment of the Day

Even though my entire life is an exercise in awkwardness and social discomfort, there is a silver lining. Whenever I find myself thrust (sometimes literally…) into the middle of an embarrassing scenario, I think to myself “I can’t wait to blog about this.” So, you see, it’s not all bad.

Today I decided that I wanted, nay NEEDED, croissants in my life. Possibly chocolate filled, my inner fat kid mused…fattily. So I decided to drive (my inner fat kid doesn’t like when I walk) to the local shop. Since it’s a five minute drive through multiple speed bumps, I decided against wearing my seatbelt. I also wanted to air-guitar/air-drum my way through “In Bloom” by Nirvana and my seat belt restricts my mojo slightly. Okay, that’s stupid. You should ALWAYS wear a seatbelt. ALWAYS. And I always* do. Except today.

I drive to the shop. I buy croissants (not chocolate-filled, because diabetes) and I drive home, again sans seatbelt. My iPod is on shuffle. I’ve got pastry. Life is good….

If you’re offended by this, sorry. I’ll go pose with a leprechaun or something.

…Until I notice a Garda checkpoint directly in front of my house. For my dear foreign friends, a Garda checkpoint is basically a police blockade where they check things like tax, insurance, licence, NCT (the Irish equivalent of the MOT, basically that your car has been certified road-safe) and of course, that you are wearing your seat belt. It is enough to strike fear into any person’s heart, never mind a person who is eating a croissant, air-keyboarding (to The Doors, FYI) and definitely not wearing a seatbelt. Needless to say I panic slightly.

The male Garda** motions for me to stop. I’m in a state of panic. I have to indicate, I have to change gears, I have to roll down the window, I have to reach for my licence but most of all, I have to try to smoothly and subtly put on my seatbelt without him noticing, which is pretty much impossible since he has been maintaining ice-cold eye contact with me the entire time.


Now I want you to picture this, reader. I want you to visualise this scenario because I promise you, you will have all the LOLs. And I won’t ever say that again.

I nervously pull over. I have four croissants on my lap (don’t be silly, there’ll not all for me. Jack will have one). One is in my mouth and I’m chewing furiously, frowning at the flaky pastry stuck to my chest. Dignity? Nope, never heard of it. I’m trying to veeerrrrry slowly put on my seatbelt while also reaching for my licence. I’m also rolling down the window. My iPod is still blaring out songs on shuffle, but I don’t think to turn the dial down, and also, I’m not an octopus (…yet, it depends how the surgery goes).

Are you with me, reader? Are you picturing all of this? A panicked girl with a seatbelt half on, half off, covered in pastry being approached by a very stern looking man? Okay, good.

Just as the guard gets to my window,
I’m about to explain that I only travelled to the local shop and that I’m sorry and he’s probably about to ask my for my licence. It could of all been very simple. A deserved slap on the wrist for me, a pretty forgettable encounter for him. But no. My life is never that simple.

Before either of us could utter a word, my iPod shuffle decides “hey, you know what would be hilarious? To play the most awkward and inappropriate song at the exact moment that you don’t want to hear it. Har hat har. I may be a robot but I’m hilarious.”

So just as both of us are about to speak, this song plays. I want you to picture the scenario. An already awkward encounter between two strangers, and before anyone speaks, this. Blaring through my stereo.



I’m not sure if the thumbnail of this song is appearing or not but I think it’s more hilarious if it doesn’t. So, surprise!

There’s a moment where I have no reaction, but to just freeze. As the iconic intro begins, we both turn to each other and make the most awkward eye contact ever. Garda’s mouth twitches slightly. He’s going to laugh. He clears his throat.
I reach for the dial and manage to turn the song down just before the titular line is sung and I actually die of awkwardness.

“Am, you’re grand. You’re grand. Drive on there.” He motions me forward. I understand, Garda. Any extension of this encounter may result in us both dying from awkwardness. I complete the fifteen second drive to my door where I decide that this is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. Ever.

*I may need to revise the definition of the word “always”
**Member of the Irish police force, An Garda Síochána

Awkward, awkward, awkward

I’m standing in the doctor’s reception area, awkwardly waiting for her secretary to get off the phone and acknowledge my presence. A waiting room full of people leaf through outdated magazines. The television is tiny but I can make out what appears to be females playing golf. An elderly man is coughing aggressively and no one seems to notice.

Eventually the secretary looks up from behind her bifocals.
“Oh, hi. I have an appointment.”
“Jane, is it?” She asks this almost disapprovingly. Well, maybe I don’t like your name, Julia…Who am I kidding? That’s a magical name. Dammit.
I nod.
“Okay, since this is your first time here, I need some information. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty seven.”
“Oh, you don’t look twenty seven. You look a lot younger.” Judging by her tone, I don’t think this was meant as a compliment. “Sure she doesn’t look twenty seven, does she, Roger?” She leans out through her little window and gestures at who I can only assume to be Roger, the coughing man. He waves a dismissive hand, and continues coughing into his handkerchief.
“And you’ve got a bit of an accent there, where are you from?”
“Um, Cork.”
“What brought you up here then?”
Suddenly, I’m aware of the entirety of the waiting room staring at me, their suspicious eyes fixed on my face. I’m not one of them.
“A job. At the school. I’m a teacher.” I smile weakly at the receptionist, who shrugs.
“It’s not often we get people moving to the area.”
“No we don’t.” A voice perks up from the waiting room, but when I turn around, it’s not obvious to me who said it.
“Just take a seat and the doctor will see you shortly.”
I walk across what seems like an eternal space, a dozen pairs of eyes stuck to me. When I sit down, they continue to stare.

“Oh, sorry-” the receptionist calls from her office. “-I forgot to ask you what you’re in for?” Er, what?! I’m hardly going to announce it across a crowded waiting room, am I? Of course, she thinks that I am. She raises her eyebrows as if to say “well?” and I just mumble “just a general checkup” although that’s partially a lie, and I’m sorry ms. Receptionist, but I must begin our relationship on a foundation of lies to preserve my dignity. She faintly narrows her eyes at me, and retreats to her office.
I regret the fact that I didn’t say “I’m coming down from a massive LSD trip” almost instantly.

By now, interest in me has waned slightly, although I still spy people intermittently glancing up from their magazines and fixing me with a curious gaze. As I pretend to flip through Hello magazine, I feel what I can only describe as a malignant and oppressive presence in the room. I look from adult to adult, attempting to find the source of my fears, when I my gaze finally meets that of a…child. Yes, a child. He is sitting on the floor, staring at me. When our eyes meet, he narrows them and purses his lips. Picture this, but scarier:


Feeling uncomfortable, I smile at him.
He narrows his eyes even further. I look away and focus intently on a picture of Kate Middleton. I look up. He’s still staring. I’m staring to get legitimately paranoid that I’m going to burst into flames. Suddenly, another child appears at my side. Thankfully, she is smiling at me and appears less homicidal.
“You look like her.” She points at the magazine and I smile.
“Thank you,” I reply, looking fondly at the sophisticated and elegant Kate Middleton. I see the people next to me edge toward the page to get a better look and no doubt make unfavourable comparisons.
“No, silly, not her. Her.
She points towards a picture of Katy Perry. I would like to point out that this is not the most classy or sophisticated picture of Katy Perry: there is quite an amount of cleavage on show and she has more makeup on her face than Mac do in an entire warehouse. Again, I see all the eyes around me glance at the picture. Is it me or are some trying to stifle laughter?
“Oh, um…thanks.”
I adjust my top. Is it low cut? Should I have worn a polo neck? Crap. I automatically rub my hand against my cheek. Perhaps in my attempt to appear perfectly healthy and not be told that I am in fact, terminally ill, I may have gone a little OTT on the makeup. Double crap.

Too much?

I notice the first kid, who we’ll call…maybe, Damien (for no reason…ahem) still staring at me. Is it my imagination or is he sticking pins into a small doll that looks suspiciously similar to me and Katy Perry? Probably my imagination.

After some time, I look up to see the most awkward of all my waiting room companions: a student of mine. We glance at each other, exchange a tiny, awkward smile, and remain silent. Her mother is talking to the receptionist. Loudly.

“She only needs a very brief checkup, Julia. She just needs a prescription for her pill.”

Oh dear God.

Kate Middleton’s emerald coat has never looked so interesting. I’m pretty sure my student’s face is currently heating the entire room. Of course, this shouldn’t be embarrassing for either of us. But the extent of our conversation usually revolves around circumnavigation and jousting.

Jousting FTW!

When I am eventually called in, I breathe a sigh of relief. Surely, from here on in, it can only get better right? You would think so, wouldn’t you?

I have to say, the doctor is amazing. She’s the type of lady that puts you at ease right away. We talk about my epilepsy for about half an hour. We chat about the education system and play backgammon. Okay, we don’t play backgammon (what’s backgammon?).
She gives me a pelvic examination and we talk about my symptoms (pelvic pain and back ache). She asks the routine questions re my sexual activity and menstrual cycle. For anyone feeling very uncomfortable, here’s a puppy:


The questions would probably make some people blush.
Are you sexually active?
When was the last time you had sex?
Do you use protection?
Do you plan on conceiving?
What are your periods like?
What are your bowel movements like?
Did you, at any time, own a Taylor Swift album?*
Etc, etc.
(These questions were all relevant to my particular malady.)
I answer all of these questions in a mature and detailed manner. My mother is a nurse and I’m used to be being very frank about my body. Hey, we’re all adults here.

Although, aside: this is the last text my mother sent me before I went in:

Stay classy, Mother.

And then I notice I left the door open. The door which leads to a waiting room full of people. A waiting room where one of my students is currently sitting, no doubt furiously writing everything down. I said the word vagina. I talked about S.E.X.

(Oh no.)


I wonder why Julia didn’t close the door. Then I noticed Julia on the phone, which is probably what she has being doing for the entirety of my conversation with the doctor. The other patients are doing a stellar job of pretending that they heard nothing, including my student, whose face is the colour of pickled beets. She is transfixed on the same picture of Kate Middleton that I previously had been.
There’s an old man looking at me with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. If there was ever a time that I wanted a streaker to break into the room, it was now.

There and then, I made the decision to stop going to the doctor. I don’t care if I break my leg at home, I will just pull a Bear Grylls on it and drink my own urine to survive (that would probably be unnecessary in that particular situation, but still…) or a MacGyver, and fashion a leg splint out of chopsticks and kitchen utensils.
Because, dignity.


Have you an embarrassing doctor story? Please share so we can cry and eat consolation pizza.

*I may have imagined this question

How to Escape Awkward Social Situations

We’ve all been there. You’re at a party. You get stuck talking to some dude or chick that you really don’t want to be with. It’s awkward, it’s unpleasant, it’s a seemingly never-ending encounter.

No more, my friend, no more.

Myself and Opinionated Duck were chatting away under one of my very mature posts about farting when suddenly we started talking about awkward social encounters, and we came up with some simple phrases to rid yourself of awkward company post-haste.

So without further ado:

June 19, 2014 at 8:06 pm Edit

“I’m sorry, I just remembered I have to go over there.”

June 19, 2014 at 8:09 pm Edit

“Is that seat empty?”

“Mine will be if you sit down.”

June 19, 2014 at 8:10 pm Edit

“Sometimes I form weird and inappropriate attachments to people I’ve just met.”

June 19, 2014 at 8:12 pm Edit

“I’m a female impersonator, what do you do?”

June 19, 2014 at 8:14 pm Edit

“A surprising amount of my roommates go missing.”

June 19, 2014 at 8:23 pm Edit

“Go on, ask me out.”

“Okay, get out.”

June 19, 2014 at 8:24 pm Edit

“I got you more wine. And I dropped a little surprise into it. Go on, guess what it is.”

June 19, 2014 at 8:27 pm Edit

“This is my house. Feel free to explore. Just, don’t, um, check under the bed…

June 19, 2014 at 8:29 pm Edit

“Doctors throw around a lot of words about my disease. Contagious, infectious, life-threatening…but I feel fine.”

And now some more, from me to you.

“They say ankle bracelets are hard to get off, but mine came off pretty easily.”

“That’s funny, my Mom said the exact same thing last night when she was bathing me.”

“Right now, I’m working on a campaign to have cat dressage recognised as an Olympic sport.”

“Well my civilian name is Jane, but I’d prefer if you call me ‘The Goblin'”.

“I just don’t get it. How can a man also be a bat?”

“You know, they say potatoes can’t feel anything, but you look them in the eye and say that.”

“Right now, I’m working on a novel about a serial killer that was never caught. Or as I like to call it, my autobiography.”

So now, you are equipped to escape any awkward social situation. Or get arrested. Whatever.


Weird Search Terms

Ding ding, we have a winner! The weirdest search engine phrase that has ever been used to find my blog is in and it’s a beauty:

How do I stop farting on Heinz Baked Beans?

I really hope this person found the answer to their frankly bewildering question when they visited my blog. If they did not, I will now answer this question as best I can. Firstly, perhaps you should stop farting on the beans and direct your blusters else where. Also, are you farting on the beans and then eating them? Because if so, ew that’s disgusting, and secondly, maybe the beans have something to do with your excessive flatulence?

I hope I have helped you in your search for an answer to this…problem, oh weird weird stranger of the internet.

Alcohol and medication are a dangerous mix

Man, my blog has been kinda depressing lately. You guys can’t see my jazz hands right now…(and if you can, get out of my garden)

…so I will have to tell you guys a funny/embarrassing story to make up for all my gloom lately. And also, in the words of Homer Simpson:


For those of you who didn’t read yesterday’s post (you better have a note from a parent/guardian), I am back on my meds for epilepsy. I’m okay with this now, but the first time I was put on my meds, I was much less accepting. I was in college, where the extent of my responsibility was remembering to change the batteries in the remote control (seriously, that was my designated household job).

My life consisted of trying to convince myself to go to lectures, and drinking. My friends and I had an excuse for everyday of the week: There was Monday Club, Let’s Get Tanked Tuesday, W**kered Wednesday, Let’s Get Tanked…Again Thursday, F*ck It, Let’s Do It Again Friday, and then somehow I managed a part time job at the weekend.

When I was diagnosed with temporal lobe epilepsy (surprisingly not connected with my drinking), it was a massive inconvenience. I knew the partying would have to stop. I knew it, but it took a while to accept it.

It was the first month of me taking my meds and it happened to be the biggest and most drunken week of the year: RAG Week. In Irish universities, this is basically one crazy week of doing nothing but partying. Or, you know, another week in the life of a college student. Anyway, my friends were all attending a really cool party in a new club in the city, and I really wanted to go. If it was now, I would just go sober (I have realised that you can have lots of fun sober, namely insulting the crap out of people you don’t like without them noticing) but it was back when I was an immature party-obsessed lunatic. Glad that’s changed *awkward silence*

Anyway, I wasn’t sure if I could drink or not. My medication made me quite drowsy and I was imagining myself curled into a ball in some dark corner of a dingy club. So I did the incredibly mature thing and I rang my consultant neurologist. The conversation went something like this.

Me: Hi Mr. —, I’m just wondering if I can drink whilst on my meds.
Consultant: Well, a glass or two of wine wouldn’t do any harm, but-
Me: Excellent. Thanks!
Consultant: But Jane-

And of course, that was my cue to excitedly hang up and break out the peach schnapps.


As we all excitedly got ready together,
knocking back shots of Mickey Finns, I didn’t feel much different to how I normally felt while drinking. Terrible balance and coordination? Check. Urge to sing karaoke? Check? Desire to tell everyone how I want to have a wolf pack? Check.

But after about an hour…that all changed. At first, I started to feel giddy. All of a sudden, everything was HILARIOUS. The pattern on my carpet, my best friend’s face, the word Rioja (okay, that’s legit funny).
By the time we got to our first pub, I was hyper. I mean, really really hyper.
I mean Ric Flair hyper


All I wanted to do was dance. And not normal dance. Crazy dance. Robot, karate-Macarena (it’s a thing I invented) and garden sprinkler; they were all there. Here is basically my dancing face, except slightly less Asian:


If you knew me in person, you’d know that none of this is particularly unusual for me when I’ve had a few drinks. But that wasn’t all that happened. Then I got really weird. Somehow, someway, I was convinced that the bouncer was my father. I was actually convinced that my dad was somehow moonlighting as club security. Imagine the bouncer’s surprise when I came bounding over for a hug. My friends tell me that I screeched “Daaaaaaad!” as I skipped towards him, but I’d like to forget that ever happened. What happened next is a little foggy, but I do remember telling him that I wouldn’t tell Mam, and that if he needed any help with rowdy clubbers, I had his back. I’ve always imagined some bewildered bouncer out there believes he has a long lost drunken daughter out there somewhere.

Next, I got the idea in to my head that all my friends, and the new friends we’d acquired that night, were all deserving of pizza or “pizza love” as I called it. So I silently took off to the pizzeria across the road and somehow managed to order three giant pepperoni pizzas. I brought them back through the back door of the club. I imagine me coming back to my friends like this:


The madness doesn’t end there. I had made BFFs with a gay guy, and we decided it would just be hilarious to swap clothes. So he’s now wearing my short shorts and blouse and I’m wearing his over-sized David Hasselhoff tshirt and beanie hat. I really want to believe that there was surfer shorts, and to save my own embarrassment, let’s say there was.

Just to paint the scene for you, I arrived home to Jack that night (who had to study for an exam) in a trolley, wearing boy’s clothes. I may or may not have been holding a pizza box and been almost violently possessive over it.


There is more to the saga of my fuzzy night, but for the sake of my dignity…oh who am I kidding? That’s long gone. Okay, for the sake of brevity, I’m going to stop now.

It’s funny how times change. Tonight, I’m watching a Neil deGrasse Tyson lecture while playing patty cake with my cat. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up. But if anyone ever wants to go on a pizza/tequila/trolley binge, I’m always game.

How a skirt ruined my day

Today, I really considered wearing a snuggie to school.
Mostly because I was cold and cranky but also because I forgot to do my washing and all I had left in my school wardrobe was what I call my mermaid skirt. My mermaid skirt is a knee length black skirt that is verrrry tight around my legs. When I walk whilst wearing it, I shuffle like a self conscious mermaid, hence the name “mermaid skirt”.

Given the fact the wearing a snuggie would prompt my students to assume I’ve had a nervous breakdown (which I’m sure won’t happen for at least five years), I had to go with my mermaid skirt.


Firstly, I have to climb a flight of stairs to reach my staff room. Now, I once descended a mountain with a broken ankle, but this was a challenge.

Little did I know that the stairs would be the least of my problems.

At break, a football came towards me as I was doing yard duty. The students called towards me to kick it back.

“Go on miss!” the boys called in unison, as I realised that I could not actually extend my leg enough to kick the ball. Nor could I bend down to pick it up and throw it.

“Er, get it yourself lads,” I mumbled as I shimmied away.

Later in class, I had a similar conundrum. I dropped my whiteboard marker as I was explaining poetic devices. I do this often, and usually I bend down, pick it up and move on. Today, I just stared at it. When telekinesis didn’t work, I mumbled to a student up at the top of my class to pick it up for me. It was literally a foot away from where I stood.

After that class, I noticed a student skipping class in the hall. I was about twenty metres away from him.

“Hey! What are you doing?” The student froze on the spot. I took tiny, tiny steps towards him for what seemed like an eternity, all the time trying to maintain my I’m really mad at you, fear my wrath face. When I finally reached him about five minutes later, I forgot what I was going to say so I just sent him to class.

My skirt woes did not end there. I had a lot of copy books to bring to my car and one of the other teachers offered to carry them for me. As he helpfully loaded them into my car, we chit chatted about the day. As I opened the front door of my car, I realised that I could not get it without actually flopping in (like how I imagine a penguin jumps into water). So I just hung there, waiting for him to stop talking. And I waited. And waited. And then finally, he left.

As I launched my ass (literally) into my car and tried not to break my own ribs, I vowed to never, ever wear this skirt again. EVER. If I was Taylor Swift, I would be penning angry skirt breakup songs. Tomorrow, I’m going with the snuggie.


13 awkward moments when…

Just to make you squirm, here are some of the most common awkward situations I think we’ve all experienced:

1. Being in an elevator/lift with a bunch of strangers

Picture from igoristic.com

The silence. The close proximity to strangers. The avoidance of eye contact. Awkward level=Woody Allen.

2. Meeting a friend and they run into a friend of theirs that you don’t know

Picture from themetapicture.com

Do I leave? Why am I just standing here smiling like an idiot? Why haven’t they introduced us yet? Aaaaargh

3. Meeting someone that you haven’t spoken to in years and having nothing to say

“So, erm, that Kanye West is an awful eejit, isn’t he?”

*Interminable silence… A wolf howls*

“Well, nice talkin to ya!”

Picture from http://s284.photobucket.com

4. Someone says “hello” just as you answer “fine”

Oh, the humanity

5. Someone is waving like crazy at you so you awkwardly wave back. You then realise they are actually waving at someone else.

Picture from memeblender.com

6. “Do you like *insert obscure band name*?”
“Erm, yeah, they’re great…”
“What’s your favourite song by them?”

7. When someone gets your name wrong and you leave it too long to correct them.
It’s not so bad… Ted sounds a lot like Ryan. Ahem.

Picture from sodahead.com

8. When a plane lands and people clap. It makes me all kinds of awkwards. Am I alone here?

Picture from quoteswaves.com

9. When someone says something and you haven’t heard them by the fifth time so just pretend to have heard it… and give the totally incorrect reaction

“I said *says something incoherent”
“Oh, that’s great!”
“It’s great that my cat has piles?!”

10. When someone makes you retell a joke that *they* found hilarious but everyone else just gives you limp, pity laugh

Picture from 4tnz.com

11. When you go to greet someone and aren’t sure whether to do a handshake, hug or cheek-kiss so you just stand there and give an awkward, stupid wave.

Picture from funnyjunk.com

12. When you’re watching a film with your parents and a sex scene comes on
I’m 26 and still can’t handle this. I fall into a vortex of shame and awkwardness.

Picture from quickmeme.com

13. When people sing happy birthday to you

Picture from memeblender.com

Farting in front of your partner… deal breaker?

Yes, I’m a grown-up and I’m writing a blog entry about farting. Well, to be more specific, farting in front of your significant other. But before you decide that this is too immature even for an Adam Sandler film, just bear with me.

Recently, a friend of mine got engaged to her boyfriend of three years. When we went out for celebratory drinks, she motioned for me to come closer. She drunkenly whispered in my ear “I farted in front of my fiancé for the first time today.” I was completely astounded. How in the blue blazes did they get to engagement stage without overcoming this vital stage in a relationship? Oh, so you don’t think it’s important? Okay. Imagine you’re in a room full of ten people. Now ask yourself “what’s the most embarrassing thing that could happen to me in their company?” Behind crapping your pants (sorry), projectile vomiting or everyone finding your Barry Manilow CD collection, farting probably ranks pretty high. Because it’s still taboo. Even though EVERYONE does it, we still find it embarrassing. So when you’re in a relationship, the first fart is one of those milestones you inevitably will face. Little did I know; what I began, my boyfriend won’t cease.

He’s going to kill me for this. Not literally kill me, of course. But he will yell at me like I just trampled his “Murder, She Wrote” DVD collection in six inch stilettos. The way I look at it though, if he doesn’t want me writing about his farting then why does he take such pleasure in it? Why? I’m asking you, universe!
I’m going to get this out of the way good and early because I’m not a hypocrite. I fart. The girls are nodding in solidarity. The men are shaking their heads and closing their eyes slowly in sheer disbelief. A girl… farting. It’s just… it’s not right guys, is it? Except that yes, it actually is. Firstly, I assure you that we’re anatomically and biologically quite similar to you (minus the genitals of course). Girls’ insides are not composed of Care Bears and rainbows, but gas producing organs just like you guys! The HORROR! So yes, occasionally, I fart. As does everyone else. Next time you get stuck talking to some sanctimonious snob at a dinner party, think to yourself: ‘he/she farts.’ Nothing will make them more human.

Anyway, the start of a relationship is fraught with nerves. “Will he think it’s cute or insanely weird that I still have teddy bears?” “When will it be acceptable to actually finish a giant steak in front of him?” “Will he break up with me when he sees how Norman Bates I get during my period?” Etc etc. The worst of these, and I’m sure many of you will agree, is the first fart. I assume since my boyfriend is attracted to women, he is attracted to femininity. I don’t really believe in gender roles. I think guys/girls should be able to do what the hell they want without worrying about being labeled as “blokey” if you’re a girl or “sissy” if you’re a boy but that’s for another day.
The thing is though that when you’re with someone, and especially at first, you do what you can to keep their attraction to you alive. Farting in front of your boyfriend is probably not top of most women’s list of seduction tips. But I knew it had to happen at some stage. I was tired of leaving the room. I was sick of holding it in. So one day I tried to do the mature thing and I brought it up.
‘I think we should talk about farting. I fart. You fart. We need to just get that out there and be comfortable about it.’ He clearly wasn’t ready yet. His response? ‘I don’t fart.’ Of course, I knew this was a lie. It turned out actually to be on a par with “I did not have sexual intercourse with that woman.” But because he seemed genuinely embarrassed, I left him alone. That didn’t stop me from breaking the ice (and some wind, hey-oh!!). I started farting in front of him. Not a lot, mind you. Now I know you’ll just think I’m trying to regain some of the dignity that I have inevitably lost in this piece, but I don’t fart that much. To be fair, my only comparison is Jack and I’m sure he’s broken world records at this stage. But it was enough of an amount to relieve me of any embarrassment. I soon got used to it. His reaction? He found it mildly amusing and profoundly disturbing. But whatever.

So, one day we’re in my Dad’s house cleaning out my closet (in a literal sense, not a metaphorical Eminem sense) and PARP (I will kindly take onomatopoeic suggestions) he let one rip! Now, instead of owning up he tried to pass it off as the floorboards creaking but I could tell by the mildly relieved look on his face that he had cut the cheese. And that was it. His first fart. It was beautiful in a way. But what was to follow, I just had no way of preparing for it. I knew that he was now okay to fart in front of me and I imagined it would be a still fairly rare occurrence. Sweet Heinz Baked Beans, was I wrong. The last nine years have been a symphony of blusters and smells so otherworldly that Heston Blumenthal will probably be in touch any day to fashion some kind of edible slurry pit from them. The aim of this is not to embarrass him (and if it is, does that make me bad?) but simply to wonder why the hell men love farting so much? I mean, I created a monster. He went from shy and unassuming to downright aggressive with his farting. I have been shushed in mid-sentence because “THIS IS GOING TO BE A GOOD ONE!” I have been subjected to countless guerrilla Dutch Ovens. He has tried to fart on my head. He farts down the phone. He wafts them towards me in the car and holds the electric window button so I can’t be relived of the hideous odour. Maybe it’s punishment for my naivety in assuming that farting in front of each other could bring us closer together. Instead, when I’m out grocery shopping, I actively avoid beetroot. He eats it on purpose. We’re still together. That’s love.

*picture from fart-sounds.net