The Me I want to be vs. The Me you’ll see on TV (on The Biggest Loser)

Go to the gym, dickHEAD

What? You’re the dickhead, dickwank.

I’m not even kidding, this is ridiculous. I thought you wanted to look fab, super fab this year. I thought you wanted to look the best you’ve ever looked. Why don’t you tell them, babe, tell them what your new years resolution is this year. Go on, say it loud and clear so all the readers can hear you.

Let’s not do this here…

Say it. Say “My new years resolution is dot dot dot“

Sigh. Okay then. My new years resolution is to reach my optimum level of hotness…

And when, pray tell, do you resolve to reach this optimum level of hotness by?

Before I’m old and ugly and wrinkly and hideous..

Let’summarize. YOU want to reach you OPTIMUM level of hotness before you get old, you want to be the best you can be before you start going downhill, is that right?

Yes, that’s right.

I hate to break it to you, princess, but you’re no spring chicken. Time’s ticking, babe. Tick, tock.

Yeah I know but I’m comfy on the couch and Foxy wants me to cuddle her and I haven’t felt inspired to write a blog for awhile and now I’m inspired and this doesn’t happen all the time so I should take advantage of this inspiration while it’s here.

Am I hearing you correctly?! You want to sit on your couch and pat your cat (not cool) and allow your butt to spread while you write a blog that makes you sound insane which you’re then going to post on the world wide web and unashamedly harass your friends, colleagues and strangers you meet in bars to read. Get a grip!

That’s not the only reason! My sports bra cuts into me and even leaves marks! It hurts! It’s torture! I can’t go until I get a new bra.

Pish posh! You’ve been saying that for weeks! Just get a new bra already!

Ohhh if only it were that simple, money bags! I can’t even afford food at the moment! I’ve been eating toast all week!

Who you calling money bags?! I’m you, dickhead! How can I be money bags if you’re gutterscum poor?! Yes you’ve been eating toast all week and that’s exactly why you need to go to the gym! If this painful bra is really such an issue just wear a normal bra paired up with your gym top with the built in bra.

Just wear a normal bra? Just wear a normal bra?! Who’s side are you on?! That’s a ridiculous idea! God did not bless me with perky breasts to ruin them before I’ve even had children! Use your head, fool!

Well there’s no point in having perky breasts if they are camouflaged by your body fat!

*Gasp*. Oh no you di-nt!

Calm down, don’t do the girl thang and try to twist my words. I never said you were fat. If you keep eating toast and sitting on the couch and DON’T GO TO THE GYM then you will be.

You called me fat! You called me fat! I thought we were friends! So much for friendship!

Relax, you’re fab, just fab. Let’s not make this a chore, let’s think differently. You might even enjoy yourself.  You can listen to that Dolly Parton on the treadmill and do “those stretches” in front of the muscle men.

You’d like that wouldn’t you? Dolly, I mean.

Maybe a little and you would too so don’t play coy…. “Whhyyyy’d you come in here looking like that with your cowboys boots and your painted on jeans-“

“- looking just like a cowgirl’s dream, why’d you come in heeeere looking like thaaaat!”

That’s ma gurrl! Just Imagine it. You (us), a country saloon, checkered top knotted at the waist, toned fab abs peeking out from underneath. I’m offering a whole hour of Dolly Parton country saloon daydreams here.

Well…maybe you’re right…

Of course I’m right!

Yeah…Oh but I can’t!  Dave the gym dork will be there, and he’s bound to harass me and talk to me while I’m on the treadmill, and correct my tummy crunches and create awkward situations…

Dave the gym dork! Dave the gym dork?! Pfft! Get over yourself! He hasn’t looked at you for months! In fact, I’m pretty sure he hates you a little now, after you started snubbing him.

I don’t regret it for a second. He needed to be a taught a lesson. A lesson in appropriate length for gym shorts, a lesson in coolness and a lesson in understanding the boundaries between an early morning shift gym receptionist and an early morning gym attendee who has an aversion to forced awkward conversations (especially in the morning).

Whatever. We’re getting off topic. Gym.

This is boring! No gym!

But you love it. You can load up the weights on your squats and leave with your butt muscles aching in a pleasurable way. You know you love it when your butt muscles ache in a pleasurable way…

…It’s true I do love it when my butt muscles ache in a pleasurable way..

It’s getting tight. Make it tighter..

..Oh… but surely there’s some point when a girl should stop? It’s becoming problematic. I keeping knocking drinks over at parties with it, and it nearly caught on fire at Kirsten’s goodbye party when it tried to smother a candle.

Stop? Stop?! Do you think when Kardashian goes to the gym she thinks, “Oh that’s enough squats for one day. My butt is perky enough”. Do you think that’s how Kardashian got to be where she is today? Do you that’s how she overtook J-Lo as Hollywood’s bootyiest maximus?

Sweet Mary Jesus Joseph, you’re right. I can feel it starting to droop as we speak. I have to get out of here. I have to go.

Then, go, you fool, get out of here, and work that ripe apple of a hiney. I want to be able to take a bite out of it!

I’m going, I’m going!

 

Let’s talk about other people and feel superior

I’m not one to blow my own trumpet (well maybe a little) but I like to think that I am a fairly tolerant person. This statement is supported by my star sign, so you know it’s definitely true. While most parents pass lessons onto their children in areas such as cooking, sport and politics, my mother, for whom we’ve affectionately coined the nickname ‘Kooky Ursula’, passed on knowledge in areas such as astrology, palm reading and tarot cards, as a kind of family heirloom. Whilst I can appreciate the large amount of bullshit emitted through star signs and horoscopes, when it comes to my own star sign, the stars were most definitely accurate (well I like to think so). Being a Libran, I am well balanced (check) and diplomatic (check) and able to consider both view points (check). Ruled by the goddess of beauty and love, we are charming and blessed with social graces (check, check, check, oh Jesus God check). Of course, being a balanced Libran even I can admit; we’re not perfect. We may, every so often, be slightly superficial and materialistic, oh, and we’ve been known to have affairs with married men and tend towards becoming prostitutes. Whatevs. Don’t be so uptight. Despite being blessed by the stars, even I have my limits. While most judge others for their fashion sense, personal lives and recreational habits there are a few other specific behaviours that I deem worthy of judgment. I’ve explored some of the most antagonising although this list is not limited, and is continually expanding. Some of you may agree with these and others may be miffed and indignant. To those that are miffed and indignant, I’m sorry, but you’re wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong so damn wrong it’s heartbreaking.

1.      I judge body roasting

I’m not sure if the rest of you picked up on the small hint of judgment in my last blog, but I don’t much care for people who drizzle themselves with oil and lie in the sun. Roasting oneself. Like a chicken. Like some hideous muscle man from the eighties. I’m a tad hypocritical here, as I have been badly burnt on regular occasions throughout my lifetime. I’m terrible with sunscreen. I apply in patches; forget to reapply and often accidently buy the lower SPF+ rating. Around this time last year, my friends and I spent a weekend in Rottnest. Claire and I arrived in the morning, before the other girls, and when we met Alicia G at the jetty a few hours later, Alicia said that she could see me glowing as she got off the ferry, even with her sunglasses on. I’m aware I’m no sun safe saint and I’m doing my best to address this issue by now insisting that my friends put my sunscreen on for me, like a baby with poorly developed motor skills. Despite this, I feel a slight sense of superiority at the prospect of developing cancer as a result of sunscreen incompetence, rather than from an eighties desire to have roasted brown skin to contrast with your fluorescent green hyper colour t-shirt. If you lather yourself with oil, I reserve the right to think I’m better than you.

 2.      I judge carb-cutting

I judge people who don’t eat carbs. I’ve heard disturbing rumours that some people go months without eating carbohydrates. Years even. Some people permanently cut this food group from their diet. In my opinion, a world without carbs is a sad world indeed. Kate Moss said that nothing tastes as good as being thin feels, a statement I regularly propagate when I am going through one of my My Fitness Pal phases. I dare challenge the Queen of Waif: Kate Moss is wrong. Pasta tastes as good as being thin feels. Vegemite on toast tastes as good as being thin feels. I firmly hold the belief that if one desires to lose weight there are more appealing options than carb elimination. As my sister advised recently, “Don’t be afraid to sweat. It’s just your fat crying”. I tried to remind myself of this at the gym the other day, as I dripped brightly coloured hair dye over the chest press machine. As my face began to match the colour of my hair I kept fixated on my goal imagining plates of creamy pasta from Siennas. I reassured myself for my perceived unattractiveness by imagining that the men in the gym were observing my panting and sweating and rather than being disgusted, were creating salacious images in their minds. With a spoonful of imagination even the most gruelling of options can be transformed into a sexual fantasy, a far more appealing prospect than carb-cutting.

3.      I judge flag toting

Once again, regular readers may have observed a small hint of judgment towards those individuals who decorate their cars with reindeer ears at Christmas time. This judgment pales in comparison my feelings towards people who decorate their cars with Australian flags around Australia Day time. Flag toters may feel defensive about this issue: “Wha-?!” they’d exclaim indignantly. “A man’s got a right to love his own country!” You’re right, Bintang Shirt Wearing Flag Toter. You do have the right to love your own country. But if you love anything about Australian culture, surely you’ll respect the fact that the most unaustralian thing you can do is 1. Display patriotism 2. Use the word “unaustralian”. To a certain extent I agree with the flag-toters. It shouldn’t be such a horrible thing to be happy with the country you live in. Unfortunately, for some inexplicable reason, these flags can’t be exhibited without associations of stickers with ‘Fuck off, we’re full’ slogans written on them. I considered keying a car I saw with a ‘Fuck off, we’re full’ sticker on it recently. I wasn’t brave enough to face the wrath of the bogan at BP Express in Mindarie and so I left it, in silent disgust and drove extra angrily on the road for the rest of the afternoon, just to pay back society. While of course it does not make you a racist to display the flags, it does conjure images of Australian culture that make me cringe, and thus I judge the flag-toters.

4.      I judge people who like Two and a Half Men.

Words cannot express my distaste for this show.

To summarise a typical episode:

-Charlie does something annoying.

- Alan is uptight.

-Joke is made about sex with a hot bimbo guest character.

-The overweight housekeeper says something bitchy.

 -The overweight child receives canned laughter. Because fat kids are funny. Clearly.

Nuff said.

5.      I judge people who drink Diet Coke and Sugar free Redbull.

Just because a person might do something themselves doesn’t mean they are not judgmental at themselves for doing it. I have a Diet Coke and Sugar free Redbull addiction and I completely disrespect myself for it. Sometimes I buy a Sugar free Redbull even when I’m not tired, just because I like the taste. I’ve been known to throw tantrums when IGA fails to restock their sugar free section. I blame addiction.

After a severe dessert overdose in our last house, and a newfound awareness of diabetes, my housemate Alicia and I decided to cut down on sugar when we moved into our new house. Within the first two weeks of detox I started to experience sugar cravings. I tried my best to substitute these cravings with natural sugars through fruit but to no avail. In order to overcome these cravings I tried to fool my body that it was still receiving sugar, by indulging in Diet Cokes and Sugar free Redbulls. My body wasn’t buying it and was still craving physiologically but my mind was mildly satisfied and so I continued to refuel on these beverages. Alicia encouraged me on my detox, informing me that the first two weeks are the hardest, and after that you’ve conquered the addiction. Alicia was right. With only mild cheats in the first two weeks I thought I would treat myself by heading to the corner deli for some chocolate. I knew that this could be a slippery slope to get into. With a deli only two doors down from our new house, this first trip could kick-start the habit of making the deli chocolate stop a regular occurrence. I stepped out the front door. I stopped. I listened. “My body doesn’t want chocolate!” I realised. “I want fruit!”. All the women’s health magazines were right. It could happen. My body knew what it wanted; all I needed to do was listen to it.

The deli chocolate stop did not become a regular occurrence. Unfortunately the IGA phenylalanine stop did. I have achieved the ability to listen to my body and my body is calling crystal clear that it wants Diet Coke and Sugar free Redbull. I now take regular trips up to IGA for this purpose. And I hate myself for it. And I judge me and you for such a filthy, filthy habit.

6.      I judge people who describe themselves as ‘crazy’

“Don’t mind me! Me and my gals are just crazy girls! Honestly, we’re wild! We’re just wacky like that! If you see us out, don’t be afraid to say hi, we don’t bite we’re just crazy, crazy girls who like to have fun!”

If you describe yourself as ‘crazy’, I’m sorry but you’re not crazy. There’s nothing remotely crazy about you. You are a very common tale of a, likely, eighteen year old girl who has just discovered the clubbing scene in Claremont, and now thinks that getting drunk with her girlfriends in short skirts is the wildest idea anyone ever thought of, not that I’m judging getting drunk or short skirts. It’s the tale of the wannabe Keshas. It’s okay to have that belief as an eighteen year old, most outgrow this overexcitement. Most come to realise that there is nothing original or crazy about your life, after a chaotic night at Clubber, drinking cheap champagne from the bottle on the dance floor, pulling a ghostie exit on your friend despite the fact that you have her purse, waking up in your bed at 7am in a pool of your own vomit, and having to get up to go on a driving lesson half an hour later. It’s not crazy, it’s the life of an 18 year old girl who hasn’t learned to metabolise her alcohol efficiently enough. Unfortunately there are the small percentage of people who never outgrow this belief. And so I have to listen to people describe themselves as ‘crazy’ and politely feign interest as if what you have to say is something original in its wackiness. And silently judge you.

I know I’m not perfect. I have a bad habit of repeating my jokes. I talk in a baby voice when I’m asking someone to do something for me. I wore a leopard print dress without a bra the other day. So for those of you who are sitting here feeling stung, I urge you, go ahead and judge me back. As long as you’re aware that you’re wrong wrong wrong wrong so damn wrong it’s heartbreaking.

Oh Sydney, you’re adorable

Christmas holidays are an interesting time of year. Not only because it’s a time in which enthusiasts suddenly think it is acceptable to decorate their cars with reindeer ears, but also because for a solid few weeks each year it encompasses all things good and wholesome and loving and kind. It’s also an active time for travel. Lovers hightailing it to Bali, family holidays and lastly but unforgettably fresh off the plane West-turned-Eastsiders heading home for family reunions. This last one adds a new dimension to this unique time of year. When I was in the U.K I envied their culture which dictated that when selecting a university it is preferable to choose one far from the town you grew up in. I think it is a similar situation in the U.S: from my recollection, when Buffy finished high school she was forced to sacrifice an American rite of passage, by attending the local university, in order to continue her duties as a slayer. In Australia, I assume because of distance between cities, this is not the case. It is common for university students to live in their home city throughout their studies and even acceptable to continue to live with one’s parents. Therefore, while British and American students descend to an exciting adventure in a new city, Australian students usually remain tied to the same place they spent the previous eighteen years. This results in a mass of bored, dissatisfied, often whining (no offence) early twenty something year olds who are tired of their pleasant yet quiet home city and hungry for the “artier, more stylish, more open-minded, more eventful, way cuter guys who treat girls with more respect, cheaper food and drinks” grass on the other side, in the eastern states, generating a Perth bred rite of passage: to move to the eastern states after university and spend their remaining existence slandering their home city. On the other hand there are the Perth-borns who are left behind. This breed becomes bitter and defensive and clings strongly the fact that “Perth has the best beaches and the best weather and we have a rooftop bar now, two in fact”. Now this whole issue is a sensitive topic to Perth stayers and Perth naysayers and before I move on can I just say: I love Perth. I have grown up here and I enjoy my life here and can recognise its positive attributes. But I am also curious about the positive attributes that other cities can offer and when I finish my studies I would like to explore other regions. So sitting firmly on the fence let me make it clear that in no way does this blog intend to evaluate East Coast vs West Coast, because honestly I can’t be bothered dealing with the backlash resulting from the peculiar sensitivity many people feel for this topic.

But back to Christmas time. Approximately three quarters into December I notice a common theme amongst status updates. Facebook becomes bombarded with moans about “the cost of drinks” or the “amount of Southern Cross tattoos” in Perth. Yes Perth People; prepare yourself for the homecoming of the West-turned-Eastsiders. One friend on Facebook created an album titled “Oh Perth, you’re adorable” with photographic evidence of “adorable” Perth traits such as exorbitant drink prices and limited public transport. Whilst observing the Perth blues of many Westsiders-turned-Eastsiders on Facebook, I myself was experiencing my very own cross country Christmas. Yes, I had passed over to the greener grass. Not Melbourne, but the other “artier, more stylish, more open-minded, more eventful, way cuter guys who treat girls with more respect, cheaper food and drinks” alternative, Sydney. While Melbourne is well explored by the majority of Perth friends, Sydney sits beside it as its almost-as-cool big sister. I’m not talking from experience; or personal opinion, I’m simply relaying data collected from years of listening to whines of “Perth is shit. I’m moving to Melbourne. Or maybe Sydney. But preferably Melbourne”. When I heard the news that my mother and I were to visit my sister, Fi, for her first Christmas in Sydney, I was struck with a strange sense of curiosity. What would this city be like? It’s big…how big? Is it true they have a Topshop? Are the people less friendly? More pretentious? Do they have late night trading hours? Daylight savings? And what about this bogan rep I’ve heard whispers of, is it true? I was about to find us. When I flew across the Nullarbor, on the 22^nd of December, like an anthropologist visiting a Tanzanian tribe, I drunk the culture of the Sydney side, so that I could document this cultural exchange, hoping to facilitate peaceful relations and end the cold war between the East and West.

Growing up in Perth has been likened to growing up in Pleasantville. I spent my youth trawling the streets of West Leederville, rollerblading around Lake Monger in my hot pink stack hat and matching hot pink elbow and knee pads, and, on Pocket Money Day, buying 50c mix bags from the corner deli. When I turned twelve I was allowed to visit Subiaco without an adult and my friends and I would save our money and buy pointless ornaments and Dolly magazines. As teenagers we would party in the backyards of Mount Hawthorn houses and sneak sips of Passion Pop when the parents weren’t looking. Now, Pleasantville is very pleasant. But it means that when entering larger cities I’m struck with a sense of awed curiosity at the sight of less than pleasant surroundings. On my most recent trip to Melbourne a friend asked what I had noticed about the city. I lowered my voice and whispered “Um……everyone looks as though they have no money”. It wasn’t a criticism, rather an observation that added to Melbourne’s charm and was most likely a reflection of my conservative Perth eyes, which were unable to comprehend the Melbourne fashion; ruled by forces other than high heels and pretty dresses.

When I arrived in Sydney a similar curiosity struck. I had heard the dramas from my sister throughout the year as she settled into her new neighbourhood. “I think I’ve moved into a ghetto neighbourhood!” she panicked within a few days of arriving. She reasoned that, with a high proportion of fairy light decorated terrace houses in her area, her neighbours were either running brothels or extremely festive. Her concern calmed after she conducted research amongst Sydney bred friends who assured her that although her neighbourhood used to be ghetto and suburbs surrounding it may still be, it is no longer ghetto and is actually quite cool. The previous ghettoville of her neighbourhood even became a novelty as she bragged that the suburb next to hers was the one in which the latest Underbelly was filmed. I opened my Perth ears intently and took on board this embrace of poverty. When my sister whispered to me that the house opposite hers were drug dealers I thought to myself “How exciting! The big city life!” This conclusion was based on the fact that there were shoes hung over the power lines and she once saw someone waiting shiftily out the front of their house. The rumour was further supported by the sight of this sign in her underground carpark:

 

 That same night I went to bed exhausted after my day of exploration. I settled in beside my snoring mother and let the cool breeze enter through the window. The drug dealers were having a party. A drug party of course, as drug dealers do. There was a buzz of chattering and one male voice that bellowed above the rest, his volume and pitch getting louder and higher as the night carried on. And on. And on. I couldn’t sleep. Considering my options I thought, perhaps drug dealing neighbours wouldn’t take kindly to the request to karate the party from tired Perth tourists. I longed for my ghetto free home. I’ll admit; I’ve had trouble with neighbours over the years. There was the incident when I was ten, when Sarah and I, as young pranksters, threw mouldy lemons into the next-door neighbours pool. Trouble started when we accidently hit the neighbour on the head with one. And then there was the time when my friends and I accidently stole all my next door neighbours’ sailing trophies, mistaking the pile of possessions he had intended to be moved to his new house for the council street collection. It appears as though, in my Perth life, I am the outlaw, the one to be feared. I hadn’t banked on this loss of kingpin status in the Sydney streets. For the rest of my holiday the partying continued. I lay next to my snoring mother listening to the sound of wild drug parties. I felt like the littlest fish in the biggest pond.

I caught public transport by myself one day, on my way to Bondi. I enjoy taking time out alone on holidays to go on private wanderings. I like to imagine my life there and pretend to be a local. Now, I’m about to say something controversial and I just ask that people take into account my personal limitations with regards to coordination, as a way of understanding my claim.

I enjoyed myself at Bondi, perhaps more so than I ever have at a Perth beach.

 I know this is a scandalous thing to say and is a slap in the face to the Perth Stayers. Regular blog followers will know from previous posts that the beach really isn’t my thang. As mentioned in Even the Toughest Bitch Cries there is the issue of my pale lily white skin, and then of course the whole wave ducking deficiency. Since posting that blog I’ve had an overwhelming response from readers who firstly, demanded to know whether my statements were true, and upon confirmation that I was, in fact, telling the truth I was inundated with offers to teach me how to duck. I declined, however the frustration this issue generated in my peers made it clear that perhaps it was time I overcame this fear. I made my way to City Beach, the beach I was raised at, the beach in which it all started, when my mother dragged me to the water trying to convince me it was safe. The first sign I saw was this:

 

 I gulped and kept walking. Rather than swimming between the flags, as I had always been taught, this time I headed towards the other side of the groyne, the uninhabited side where people take their dogs and sunbake nude. I felt more comfortable practicing ducking when no one else was around which led me to question whether my fear is for my safety, or for the potential public humiliation of such an ungraceful experience. For the entire morning I strode along the shore searching for the perfect wave for me to practise my ducking. I mastered a few small ones, and given that this fear has haunted me for twenty one years now I feel this deserves a pat on the back. However, in this newly encroached territory I shifted my fear to another aspect of the ocean: the murky patches of water. Potential rips. I did my best to practise ducking, however, given the dangerous conditions surrounding me I was limited in progress.

When I arrived at Bondi it was as if Bondi had read my blog, and done it’s very best to address my criticisms. The sun felt gentle in the middle of the day, shining at an idyllic 30 degrees and I only had to reapply sunscreen once. The water was crystal blue, no murky water or deadly rips threatening to strand me at sea. Finally, and most favourably, the waves broke so far back that ducking wasn’t even an option, the swell just drifted placidly past me. With these delightful conditions even the most lacking in coordination was free to swim to their hearts content. Not only this, but observing the gentle conditions of Sydney surf made me reassess whether it really was so unacceptable, that as a twenty five year old, I still do not know how to duck under a wave. Perhaps Perth culture was placing unrealistic demands upon me, stating that I “should” or “ought to” know how, despite the fact that the opposite side of the country was living in blissful ignorance.

To make things fair I must address Bondi’s criticisms. The beach was packed and had a distinct early 90’s Beverley Hills 90210 feel about it. I was forced to sit close to fellow beach goers which resulted in some unintentional eavesdropping that both repulsed and intrigued me, much like the time I was forced to watch a video in health class of a woman giving birth. Behind me there was a bald, middle-aged, overweight American man surrounded by three beautiful Asian women. He insisted on lathering their backs with sunscreen and then when they offered to do the same to him he snapped at them “No way! I’m gonna catch some sun!”. He then lay in the sun for the entire time I was there, on occasions speaking patronisingly to the women, and often insisting they apply more oil to his back. Out of scientific interest I wanted to stay and watch cancer in the making, but alas, I had to mind my own lily white skin and so I made my way home.

On the train home I sat quietly by myself minding my own business. A woman sat opposite me in Adidas snap pants and a tummy skimming singlet. Her ten year old son sat beside her, toting a mullet and an Australian flag singlet. He was holding a plastic rifle that was probably designed to shoot darts, however, at the present time the kid was out of ammunition. This didn’t affect the boy’s confidence and he spent the train ride pointing the plastic rifle at various people, including myself, pretending to shoot them in the head. “POW POW POW!” he would scream, pointing the rifle at me and jolting his body with the force of the imaginary gun shots. The woman looked menacingly at me. “Hmm hmm hm hm” I forced a laugh with my lips tightly closed together; trying my hardest to pretend I thought it was cute. Oh Sydney, now that’s adorable.

Throughout the week the Perth to Sydney cultural clash continued to cause awkwardness. One night my sister and I took our mother out to dinner. We received the bill to pay:

Fi: “Everyone put in money for a tip here! They tip in Sydney”

Me: “They tip? But-but-but- I don’t have anything less than a twenty? Do I ask for change? How is this done?”

Fi: “You don’t? Oh…we have to tip!”

Mum: “I don’t have any money!”

Me: “Oh no it’s okay, I’ll pay by EFTPOS and tip from my card”

Fi: “Does it let you do that? Are you sure?….oh…if not I’ll just tip my 5 dollars”

Me: “Is that enough? Didn’t you say you’re supposed to tip 10%?”

This continued for awhile, so long in fact that we realised that by the time we had settled the dilemma that the wait staff had taken a very long time to attend to us and in fact, had given us poor service all night. We changed our minds and did not tip them at all.

My sister and I wanted to party afterwards. We placed our mother in a taxi and arm in arm sauntered down the street, flaunting our sisterly bond like some late 90s S2S song. First stop was a Western Saloon themed bar, Shady Saloons Tavern, which was mildly pumping. This is one thing the eastern states have mastered: themed bars. I heart themed bars. They could open an office party themed bar and I would still adore it for the novelty.

Our Perth-perpetuated-awkwardness about tipping continued at the bar. After a young barman took consideration to chat to us whilst concocting his own personal twist on our cocktails he returned our change after receiving his payment and turned quickly to serve the next person.

My sister fretted. “Oh no! We didn’t get the chance to tip him! That was rude of us! He gave us really good service!”

I was also ruffled by the exchange. When it was my round I knew I must redeem mine and my sister’s previous carelessness. This time when I went up to the bar it was just him and I. But I wasn’t in the mood for chatting, or recommendations or good service, I wanted my drinks and I wanted to leave. The barman did his job, left me alone. When he turned to leave I told him casually “Keep the change”. I didn’t realise the change was nearly ten bucks. When one is a student and is currently in between jobs, one should not really tip a ten dollar tip. The barman raised his eyebrows, probably confused by his hefty tip at minimal service and quite possibly thinking I was attempting to flirt with him. Never mind. My job was done. I had ensured that I had not violated etiquette by neglecting to tip in a culture that demands tipping.

These tipping conundrums have continued upon return to Perth. After a wine fuelled Karaoke debut in Northbridge the other night, I chatted with my friendly Ethiopian taxi driver. We bonded over topics such as Ethiopian food and the price of rent. “He’s nice and kind of attractive” my wine boggled mind thought. “I must tip him to reinforce this behaviour”. As I clambered out of the taxi outside my house I casually drawled “Keep the change!”. The taxi driver seemed baffled. “Um… but aren’t you a student? Don’t you need this money more than me?” he asked. I hesitated as I realised that he was right. Unfortunately social etiquette posits that it is unacceptable to request a tip back after it has been offered even if both you and the taxi driver are aware that you’re being a dickhead. I vowed the next day to forget these Sydney conceptions and stick to my Perth bred miserliness with regard to tipping in order to avoid future awkwardness and homelessness.

I have not only opened my wallet since returning to Perth, but I have opened my mind. I have learned to embrace ghettoville and I have come to terms with my own limitations in coordination and how they are shaped by my cultural context. Despite my cross cultural confusions I have developed a taste for the East and hope to make it back sometime soon but in the meantime it’s comforting to retain my Kingpin status in my Pleasantville neighbourhood, and know that if anyone tries to fuck with me I’ll be throwing mouldy lemons at their heads so hard they be pissin’ themselves.

One girl’s struggle through a curse of shitness

This is the part where I would like all potential employers to stop reading. But before you do let me just remind you that I always put 110% into everything I do. Okthanxbye.

After an unproductive day at university, I come home early, forgetting to open my mail on the way in. I go to my room and step on the bowl of water that is sitting on my floor. I used a bowl one night, for my midnight drink of water after I couldn’t find a clean glass. A soup bowl. My room is a disaster, to the extent where I refuse to let my housemates in, out of pure shame. There’s a brown paper Urban Depot bag sticky taped to the window, instead of a curtain. It has been that way since I moved in, over a year ago. I plug my phone into my charger. My phone battery goes dead very quickly these days after I failed to follow care instructions and tried to recharge the battery before it had fully uncharged. Breaking things rarely brings me disappointment, as I have come to expect that this is what happens to my possessions. I have had several video stores threaten to send debt collectors after me, all for fines below fifty dollars. I’m proud to admit I’ve never had a speeding fine, but I can’t park at the car park underneath Woolworths Subiaco because I’m refusing to pay a ticket that I received after my psychic took too long with my tarot reading at the markets. I recently regained a skirt from the tailor that had been out of action for months because of a broken zip. It took me forever to take it to get it fixed, and when they quoted the price I stated politely yet firmly, “Thankyou but I’ll go elsewhere”. With indignation, I took it home and it sat in a pile of my room for another six weeks until I resigned to laziness and took it back to the same tailor, praying that she wouldn’t recognize me. I am currently studying and am surprisingly super-nerd these days. My explanation for this is that I had extra time to mature throughout undergrad, when I was forced to repeat a unit after I decided not to go to the exam worth 60%. I received 8% for this unit. When I found out I had failed I cried down the phone to UWA student admin which made perfect sense at the time; but how did I not predict that I would fail, given that I didn’t attend the exam, the lectures or the labs? And finally but surely, of course, I was the kid in primary school who always lost their underwear after swimming lessons at Beatty Park.

 So in answer to your question, yes, I suppose you could say I’m a scatter-brain.

My family varies in degrees of scatter-brainaity, yet none as extreme as me. When I recently stayed at my sister Yvette’s house, in Melbourne, I was fascinated to learn that they have a spare room roster: a certain time each week in which each housemate was allowed to use the spare room for whatever they please- dance, yoga, meditation. Perhaps I’ll pitch this idea to housemate Alicia, so that she doesn’t come home to catch me in her bed again. That was awkward. My other sister Fi is more similar to me in this respect. She has the same unprejudiced attitude to pasta stained clothing (all it needs is a carefully placed scarf or a side ponytail) and her car permanently housed a pair of mannequin legs wearing pink suede cowgirl boots for almost a year. Yet her social life is so perfectly organised that her daily planner consists of essays and she averages about four friend dates per day.

Listing the consequences of what shall henceforth be known as my general nature of ‘shitness’ causes me to wonder with bewilderment how the hell it is that I’m not homeless? And even more baffling as that I actually do well at some things. How is it that I don’t get caught out?

I’ve come up with several explanations to explain why it is that I’m not selling the Big Issue on Oxford Street, although admittedly this mystery continues to flummox me:

Courtesy

The West Leederville Primary School motto was Courtesy. The PerthModernSchoolmotto was Savoir c’est Pouvoir (knowledge is power). Perthmod was wrong. Knowledge isn’t power, courtesy is. Looking back at the past twenty five years it’s clear to me that a great deal of successes, or rather, avoidance of failures, have not been the result of personal ability but rather the result of being able to camouflage my weaknesses with a sweet smile, a please and a thank you. I try to be polite. It’s a quality bred in those bookish types that chose to read Enid Blyton books when they were a child. I don’t say this to brag; in fact I don’t see this as a particularly cool characteristic to have: “Yeah, yeah I met this girl the other night. Maaaaan she was so polite, that is one polite chick! Dayum!”. Yo mean? Unlikely. The power of courtesy amazes me. Courtesy carried me through high school. I achieved solid grades in metalwork literally without ever making one single object and I excelled in sewing, after spending an entire semester making half a bag. I also received A’s, and a merit certificate in drama despite the fact that I spent my time sitting, talking and excusing myself for drinks of water whenever the teacher approached our group to tell us off.

 I recall attending a 21^st party, years back. It was hosted by my boyfriend-at-the-time’s little brother. The theme was ‘frat party’ and I decided to dress as a frat party slut. “What’s a frat party slut?” you say? Well I’m glad you asked. Imagine this:

- Slung over football player’s shoulder

- Super drunk

- Big, blonde bed-hair

-Grid iron jersey tied in knot to reveal mid-drift

-Red lips

-Red knickers

-Butt skimming mini skirt

-GIRLS GONE WILD scrawled on the stomach

Minus the football player, this vision was me. Similar to a joke, one should never go half assed for a dress up party. I was proud of my costume and sauntered into the party. The first guest I stumbled across was my boyfriend-at-the-time’s conservative 80 year old Muslim grandmother from Pakistan. I cringed and pulled in my tummy. She paused to read my stomach. “Girls gone-“. “Yes”, I interrupted pleasantly “I uh dressed as uh a girl who…likes to go to parties”. “Oh that’s lovely, dear”, she smiled. And with that we walked outside together. As I held the door open for her, I allowed her to lead the way whilst I attempted to cover my butt with the thin piece of fabric that made up my skirt.

And that, dear friend, is how courtesy gives you the power to get away with murder.

Extreme Nerdiness

I’ve provided a big long list of why I’m wackiest, quackiest, craziest cat on this side of the southern hemisphere at the beginning of this article, so I’m sure you’ll be astounded to learn that I’m not actually always as cool as I seem. Perplexing, I know. I can’t quite comprehend it myself but somehow my deficits are selective and only impede on certain areas of my life.

 I have an embarrassing example which I’ll surely regret posting, perhaps even more so than my tattoo kissing confession (which I’ll have you know, someone who I will respectfully allow to remain nameless told me that she could also relate to). I have a rigid and undeniably dorky method of learning my course material. Firstly, I print the lecture slides off Oasis before class. Completely normal. In class I take notes on any additional unlisted information. Still normal and appropriate and rather diligent, yes? Now here is when it becomes shameful: After class, like some teacher’s pet from the fifth grade I then use scissors and a glue stick to cut and paste all my printed slides into an exercise book, copying the additional notes neatly next to the pasted slides and highlighting any important points. I then read the entire lesson from start to finish before crossing this task off my to-do list, accompanied by a smug sigh of satisfaction. I’ve tried to promote the idea that nerdiness is cool these days, but perhaps even this crosses the line.

How can one example of such extreme dorkiness with reunited with a being so undeniably fetch?! How is it that this side of me can be integrated with the person who lost their good standing in year ten after oversleeping for a precise half hour every day for an entire term?

This nerdiness extends beyond university studies.

 In 2009, for those of you who can recall, Julie Goodwin smouldered Masterchef judges with her heart-warming proposal of a cookbook which aimed to get people back into their kitchens and promote the joy of food and family. In Our Family Table, Julie shares recipes have been passed down in her family through generations. The final section of the book is a blank chapter with pages for the reader’s own photos, clippings and hand-me-down handwritten recipes from family and friends. Well thank you, Julie Goodwin, I was inspired. When I heard this idea I marched down to the local newsagency with the aim of creating my own family heirloom to pass down to my children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. I imagined future offspring recreating my recipes of cheese on toast and homemade nachoes, licking their lips and thinking “Ahh, justa like mama used-a make-a!”. Most people creating a family heirloom would pick a timeless, classic design: some leather bound book their children would smell the garlic stained pages of and rub the cover fondly. Not I. I preferred to add my own personal touch of dorkiness to the task. I bought a 100 page exercise book for $1.29 and took it home where I proceeded to spend hours decorating it with culinary delights I had eyed off in magazines. Unfortunately I rarely buy magazines, and the types of magazines I do buy are not the type to contain recipes and so my selection of decorative devices was limited. Nonetheless I took my time and took hours to create a half-finished piece of artistic genius:

 

Breathtaking isn’t it? Who wouldn’t be inspired to jump in the kitchen at the mouth-watering sight of a diet yoghurt? I know my children will be grateful for the plethora of delights I hand down to them, that would never have been possible without this deep-rooted streak of extreme dorkiness inside me.

Invicibility

I have a (perfectly valid) theory that, in spite of my shitness, I manage to survive in a modern day world due to powers of invincibility. Before you roll your eyes, let me explain that this theory is based on empirical evidence and those who can’t be open to this really need to expand their minds. Listen carefully:

In 2008 I was reborn. It was ten years delayed but I made it there at last. I have a bad habit of being really late to jump on the bandwagon. I watched the entire series of Sex and the City years after it had finished screening on television. I’ve never watched Glee, Grey’s Anatomy or Gossip Girl. I have never seen Lord of the Rings. And perhaps most alarming, I don’t even know how to turn our television on. It’s not intentional, it more a reflection of my shitness. Another example of how my shitness impedes on my ability to stay in touch with pop culture and the modern day world. One series I was about a decade late for but have since never turned back on is Buffy. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I know what you’re thinking and you’re wrong. You’re wrong. Don’t judge. You don’t know. Buffy is one of the most finely crafted pieces of comedic drama in the series world. Trust me.

For those of you who need a refresh, Buffy was a regular teenage girl leading a carefree teenage life that revolved around cheerleading and boys. This changed when she turned sixteen and she discovered that she is, in fact ‘the chosen one’. The Slayer. It is her worldly duty to kill vampires, and thus she gains powers of fighting ability and brutal strength. The series started as a fluffy supernatural show but as it progressed and the ratings changed it turned quite dark. Since discovering this masterpiece I’ve noticed a certain few qualities I possess that give me hope that, perhaps, I’m Buffy. Maybe I’m a slayer. I pieced together this theory from several pieces of evidence:

1.My extreme pain threshold.

I discovered this in December last year. A friend was giving me a foot massage:

“Can you please do it a little bit harder?”

“A little bit more?”

“Bit more?”

This continued until he told me he couldn’t possibly do it any harder. He demonstrated on my friend Sarah the strength he had been using to massage and she screeched in agony. I had never before had my pain threshold compared to someone else’s. I never knew I was special. Admittedly, this discovery was made after several bottles of wine at my work Christmas party, and more drinks after, in which I had achieved a state of cascading poker chips from my cleavage and pretending to flirt outrageously with my friend, Darcy. That’s not the point. Regardless of how extreme pain threshold is achieved, it’s still an impressive power, and one that shall continue to support my argument of invincibility.

Who would have thought it?! Buffy, hey?!

2.“I’m like an Amazon woman. I’m one of those people who just never get sick. Honest! I’m just lucky like that I guess!”

I made this declaration about two weeks ago and it was one of my prime pieces of evidence for why I was Buffy. The next day I fell sick. And then I realised that this was the 3^rd time this semester I had had to take off prac for illness. BUT! I only stayed sick for a day and a half and didn’t even make it through my supply of powerful cold n flu meds. I did, however, fall sick again a week later after a remedial massage in which I thought I was going to pass out. Yeah, whatever, even Buffy passes out sometimes, sort of (she even died twice).

3.Reflexes like a cat.

You’re not going to believe me when I tell you this. I have a sporting talent. It’s true! I have one small but impressive gift from the gods of sport and coordination*. I am actually an amazing catcher. When I was ten I played T-ball. Highly valued by my coach, he would regularly put me out field. He put me as far out in outfield as he could. As far, far out from the business as possible. One sunny day a star was born. There I was, standing in outfield humming to myself. I gazed up at the blue sky and tried to find pictures in the clouds. Something interrupted my view. It was the ball, flying my way! I didn’t have time to think and thank god I didn’t because I surely would have panicked and moved to another position. Instead I just reached out my arm, opened my mitt and caught it. It had been a loaded hit- three runners were bound to get home. Nuh-uh. Not on my catch. I heaved the ball as far as I could which wasn’t very far and almost halved our advantage. Nonetheless the ball travelled through the bases and knocked three players out. I won the game. My mum bought me a chocolate dipped soft serve from Mr Whippy that day.

This catch was not a fluke. I am actually an amazing catcher. It’s likely my catching reflexes were forced to develop to such an elite level of skill as a result of my extreme lack of coordination. Whenever I knock something over, my reflexes must react fast in order to avoid disaster, with the end result being superhuman powers and invincibility.

And you all doubted my likeness to Buffy.

Life beyond Shitness

In spite of shitness my life is on track and accommodation is secure.  We are celebrating a victory at our house tonight after we were chosen out of eight applicants to be the proud renters of an adorable new house. But even tonight on my high I realise my triumph is tainted by shitness:

Enquirer: “What’s the oven like?”

                  “Does it have air-con?”

                  “Does it have any shade out the back?”

                  “How many toilets?”

                  “Is it semi-furnished?”

                  “How long is the lease for?”

Me:“Don’t know”;

       “I’m not sure”

       “I can’t remember”

       “Umm I’m not sure”.

       “Um I guess we will see when we get there”.

       “Twelve months, I assume?” 

Pfft whatever. I’ve got a roof over my head for now and I’m a WINNER dammit.

*Two talents actually. Tonight I discovered in Body Attack that I am gifted in the ‘running man’. For those of you who would like a lesson, I have provided a link.

Even the toughest bitch cries

 I’m a tough bitch. Tough mother fucking bitch. Tough Bitch V, that’s what they call me. Cook you dinner? Sorry sir, you can eat your dick for dinner before you’ll catch me in the kitchen. Children? Good for one thing and one thing only: bench pressing. I get a nod of acknowledgment from the muscle men in the weights section of the gym. “Oh it’s Tough Bitch V”, they whisper. “Here to put us to shame and make us look weak”. Seriously that’s what they say. Still buoyed up in confidence from my reigning championship as not only the strongest girl but the strongest PERSON in the West Leederville Primary School Class of 98, I like to challenge men to arm wrestles and I’m not lying when I say I actually win. Or have won. Once. Perhaps because I’m Tough Bitch V and Tough Bitch V NEVER loses. Loses her shit, yes. Loses a wrestle, never.

Here I am spreading the word that I’m this hard calloused unforgiving monster when deep down I have a secret:

I’m not really.

Tough Bitch V is a big baby. Oh what, you’re not surprised?! What gave it away? Was it the floral prints, white lace and pink fingernails? Oh you’re good. You are very, very good. Got some Grade A Sherlock Holmes’ in this audience. Anyway, for those of you who hadn’t caught on: I’m not actually as tough as I seem. It’s all pretence. I know, I’m a brilliant actress aren’t I? For a grown woman I am extremely afraid of a great many things and I feel apologetic for the large amount of complexes I am destined to pass on to my children. They don’t stand a chance. Some of these fears are specific, others are situational. Some of these fears can be traced back to a single event; others come out of left field. And so, like Superman with Kryptonite, Tough Bitch V confesses her weaknesses, perhaps as an example to you all that even the coldest, hardest, toughest motherfuckers can fear, and even the coldest, hardest, toughest mother fuckers can cry, and even the coldest, hardest, toughest motherfuckers still check under their bed every night, despite the fact that they sleep on a futon bed and know intellectually that a monster would not be able to fit underneath.

Magpies

Entirely justified.

 I wanted to write an entire blog on these disgusting creatures and their destructive imposition on our lives, communities and sense of security as a nation. International friends reading this may be confused. “Magpies?” You may think. “Those harmless light-footed black and white featherheaded friends?”.

No, Fools.

You are mistaken.

I believe the feather headed friend you lucky bastards from the mother country were blessed with was THIS delicate creature, am I correct?

Our magpies are another breed altogether and far more dangerous. In primary school a large part of our curriculum was devoted to teaching magpie safety through a program known as Operation Magpie.

In Operation Magpie the rules of magpie safety were heavily engrained in us:

-Wear sunglasses and head protection at all times

-Don’t stop, don’t run, just walk slowly away.

- When walking through a park wave a newspaper around your head

-Never EVER approach a magpie

 My first vicious attack was when I was seventeen. My friend Emily and I had just been at Woolworths in Subiaco and were walking through the Subi Centro Park on the way back to my house. We had been shopping for groceries to take with us on Leavers week and were chattering excitedly. I stopped. Black and white feathers perched up on the pergola eyed Emily and me off. I veered in the opposite direction. Emily scoffed, “It’s not going to hurt you!” and continued walking past the magpie. I heard a squeal and I turned to see Emily clutching her face. “It bit me!” she cried. Then I spied the predator watching me. I started to run. It lifted from the pergola. I pushed my legs faster, running as quickly as I could through the park. I dropped my shopping and left it splattered in pieces across the grass. I kept running. I could feel the wind from its wings upon my neck. Just as the beast was about to catch me, I tripped and landed face first in a bush. My own lack of coordination had saved me. Emily was recovering on the other side of the road. Shopping was scattered everywhere. “Just leave it!” I shrieked. “Let’s go!” .But Emily bravely rescued our 100 dollars worth of groceries that I was willing to forget and we hurried home where we calmed ourselves with cups of herbal tea and hugs from my mum.

And you call me the fool.

Fear of magpies? Entirely justified. However, I do agree that this fear of magpies is impacting on my life in a negative way. Inspired by the cool summer breeze and the children playing in the streets, last weekend I thought I’d take a walk. I was feeling wholesome and healthy and wanted to bask in summer’s glory and gather my thoughts. I drove to Lake Monger. Within two minutes of stepping outside the car my plan was foiled as I detected something alarming. Sweet Mary Jesus Joseph. My heart pounded. But I saw an opportunity for a story and like any good investigator couldn’t resist. I put my life on the line for this photo:

 I hurried home quickly. When I returned so suddenly and told my story, my friends mocked me. “Oh Silly! I walk through there all the time! It’s fiiiine. You can’t let this fear run your life”. But what did they expect me to do? My plans for a wholesome, healthy day came to a halt. Every outdoorsy activity I could think of had some risk of magpie attack in them. I then resigned that I had no choice but to do my alternative favourite midday activity: Hang out in Alicia’s air-conditioned room when she’s not there.

Another time I needed to go to the shops to buy some bread. I considered driving for convenience but then I thought to myself once again that I would attempt to be wholesome and walked to the stops. I put my earphones in, listening to Kelis. “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard”. I dreamed myself down the street. On the way back home I spotted a magpie. I gasped, turned in the other direction and started walking home another way. Walk, walk, walk, walk, STOP. I spotted another! Shit. Both pathways home were blocked. I was stuck in the suburbs and I couldn’t get home. I considered calling a housemate but had forgotten my phone. There was only one thing I could do. I sprinted down the street at my very fastest, and swung one arm around my head like I was lassoing something and covered my eyes with the other arm. I made it home. I was lucky that day.

The thing is, I know I’m right. But other people don’t believe me. Other people mock me. And please please don’t think I’m a bad person for this but the other day I saw a dead magpie- and a part of me was happy. I’m sorry but it’s true.

These creatures are taking over our communities and no one else cares.

The Ocean

Being Australian is hard sometimes. Aside from the whole magpie risk, people expect you to be outdoorsy and good at sport and swimming and things that a girl growing up in a household of girls is not good at*. There’s also the pressure of the tan! “If you’re Australian why are you so white?”. In Ibiza I was approached by a panicked German tourist at the beach. “Oh miss! You are so white! Oh my goodness! Have you got sunscreen on? Oh my goodness! Please, is it 30+?”. He was genuinely concerned for my safety. I feel like my bloodline must have originated in really cold conditions because I’m not physically evolved for this climate. I don’t do well with hot weather. I get grumpy. I burn.

Consequently I am not a beach person. Put me in a pool and I can swim fine but my coordination at the beach is lacking. I never learned to duck under a wave. You know, the essential skill every child learns to avoid getting dumped? I never learned it. I have a distinct memory of, as a four year old, my mum having to drag me into the ocean crying because I was so frightened. She put me on her shoulders and comforted me: “See, the waves can’t get you from up there”. She was wrong. A wave came and knocked us both over. I was swirling through the water, salt water running up my nose. I did my best to swim to the surface but I realised too late that I was swimming towards the ground. The waves carried me up to shore and I lay there crying until my mum found me. So basically, the skill of ducking? I ain’t got it. Being a grownup without this basic skill is pretty embarrassing. When I go to the beach with friends, my friends swim out far while I stay in the shallow end. When a large wave comes I have two options: I can either try to jump over it, which sometimes works, or I could start running from the ocean to the shore, which let me tell you: never EVER works. It is dignity defying act that usually ends with me dragged under the wave, bikini top flying, and sand dragging down my bather bottoms.

Another thing that’s dignity defying is my attempt at mingling with the creatures of the ocean. Take my recent snorkelling attempt in Thailand. Alicia (G) and I paid, by Thai standards quite a bit of money for a snorkelling trip around the islands. It was a private tour, just me, Alicia, and the Thai guide who was driving the boat. He took us out to the middle of the ocean, stopped and pointed vaguely in the direction of the reef. Alicia dove from the boat confidently and started swimming towards the fish. I went to do the same. I couldn’t. I clung to the ladder on the side of the boat and looked hesitantly at the water. I experimented with putting my head under while still holding on to the boat. Fish surrounded me and it suddenly sunk in what snorkelling was. I knew I had to be brave. I cautiously let go of the ladder and tried to explore. One thing no one had ever told me about snorkelling: you’re supposed to swim gently, not efficiently. I know this now. I was attempting free style over the reef, without much success. I kicked my way through, splashing water everywhere and creating a sense of chaos. Alarmed fish racing everywhere. The bread which I was supposed to use to entice the fish was thrown as far as I could manage, in an attempt to distract the fish. Further problems arose: the kicking and spluttering was causing my mask to fill up with water. I began to choke and I had to pull it off. The Thai guide was calling out to me in concern. He looked panicked. He obviously thought I couldn’t swim and obviously thought I was drowning. He threw me the lifesaving donut. I tried to act casual. “No it’s okay, I’m okay” I swam coolly over to the side of the boat. Alicia, having noticed the kafuffle swam over and gave me a brief lesson in snorkelling. From then on I was better, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling of terror when the fish swam towards me. The next part of the trip was a kayak through the islands. I made it my very own number one personal responsibility to become the best damn kayaker that our tour guide had ever seen, in an effort to redeem myself.

Sometimes my own lack of coordination still surprises me.

Awkward Greetings

Close friends, distant friends and probably even acquaintances will probably already know this about me. One of my greatest life’s greatest fears that has given me so much distress over the years is my fear of the awkward kiss/hug. Even the name of this fear is awkward. I would be shocked if no one had ever experienced this, and no one had ever been mortified by at least one awkward kiss/hug throughout their lifetime. There are so many possible combinations and every awkward kiss/hug stems from confusion. This never would happen if we were a historical culture, like France or Italy. The problem in Australia is that we don’t have a standard greeting. Sometimes we hug, sometimes we kiss, sometimes we do a combination of the two and sometimes we just wave. With all these potential greeting combinations there is no wonder that the decisions result in confusion.

One kisser+ one hugger= accidental kiss on the ear/neck

One person kissing on both cheeks + one person kissing on only one cheek= A sense of rejection for the person attempting to kiss on both cheeks when the kissee doesn’t reciprocate.

Both kissers kissing on both cheeks + confusion about which side first= Accidental kiss on lips.

This last one is particularly awkward when greeting family members. My sisters know the familiar discussion on the way to family events “So are you going to greet with a hug or a kiss? Because we all need to do the same thing because otherwise there’s confusion. What if they are sitting down? And when we leave as well?”

Extra variables to consider: if you are carrying food, if you are carrying presents, if it’s a hot day, if it’s a big group of people sitting around the table.

I’ve had too many bad experiences to let this fear go.

I had a memorable one with a former bus buddy from my teenage years. We became friends after catching the bus everyday (as you do on the 441). He would frequently message me and ask me out. I used to pretend I didn’t notice or talk loudly about other boys I was interested in. As all bus friends do, we grew apart. I ran into him in the city years later. He went in for a hug; I went in for a kiss on the cheek. What was the result? Kiss on the neck. His neck. My lips. My lips on his neck in the middle of the Murray Street Mall. His eyes widened with surprise.

“Still got the same number?”

And again it started.

It’s hard to know what came first: the awkward greeting itself or the fear of the awkward greeting. I have a classic example of how my fear feeds itself and creates further awkwardness. It was the summer of 2003 and I was seventeen, having just graduated. I ran into a boy from the year below. In our final year of high school there were a select few Year 11s who we deemed cool enough to be invited to our parties. Having exhausted the supply of eligible males in Year 12 by the end of high school, this particular year 11 had caused a stir amongst the female Year 12s. He had blonde dreadlocks and played in a band. Dreamy. Despite the fact that he was a year younger than me, and therefore, by high school standards, an inferior level of coolness when I saw him at the train station I was shy. I walked up and said hello but my mind was elsewhere. Although I had already started a conversation with him, my mind still had not made up whether I was going to greet him with a hug or a kiss. We spoke about school and summer plans and starting university yet throughout the entire conversation in my head over and over I was pondering “Should I hug him? Or maybe I should kiss him? Or maybe a kiss and a hug”. About five minutes into the conversation I made up my mind. I leaned over and hugged him. He was surprised, to say the least. I think he thought I was attempting to kiss him on the lips in the middle of the train station and he looked extremely uncomfortable. Our awkward encounter was never acknowledged and still to this day I feel relieved in the fact that I never ever saw him again.

Perhaps historians in the future will write about the ‘Age of Confusion’ in Australia, in which a strong cultural identity had not yet been developed, resulting in decades of awkward greetings and  consequently a constant state of public fear.

Seeing someone you know when you are out on a date

First dates breed anxiety. To start with there’s the issue of how to greet, and then there’s the whole constant evaluation thing. I’m sorry to burden you with this information but for those of you who are already not aware, allow me to introduce you to, an additional source of evaluation on a date. The other people. The strangers. Don’t fool yourself for a second if that they don’t realise you’re on a date. They know and they’re smiling smugly to themselves. It’s a humiliating experience being on a date, particularly a first date. Trying to present your most positive side and pretending that catching up for a drink with an almost complete stranger is completely normal without either one of you acknowledging that you’re on a date, as if, if things don’t work out you can pretend that you are just catching up as friends. “Well it was great catching up! We should do it again sometime! See ya round, buddy!” The surrounding strangers are all aware of the awkwardness and they are there to seize you up while it’s occurring.

 But the strangers I can deal with. What really frightens me is the idea of seeing someone you know whilst on a date. People who know you are more in tune with how you are normally and therefore are even more in tune with the sense of awkwardness of being on a date, which is even worse if you have decided half way through the date that you never want to see the person again.

 I can trace my fear of being seen on a date to a single incident. When I was fifteen I was naive. The very same bus friend who I discussed earlier invited me to the movies. “Oh, that’s nice!” I thought. “He’s never invited me to the movies before! He must really want to be my friend”. We caught the bus to the city together and went to Cinema City and watched Vanilla Sky. I remember an air of tension between us during the sex scenes. After the movie we got a kebab from the food court. We ran into a Phys Ed teacher from my school at the food court and the thought struck that he would think my bus friend was my boyfriend. For the rest of the day I was completely and utterly aware of the fact that other people would think we were on a date. We caught the bus home together. He asked me if I wanted to go to his house to hang out. I didn’t want to but I didn’t want to be rude so I said yes. When we were waiting at the bus stop we bumped into my sister, who also knew him from the bus. My sister had an amused look on her face as she seized us up. He proudly told my sister that we were heading back to his house. My sister raised her eyebrows “Oh really?”. I desperately wanted to tell her that I didn’t like him and was only just starting to cotton on to the fact that we were possibly on a date but I had to politely sit with my anxiety. I stayed for an obligatory half an hour at his house and excused myself when the atmosphere got distinctly date rapey, minus the threat of actual rape and triple the cringe factor. When I got home I got recieved of questions from my mum and my sister, who had informed everyone in the household that she had seen me out on a date. I vowed from this day forth that I wouldn’t never ever been seen again by someone I know whilst on a date, even an accidental one.

 Moral Message

And so you can see children, like a mouse is scared of a cat, and like a cat is scared of a dog, even Tough Bitch V got scared. And because our vulnerabilities shape us to be who we are, we have to respect them, not resist them. And just like Superman’s Kryptonite gave him strength by making him value what he could defeat, Tough Bitch V’s strengths of awkwardness and uncoordination would not exist (as strongly) without her fears of magpies, the ocean, awkward greetings and being seen by someone she knows on a date.

 And that is the circle of life.

*That was sexist. Acknowledged.

Secret Solitary Behaviour

I like to think I have a large selection of friends. I have a smaller selection of inner circle friends who all live within a few kms of me, and I have a household full of friends. But for the majority of the day, during the week I spend my time alone. A lot of the time my work is solitary and I work alone in my office. I drive to university every morning alone. Every morning I stop off at Greens and Co (ck) alone, and then drive home alone at night too. My favourite song to sing in the shower is All by Myself – and in all honesty – I prefer to shower alone.

Before you all start feeling sorry for me and inviting me to car pool or share showers can I just put a disclaimer in:  I have plenty of options, should I desire company. And I make use of these options often. My housemate Alicia knows the familiar knock on her door signals “I’m bored. Come drink chai latte with me”. But being alone gives me time to engage in my secret solitary behaviour which often I’m not even aware I am doing. Sex and the City fans may be familiar with the term ‘secret single behaviour’: the mysterious and often embarrassing behaviour one engages in the absence of a spouse. Secret solitary behaviour encompasses this but is a broader term. Secret solitary behaviour isn’t necessarily behaviour one has to be single to engage in, everyone does it, single or taken. This is the behaviour we all engage in when we are physically ALONE. Other than the obvious*, I’m really interested to know what everyone else does when they’re alone. I would love to hear the blatant truth of what one REALLY does when they say “I’m just going to my room”. I don’t believe you, you can’t be doing nothing, what are you doing dammit?!

And so I’m laying it out there raw, and I hope that others will follow suit and soon secret solitary behaviour will become a recognised extracurricular activity and I’ll never again be stumped when someone asks me what I do in my spare time.

Self Suckling

It’s not what you’re thinking. Actually, it’s EXACTLY how it sounds, but it’s not what you’re thinking. Let me explain. For those of you who don’t know I’ve somehow developed a reputation as an obsessive cat lover**. Which I’m totally cool with of course, because I’m so totally comfortable with my own level of coolness that I’m confident that I remain cool, despite this reputation. When life hands you a rep there is only one thing you can do: OWN it. So after an amazing holiday in Thailand in which I was high on excitement and nothing else, I entered a tattoo parlour, and took a well thought out five whole minutes to select a picture of a kitten to be forever engraved on a highly conspicuous position of my forearm. A range of emotions followed: pride, excitement, regret, panic and acceptance. Acceptance not only for the picture on my arm but also for the lifetime of probing questions that it entices:

Enquirer:“Why do you have a cat tattoo?

“What does it mean?”

“Is that your cat?”

“Did you have a cat that died?”

Me:            “Umm because I had a really good holiday in Thailand.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, I just like cats. “

“Yes, I have a cat, and I also have a cat that died but this isn’t that cat, it’s just a cat, and I liked it so I got it”.

This answer is usually met with an expression that translates to: You DICKhead. Point taken; it is a pretty superficial reason for choosing a tattoo, but to counter-argue: can’t I choose something without needing some deep reason, simply because I like it? Isn’t it a little precious to have to wait for some signal from the universe to draw a picture on my arm? Meaningless and all, I have actually come to really love my tattoo now, and am almost sort of in awe of this thing is just STUCK to my arm for the rest of my life.

Now this next part I can’t explain. I don’t understand it, I don’t think before I do it, I just sometimes find myself doing it and I don’t know why:

I kiss my tattoo.

This is not some twisted form of masturbation, and I swear to you there is nothing sexual about this act! It’s not even an emotional act! When I kiss my tattoo I feel no connection to it, my heart remains stony and my blood runs cold! My only explanation is that it is some warped oral fixation which has extended through childhood, much like one would chew on their nails, or on a pen. Did any of you when you were little find yourself sucking on your arm out of boredom only to discover you had accidently given yourself a hickey? Please tell me you did, and please tell me I have not just revealed yet another freakish arm suckling fetish. Can I stress one more time, this is not sexual? It’s nothing more than random brain activity urging me to do random physical things that I would appreciate if we could never ever mention again beyond this web space. Starting now. Thanks.

Existential Crises

I recall one dusky evening when I was fifteen I was sitting on the 441 bus, by myself this time. There were a few other passengers on the bus and I found myself observing them, making judgements and imagining what their lives entail.

A sudden thought struck.

Other people could be doing the same about me. And to them, I would just be a stranger. And they would know nothing about me except what they see. And what would they think? What judgments would they make and how would they imagine my life? And this train of thoughts set off this whole realisation where I became aware of the fact that to others, I am a stranger, and no one knows me as well as I do. I have more insight into my life than anybody else in the world. Think about it.

This spurred a habit of looking at myself in the mirror in fascination thinking “Oh my god. I’m me. That person in the mirror is me. And I know this person better than anyone else on the earth and I know all my secrets”. Not in a hearing voices crazy kind of way, more like an existential crisis, meaning of life kind of way. Just to clarify. I actually dare all of you to do it- look at yourself in the mirror and look at your face and think about what it really means that that person is you.

 Sand through an hourglass

I have a fake iPhone, a Samsung Galaxy. I’m not much of a phone person. It took me 10 months of owning a smartphone to realise I could actually download apps. I was very excited; I downloaded “Talk Italian (Free)”, had a 2 day infatuation with My Fitness Pal, and downloaded Heytell; which I currently use to communicate with one person, and one person only works in the room next to mine. All the essentials. After this brief honeymoon period I continued to use my phone in exactly the same manner as someone with an 80 dollar Siemens might: I talk, I message, and occasionally I’ll access voicemail. But the one feature of the Galaxy that I find incredibly useful is the layout of messages. iPhones and Galaxies and likely other smart phones are programmed so that when you go into Messages, the entire conversation you have had with an individual is laid out in one folder. This feature allows me to engage in one of my favourite solitary past-times: Selecting conversations and reading them like a story book from start to finish. Reading messages provides a log of all the events that have happened throughout the year, and is fascinating and often hilarious to read (in retrospect).

I do the same thing with my hotmail account, which is even more entertaining because it I’ve owned that account since I was fifteen years old. I’ve dug up some pretty hilarious emails from my teenage years. Take for instance this line, written in an email to a friend who shall remain unnamed, aged 16:

“i cant believe XXX has a girlfriend. what a fucking dickhead. who is this XXX chick anyway? does she go to our school? hello what the hell is XXX problem doesnt he realize he could have you? he is obviously a loser who’s too shy to ask you out and so he is settling for some ugly girl who’s name is XXX ha what a crap name it is only one syllable!!! what a loooooooooooooooser!

Omgggggggggggg!!!!

Hours of entertainment. I only wish I had kept my old diaries from when I was eleven. I know for a fact there was an entire entry devoted to my burning desire to own a bra and let’s face it there is nothing more entertaining than prepubescent anxiety, and anyone who has ever read a Judy Blume novel can back me up on that one.

In Reverie

I just googled ‘reverie’ which according to answers.com is defined as a state of being pleasantly lost in ones thoughts. I’m appalled in myself for not discovering my new favourite word earlier. I know good old fashioned daydreaming is nothing new. Kermit the Frog introduced this concept decades ago when he proclaimed that “Someday you’ll find it, the Rainbow Connection, the lovers, the dreamers and me”. At an early age I identified as one of the dreamers. I often have people comment that they catch me laughing for no reason, or sometimes even letting a few words slip. The other day I was walking down the corridor creating a Bold and the Beautiful type scenario in my head and I found myself slapping myself across the face. Like any good soap opera, sunshine and smiles don’t always get the ratings as far as my daydreams are concerned.

These are some favourite re-runs from my childhood:

When I was eight I loved the Ricki Lake Show. “Go Ricki, Go Ricki, Go Ricki, go go!” I would chant at the end of each episode. I would regularly fake sick so that I could watch Ricki Lake, to the extent where one day my teacher pulled me aside and asked if I was being bullied. This was the only possibility that Ms Hawson and my mother could identify for why I would want to stay home from school. Fools. Would they not even stop and consider a trailer trash talk show addiction? One of my favourite fantasies at age eight was that I would be a guest on the Ricki Lake show. This fantasy usually took one of two twists.

Scenario 1

I was sitting onstage waiting for Ricki to tell me why I was on the show. All I had been told by the producers was that someone had brought me to the show because they had a surprise for me. Ricki introduced me to the audience and asked if I had any idea why I was there. She was cagey and wouldn’t reveal anything. When I said I didn’t have a clue Ricki responded with “Well let’s find ouuuuut!!” and called out my mystery guest. It was my boyfriend, Jayzon, who I had met in college and been dating for nearly a year! I excitedly ran to hug him. From behind his back he pulled a bunch of red roses. I was thrilled. Ricki struggled to contain the crowd and I sat back down in the chair ready to receive my surprise. Jayzon knelt in front of me and reached in his pocket, pulling out a jewellery box. He opened it to reveal an HUGE sparkling diamond. Ricki and I squealed in unison. “V”, Jayzon said, “We’ve been dating for nearly a year now and you’re my everything. Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?” I burst into tears. “Yes, yes a thousand times yes!!”.

And his lips met mine and we lived happily ever after.

Scenario 2

I was sitting onstage waiting for Ricki to tell me why I was on the show. All I had been told by the producers was that someone had brought me to the show because they had a surprise for me. Ricki introduced me to the audience and asked if I had any idea why I was there. She was cagey and wouldn’t reveal anything. When I said I didn’t have a clue Ricki responded with “Well let’s find ouuuuut!!” and called out my mystery guest. It was my boyfriend, Jayzon, who I had met in college and been dating for nearly a year! I excitedly ran to greet him and he kissed me back but he looked nervous. I sat myself down in the chair waiting to receive my surprise. Jayzon sat beside me in silence. Ricki waited impatiently. “Soooo Jayzon? Aren’t you going to tell the love of your life why you brought her here today?”. Jayzon rubbed the back of his neck and lowered his eyes . “Yes baby what is it? “ I asked. “V….we’ve been dating nearly a year now and you’re my everything….but there’s someone else”. My heart stopped. I hid my face. “Who?! Who is she?!” Jayzon cleared his throat “It’s your best friend. Taneesha”. I burst into tears. “V….baby girl….I’m sorry” Jayzon whispered. With that, I snapped, stood up and smacked Jayzon square in the jaw. The crowd went wild. “Pig!” I spat in his face and stormed off stage. My blood was boiling and I paced around angrily backstage. Ricki found me. “Some men are just jerks” she said. “Come on girl, I’ll show you the city”. With that Ricki took me on a girls night out. Which for a eight year old equalled a slumber party. And with all the pillow talk and makeovers and shoulders to cry on Ricki healed my pain and became my Best Friend Forever.”

For those of you who would like a reminder of this high quality programme I’ve provided a link which I encourage you all to take a look at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldKl0rz5PrM

As the years have passed my Ricki Lake fantasies have subsided and other fantasies just as ridiculous and nonsensical have emerged, and thus I remain closely in touch with being out of touch. And I enjoy it. Alone.

An invitation

Above lies a selection of my favourite secret solitary activities. I invite you all to observe yourself and question what it is that YOU do to pass your alone time. Are you a dreamer? A philosopher? An arm kisser?

Be honest and be real but most importantly be BOLD when revealing your secret solitary behaviour. Extra respect for public declarations online.

* Masturbation

** Has anyone noticed that it is becoming more socially acceptable to be a cat lover? I recall one day watching an episode of Date My Mom (an MTV dating show in which a suitor has to go on a date with three mums and pick which daughter he would like to date based on the mum date- pure brilliance) in which a suitor stated that three letters turned a girl from hot to not: C-A-T. This suitor is obviously an idiot. Has he never heard of a sex kitten? Anyway from my extensive research on Facebook I’ve noted that it is becoming more acceptable for people to be open about their cat love. Good for you, fellow sex kittens!

The Thing Called It

I have a confession to make. I have an obsession, a fixation. Since starting this blog I have been compulsively checking my daily site stats. The site will tell me how many people have viewed my site but it won’t tell me who they are and the mystery of it all has somehow resulted in an insatiable addiction. The first day I posted I’m ashamed (actually I’m not, dammit) to say I checked the site stats thirty three times. I’ve also seen a new side of me emerge. My social etiquette has gone out the window. I’ve been bullying people left right and centre to GO UP THE TOP OF THE PAGE AND CLICK FOLLOW. Or not, whatever. My justification for such bullying is that I (very considerately) don’t want to post it to Facebook every time I write a new post because I don’t want to “shove it in people’s faces”. Of course, bullying people to follow is fine. But posting to Facebook is just low. Anyway so my point is that I became so obsessive or so gorged in my own self indulgence that I actually forgot about the fact that I was supposed to write something new at some point. So here I was this afternoon marvelling at the fact that people were STILL reading my last post (2 people today! You know who you are…Sexy ) when it suddenly occurred to me that a possible reason that people are still visiting the site is perhaps because you want to read another one? Oh stop! (Don’t stop).

 I know I said the purpose of this blog was to expand my horizons beyond Facebook, but given that I have my own office and work primarily unsupervised I spend a lot of time on Facebook and have a fascination for the various behaviours/relationships that have emerged from it. I don’t think it’s such a ridiculous hobby. I have an interest in people, and scrutinizing Oktoberfest photos, surveying wall comments and memorising relationship statuses changes is my way of showing I care. Besides, without my harmless curiosity/destructive addiction I would never have been able to create my second post. So thanks to my ‘It’, I have produced an analysis on the various Facebook specific relationships that have emerged since its origin.

Minimalist yet Fundamental

This form of friendship is reduced to the most basic form of connection. This relationship doesn’t involve lattes, or movies or various forms of friend dates .It doesn’t involves gossiping or confiding. This simple affiliation is based solely on mutual liking. I mean ‘liking’. These are the people who you scarcely know but have formed a friendship with by mutual ‘likes’ on each other’s posts. You may occasionally write a comment on one of their updates but it works just as well without. These are mostly likely people you went to school with but never really got to know each other that well, because of separate groups and how high school was. You probably added each other at the stage when Facebook had just been invented and you thought it would make sense to add pretty much anyone you have ever known. With the natural flow of Facebook, you would see each other’s updates on the newsfeed and as time passed you would notice that the other person says funny things, or the other one often posts something interesting and so you start ‘liking’ their posts and they start ‘liking’ yours. At its peak this can create entire social groups of Facebook friends connected only by ‘liking, for, instance the silent club of cat-lovers on Facebook, who don’t speak but they always ‘like’ whenever one of us upload a cat photo (by the way I’m not part of this, I just heard about it through my friend, Sarah). Despite these blossoming networks, they rarely extend beyond Facebook, and the star-crossed friendship usually remains linked (and divided) forever through the internet.

 Barefaced Betrayal

These people have been on your list for a long time, old time acquaintances who you took for granted until one day you attempt a careless glimpse and realise with a slap in the face that you are no longer friends. For a second there you feel outraged at the nerve of them to actually delete you (how could they?!) until you realise sheepishly that it may have actually been you who deleted them ,nothing personal, of course, just can’t quite remember who they are anymore. And so you admit begrudgingly that if they did delete you then it is probably justified in small, miniscule, remote way, unless of course it was you who deleted then in which case it was entirely reasonable. And so you become one step closer to being strangers. On a similar note I recall being outraged one day when I looked through my friends list and realised that someone who I knew from London and who I definitely hadn’t deleted, was no longer in my friends lists. I was stung until I reasoned that, given, I couldn’t actually remember his name, I suppose, on some level we may have drifted. And so even at the age of twenty five, Facebook is teaching me valuable life lessons about broken friendships and moving on.

Intimacy

A critique of relationships wouldn’t be complete without an ode to the explosion of passion produced when two Facebook users who care about each other deeply engage in a sinful sequence of mutual poking. Poking is the most difficult concept to explain to non-Facebook people (“Oh it’s like this thing. On Facebook. And you click it and it pokes you…”), not to mention the significance of a good hard poke. Poking is the Viennese Waltz of the modern generation. A single poke translates to “Would you?” and a reply poke confirms “I’m yours”. Counter this back and forth and polish with a “Hey. How r u?” on chat and before you know it you’ll be booking waxes. I’ve heard. I recently had a friend tell me about a game he and his friends used to play on Facebook on their phone in which they had to scroll through their friend list and poked whoever their finger landed on consequently divulging some highly inappropriate pokes. I personally gave up poking a long time ago*. I feel no desire to cheapen myself with meaningless liaisons like some drunken prom date. Unless of course the said poker is a muscular yet graceful sun kissed Brazilian who works for Doctors without Borders and speaks six languages. In that case, just putting it out there, I may be tolerant of a respectful poking. Please inform relevant sources.

This barely touches the tip of the iceberg as far as Facebook relationships/behaviours are concerned but I have written 1239 words already and I can hear my Inner Self Indulgence cackling as she resurrects herself from the toxic swampland. I promise, this time around I will do my best to contain her, feeding her only tiny slivers of marvel at a time and I will lay off the bullying as soon as you Fugly Skankdogs move your sweaty sausage fingers over the mouse and click FOLLOW.

* That’s a lie; I actually went on a wild poking rampage about a month ago, probably because I went to a public school and was allowed to shave my legs at too young an age.

Tribute to the strangers I have unresolved sexual tension with and will never see again.

I don’t quite know how to phrase this without sounding psychopathic or even worse sounding like a sentimental sap but surely I am not the only person who has these brief encounters with strangers compounded full of sexual energy but who you NEVER see again. Well I know I’m not the only one, James Blunt wrote a whole song about it. Anyway I always liked that song no matter how much people bagged it because I could honestly relate to what he was singing about. Call me insane, call me pathetic*, but there have been a list of strangers throughout life, from childhood to adulthood, that I have had a series of moments with, sometimes without having even spoken, and these strangers have left an imprint in my mind. With a clear and explicit declaration that I have no intention to track them and no desire to create any kind of reality from my fantasy driven but definitively REAL memories, here is my tribute to them:
I must have been about eight years old. We were driving back home from my grandparents house in Kensington. We took the river route home and as we pulled up to the lights at the esplanade of the Swan River, a limousine drove up beside us, decorated in roses. Inside the limousine were four groomsmen and a nervous groom who was fidgeting. My sisters and I stared in awe at the wedding party next to us. We must have been gawking because the groomsmen nudged each other smirking. The groom threw me a mint and flashed me a smile. My heart melted and as our car pulled away I treasured the gift and imagined that he was on his way to marry me.
Fourteen years old and I was discovering the social meat market on the 441 bus from Warwick train station. I was virginal (so damn virginal) and innocent and was both bewildered and flattered with this sudden male attention. Waiting for the bus one Saturday, on my way home from shopping in the city where I had no doubt bought a single lip-gloss, or. a token g-string, a boy sat next to me. He struck up a conversation and flirted with me easily. He teased me and made me laugh. He was wearing a blue bonds singlet, which I usually disapproved of but because they showed off his tanned biceps I excused it on this occasion. He represented the ultimate boyfriend material for a naive and idealistic teenage girl: He offered me a cigarette (bad boy). His muscles bulged and he had piercing green eyes (total babe). He was two years above me (older without being creepy); having gone to Hale School (boyfriends score extra points on the coolness scale if they go to another school). I remember feeling self conscious about the fact that I wasn’t wear a bra (I must have decided that a tight blue Lycra boob-tube was modest enough, without a bra, in the middle of the day). After flirting (or as I like to say ‘connecting’) the entire bus ride he got off the bus without even asking my number. For a short time after, I would scan furiously as I rode the escalator up from Warwick train station, to the bus station, wishing desperately that I would see him again. I did bump into him a year later, as I was walking through Northbridge on the way to my visit my dad at his shop. It was a 35 degree day, I was sweaty and my mascara had run. I was wearing my school uniform: an oversized greyish white polo shirt with pasta stains down the front. He recognised me and we chatted, but as he took in my pasta stained attire and dripping painted face, I swear I could see disappointment in his eyes.
At sixteen years old, my best friend Sarah and I would go into the city on a Friday night to shop. We would take fifteen dollars, buy a Big Mac meal and an accessory from Sportsgirl and we would have the time of our lives. One night when strolling through the city we were approached by two Mormons, asking to read us a story from the Bible of the Church of the Latter Day Saints. One of the Mormons was from New Zealand; the other was from the U.S. They were wearing conservative white button up shirts and ties but weirdly I remember the American complimenting my friend on her playboy bunny tank top. The American began to read and the New Zealander, Sarah and I huddled around. As the Mormon read his story I looked up at the New Zealander who was staring straight at me. He was young, about nineteen. Our eyes met and we didn’t look away. His tie flickered in the wind. We slowly moved closer, our eyes boring into each other. As the air grew thick, the American’s voice faltered, noticing that he did not have our attention. The American and Sarah stood awkwardly on the sidelines until finally the Americans voice cracked; breaking the spell “Umm is something going on here?” The New Zealander and I jumped back and I guffawed nervously. My hands shook. I never saw him again and it’s probably for the best. He’s likely married with three wives by now**.
This last story is perhaps the most pathetic because I’m ashamed to say it happened fairly recently. Where else to find your estranged soul mate but at Space Nightclub in Ibiza? Perhaps as a fortunate twist of fate for my soul mate (Okay I have to stop calling him soul mate now), a dorky but well-meaning boy had thought he had found his destiny in me and had been buying me 17 Euro drinks all night. I accepted the drinks without hesitation*** (date rape and good morals don’t exist in Ibiza) and chatted politely to him. Several 17 Euro drinks later, I spotted a man with an afro striding confidently through the room. I flicked him a cheeky wave and he rewarded me with a downright disgustingly dimpled and stunning smile. He sidled over and started a conversation and before I knew it we were making conga lines through the club and skipping hand in hand past my disappointed gift-giving friend as well as jealous Ibizan drug lord, Momo, who had set his sights on me for the night (long story). My new friend was Irish (calm down it’s not what you’re thinking) and had caramel skin like Craig David (see, I told you it’s not what you were thinking). We kissed like teenagers and he confessed that he was “just a little bit in love with (me) right now” and that he could “just about marry (me) right now”. As he invited me back to his place I calculated that I had exactly one hour before I had to leave for the airport on a plane back to Barcelona and declined. As we said our goodbyes he casually mentioned “Look me up on Facebook. Darren Campbell”. “Sure!” I said. “Darren Campbell from Belfast shouldn’t be hard to find!” Well let me tell you Darren Campbell from Belfast, I looked you up. I scrawled through hundreds and hundreds of Darren Campbells from Belfast Ireland before I oh-so-casually landed upon a Darren Campbell from Belfast with deliciously caramel skin. Knowing I would look crazy yet willing to make that sacrifice, I added him. He accepted. Despite the fact that by this stage I was living in Australia and he was living in Ireland, and we had met for two hours in a club in Ibiza whilst messed up, I waited hopefully for either one of us to make any move towards communication. As the days passed, marked only by silence, my obsession grew as I repeatedly stalked his page and realised that not only did he have deliciously caramel skin and a (slightly lispy) Irish accent, but he could write funny status updates too. I came to the conclusion that there was only one way I could help myself overcome this unhealthy fixation. I deleted mother fucking Darren Campbell with his deliciously caramel skin, lispy Irish accent and funny status updates, who I will never see again…
So there you have it. A tribute to unsung heroes and the ones that never were. And a public record of the humiliating and pathetic behaviour of a girl who read too many romance novels when she was growing up, and who dangerously yet firmly believes that humour should outweigh dignity at all times.

Thanks boys
*Or just call me!! Anytime! Day! Night! Morning! Afternoon! I’m available!
**I have done extensive research via HBO television and am aware that Mormons and polygamists are separate churches now. I merely like to imagine myself being the next Margie from Big Love.
***Since leaving Ibiza I have regained my soul and do not approve of taking advantage of dorky yet well-meaning barflies, UNLESS drinks exceed a cost of $22.74AUD in which case I have NO CHOICE but to rely on my evolutionary advantages of being born with two plump breasts and a curvaceous rump. It’s Survival of the Fittest out there, and as part of the human mating dance I am supposed to shove my blatant fertility in the face of dorky but well-meaning barflies to get ahead and retain my place in the animal kingdom.