Do Women think with their Vaginas?

Do Women Think with their Vaginas?

So my question for Thursday morning: If men think with their members (does that word make you go ewwww….?) do women think with their vaginas? And if so, what implications does that have for world peace?

Yeah, maybe no more coffee for me this morning…..

I’m in a questioning kind of mood, so let me throw a few more curve balls at you:

What would you do if it was your last day on earth? And, if your life depended on it, which Spice Girl would you shag? IF YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT???

The Spice Girl question inevitably came up on Monday morning, following the Olympic closing ceremony (well, what else were you thinking when you watched Victoria in that taxi?). It was a mixed consensus in the office, with most opting for Geri. I picked Sporty: “No kidding Sarah. I could never have guessed that. You’d need mirrors on the ceiling for comparing each other’s biceps”. Although Mel B might be more fun. Definitely not Victoria. We decided the risk of snapping her – and lawsuit that would follow – just wouldn’t be worth it.

I have also asked the last day on earth question to several people. I was originally working on the theory that whatever your answer would be is in actual fact what you should be doing with your life, until I did a survey and was forced to conclude…. nah, maybe not. I was basing this supposition on my own answer: do body attack and have a shower. Honestly. I love body attack and my favourite thing to do (apart from eating and talking of course) is to take a shower. Just call me Super Clean Sarah. Anyway, the answers I received have included ‘go to the pub with my Dad’, ‘spend the day with my wife and children’ (yawn) and ‘get all the fittest women in the world, line them up, and then shag them all’.

I think the latter answer is my favourite. Surely the most honest at any rate.

So today is my last day at work before I go on holiday to Hull. Hull, America that is, not the teen pregnancy capital of the UK. I was packing last night and my sister came in just as I was opening my new swimsuits I had ordered from Topshop. Lesson One: when picking swimwear, NEVER ORDER ONLINE – SNOW LEOPARD PRINT BIKINIS MAY NOT LOOK AS GOOD IN REAL LIFE. So when she saw said leopard print bikini: ‘Oh my god Sarah, the eyes are exactly where your nipples are!! I am not sitting next to you on the beach wearing that’. I then had to reveal that I had, in fact, ordered the same bikini – but this time as a tiger print. At that point she totally freaked out. ‘What is wrong with you? You can shop in stores other than Topshop. That's the worst bikini I've ever seen. Why would you order two of them?!!’ Unfortunately, given that in less than 24 hours I will be on a Boston bound plane, it is far too late to think about returning them. I will be wearing tiger eyes on my breasts for the next 2 weeks and I refuse to be ashamed.

I’m starting my own mini revolution on the beach. I feel not unlike Rosa Parks.

On a separate note, I have decided that I am, in fact, more Roseanne Barr than Carrie Bradshaw. Following MarcoPierreWhite-gate (don’t ask), I ended up staying in with my sister, drinking beer in my pyjamas and watching Seinfeld. This may sound sad to you, but in fact was a fairly brilliant Friday night in. So, I have to conclude that whilst I like to think I am a vodka martini with a twist, I am in fact a six pack of Kronenbourg on sale for £4.99.

Whoop whoop.

So the Virgin Gay has been having a bit of trouble recently with the whole gay dating thing. He had a disastrous date last week with an Art Curator Vegan. He's the Rugby Playing Sonnova-Butcher. There's a match made in heaven. (That's not a new insult BTW - is Dad really is a butcher). Then the week before he was having a lovely date with a guy who then asked his friends, when he went to the bar, "Do you have any drugs? It's doesn't have to be ketamine. Heroin would do." Who said Cinderella can't go to the ball?

Overheard at the BBC

DIRECTOR: I like to think of actors as a pack of cards. You might be giving me an Ace but I’m asking for a King. So right now you’re a seven. Can you give me a nine?

Hands up who'd be an actor....

The World's Worst Dancer

The World’s Worst Dancer

So, turns out it’s actually quite difficult to be a personal trainer, who knew? Well, all the personal trainers in the world, obviously, but quite frankly this course has been a bit of a shock. I consider myself to be a young(ish) lady of reasonable intelligence  - let’s not forget I won the English prize for form D in year 8, pipping 31 other people to the post – but the sheer volume of learning involved: different muscle types, insertion and origin points, what bone is attached to what muscle… has quite frankly rendered me in tears of despair. I thought you just had to look good and say in a positive tone of voice ‘come on, four more’ when it looked like someone was going to give up? No? Well, someone mis-sold me on this one. And quite frankly I’m blaming Billy Blanks (Tae Bo anyone?)

I had a training day on Saturday for taking physical measurements, with this guy who can best be described as the Gil Grissom of personal training. You know how Grissom always links everything back to the evidence? Well this guy just kept telling us to link everything back to the ‘data’. I never knew that personal training was so scientific, I feel like I’m doing some kind of advanced anatomy/ physics degree. On the plus side he measured my body fat and told me I had 0% body fat on my stomach (thank you CX WORX). On the down side he asked me how old I was and then said ‘so Sarah’s doing pretty well for her age’. Cue 21 year old students looking smug.

‘Sarah’s doing pretty well for her age’. Right.  So I’m not 109, I’m 31… As I said before, I think this still pretty young, no? As my friend told me at the weekend, ‘Men mature, women age’.  So that’s lovely.

In other news, I’m sure I used to be a pretty good dancer. The word ‘amazing’ has even been used on occasion – although admittedly not since Shaggy was last in the charts. And the Vod -Bull was flowing... My sister and I went to a Body Jam last last night and I realised that my brain can no longer compute a simple 3-2-1-stop foot shuffle. It’s even more devastating when I'm surrounded by people who attend my other classes and therefore are accustomed to seeing me at the front, looking like a shining example of precision. Or at least not falling over every few minutes,  bearing an uncanny resemblance to Ricky Gervais attempting to do Beyonce. My sister loved it – ‘you get to look like a d*** and nobody cares!’ Well, I never said I didn’t care…. The class was also full of straight white boys who picked everything up immediately – and managed to look funky doing it.

Yeah. Hate them.

Is anyone else Olympic-ed out? I’ve enjoyed bits (Gymnast’s arms)…. It’s been very useful for motivating my classes (‘who wants a body like Jessica Ennis? Well in that case get lower!!’) but after 2 weeks I think I’ve got the gist. Quite annoyingly the TV in our office is right over and behind my head, and my colleagues insist on having the Olympics on all day. This means that (a) I have a constant running commentary of something I can’t see going on behind my head all day and (b) everyone who comes into the office asks me how we’re doing and who’s winning whatever’s on TV, and generally tries to engage me in conversation about the screen. Er, hello! You can clearly see I have my back to the screen, ergo I CAN’T SEE WHAT’S GOING ON!

Capiche?

Overheard at the BBC

Office Gay eating a jam doughnut (again).

ME: Oooh, what does that face say?

OFFICE SARCASTIC:  That the Paralympics are missing a mascot.