I’m back! The “final” week of renovating turned out to be three weeks (apologies to my in-laws), but we’re done now. I’ve missed you guys. And since I haven’t been on the internet in weeks – aside from a few tweets from my phone – prepare for me to vomit all over this post.
The funniest thing about being a lady tradie is the way your visibility changes. When I’m in office clothes, most tradies only look at my boobs. When I’m covered in paint in the middle of the day and buying a kebab, the male tradies give me a look of acknowledgement and of “phwoar, lady tradie”. It’s like our eyelashes have done the secret tradie handshake. Especially when I walk into the pub around 4ish, covered in dust, shoes held together with gaffa tape, looking very thirsty.
Guys in suits give me the “phwoar, lady tradie” look too, but there’s a lot more “she could odd-job the fuck out of me and that’s a little bit hot and a little bit emasculating at the same time”. Or maybe that’s just me inhaling too many adhesive fumes and thinking that a woman’s perve factor increases exponentially with the number of paint splatters on her trousers. I can see a business opportunity here…
And being a lady tradie – albeit a temporary one – I even went to the pub to watch sport. Well, ok, I didn’t go to watch the sport, I went because I liked the people who were going and sporting only goes for an hour, right? I took my book, but it was too packed to read. And to all those people I approached who wouldn’t give up their chair for my very-clearly-pregnant-and-due-in-two-weeks friend, I hope you all catch arsehole. Oh wait, you’ve already got it.
I wrote a poem there too. Which is funny, because I don’t write poetry. And silly because I was quite drunk (and bored). I don’t know what has possessed me to share it ON THE INTERNET, but here goes:
I went to the pub.
There was affle on.
Poo and wee beat the used tampons.
The used tampons’ fans swore a lot.
But it wasn’t all just making drunken jokes about team colours. When I was at the bar, a guy behind me kept bumping his hand into my butt, and another blew on my neck. Gross. Yet instead of turning around and loudly pointing out their douchebaggeriness to everyone, I just leaned forward out of their reach – the guy in front probably thought I was creepily pressing myself onto him – and fumed inwardly. How unlike me. It can get pretty tiring always being that mouthy woman because it doesn’t matter what you say to dickheads like that, their response will always be “can’t you take a joke?/you’re over-reacting/why would I touch you, you’re fat and ugly”. Because that’s the worst insult they can imagine: you’re fat and ugly. Replying “ha, weight is easy to lose but there’s nothing you can do about your small penis” won’t stop them doing it to another woman. Sadly, a kick in the nuts will just have me kicked out of the pub, especially if, as ManFriend suggested, they were tag-teaming so could both attest to me being crazy. Arseholes eh? They’re either blowing hot air at people or they’re full of shit.
See what I mean about vomiting all over this post?
Update: @LucyLu111 sent me this great link on twitter: A Message To Women From A Man: You Are Not “Crazy”, about emotional manipulation and telling women they are over-reacting when they object to your bad behaviour.