Astonishingly I've just been asked which one I would like. I never thought you got to choose these things. Like nicknames - I thought they were simply annoying enigmas you had to embrace and accept. No one really WANTS to be called Shazza do they? Exactly. It's clearly punishment for crimes committed against polite society in a previous life.
But in general does the existence of the question mean that by selecting a title I'm immediately boxed into a category? Am I now ready for easy, general consumption by others upon introduction? Mr, Miss, Doctor, Lover, Professor, Director, Countess, Girlfriend, Husband, Knight of the Realm - they all illicit an image. So which one would I like? You know, since in this case I can choose.
I think I'd like to be officially known as 'The most amazing woman I've ever met' - verbatim please. It just rolls of the tongue so easily, and it sounds so good in conversation.
"Hi, (insert random person here) how are you - lovely to see you again"
"Wonderful to see you too 20% Russian"
"This is 'The most amazing woman I've ever met' - Mikey"
"Wow, nice to meet you"
I'm seeing amazing potential here.
But instead of simply agreeing with my spectacular idea, the 20% Russian has countered with 'More than a girl (space) friend in training', or MTAG FIT, with the M being silent of course. So pronounced - tag fit. I sound like a work out class at a trendy gym. No. What about 'She's not a girl (space) friend, but i love her' SNAG BILH - H is silent, hence snag bil. Or 'I can't call her my girlfriend yet, but I'm trying my ass off', ICCHMGY BITMAF - hmmm, might be a bit much.
How about we skip the titles, I like my original one anyway - and frankly The Countess suits me just fine.
Friday, February 26
Thursday, February 25
Objects in the rear-view mirror may appear closer than they are.
I can't wait to get to a city where I can exist in peace again. In a car. I realise that's not the environmentally responsible thing to say, but so what- it's true. I miss my car, in all it's carbon spewing glory! My rolling school locker full of stuff- my infallible bubble of Zen insulating me from the world. The back seat where magazines, lunch wrappers, and sandy beach toys go to die. The front passenger seat holding a capsule wardrobe, cassette tapes and gym shoes. A glove box full of useless bits, and a personal sound proof karaoke booth.
I'm divided when it comes to judging people by their cars. Except for those greased up boys who cruise the main street pimped out with blaring music and leering looks. You know who you are - big input valve, small output valve. That's all I'm saying.
I don't always agree that the model, make or the cost have a lot of impact. But unfailing you can rely on the amount of crap it holds, radio settings, dings in the side or scrapes along the back bumper. They, to me, hold the vital clues. Flashy colour = I want to be noticed. Lots of crap = always on the go. Dings in the side = not as observant as I seem. Scrapes along the bumper = other people haven't found that I'm observant either.
My first car was a hand-me-down from my grandfather, a silver Subaru station wagon, roof racks, hard to roll with a super aggressive giant metal bulbar bolted to the front. On the road it was credible; where as I was not. I still think of it as a car that suited me, outward protection, inner comfort, a radio that functioned and an engine in perfect running order. And full of an inordinate amount of junk. Thanks grampy. But was it an embodiment of everything I already was or everything that a the time I was lacking? And in what dilutions?
We all know that even the shiniest of cars might have a quirky carburetor that no mechanic can sort. Just like cars our human faults are pretty evenly spread between us all. Some manufacture faults, some incurred after 50,000 miles, others due to another mechanism halting. Their intricacies are side mirrors to our failings as humans. If only we could spot them on the first test drive.
In any case, these days I miss being able to lock myself in a bubble and glide through the world regardless of whether the car embodies my virtues or my faults. At least in a vehicle assault on your person is limited to the occasional lane dodger or irate pedestrian glaring at you while they march across the street to test your brakes. And yes, that pedestrian is currently me - and yes, drivers my hatred for you is borne out of jealousy. So deal with it buddy. Deal with it.
I'm divided when it comes to judging people by their cars. Except for those greased up boys who cruise the main street pimped out with blaring music and leering looks. You know who you are - big input valve, small output valve. That's all I'm saying.
I don't always agree that the model, make or the cost have a lot of impact. But unfailing you can rely on the amount of crap it holds, radio settings, dings in the side or scrapes along the back bumper. They, to me, hold the vital clues. Flashy colour = I want to be noticed. Lots of crap = always on the go. Dings in the side = not as observant as I seem. Scrapes along the bumper = other people haven't found that I'm observant either.
My first car was a hand-me-down from my grandfather, a silver Subaru station wagon, roof racks, hard to roll with a super aggressive giant metal bulbar bolted to the front. On the road it was credible; where as I was not. I still think of it as a car that suited me, outward protection, inner comfort, a radio that functioned and an engine in perfect running order. And full of an inordinate amount of junk. Thanks grampy. But was it an embodiment of everything I already was or everything that a the time I was lacking? And in what dilutions?
We all know that even the shiniest of cars might have a quirky carburetor that no mechanic can sort. Just like cars our human faults are pretty evenly spread between us all. Some manufacture faults, some incurred after 50,000 miles, others due to another mechanism halting. Their intricacies are side mirrors to our failings as humans. If only we could spot them on the first test drive.
In any case, these days I miss being able to lock myself in a bubble and glide through the world regardless of whether the car embodies my virtues or my faults. At least in a vehicle assault on your person is limited to the occasional lane dodger or irate pedestrian glaring at you while they march across the street to test your brakes. And yes, that pedestrian is currently me - and yes, drivers my hatred for you is borne out of jealousy. So deal with it buddy. Deal with it.
Tuesday, February 23
The Golden Triangle vs. The Bermuda Triangle
I got an email today from the Dutchy - well it has been about two millennia (aka. 4 months), his man-pager must be going off. He wrote a very sweet little note which included the line, "I felt like I had nothing to offer". Let's get some perspective here, I realise he had just been told he would be fathering a child with his ex-girlfriend, and that shook things up - but to think you have nothing to offer? Rather dramatic.
So if that was the case, I wonder what he thought he was missing? If you’re not in possession of all three corners of life's triangle are you really in danger of being labeled incomplete? Not incomplete for ourselves but incomplete for others. Job, apartment and love - the evil trilogy, and oh how we ponder them. The question that intrigues me is, do we honestly expect perfection in ourselves and others? How do we define these sneaky little joints of life? And do we really think we need to achieve all three? Or is that like jamming a square plug in a round hole over and over and over again?
To add slightly more confusion to the black board explanation, there are ceaseless forms of triangles - acute, obtuse, equilateral, right angle, isosceles or scalene - so even according to the seemingly ridged mathematic principles, shouldn't there be just as many ways to measure value? And not the 'value of X in this equation' version of value either. But the 'something to offer vs. nothing to offer' equation. My head hurts. I'm not the biggest math genius on the planet but I'd say judging your own value on behalf of someone else, your bound to end up with the wrong answer (at least according to the text book anyway).
Well, whatever the situation, whilst Dutchy might not be for me, I don't think it's fair that he sells himself short like that. Then again, how much of the world or math’s or love or that strange sport curling do we just accept and get used to and how much do we really understand anyway?
So if that was the case, I wonder what he thought he was missing? If you’re not in possession of all three corners of life's triangle are you really in danger of being labeled incomplete? Not incomplete for ourselves but incomplete for others. Job, apartment and love - the evil trilogy, and oh how we ponder them. The question that intrigues me is, do we honestly expect perfection in ourselves and others? How do we define these sneaky little joints of life? And do we really think we need to achieve all three? Or is that like jamming a square plug in a round hole over and over and over again?
To add slightly more confusion to the black board explanation, there are ceaseless forms of triangles - acute, obtuse, equilateral, right angle, isosceles or scalene - so even according to the seemingly ridged mathematic principles, shouldn't there be just as many ways to measure value? And not the 'value of X in this equation' version of value either. But the 'something to offer vs. nothing to offer' equation. My head hurts. I'm not the biggest math genius on the planet but I'd say judging your own value on behalf of someone else, your bound to end up with the wrong answer (at least according to the text book anyway).
Well, whatever the situation, whilst Dutchy might not be for me, I don't think it's fair that he sells himself short like that. Then again, how much of the world or math’s or love or that strange sport curling do we just accept and get used to and how much do we really understand anyway?
Friday, February 19
Keep your receipts, this isnt the mafia
I'm a staunch feminist - sort of. In fact, perhaps these days there really isn't a name for what I am. I like men to open doors, help with my coat, stand when I go to the bathroom, walk on the curb side of the pavement and at the same time acknowledge my opinion as equal, propel me in the workplace, scrape my off the floor post melt-down and share the washing-up. I don't think its much to ask. How hard is it to be a bespoke gentleman, catering to the ever changing whims of the female sex?
In the 'old days' when you mentioned feminism thoughts turned to hairy armpits and bra burning. Now we are just as common in heels and Max Mara as 100% cotton and Birkenstocks. Conceivably women aren't out to seek revenge on the male population, instead we want to have our cake and eat it too. We were taught we could be anything and have everything. And we believe it. So with that in mind, and the knowledge that a strong woman raised me, let me tell you that I've stopped paying for things. Something that I discovered this morning when the 20% Russian bought my morning coffee. Small you think - but to me, meaningful.
I used to 'contribute'. Pay for breakfast, lunch and dinner, just to prove I could, and would, I'd be a step ahead with cash whenever it was needed. No longer. No thanks. If my mission is to find a gentleman who has traditional manners then I'm going to be controversial and say f-it. I want a man who pays. Or at least a man who wants to pay.
Is that too much to ask? Am I saying what we're not meant to say again? Damn - I keep doing that. It's not au fait but I'll admit it, I want to be looked after, to not have to worry about money. Wow she's high maintenance I hear you mutter? Well candidly, yes, but to be blunt even if you judge me it's not going to make a lick of difference. My role in this man-woman affair is to turn up and look good - and that's costly in itself! Miss Vuitton suggested this to me long ago, her reasoning was by letting the man pay you give him the feeling of being needed. A feeling women snatched from men long ago. But there is something delightfully sweet about watching him take pride in 'looking after you', and the kick they get comes from saying thank you. I get it.
Equally, if I'm looking for the perfect gentleman then I'm going to have to be the perfect lady. Well as long as this perfect little 'feminist' lady can do exactly as she pleases I'm up for that, let's start by bringing back martinis with lunch and the 3 day blow-dry. Ooooo - I could like this little turn of events.
PS. Title credit goes to Archie from RocknRolla, thanks buddy
In the 'old days' when you mentioned feminism thoughts turned to hairy armpits and bra burning. Now we are just as common in heels and Max Mara as 100% cotton and Birkenstocks. Conceivably women aren't out to seek revenge on the male population, instead we want to have our cake and eat it too. We were taught we could be anything and have everything. And we believe it. So with that in mind, and the knowledge that a strong woman raised me, let me tell you that I've stopped paying for things. Something that I discovered this morning when the 20% Russian bought my morning coffee. Small you think - but to me, meaningful.
I used to 'contribute'. Pay for breakfast, lunch and dinner, just to prove I could, and would, I'd be a step ahead with cash whenever it was needed. No longer. No thanks. If my mission is to find a gentleman who has traditional manners then I'm going to be controversial and say f-it. I want a man who pays. Or at least a man who wants to pay.
Is that too much to ask? Am I saying what we're not meant to say again? Damn - I keep doing that. It's not au fait but I'll admit it, I want to be looked after, to not have to worry about money. Wow she's high maintenance I hear you mutter? Well candidly, yes, but to be blunt even if you judge me it's not going to make a lick of difference. My role in this man-woman affair is to turn up and look good - and that's costly in itself! Miss Vuitton suggested this to me long ago, her reasoning was by letting the man pay you give him the feeling of being needed. A feeling women snatched from men long ago. But there is something delightfully sweet about watching him take pride in 'looking after you', and the kick they get comes from saying thank you. I get it.
Equally, if I'm looking for the perfect gentleman then I'm going to have to be the perfect lady. Well as long as this perfect little 'feminist' lady can do exactly as she pleases I'm up for that, let's start by bringing back martinis with lunch and the 3 day blow-dry. Ooooo - I could like this little turn of events.
PS. Title credit goes to Archie from RocknRolla, thanks buddy
Thursday, February 18
Retract statement - the 'id' is out.
I retract all of last night's post. I'm bored not calm. The 'kill me now, there is no excitement in my life' - style of bored.
It's because for some reason, unknown to the logical me, I expected the 20% Russian to ask me to dinner tonight. I know I shouldn't have admitted that but I'm just being honest here. Since Miss Mulberry pointed out the horrible effects of expectations about 2 years ago I have tried to avoid having expectations of others, even if I have very high ones for myself. It was one of those life-changing pieces of advice that sink deep into your core and resonate like a piercing dolphin sonar. Simply put - it changed me and the way I relate to others.
Hence I try to keep my expectations to a minimum only to be rewarded when people surprise and go above and beyond. It might sound downtrodden but it’s hard to be disappointed when you didn’t hope in the first place. So if this is the focus I try to maintain, then please explain to me how or why I managed to get the notion into my head that the Russian would want to go out tonight? Or in fact, at all? But specifically, tonight of all nights?
Sometimes I think I'm following a set of rules my subconscious mind invents just to mess with the conscious me not to be confused which the conscience of me - which doesn't really care at all. Remember Freud's 'id' / 'ego' / 'super-ego' anyone? No? Fine. But Freud or not does anyone else get this, or am I slowly going nuts? Actually, don't answer that.
Look either way I'm looking at some serious issues which I'm starting to believe are being generated by the fact that I've reduced numbers in 2010. And I don't know if I like it.
Mr. Shedd I believe you were right, ships might be safe in harbour, but that's not what ships are for. I am not a vessel of any sort, but in this case, I need to go out, drink cocktails and get rid of my expectations and my 'id' – ha ‘id’ - whoever that little guy is.
It's because for some reason, unknown to the logical me, I expected the 20% Russian to ask me to dinner tonight. I know I shouldn't have admitted that but I'm just being honest here. Since Miss Mulberry pointed out the horrible effects of expectations about 2 years ago I have tried to avoid having expectations of others, even if I have very high ones for myself. It was one of those life-changing pieces of advice that sink deep into your core and resonate like a piercing dolphin sonar. Simply put - it changed me and the way I relate to others.
Hence I try to keep my expectations to a minimum only to be rewarded when people surprise and go above and beyond. It might sound downtrodden but it’s hard to be disappointed when you didn’t hope in the first place. So if this is the focus I try to maintain, then please explain to me how or why I managed to get the notion into my head that the Russian would want to go out tonight? Or in fact, at all? But specifically, tonight of all nights?
Sometimes I think I'm following a set of rules my subconscious mind invents just to mess with the conscious me not to be confused which the conscience of me - which doesn't really care at all. Remember Freud's 'id' / 'ego' / 'super-ego' anyone? No? Fine. But Freud or not does anyone else get this, or am I slowly going nuts? Actually, don't answer that.
Look either way I'm looking at some serious issues which I'm starting to believe are being generated by the fact that I've reduced numbers in 2010. And I don't know if I like it.
Mr. Shedd I believe you were right, ships might be safe in harbour, but that's not what ships are for. I am not a vessel of any sort, but in this case, I need to go out, drink cocktails and get rid of my expectations and my 'id' – ha ‘id’ - whoever that little guy is.
Wednesday, February 17
Don't panic on the treadmill - trust me on this...
I'd like to make myself believe that planet earth turns slowly. (Owl City) I think that's pretty apt for a sparkly little tune. Granted the rest of the lyrics are pretty whacko, 'Cause I'd get a thousand hugs from ten thousand lightning bugs as they tried to teach me how to dance...' Sure. Fruit loop. But I digress.
Is it just me, but do you ever get that feeling that your running from pillar to post without really getting anywhere? Or at least without getting anywhere worthwhile? Your on the luxurious treadmill of life that doesn't seem to slow down. Not even so you can tie your shoe, take a sip of water or check out the hot guy behind you doing the strange bo-flex machine. There has to be an emergency choke chord on this damn thing?
Well I've had it, after a week and weekend of indulgence at 3am breakfasts with the 20% Russian and my usual whirlwind antics, I'm doing my best to simply slow down. Walk looking up, stopping to let someone cross in front of me, staying at the coffee shop for an extra 10 minutes to watch the world. And for once, it's working. It's only been on the agenda for a few days, but I'm thinking that I should start to introduce being calm on a more regular basis. I even managed to go to a yoga class tonight, stop at the little japanese supermarket I love and come home to cook something for dinner. This is unheard of for me. I could barely believe it myself, I still can't. I won't mention the fact that I was running to class from work after deciding to stop and pick up the jacket I left at a club after 6 tequila shots last Wednesday. Let's stay focused on the calm section of the evening shall we?
My grandmother is always at me about burning the candle at both ends, and in the middle - which I do just for good measure. But somehow I never take it in, and chances are I'm probably never going to in any meaningful way. It's not that I don't like stopping to smell the roses, it's just that no one seems to send the ones that smell anymore. I don't think that not being busy is something I could ever do. I like that little bit of adrenaline akin to minor hysteria. I like to have 100 things on a list and attacking them in a tizzy. What I'm starting to embrace is that if you believe the world is turning slowly you fall into one of two categories. The one where you speed up to fit more into your day. Or the second, where you slow down with it.
Either way I'm pretty happy with my yoga/cooking schedule tonight - it makes a change from cocktails, man eating and chasing the vanishing hours in the day. Chances are the world's pro rata speed I don't think will be changed by some luny lyrics in an elctro pop song but still the notion is a wonderful idea. And I think I can safely say that, for this week at least, panic is not our friend people and I'm pulling the damn choke chord.
Is it just me, but do you ever get that feeling that your running from pillar to post without really getting anywhere? Or at least without getting anywhere worthwhile? Your on the luxurious treadmill of life that doesn't seem to slow down. Not even so you can tie your shoe, take a sip of water or check out the hot guy behind you doing the strange bo-flex machine. There has to be an emergency choke chord on this damn thing?
Well I've had it, after a week and weekend of indulgence at 3am breakfasts with the 20% Russian and my usual whirlwind antics, I'm doing my best to simply slow down. Walk looking up, stopping to let someone cross in front of me, staying at the coffee shop for an extra 10 minutes to watch the world. And for once, it's working. It's only been on the agenda for a few days, but I'm thinking that I should start to introduce being calm on a more regular basis. I even managed to go to a yoga class tonight, stop at the little japanese supermarket I love and come home to cook something for dinner. This is unheard of for me. I could barely believe it myself, I still can't. I won't mention the fact that I was running to class from work after deciding to stop and pick up the jacket I left at a club after 6 tequila shots last Wednesday. Let's stay focused on the calm section of the evening shall we?
My grandmother is always at me about burning the candle at both ends, and in the middle - which I do just for good measure. But somehow I never take it in, and chances are I'm probably never going to in any meaningful way. It's not that I don't like stopping to smell the roses, it's just that no one seems to send the ones that smell anymore. I don't think that not being busy is something I could ever do. I like that little bit of adrenaline akin to minor hysteria. I like to have 100 things on a list and attacking them in a tizzy. What I'm starting to embrace is that if you believe the world is turning slowly you fall into one of two categories. The one where you speed up to fit more into your day. Or the second, where you slow down with it.
Either way I'm pretty happy with my yoga/cooking schedule tonight - it makes a change from cocktails, man eating and chasing the vanishing hours in the day. Chances are the world's pro rata speed I don't think will be changed by some luny lyrics in an elctro pop song but still the notion is a wonderful idea. And I think I can safely say that, for this week at least, panic is not our friend people and I'm pulling the damn choke chord.
Tuesday, February 16
Wiki Warning
Ladies,
I have a little business plan, well more of a plan in general...
It's called The Cigarette Pack. And essentially it's a wikipedia style, community content creator full of warnings for individuals. Searchable by full name and city its essentially a catalogue of things you might never know - but need to.
It came about because Miss Ferragamo got an email from her ex after she ran into him his current squeeze. Lo and behold what did the email read? 'What's going on sexy?'. Might I refer you to October's Blog on the 'Man Pager' and it's propensity to go off when your finally over him and happy.
More to the point- my instant reaction was 'you should send it to her'- I don't even know this girl and I've decided I'm on her side. She needs to be warned.
Miss Ferragamo doesn't have her address but essentially her warning was - he will get you hooked, cheat, give you an STD and try to get you back as many times as possible just to make you miserable! - I don't know the girl from a bar of soap but I dare say that little nugget of wisdom could be something she might like to consider.
Other warnings might run along the lines of - Afraid of commitment except to all other females but yourself, OCD and still idoloises his mother, will expect you to fold his underwear. Perhaps, incapable of dressing himself or of acting over 12. In love with an ex, himself, a mechanical object or even worse a fictional SIMS character. Married with 3 kids but doesn't wear a ring, thinks Macdonalds is a romantic location, likes to propose and then take it back. You get the gist.
But perhaps that would be too evil. I suppose it does rather obviously break privacy laws and perhaps having it all in writing doesn't allow for people to learn from their mistakes and turn over a new leaf. Then again, how much do we really change? Ever? On the other hand, if you knew, you might be able to prep for your broken heart - even if you didn't want to avoid it all together. After all people still smoke despite what's written on the front.
So who do we look after in this case? I'm of the opinion it's ourselves, together. I don't think anyone's failure has to be terminal. Maybe our failures could prove to be another's asset- with the only caveat being - I guess we'd have to know why we failed. Wikipedia might not be able to help with that.
I have a little business plan, well more of a plan in general...
It's called The Cigarette Pack. And essentially it's a wikipedia style, community content creator full of warnings for individuals. Searchable by full name and city its essentially a catalogue of things you might never know - but need to.
It came about because Miss Ferragamo got an email from her ex after she ran into him his current squeeze. Lo and behold what did the email read? 'What's going on sexy?'. Might I refer you to October's Blog on the 'Man Pager' and it's propensity to go off when your finally over him and happy.
More to the point- my instant reaction was 'you should send it to her'- I don't even know this girl and I've decided I'm on her side. She needs to be warned.
Miss Ferragamo doesn't have her address but essentially her warning was - he will get you hooked, cheat, give you an STD and try to get you back as many times as possible just to make you miserable! - I don't know the girl from a bar of soap but I dare say that little nugget of wisdom could be something she might like to consider.
Other warnings might run along the lines of - Afraid of commitment except to all other females but yourself, OCD and still idoloises his mother, will expect you to fold his underwear. Perhaps, incapable of dressing himself or of acting over 12. In love with an ex, himself, a mechanical object or even worse a fictional SIMS character. Married with 3 kids but doesn't wear a ring, thinks Macdonalds is a romantic location, likes to propose and then take it back. You get the gist.
But perhaps that would be too evil. I suppose it does rather obviously break privacy laws and perhaps having it all in writing doesn't allow for people to learn from their mistakes and turn over a new leaf. Then again, how much do we really change? Ever? On the other hand, if you knew, you might be able to prep for your broken heart - even if you didn't want to avoid it all together. After all people still smoke despite what's written on the front.
So who do we look after in this case? I'm of the opinion it's ourselves, together. I don't think anyone's failure has to be terminal. Maybe our failures could prove to be another's asset- with the only caveat being - I guess we'd have to know why we failed. Wikipedia might not be able to help with that.
Monday, February 15
What's in a name?
It seems everything in my life gets a nick name. Most of my friends seem to have nick names with incredible stories and somehow we manage to customise names for the most inane and boring. But for the more exciting, well they deserve a little more time and thought - tots reas (totally reasonable).
So, strangely on the same note - I went to have a sexual health check recently and found out I had a minor thrush infection. Sorry if that was too much information, but you'll deal. That evening I burst into Miss Longchamp's apartment and much to the hilarity of herself and her husband, regaled details of an evening being prodded behind a blue cotton curtain for, frankly, far longer than really necessary.
Well the results arrived today. By text message, as they do. And more than that, they arrived from someone who looks like a previously saved contact. As far as I can remember I haven't recently save the doctor's surgery as 'Thrush'. But a shout out to whoever invented that sneaky iPhone app. In honesty, I did think it was hilarious - primarily because it confirmed that I didn't have anything rather more serious and I'd already had a one tablet treatment for the the offending infection. But still, it got me thinking. Instead of changing names in my phone to 'do not answer' when I'm done with men, perhaps I could convert them to the most appropriate parting scenario to remind me of just how much I don't want to answer? Then that little twinge inside me wouldn't itch and say, 'ooo just pick up', give him the benefit of the doubt...
The Milkman - Houdini, the ultimate disappearing act
Dutchy - Baby daddy
Hercules - Gutless wonder
English Gentleman - Nasty with a top hat, spot of death cricket anyone?
HMV Poacher aka HMV Stalker - I think I actually have to keep Do Not Answer on this one for police guideline reasons
Just-in - Just-insist you like men, its ok
Suit and Tie - Met and married the Venus fly trap in 3 months, one word - desperate
Mr Big - Train Wreck, enough said
The Norwegian - Cold as ice
I think ring tones could be changed too, sounds of bombs dropping, rapid fire guns, screeching cats, vomiting, Celine Dion ballads, screaming babies, fingernails on a chalk boards, boats hitting icebergs, soap opera arguments and crazy frogs. I'd be darting to end the jarring ring tone rather than running to pick the damn thing up.
To be fair, as far as nick names go, I don't really care what they are 'officially called', I'll be calling them something else. And that's not to say I'm pre-planning their demise by giving them personas; for example, the newest addition The 20% Russian, or laughing at them like yesterday's run in with The Faux Sopranos. But I'll put it this way, as long as they are a character the story doesn't seem quite so personal, nor quite as disappointing if that's what they somehow end up being.
And on the bright side - the Thrush is gone but I'm yet to delete it as a phone contact, you never know when I'll have to ignore the Doctor's call and always like to play it safe.
So, strangely on the same note - I went to have a sexual health check recently and found out I had a minor thrush infection. Sorry if that was too much information, but you'll deal. That evening I burst into Miss Longchamp's apartment and much to the hilarity of herself and her husband, regaled details of an evening being prodded behind a blue cotton curtain for, frankly, far longer than really necessary.
Well the results arrived today. By text message, as they do. And more than that, they arrived from someone who looks like a previously saved contact. As far as I can remember I haven't recently save the doctor's surgery as 'Thrush'. But a shout out to whoever invented that sneaky iPhone app. In honesty, I did think it was hilarious - primarily because it confirmed that I didn't have anything rather more serious and I'd already had a one tablet treatment for the the offending infection. But still, it got me thinking. Instead of changing names in my phone to 'do not answer' when I'm done with men, perhaps I could convert them to the most appropriate parting scenario to remind me of just how much I don't want to answer? Then that little twinge inside me wouldn't itch and say, 'ooo just pick up', give him the benefit of the doubt...
The Milkman - Houdini, the ultimate disappearing act
Dutchy - Baby daddy
Hercules - Gutless wonder
English Gentleman - Nasty with a top hat, spot of death cricket anyone?
HMV Poacher aka HMV Stalker - I think I actually have to keep Do Not Answer on this one for police guideline reasons
Just-in - Just-insist you like men, its ok
Suit and Tie - Met and married the Venus fly trap in 3 months, one word - desperate
Mr Big - Train Wreck, enough said
The Norwegian - Cold as ice
I think ring tones could be changed too, sounds of bombs dropping, rapid fire guns, screeching cats, vomiting, Celine Dion ballads, screaming babies, fingernails on a chalk boards, boats hitting icebergs, soap opera arguments and crazy frogs. I'd be darting to end the jarring ring tone rather than running to pick the damn thing up.
To be fair, as far as nick names go, I don't really care what they are 'officially called', I'll be calling them something else. And that's not to say I'm pre-planning their demise by giving them personas; for example, the newest addition The 20% Russian, or laughing at them like yesterday's run in with The Faux Sopranos. But I'll put it this way, as long as they are a character the story doesn't seem quite so personal, nor quite as disappointing if that's what they somehow end up being.
And on the bright side - the Thrush is gone but I'm yet to delete it as a phone contact, you never know when I'll have to ignore the Doctor's call and always like to play it safe.
Friday, February 12
Meet the new hall monitor
My January resolution to 'keep things clean' is going well so far. Not clean as in literally, my clothes I'm sure will be just as crumpled as ever. By 'clean' I mean my love life - no longer is it going to be content sitting in the limbo lane; I can't let it get messy or confusing. Now let us not confuse this we me actually finding 'someone' - rather let us focus on the 'cutting loose' of those not needed in the script anymore. I may even go so far as to reduce my dating numbers from 8 to lets say 3 or 4. I think 2010 should be the year of the individual.
And this resolution is the reason I have discovered that there may be a niche market profession in ditching men. Or at least coming up with the messages. I've sucked it up and ditched a couple this week, a Doctor that I've seen a couple of times and a handsome English Consultant who was formal and eager rolled into one, and all in all there were good results.
Same message sent to both - 'Sorry for the silence, have been gathering courage - the night I met you I'd just broken up with my boyfriend that week, and I just think this is all a bit quick for me - thank you again for such a lovely time, I hope you don't think I'm a total idiot and sorry, x'. Granted, not entirely true, Hercules was only a demi-boyfriend at his peak and essentially we'd parted ways much earlier, not to mention I met these guys at different times, but whatever. I got some rather lovely replies. *Sigh with relief*. I can now re-visit places I was going to have to strike off my list for fear of seeing them again. Nice - two birds, one stone. What I wouldn't want to read is their honest 'Analyse and Discuss' version of my text. There is clean and then there is cruel.
I think only good things can come of me being a little more 'honest' in the whole dating game. Keeping it clean, simple and neat - it can only produce good results right? Let everyone else look after the environment, in 2010 I'll be keeping the dating scene clean. The social environment is my playground and I'll be a hall monitor.
Hey you! Watch where you throw that candy wrapper buddy.
And this resolution is the reason I have discovered that there may be a niche market profession in ditching men. Or at least coming up with the messages. I've sucked it up and ditched a couple this week, a Doctor that I've seen a couple of times and a handsome English Consultant who was formal and eager rolled into one, and all in all there were good results.
Same message sent to both - 'Sorry for the silence, have been gathering courage - the night I met you I'd just broken up with my boyfriend that week, and I just think this is all a bit quick for me - thank you again for such a lovely time, I hope you don't think I'm a total idiot and sorry, x'. Granted, not entirely true, Hercules was only a demi-boyfriend at his peak and essentially we'd parted ways much earlier, not to mention I met these guys at different times, but whatever. I got some rather lovely replies. *Sigh with relief*. I can now re-visit places I was going to have to strike off my list for fear of seeing them again. Nice - two birds, one stone. What I wouldn't want to read is their honest 'Analyse and Discuss' version of my text. There is clean and then there is cruel.
I think only good things can come of me being a little more 'honest' in the whole dating game. Keeping it clean, simple and neat - it can only produce good results right? Let everyone else look after the environment, in 2010 I'll be keeping the dating scene clean. The social environment is my playground and I'll be a hall monitor.
Hey you! Watch where you throw that candy wrapper buddy.
Wednesday, February 10
Text Message Thesis - Long but worth it (or not you twat)
Miss Vera recently gave me the most amazing book - The Proust Questionnaire. It's structured around a society game the French completed to amuse themselves at parties. It asks questions ranging from, What is your perfect idea of happiness? to Which living person do you most despise? It's genius (a yes, slightly unrelated) but it is with this in mind I will now answer the following:
Hercules has sent you 2 text messages. Anaylse and discuss:
(1) Hey sorry hadn't gotten back, was slammed yesterday shitty day actually, and not too much better today so far, on lighter note tho Bahamas was awesome and FL this wknd..And saw Miss Bottega at cluny on Sunday, she was looking good, I love those bloody mary's and short rib hash. (2) Hope you're well will call soon as I get chance.
(4 marks)
(1) Hey sorry hadn't gotten back (Just like you were so sorry for the 10 days I didn't hear a word from you after I hauled ass to NYC to see your miserable carcass - Sorry? Get fucked, I'd need to send a search party to find authenticity in that statement),
was slammed yesterday (Yawn, I'm sure, things are so hard when you do nothing all day, leave work at 4, lift 2 lb dumb-bells, drink cheap ass beers with the boys, perve on the waitress, stumble home and pass out on the sofa with a half eaten piece of pizza at 3am)
shitty day actually (That's cause your hangover ate the section of your brain that cared about anyone but yourself - I hope the financial market tanks on your positions),
and not too much better today so far (Seriously dude? Cry me a fucking river, I could care less about your measly day since you haven't bothered to ask about mine for the last 2 weeks. Did I mention my dog died, no - guess you wouldn’t know about that would you fly snorter),
on a lighter note (Thank god, I was starting to think you need even more therapy)
tho Bahamas was awesome and FL this wknd (Like I seriously give a flying rats ass, I hope you picked up a STD)..
And saw Miss Bottega at cluny on Sunday (I know, she emailed me straight away. She said she could see your disgusting blue bobble hat that I'm glad to see your now repulsing women with again, from across the street and ducked her head, but unfortunately she ended up running into you anyway - even my friends don't want to see you, and she is one of the most accommodating people I know - maybe you should get 'AVOID ME' tattooed on your head and be done with it),
she was looking good (Would you like her number? In fact, let me hand over all my friends numbers, they have to be better than the boring, skank whores in your circle of friends, it must suck to be such a loser and have had a glimpse of a life so out of your league - lets not pretend the mousey girl you were breakfasting with on the morning in question is anything less than a downgrade),
I love those bloody mary's and short rib hash (Eat up boy, gain another stone - just don't include me on your diet twitter page).
(2) (Otherwise known as the after thought text message)
Hope you're well will call soon as I get a chance (Don't bother, I'll be busy watching paint dry or dating your replacement...Zeus).
And if that doesn't get me an A+ - frankly, I dont know what will.
Hercules has sent you 2 text messages. Anaylse and discuss:
(1) Hey sorry hadn't gotten back, was slammed yesterday shitty day actually, and not too much better today so far, on lighter note tho Bahamas was awesome and FL this wknd..And saw Miss Bottega at cluny on Sunday, she was looking good, I love those bloody mary's and short rib hash. (2) Hope you're well will call soon as I get chance.
(4 marks)
(1) Hey sorry hadn't gotten back (Just like you were so sorry for the 10 days I didn't hear a word from you after I hauled ass to NYC to see your miserable carcass - Sorry? Get fucked, I'd need to send a search party to find authenticity in that statement),
was slammed yesterday (Yawn, I'm sure, things are so hard when you do nothing all day, leave work at 4, lift 2 lb dumb-bells, drink cheap ass beers with the boys, perve on the waitress, stumble home and pass out on the sofa with a half eaten piece of pizza at 3am)
shitty day actually (That's cause your hangover ate the section of your brain that cared about anyone but yourself - I hope the financial market tanks on your positions),
and not too much better today so far (Seriously dude? Cry me a fucking river, I could care less about your measly day since you haven't bothered to ask about mine for the last 2 weeks. Did I mention my dog died, no - guess you wouldn’t know about that would you fly snorter),
on a lighter note (Thank god, I was starting to think you need even more therapy)
tho Bahamas was awesome and FL this wknd (Like I seriously give a flying rats ass, I hope you picked up a STD)..
And saw Miss Bottega at cluny on Sunday (I know, she emailed me straight away. She said she could see your disgusting blue bobble hat that I'm glad to see your now repulsing women with again, from across the street and ducked her head, but unfortunately she ended up running into you anyway - even my friends don't want to see you, and she is one of the most accommodating people I know - maybe you should get 'AVOID ME' tattooed on your head and be done with it),
she was looking good (Would you like her number? In fact, let me hand over all my friends numbers, they have to be better than the boring, skank whores in your circle of friends, it must suck to be such a loser and have had a glimpse of a life so out of your league - lets not pretend the mousey girl you were breakfasting with on the morning in question is anything less than a downgrade),
I love those bloody mary's and short rib hash (Eat up boy, gain another stone - just don't include me on your diet twitter page).
(2) (Otherwise known as the after thought text message)
Hope you're well will call soon as I get a chance (Don't bother, I'll be busy watching paint dry or dating your replacement...Zeus).
And if that doesn't get me an A+ - frankly, I dont know what will.
Tuesday, February 9
Speeding bugglet
Miss Burberry, sent me the most amazing quote today - 'Sometimes you’re the bug and sometimes you’re the windshield.'
Ain't that life. Sometimes I get squished in a second, without warning and end up against the glass in a smear of emotional guts. Other times I'm the bringer of the doom hurtling at incredible speeds destroying anything in my way - life, small insects, males, whatever. But if I could choose, if I could self select my role in this indulgent adventure I'm considering titling 'My Life, take number 438' - what would I choose to be? Bug or windshield?
Big, brash, aggressive and destructive? vs. Small, volatile, poisonous and flighty? Freud, thoughts? What do I think would be stronger, the best choice for survival. What is real strength? A bulldozer or an ant? And how do you define courage that goes along with strength? Because to me it's courage that makes strength stand up.
Courage is one of those things we chase and admire in others. But it's in each of us. And granted, we can't be ALL the pillars of strength ALL of the time. But how often can we be one, a few or most of them, for one person, a few people or everyone? I think courage has to manifest itself 100 ways in every second of the day. It's going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm for the task. Without losing hope or belief. It's being the only one who knows you’re absolutely terrified. I guess, usually right before the bug/windshield moment of impact. Strength is somehow holding it all together when all you want to do is fall apart. And it's doing it over and over and over.
So back to the question...Which is stronger? The windshield or the bug? Well the diplomatic answer is both, the logical answer is the windshield and the philosophical answer would be the bug. But I'm going to step outside the drivers seat and say the windshield wipers. They mop up the mess, they give the bug a dignified, swift disposal and they clean the slate for that enthusiasm to start again, fresh and new. Only for another bug and another windshield to throw themselves together.
So Miss Burberry, Miss McQueen, Miss Mulberry, or any of the other Little Misses in my life - I'll be your windshield wipers if you'll be mine? Sometimes I'll be the bug, sometimes you, and all of us can feel free to be the windshield with careless abandon. As long as the wipers are there with the strength and the courage to wipe the slate clean we can all start again, as many times as we damn well please.
And maybe along the way we can pick up some hot male car wash attendants! You know, just in case...
Ain't that life. Sometimes I get squished in a second, without warning and end up against the glass in a smear of emotional guts. Other times I'm the bringer of the doom hurtling at incredible speeds destroying anything in my way - life, small insects, males, whatever. But if I could choose, if I could self select my role in this indulgent adventure I'm considering titling 'My Life, take number 438' - what would I choose to be? Bug or windshield?
Big, brash, aggressive and destructive? vs. Small, volatile, poisonous and flighty? Freud, thoughts? What do I think would be stronger, the best choice for survival. What is real strength? A bulldozer or an ant? And how do you define courage that goes along with strength? Because to me it's courage that makes strength stand up.
Courage is one of those things we chase and admire in others. But it's in each of us. And granted, we can't be ALL the pillars of strength ALL of the time. But how often can we be one, a few or most of them, for one person, a few people or everyone? I think courage has to manifest itself 100 ways in every second of the day. It's going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm for the task. Without losing hope or belief. It's being the only one who knows you’re absolutely terrified. I guess, usually right before the bug/windshield moment of impact. Strength is somehow holding it all together when all you want to do is fall apart. And it's doing it over and over and over.
So back to the question...Which is stronger? The windshield or the bug? Well the diplomatic answer is both, the logical answer is the windshield and the philosophical answer would be the bug. But I'm going to step outside the drivers seat and say the windshield wipers. They mop up the mess, they give the bug a dignified, swift disposal and they clean the slate for that enthusiasm to start again, fresh and new. Only for another bug and another windshield to throw themselves together.
So Miss Burberry, Miss McQueen, Miss Mulberry, or any of the other Little Misses in my life - I'll be your windshield wipers if you'll be mine? Sometimes I'll be the bug, sometimes you, and all of us can feel free to be the windshield with careless abandon. As long as the wipers are there with the strength and the courage to wipe the slate clean we can all start again, as many times as we damn well please.
And maybe along the way we can pick up some hot male car wash attendants! You know, just in case...
Monday, February 8
Love is a battlefield
Apt words - It really is a jungle out there, from the initial phases of meat market hunting, arbitrage, information herding, catching and gathering in a virtual minefield, through to the weeding and culling, the selection of the perfect right hand man, tilling the field of prosperity, only to see the rains come and wash away all the effort and hard work. A then like a true committed and resilient farmer; unperturbed, you start again, from the beginning, hoping that the Gods will be kinder this time around and you'll make better choices. And then, finally when you think the crops you've planted are taking root and starting to yield, a flash civil war that tears the country apart.
Welcome to the United Nations of Me. Various national anthems depending on mood and shoe choice, a multi-coloured flag covered in sequins, national dishes of sushi and candy floss, nation wide sport of being ridiculous, a cabinet comprised of dear friends and myself as elected leader.
But to be fair, I never meant to start a war, a futile war of silence and non response. But if we really can't swallow our pride and one of us surrender with that pesky white flag then we're going to lose what he had. If we haven't already. I understand the game playing notions that are borne out of the final stages of a relationship. The end is often fraught with more complications than some of the initial courting dances, which understandably terrify those crossing national boarders. But we've now ventured into situations fraught with invisible, yet razor sharp lines of diplomacy and we're not wearing a helmet.
And still, I'm going to go out on a limb and say, perhaps in this war there doesn't have to be a winner, perhaps we could just call it quits and go back to either side of the ocean? What do you think? I'm not really into winning for the sake of it - I'd rather call a truce and have a buddy. But that's my country's policy. Call me a naive leader all you like, but in this matter I'm into peace not war.
Welcome to the United Nations of Me. Various national anthems depending on mood and shoe choice, a multi-coloured flag covered in sequins, national dishes of sushi and candy floss, nation wide sport of being ridiculous, a cabinet comprised of dear friends and myself as elected leader.
But to be fair, I never meant to start a war, a futile war of silence and non response. But if we really can't swallow our pride and one of us surrender with that pesky white flag then we're going to lose what he had. If we haven't already. I understand the game playing notions that are borne out of the final stages of a relationship. The end is often fraught with more complications than some of the initial courting dances, which understandably terrify those crossing national boarders. But we've now ventured into situations fraught with invisible, yet razor sharp lines of diplomacy and we're not wearing a helmet.
And still, I'm going to go out on a limb and say, perhaps in this war there doesn't have to be a winner, perhaps we could just call it quits and go back to either side of the ocean? What do you think? I'm not really into winning for the sake of it - I'd rather call a truce and have a buddy. But that's my country's policy. Call me a naive leader all you like, but in this matter I'm into peace not war.
Friday, February 5
World peace can wait
Last night at our favourite spot, The Bot Bot conversation was raging about chest hair. An odd topic you might think, but to four single girls, it's really what life is about. Ok - that might be a little indulgent, it's not world peace, but still, it's what we were talking about. It was the Davos of chest hair.
Do you utilise an undershirt to double up? Do you want to hide or expose? Do you button ALL the way up? One button open? Do you flirt with two? Are you 'all out to the wind' Hawaiian style? How much do you expose for Exposure's sake? It's like playing chicken with your clothing.
An Irish lad 'opened' the conversation, crossing the divide with an ambitious 2 button drop, at the encouragement of the four ladies he was joined by an Italian who managed to 'open up' as well, although I preferred his initial single button gap. If the truth were told, I've got to admit I'm not a fan of chest hair. I find it strange. I'm not entirely sure why - I just do. I think it might hark back to latent connotations with gorillas and nits or something. Either way I don't mind a one-button drop but two? That's ambitious, and really should come with large gold chains, brill crème slicked hair and tight jeans.
Male cleavage is a point of contention for most women, and I dare say the debate started with our jungle dwelling ancestors and will rage for long after I'm gone. Unless we genetically breed it out - hair, I mean, not men. So ultimately, we need to look past the selected button drop and remember that inside every shirt there lies a man. And, well, if under that they are also sporting another made entirely of hair...then so be it.
Davos chest hair session closed. Tea, coffee and cocktails will be served in the break. Lets come back promptly in 15 minutes and move on to world peace.
Do you utilise an undershirt to double up? Do you want to hide or expose? Do you button ALL the way up? One button open? Do you flirt with two? Are you 'all out to the wind' Hawaiian style? How much do you expose for Exposure's sake? It's like playing chicken with your clothing.
An Irish lad 'opened' the conversation, crossing the divide with an ambitious 2 button drop, at the encouragement of the four ladies he was joined by an Italian who managed to 'open up' as well, although I preferred his initial single button gap. If the truth were told, I've got to admit I'm not a fan of chest hair. I find it strange. I'm not entirely sure why - I just do. I think it might hark back to latent connotations with gorillas and nits or something. Either way I don't mind a one-button drop but two? That's ambitious, and really should come with large gold chains, brill crème slicked hair and tight jeans.
Male cleavage is a point of contention for most women, and I dare say the debate started with our jungle dwelling ancestors and will rage for long after I'm gone. Unless we genetically breed it out - hair, I mean, not men. So ultimately, we need to look past the selected button drop and remember that inside every shirt there lies a man. And, well, if under that they are also sporting another made entirely of hair...then so be it.
Davos chest hair session closed. Tea, coffee and cocktails will be served in the break. Lets come back promptly in 15 minutes and move on to world peace.
Thursday, February 4
I'm a loser by default- hmmm
Internal struggle #359: Why do I always need to be a winner? Even when I'm clearly not, in any classic way an actual winner. Why do I always have to be rewarded just for showing up? Woody Allen said that 80% of success is turning up. Well I don’t know about that Wood-ster. I mean, come on? Really? Do we honestly strive to achieve anything anymore, or do we simply assume by birthright, that, of course we will? Achieve that is, not strive.
My latest educational obsession involves Generation Y and its foibles - one of which seems to be the united notion of failure by participation. That's not to say that we don't participate, in fact, it points to the fact that 'participate' seems to be all we actually do. No one is ever singled out as a real winner and given an early 80's style bowling trophy, obviously not for lack of talent but instead for fear of alienating the rest. And so everyone gets a cheesy participation plaque to send straight to the 'pool room' (non-Australian readers please ref: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUUVYlVYNR4). Agreed, I guess this results in fewer aggressive alpha type winners and if that is the goal - fair enough. Teary 4 year old pre-schoolers everywhere thank you. But in the end, if there are no winners, does that mean there are only losers? If we never have to fight to win how can we really expect not to lose by default?
By never having to deal with winning or losing and the feelings of elation along side disappointment are we really being prepared for the bigger picture successes and failures of life? A friend mentioned this at dinner and it's had my mind in a whir since approximately 3am on Sunday morning at the exact time it was mooted. She has a point. Will our generation be a blundering crowd of 'also rans' even though we run faster, jump higher, think bigger, drink harder, speak louder and fight smarter than any generation than before us?
Look, I don't mind participating - don't get me wrong, I float with the notion that life is about the experience; the journey as well as the destination. But lets call a spade a spade here. It's also about winning. And I want to win. So quit moddie coddling me and hand out a first prize, the fact that I didn't win will bug me for about 5 minutes and then I'll learn the lesson of failure and move on. Seems pretty straightforward to me. If 80% of success is turning up perhaps we need to spend a lot more time focusing on the 20% that results in the winner/loser divide and hand out a lot less loser trophies.
My latest educational obsession involves Generation Y and its foibles - one of which seems to be the united notion of failure by participation. That's not to say that we don't participate, in fact, it points to the fact that 'participate' seems to be all we actually do. No one is ever singled out as a real winner and given an early 80's style bowling trophy, obviously not for lack of talent but instead for fear of alienating the rest. And so everyone gets a cheesy participation plaque to send straight to the 'pool room' (non-Australian readers please ref: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUUVYlVYNR4). Agreed, I guess this results in fewer aggressive alpha type winners and if that is the goal - fair enough. Teary 4 year old pre-schoolers everywhere thank you. But in the end, if there are no winners, does that mean there are only losers? If we never have to fight to win how can we really expect not to lose by default?
By never having to deal with winning or losing and the feelings of elation along side disappointment are we really being prepared for the bigger picture successes and failures of life? A friend mentioned this at dinner and it's had my mind in a whir since approximately 3am on Sunday morning at the exact time it was mooted. She has a point. Will our generation be a blundering crowd of 'also rans' even though we run faster, jump higher, think bigger, drink harder, speak louder and fight smarter than any generation than before us?
Look, I don't mind participating - don't get me wrong, I float with the notion that life is about the experience; the journey as well as the destination. But lets call a spade a spade here. It's also about winning. And I want to win. So quit moddie coddling me and hand out a first prize, the fact that I didn't win will bug me for about 5 minutes and then I'll learn the lesson of failure and move on. Seems pretty straightforward to me. If 80% of success is turning up perhaps we need to spend a lot more time focusing on the 20% that results in the winner/loser divide and hand out a lot less loser trophies.
Wednesday, February 3
Don't drink the water in Damascus.
Perhaps someone could help me out with a definition of a home? I've come to the conclusion that I'm not really sure I have one anymore. A 'home', as opposed to a 'house'. I know I still have one of those.
Is it somewhere you can always return to? A classic version with a Brady Bunch model family, with childhood memories of swings and cake fights. Hold up, but what if your parents move to Palooza? Is it, perhaps, a little less literal? Somewhere you base all your adventures, landmark bookends for all the stories in which you’re the main character? Alternatively, and unromantically, is it simply walls and a roof making up a place you yourself live? I'm confused.
I used to think it was a country, or a city in which you step off the plane and could 'breathe out' - somewhere everything wasn't so complicated, where you could anticipate life, somewhere just 'getting by' wasn't such a struggle. You knew certain things for sure - how to catch a taxi, sneak into a nightclub underage, if you could drink the water without losing 5 kilos, how to buy a loaf of bread and if you could cut lines without getting stabbed - the essential day to day stuff.
But now I'm not so confident in my 'breathing out' theory. I've started to feel an annoying void between anxious and comfortable, even in places that feature heavily in my passport stamp collection. Suddenly places I've never been seem oddly familiar and places I visit regularly are equally as foreign. My life itinerary has become a confusing mix of comfort and alienation. Juxtapositions between first class footrests and morphing carry on liquid rules, of pre-plane vino and post flight custom checks. I'm frustrated; homesick for a place I suddenly feel I've never been and might never know. Somewhere I can gently blend spontaneity with regulated life, where I can come home happy, where I know the number of paces it takes to cross a dance floor but not what bone shaking moves I’ll pull across it. Where I can be the star of my own midday and midnight show and where I can love my life without questioning the notion that I'm living it.
But on a more practical note...Is it really possible to be homesick if you don't have a place you automatically think of as home? After much deliberation, I've decided that I think you can. Primarily because if you think about the question in reverse it seems so improbable; just because you don't have a home doesn't mean you don't get homesick.
And by saying that I feel somewhat comforted, it seems I don't really need to define what a 'home' is after all. Because a 'home' in reverse has to be, by default, wherever I happen to be at any point in time. And for practical reasons if it's not a family, a landmark or four walls, then maybe it's just a friendly smile and trustworthy advice on drinking the water.
Is it somewhere you can always return to? A classic version with a Brady Bunch model family, with childhood memories of swings and cake fights. Hold up, but what if your parents move to Palooza? Is it, perhaps, a little less literal? Somewhere you base all your adventures, landmark bookends for all the stories in which you’re the main character? Alternatively, and unromantically, is it simply walls and a roof making up a place you yourself live? I'm confused.
I used to think it was a country, or a city in which you step off the plane and could 'breathe out' - somewhere everything wasn't so complicated, where you could anticipate life, somewhere just 'getting by' wasn't such a struggle. You knew certain things for sure - how to catch a taxi, sneak into a nightclub underage, if you could drink the water without losing 5 kilos, how to buy a loaf of bread and if you could cut lines without getting stabbed - the essential day to day stuff.
But now I'm not so confident in my 'breathing out' theory. I've started to feel an annoying void between anxious and comfortable, even in places that feature heavily in my passport stamp collection. Suddenly places I've never been seem oddly familiar and places I visit regularly are equally as foreign. My life itinerary has become a confusing mix of comfort and alienation. Juxtapositions between first class footrests and morphing carry on liquid rules, of pre-plane vino and post flight custom checks. I'm frustrated; homesick for a place I suddenly feel I've never been and might never know. Somewhere I can gently blend spontaneity with regulated life, where I can come home happy, where I know the number of paces it takes to cross a dance floor but not what bone shaking moves I’ll pull across it. Where I can be the star of my own midday and midnight show and where I can love my life without questioning the notion that I'm living it.
But on a more practical note...Is it really possible to be homesick if you don't have a place you automatically think of as home? After much deliberation, I've decided that I think you can. Primarily because if you think about the question in reverse it seems so improbable; just because you don't have a home doesn't mean you don't get homesick.
And by saying that I feel somewhat comforted, it seems I don't really need to define what a 'home' is after all. Because a 'home' in reverse has to be, by default, wherever I happen to be at any point in time. And for practical reasons if it's not a family, a landmark or four walls, then maybe it's just a friendly smile and trustworthy advice on drinking the water.
Tuesday, February 2
Finally IDOL has a good business plan!
I've been listening to a cheesy pop tune that's got me humming and thinking - granted, not a common mix...
Stan Walker's, Little Black Box has me yearning...to dance and to place an order.
I think my life needs something little and secret. Not a city guide with numbers of unknown drycleaners, cobblers and boutique hotels. Not a forbidden love affair (although I wouldn't be averted to one of these). And not a little black book with a list of names for whom my name still causes flutters. Nope - Instead, I need a real little black box, the industrial sort. The sort that records all the details of a May Day flight before it goes plummeting to the ground. A little piece of history that remains in tact through fire, water, brimstone and bar side banter. In fact, to be fair - if these little boxes are indestructible – why has no-one thought of simply building the whole plane from them?
Hmmmm. An indestructible little black box of emotion - I'd like that. I would like to stipulate that my little black box should strain airline convention and be accessible by me obviously. Negating those in places of power is mandatory, just in case there are sections which may need slight editorial input - you know, for security and copyright issues of course. And perhaps if it could be available at all times? Otherwise it would be rather pointless - I'm probably going to die choking on a banana sooner than in a Boeing 747. Please note I do not eat banana.
I think, honestly, it would save a lot of angst and drama - particularly on hung-over hazy Sunday mornings. I'd be able to point at certain moments and note - THERE! TOLD you he said that - TOLD you we went there, TOLD you! HA! A virtual self regulated Big Brother.
But instead life is a matter of he said she said. And that's as simple as it is.
And so to put you on the spot a bit Stan claiming to 'search through the wreckage of a love affair, there's a little black box in the middle of the ocean holding all the truth about us, it's a little black box, a record of emotion, everything that ever was.' Well, now you’re going to have to follow through on your business plan - even if it is in song form, because frankly, I'm going to need to get me one of these babies. Either than or a reality TV camera crew.
Stan Walker's, Little Black Box has me yearning...to dance and to place an order.
I think my life needs something little and secret. Not a city guide with numbers of unknown drycleaners, cobblers and boutique hotels. Not a forbidden love affair (although I wouldn't be averted to one of these). And not a little black book with a list of names for whom my name still causes flutters. Nope - Instead, I need a real little black box, the industrial sort. The sort that records all the details of a May Day flight before it goes plummeting to the ground. A little piece of history that remains in tact through fire, water, brimstone and bar side banter. In fact, to be fair - if these little boxes are indestructible – why has no-one thought of simply building the whole plane from them?
Hmmmm. An indestructible little black box of emotion - I'd like that. I would like to stipulate that my little black box should strain airline convention and be accessible by me obviously. Negating those in places of power is mandatory, just in case there are sections which may need slight editorial input - you know, for security and copyright issues of course. And perhaps if it could be available at all times? Otherwise it would be rather pointless - I'm probably going to die choking on a banana sooner than in a Boeing 747. Please note I do not eat banana.
I think, honestly, it would save a lot of angst and drama - particularly on hung-over hazy Sunday mornings. I'd be able to point at certain moments and note - THERE! TOLD you he said that - TOLD you we went there, TOLD you! HA! A virtual self regulated Big Brother.
But instead life is a matter of he said she said. And that's as simple as it is.
And so to put you on the spot a bit Stan claiming to 'search through the wreckage of a love affair, there's a little black box in the middle of the ocean holding all the truth about us, it's a little black box, a record of emotion, everything that ever was.' Well, now you’re going to have to follow through on your business plan - even if it is in song form, because frankly, I'm going to need to get me one of these babies. Either than or a reality TV camera crew.
Monday, February 1
Spanish candy?
I came home last week at 3am and promptly threw a stuffed reindeer Hercules had won me at a street fair out the window. The 3rd floor back window to be precise. I wanted no witness to the crime, nor did I want to have to walk past it in the morning. Upon reflection, that's when I made my decision. And threw any love for him out as well. What a waste of affection. I can't stand loitering on the sideline. I'd given him opportunities to have the 'this is not going to work' conversation - but he never said anything. And now cowardice in total silence. I can't abide that. Get in or get out. Cause someone injuries or stay off the field.
Perhaps that means I'm angry, but as far as I'm concerned it means currently I'm enjoying being a self-important, pretentious little shit. And you know what I say to that? 'So what.' Denial and my Zen calm are my survival techniques and I'm feeling so arrogantly contempt I don't care.
I want to sit down instead of the old lady on the tube, cut people off in traffic, leave my sticky lunch wrapper on the table, let important calls go to voice mail, steal someone's lunch money, give the bus driver the finger, press all the buttons in the elevator, drop my gum, ignore people on the footpath and push someone in the coffee line. I feel like an irrationally irritated 5 year old. And frankly, there is nothing better for a bad mood than scooping it up and sprinkling it over everything and everyone you come across, spreading it around a bit. Just like salt. 'Stand still while I rub salt in your eyes - it will make me feel better.'
But if I'm very honest with myself, it's not for everyone, and not everyone can be lucky enough to deserve my wrath. In frankness currently it's reserved for one person. And given the chance, I would use his heart as my personal piñata. Hell, I turned 25 didn't I - and 2+5 is only 7 - so how mature do I really have to be about this? I want a piñata. Now. I want a baseball bat and I don't want to have to admit to feelings of rejection.
The myth of Hercules might detail a man of strength and violence but if push comes to shove he's not winning this round. No way. Not in my bulletproof state and his of cowardice. Give me a piñata and a pina colada and maybe I'll go back to letting old people sit down on transport. Maybe.
Perhaps that means I'm angry, but as far as I'm concerned it means currently I'm enjoying being a self-important, pretentious little shit. And you know what I say to that? 'So what.' Denial and my Zen calm are my survival techniques and I'm feeling so arrogantly contempt I don't care.
I want to sit down instead of the old lady on the tube, cut people off in traffic, leave my sticky lunch wrapper on the table, let important calls go to voice mail, steal someone's lunch money, give the bus driver the finger, press all the buttons in the elevator, drop my gum, ignore people on the footpath and push someone in the coffee line. I feel like an irrationally irritated 5 year old. And frankly, there is nothing better for a bad mood than scooping it up and sprinkling it over everything and everyone you come across, spreading it around a bit. Just like salt. 'Stand still while I rub salt in your eyes - it will make me feel better.'
But if I'm very honest with myself, it's not for everyone, and not everyone can be lucky enough to deserve my wrath. In frankness currently it's reserved for one person. And given the chance, I would use his heart as my personal piñata. Hell, I turned 25 didn't I - and 2+5 is only 7 - so how mature do I really have to be about this? I want a piñata. Now. I want a baseball bat and I don't want to have to admit to feelings of rejection.
The myth of Hercules might detail a man of strength and violence but if push comes to shove he's not winning this round. No way. Not in my bulletproof state and his of cowardice. Give me a piñata and a pina colada and maybe I'll go back to letting old people sit down on transport. Maybe.
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