Vital advice, especially if you’re prone to putting things into your bottom.

Advice is easy. Anybody can give it, and there’s no quality control system in place to filter the life-enhancing gems from the plain stupid Captain Obvious stuff. I, for example, have a broad spectrum of advice of varying usefulness on the tip of my tongue should anyone come asking.
Try me, go on.

  • Don’t buy a dress size down with a view to slimming into it, you won’t. Embrace your beautiful outer insulation and just get something in a size that isn’t going to cut off your circulation from the hips down and strip you of your dignity.
  • Don’t rob banks. It increases your chances of multiple unplanned holes in your body, and most banks these days don’t contain any actual money anyway.
  • Don’t give away your virginity too easily. Religious beliefs aside, it’s a rite of passage that deserves thought… cos Lord knows you’ll think back on it in the future. I know someone who lost her virginity in a car park bent over a shopping trolley. That’s a heart-warming tale for the grandchildren.
  • Don’t stick things up your bottom when there is even the slimmest possibility they won’t come out. I have absolutely nothing against folk who want to anally insert items of their choice per se but I’ve worked in a hospital. 9 times out of 10 when you see a small huddle of doctors around an x-ray screen they’re looking at holiday snaps from someone who’s using their rectum as a storage facility.

And so on.

However, I feel for advice to reach it’s maximum usefulness it has to apply to all, and not everyone is going to “slip in the shower and end up with a bottle of “Head & Shoulders” inserted. Mr or Ms Average need to read it, nod, and realise they might just have dodged a bullet for having done so ( which admittedly would apply in the bank robbing example ). I also strongly feel that advice only reaches it’s full potential when it comes from real personal experience… and I’ll leave you to work out which of the above that applies to in my case. No clues.

So what is it that I’m going to share with you in response to today’s Daily Prompt? Well, it’s common sense really. Sadly, however, common sense often flies out of the window on this one… but I think it bears repeating.

Do not, no matter how tempting, get involved with someone who is married to somebody else.

I’ve been there, and the life lesson it taught me was this “You’re great, but you’re just not that great. If he cheated on her to be with you, you can bet your life savings ( literally, in my case ) that he will cheat on you to be with someone else.
I know it’s tempting. Temptation always comes in the most wonderful of lickable packages, but keep your tongue in your mouth… and your mouth only … and you’ll be fine. There are people who cheat, and there are people who don’t. And really, is that all you’re worth?
People fall in love with the wrong people all the time ( Holy cow, I could write a book on that one ), but if you take a step back and garner some perspective you will see it for what it is.

Is their relationship working ?   Yes : Avoid.     No : Proceed to next question.
Are they separating?               No : Avoid       Yes : Proceed to next question.
Are they separated?                No : Avoid       Yes : Proceed to next question.
Are they a huge festering boil of unresolved issues, and prone to unrelentingly talking about their ex?                                        Yes : Avoid      No : Proceed to next question.
Are you just drawn to that which isn’t yours?      Yes : Avoid       No : Proceed to next question.
Wouldn’t life just be easier to find yourself someone who will be yours alone from day 1, because adulterers have a lack of respect that doesn’t change just because you’re a great guy / girl ? Yes : Yes. Proceed with life.       No : No.

It’s not easy. Sometimes life conspires to screw you over like that. But take heart in the fact that every now and then someone will leave a relationship that isn’t working and tie up their loose ends before moving on. Those sort of people won’t leave you behind the local supermarket with your knickers around your ankles, which is always a bonus when relationships are so dreadfully tricky in the first place.


Warning : It’s a teeny bit sweary in parts. Not to be confused with “sweaty in parts”… which hasn’t happened in this case because this post is wearing cotton underwear.

I’ve missed quite a few Topics since I started the Post-A-Day challenge. Some have been because I had nothing to say on the subject ( can you imagine? ), other times I’ve been ill and fobbed you off with a bit of light misdirection so I can get an early night. But one or two I really needed a bit of time to think about.

One such topic was this :
If you had a time machine that only let you spend one hour in a different time, what date would you go to?

There’s a quaint Dutch saying to describe someone who has an almost obsessive attention to detail and absolutely MUST have everything precise or they go doo-lally batshit … and that’s “Antfucker”. My Hubby is an antfucker, and so am I ( when I can be bothered. If that makes sense to you please explain it to me cos it makes no sense whatsoever to be hysterically precise one second and not really give a crap the next ).

So why did this question rub me up the wrong way like a sweaty executive on the London Underground during a summer rush hour?

1) There are two options… forward in time or back. Anyone with a grain of a brain will choose to nip forward, get the lottery numbers, look smug, pop back and wait to be knee deep in huge piles of cash. It’s gotta be done, hasn’t it? As the saying goes “Money doesn’t buy you happiness, but it will bring you a better standard of misery.”
“Ahhhh!” say those people with more conscience than people they’re in debt to, “I wouldn’t do that… I’d go forward in time where they’ve cured cancer / AIDS / lovehandles and then come back with it… thereby saving millions of lives!”
That’s all well and good, and a nice sentiment, but you’re limited by the initial restrictions, namely “only let you spend one hour in a different time”. That’s a pretty narrow timeframe to work with… what hour are you going to choose? Will they have sorted it in a year…. 20 years? 100 years? How far ahead do you go with your one choice? Too soon and you’re buggered. Might as well write down those lottery numbers anyway and try to ignore the mocking glances of your fellow travellers when you return to your own time without the medical knowledge of how to cure chronic hemorrhoids.

How about hedging your bets and flipping forward a thousand years? Surely humans would have got their act together by then? Well, assuming that we survive the next 2 years ( which will pretty much piss off any closet Mayans who will be spending November 2012 maxing out their credit cards without a care in the world ), who’s to say we won’t have killed ourselves by then? We’re not a terribly conscientious race in general and sooner or later the Earth is gonna go “Y’know? I don’t feel like sustaining you anymore. I’m going to evolve chickens into vicious carnivores. You’re *so* screwed…”

Alternatively a huge flaming meteor could hit us, sending us hurling towards the universal equivalent of the corner pocket. The time allowance of one hour on Future Earth becomes pretty immaterial then as you’d only have time to say “Crikey, it got a bit nippy, didn’t it?” 59 minutes later  your fellow time travellers get back a traveller ice lolly with a slightly surprised look on its face.

2) So that leaves back.
Answers on this one are more diverse, you know exactly what time ( down to the minute in some cases ) everything has happened because in some cases you were already there.
But with going back in time you encounter those Sci-Fi favourites causality and accountability, which in a nutshell state “Sure, you may well be knee-deep in shit right now, but convince Mummy Hitler to use better birth control and who’s to say someone worse won’t spring up in the festering void left by the now-not-conceived little Adolf?”

So… to cut a long long story down to…erm… just long, what would I do?

I’d go back to the day my Nan died 5 years ago and thank her for never giving up on me despite my parent’s divorce effectively shattering the family unit. And I’d hold her hand until she passed. Cos lottery wins are lovely, I’ve got nothing whatsoever against being stinking rich, but to be able to be there to repay a debt they never even considered you owed.. that’s beyond price.

Sex, lies, and unusually entertaining train journeys.

There are two schools of thought on the “hour to live” issue, the Hedonist and the Romantic. The romantic would spend that time with their loved ones, the Hedonist in a short sudden orgy of excess.

I once dated a guy whom I’d hoped and suspected was the romantic type and asked him what he’d do if the clock was ticking in the vague hope he would say something along the lines of,
“I’d rush to your side to take one last look into your beautiful eyes, and though I respect your intellect and razor-sharp wit, I’d really love to cop a feel of your frankly magnificent breasts, if that’s ok with you?”
But instead he said, “I’d spend time with the people I like most”, in a suspiciously non-committal way.
Still clinging on for at least a mention I pushed, “But what if you’re more than an hour’s travel away?”
He tossed back “Then it looks like I’d spend the last 60 minutes of my life on a train on the way there masturbating furiously out of sheer frustration.”
Romantic – 0, Hedonist – 1

I’d fall into the Romantic category. I’d want to spend those last moments with those I’d already chosen to spend my life with. That said, I’d like to go with a clear conscience. It’s not as if I leave a huge trail of deceit behind me ( I’ve actually tried it, but I lack the necessary memory to keep track of the lies, and I have very poor fibbing skills) but there are things that I would like to say before my tearful , and slightly panicked I suspect, demise. That’s assuming, of course, that it’s just me going. If it’s the entire planet that’s due to be pushing up the proverbial daisies last-second confessions are pretty much pointless and you might as well skip to the sex and tequila.
This is where Topic 2 comes in, because I think I would need to ‘fess-up to an offshoot of this little-known fact :
“I never truly loved my husband, not even on the day I married him”.
It’s kinda sad really, more so when you find out that I was aware that he didn’t love me either, and that when we used to joke with friends that we only got married for tax reasons it was to hide the fact that we really did only get married for tax reasons.
When it all came to a crashing end I was relieved. I could stop smiling and making “Oh, these sprouts are delicious!” pleasantries with my Mother-In-Law about her Sunday roasts that had the consistency of charcoal-broiled snot. I no longer had to pretend that excessive sweating and poor personal hygiene didn’t make me gag just a little bit. And no, he wasn’t funny, and yes, I had noticed.

My deathbed secret is this:
“When I found out about his affair I didn’t actually care.”
Sure, I cried a bit, but mostly I was just monumentally pissed off that he’d been dipping his noodle for months and ALL our friends knew and they all covered for him.
So, I admit it, I milked it for the sympathy. Yeah, I genuinely felt crappy, just not for the reason that everyone thinks I did. Serves me right for marrying him, though I suspect I probably wouldn’t have fared any better with Mr Intercity Impromptu Hand Job or any of the other staggeringly bad relationship choices I’ve made in the past.

Luckily I’ve now found that Holy Grail of Couples… The Good Man. And I make sure I’m wearing my best undies and he’s never more than 10 minutes travel away, just in case.