You've got to pick a pocket or two

It's sometimes rubbish being female.

Unless you're lucky and have a job where you can wear what you like, or if a uniform is provided, women have to wear "smart casual" or even suits to work. This isn't always a bad thing; it's nice to come home and change from school clothes to playing out clothes, it sort of draws a line of closure to the end of the working day and let's you know you're in "you" time.

However, proper girl clothes rarely have pockets, or they're cut so that you can't really carry things on your person because of the fit of the garment and the pathetic size of any token pockets.

On leaving the house, the minimum I tend to have to carry: car keys; house keys; cash; cards; mobile phone. Such items wouldn't even warrant a second thought from your average bloke, they being blessed with an abundance of pockets in just about every item of clothing they own. For a girl on her way to work however, such items can be the cause of much strategic planning:

What can I do without? Nothing, I need it all
What will go in my jacket pocket? None of it, except mabybe the phone and a bit of cash
Where do I put my car keys while I'm ootenaboot? No idea, and just what are all those keys on that fucking keyring anyway?
Can I leave my housekeys in the car? Bit risky that, you sure you want to do that?

So, you give in and acquire a handbag. Fucking things. Once you've got one, you're well and truly lumbered. Worse still, these bloody things mean that you end up carrying far too much shit around with you and also the shit of other cunts who haven't lowered themselves by joining the handbag-wielding sorority. But you still carry your phone and some cash in your jacket pockets for convenience*.

Anyway (Piggy's fave word), you've been out, you've parked up and retrieved all the crap from your car (shopping and shit that you've bought during lunchtime, stolen stationery, spiderplants that you've kidnapped). Your arms are full of crap, your carkeys are in one hand, your handbag is over your shoulder, but can you get to the bloody pocket that contains your house key? No. So you knock on the door by using all your strength to lift one of the shopping bag-carrying hands. No answer from your parents (their hearing isn't what it was, but they don't admit it). You knock again. And again. And again. You admit defeat, put the bags down and fanny around in the fucking handbag, find the house keys just at the point that the door is finally opened for you. An argument ensues, the accusations fly, the cats add to the tension by getting under everyone's feet. The tension remains in the house for the entire evening.

And all because crappy girly clothes don't have proper pockets.

*My denim jacket only has breast pockets: they aren't particularly big or useful, but at least it gives me the excuse to secretly fiddle with my bosoms while I'm fishing for cash.


An edit: Popbtich brings us "Black people love us"
Yes, this particular couple are so pleased that some black people like them that they've declared it on the interweb. Good for them!

I'll be able to post a similar "The kids love me" thing after my new found membership of the Red Hand Gang.