Skip to main content

I hate stickers

I HATE stickers. Sadly, Firstborn and the Small(er) One love them. They love them so much that they will sticker anything. Our house is plastered with stickers. We're knee deep in stickers. Walk across the carpet and you're guaranteed to get at least one stuck between your toes. Sit down and there'll be a sticker somewhere on the sofa. Stickers lurking on lampshades, skirting boards, bedsteads, mirrors, the i-pod. Stickers sneakily stuck on picture frames, toys, books and once, memorably, on the ceiling. But the worst is when the stickers are attached to me.

A few months ago I went in to a fairly important meeting. I had dressed the part, squeezing myself into the black suit that usually hibernates in my wardrobe, a shirt and heels. I think I even brushed my hair that day. All in all, I was feeling pretty damned hot and in a ball-breaking frame of mind. In I went to the meeting and indeed I was sizzling (in the professional sense). The only thing that irked me during the whole thing was the guy sitting opposite who kept staring at my tits. The nerve of this perv, checking out my modest bosoms whilst trying to hammer out a deal. Some men are simply revolting, I thought, stomping away from the meeting. Just can't keep their mind on the job in hand. Neanderthols at the mercy of their urges. Ugh.

It wasn't until I went to the loo an hour or so later that I realised just why this guy had been fascinated by my breasts. Sadly it wasn't due to the hypnotic powers of my pneumatic cleavage (cue sardonic laughter). No. The draw was due to the fact that I had two stickers stuck on my shirt exactly where my nipples would be, like cartoon-emblazoned stripper pasties. The left boob read 'Well done!', the right 'You're great!'. The culprit? Firstborn and her sneaky sleight of hand when giving me a goodbye hug that morning.

I've never lived that one down.

Comments

CDJ said…
That made me laugh out loud. They couldn't just be Dora stickers or something, they had to be inspirational! How very appropriate for a business meeting!

My boy loves the stickers too, but I gave him a notebook to put them in and since I did that, I rarely have to de-stickerfy my furniture anymore. (That and the threat of no more stickers, ever, if you put one more sticker on my coffee table). The stickers between the toes, though, that's still a twice weekly phenomenom!
Kitschen Pink said…
Oh hee hee ha ha ho ho he ho hum hum ha ha hoo hee hee hee hee hee ha ha ho ho! um oh gosh, oh my how awful for you. you poor thing. Serious disciplinary sticker amnesty called for as punishment. he he he he haha - You kno Tesco do these excellent little sticker makers for a few pounds - you can turn anything sticky like magic........... thanks for the giggle! t.x
YLM said…
thanks cdj and kitschen pink (love the image btw). It was a trauma I have yet to recover from...

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…

Champix

Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …