Thursday, December 10

Perfect disaster zone

I'm not perfect. I'm selfish, I'm impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control at times and hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best. - Miss Munroe
 
She had a point. It's true. And I too am all of those things and perhaps, I fear, more. I'm an artfully, endlessly complicated, absolute disaster. And to be honest, I kind of like it that way. It's tiring pretending to be a version of perfection. Halloween is over and it's refreshing to be able to walk around without wearing a mask or entertaining a masquerade.
 
I'm not perfect. In fact, I'm so far from perfect I'd be whatever the antipodal is. But, as my luck goes, I meet perfect people all the time. The kind with sparkly teeth and glossy hair, matching bath towels, cute babies, good knowledge of geography and interesting cultural points of view. They make me want to throw up. I just couldn’t stand the pressure of being one. Imagine the rules? I know its a club I’ll never be allowed to join.

I'm the direct opposite. The sort standing pulling gum off my shoe. A member of the ‘breathlessly late, half disheveled mess’ style club. The one with few other members other than the possible extreme exception of Courtney Love. But I think it suits me more, and I think I'll be an decorated member till I die.
 
I try to make myself feel better by chanting the mantra ‘perfection is over-rated’. Then again, I may just be jealous? Either way, perfection is a quest I gave up on a while ago, and continue to give up on each day when I roll out of bed, 10 minutes late for work and 2 days early for the weekend.
 
The moral of the story hence being if you see a girl, hair everywhere, coat and scarf disrobing, bag spilling, studying an upside-down map while pulling her stiletto heel out of the pavement, please, smile and run. It's probably me, and I probably don't need to see you. You and your crisply ironed, matching shoe/bag/belt/glove combo whilst you talk effortlessly on your cell, type a quick email and push your state of the art baby buggy to an 'Eastern Mongolian language class for advance learners'. Trust me, don't bother saying hi. Your just making me look bad.  And while I grit my teeth and say “I like my mask of imperfection”, frankly when I see your mask I start to think mine isn't that great. And I get the overwhelming urge to grab it and tap dance it into the pavement. And that’s really not going to be pretty for anyone.

Thursday, December 3

It's a man's world...

I met a kid last night who has been nicknamed Hercules by Miss Mascara. Don't get me wrong, he's not obnoxiously big or arrogant or boastful or anything in fact quite the opposite (it's just that he has Hercules curls). But he's definitely a man's man, and he makes no apologies for it. I love it. No boys need apply. I see them with their trendy jeans and their hip-hop walks- and I think I envy their skinny legs and their flat butts more than anything, but I don't think I could date one of them. I firmly believe that you cannot date a man with a smaller ass than yourself. It's just wrong and bad for self esteem.
 
Granted, the metro-sexual movement has done a lot for the male species and in turn the female ilk, I give it that. We no longer have to endure mono-brows peering out unsuspectingly from supermarket isles, we can breathe easily knowing that most men will at least try keep nether-regions clipped and tidy as opposed to the wooly mammoth vibe and those under 45 will try to trim nose/ear/toe hair in a regular fashion. In fact, viewing this list, I think mostly the metro theme has simply removed unwanted hair from obnoxious locations. It did give us men who 'feel' things, who talk about emotions, who want to hear about our own, who write poetry and think being romantic is no longer only for cheesy Italian crooners. It produced artsy guys and adorable geeky ones, gave rock stars the ability to let a little human show through it tried to bridge the gap between the Neanderthal and the Frank Sinatra every man has inside. All of which is fine my me, but every now and then when you run into a guy who does all this, and still manages to be more 'man' than 'metro' - it's a nice change.
 
Metro-men...it's been great, and I've had a lot of fun, and seen some great sweater-shirt combos, but I wonder if I could be so bold as to ask if there could be another movement started please? One where men are all of the above, and more, and will still catch a mouse, chop the firewood and grill a good steak?

Needless to say, you don't have to be Greek or Roman Gods, but to be fair - it would help.

Wednesday, December 2

Can you catch amnesia from a cold hearted bitch?

A friend sat across the table from me at lunch today and described herself as cold-hearted bitch. Intense you'd think. But, in fact, she just might be. And I actually think she might have conditioned herself that way. By no fault of her own. She's let her heart grow a medieval suit of armor to repel any sort of modern amour. And what was most shocking was how unapologetic she is about the fact. She is more than successful in every other aspect of life but is resigned that she has an impenetrable heart of steel. She has shut her heart and has essentially shut the door on the topic as well.
 
So while it may appear that the modern woman strives for a combination of ambition, family, love, home, friends and any other clichéd but true desire in life -she seemingly, in equal measures repels them all at the same time too. But why? It seems mad.

We push away what we are afraid of so we don't have to take risks, give our hearts away, take a chance or admit we've failed. And sitting across from her I realised, what kind of fate is that to accept and wish upon each other?
 
We have the utmost faith in a friend's life story, knowing deep in our bones that for them, it will all work out. They’ll be happy, safe and joyful for years to come. And yet for ourselves? Why do we shun the slightest hint of success like a phat palm to the vicious paparazzi? Men who love us? We pick fights and push them away, cause drama and analyse it ceaselessly when it fails. Work? We struggle so hard to 'be liked' we forget to do our jobs, tell people when to 'shut up', 'push off', or even say 'your wrong you red-nosed lace knicker sniffing buffoon and I'm not honey coating it anymore snot licker'. Nope. Instead, we smile and nod and like martyrs and dig deeper. Home? Family? We want to be Wonder Woman, cook, clean, read books, plant seasonal flowers, re-tile the bathroom, wash the ceilings, iron that impossible skirt, raise a content 8 year old or mend that silk blouse all by 8pm Tuesday night.
 
We're never enough, and maybe its our own fault. Maybe we just need to forget all the bullshit we feed ourselves abut love, about home life, about the normal people in society, about the abnormal people, about ourselves. We need to un-learn all the crap that makes us unhappy and re-learn all the stuff that makes life good. Then maybe we wouldn't convince ourselves we're cold-hearted bitches, maybe we'd just accept ourselves, or at least accept ourselves enough to know that with a bit of self-selected amnesia; the sort where we forget the laundry, forget the breakups, forget the actions of our idiotic boss, and forget trying to be Wonder Woman.

Maybe if we just let ourselves forget a little we'd remember that things are going to work out just fine and maybe we'd relax. Just maybe.

Tuesday, December 1

If I go MIA will anyone see me waving my white flag?

The Milkman went on a buck’s party mission to Scotland and never returned. Ra Ra Army Boy was in the middle of driving to town for my birthday party on Saturday night and has never been heard from again. The Irish lawyer from last week may or may not have tried to hang himself after talking to me. King of Spades has spent the last week in the desert - really social. And even Monster Mashed has stopped chasing me for gossip on Suit and Tie's relationship with the evil Venus Fly Trap. I need a holiday. I'm too confused to function. It's like the full moon has come out and everyone has gone bonkers, including me.
 
Then, in an additional twist of fate - about a month ago, I was dating a guy for about 15 seconds who rather conveniently moved to Norway. So then his friend messaged to see if I wanted to hang out. Since I'd been making out with his friend I said, sure we could hang out, 'as friends'. Thinking anything more might be weird. We've hung out twice and he's cool - then he saw pictures of my friends from the weekend and now wants me to pimp him out. Huh? I realise that I was pretty straightforward in saying we can hang out as friends, but what? Did he initially want to hang out with me cause he thought snogging me would be easy? And if so, why hasn't he tried? I'm generally the confusing one in my relationships, but he has got me puzzled.
 
It's clear - the one's I like go MIA, the ones I begin to like are more confusing than I am and the rest are just throwing me curve balls to dodge. I don't get it? Waving my white flag right now. I give up. Your right. I don't get you guys. Everyone can come out now, joke's over. Guys? Seriously? Hey? Very funny! Guys? Where'd you go? Was it something I said?