I love my city. It plays host to an enormous variety of people. So much so that I never feel out of place, no matter my mood or choice of attire. The beauty of the city, as apposed to suburbia, is that no one stands out. There are no cliques. No ruling factions. Just a blend of characters going about their business without fear of judgement from the taste police. A visit to the city always leaves me rejuvenated and confident in my individuality. Yesterday was just such an occasion.
Every year around this time, Melbourne plays host to a pop culture festival called Supernova. Being a pop culture nut, and being mother to an anime nut, I would love to have gone, but unfortunately couldn't afford the tickets this year thanks to an inexplicably badly timed school camp. Oh well, I thought, all my favourite super heroes and (hopefully) Will Wheaton will be there next year. As it turned out, I didn't need to fork over forty dollars to see framed pictures of my favourite childhood comic book characters. They were everywhere! Well, technically, it was their deputised likenesses I saw ordering Happy Meals, scanning Miki cards (apparently, being charged with the well being of our citizens doesn't grant you free travel on public transport), and having a smoke on the steps of Flinders Street Station. Nevertheless, it led me to wonder; why can't we be more like our heroes?
Consider Wonder Woman, my childhood hero. Not even born of this world, she has saved it far too many times to count. She left her homeland behind to live among us and protect us and yet the thing people comment on more often than not is her, admittedly skimpy, costume. I for one wish I possessed the courage to put all of my womanly assets on show. I'd save a truckload of money at the butchers alone! But aside from physical beauty, the most wonderful thing about her is that she also has a brain; and isn't afraid to use it. She has forged battle plans to fight age old enemies from every possible realm of existence, making herself an integral part of what is largely a male dominated profession. She'd never date beneath herself; can you imagine Wonder Woman having dinner with a guy who talked to her substantial bosom all night? Even if you could, would you imagine him surviving the night with his manhood intact? I thought not. The Wonder-ful thing about her is that she wears her intelligence, her courage, her sensitivity and her personality like she wears her costume - loud and proud. Wouldn't this world be a better place if we all did the same?
Saturday, 14 April 2012
Friday, 13 April 2012
Pretty Pictures
My best friend sent me an email yesterday that provided a much needed ray of sunshine on an otherwise (metaphorically) rainy day. It was a list compiled by some magazine or another entitled: 'Hollywood's hottest 100 men,' and each name on the list was accompanied by an extremely savoury photograph. Like any red-blooded woman, I scrolled (slowly) down the list and poured over every inch of each entrant's visage, finding myself more and more 'exhilarated' as the cursor on my laptop drew toward the bottom of the page, and it led me to wonder: does that make me a perv?
Consider this: were I a thirty-nine year-old man, ogling a list of Hollywood's hottest 100 women, and someone were to walk in on me just as drool was beginning to course its way down my chin, I'd wager that terms such as 'Pig' and 'Dirty old man' would be bandied about, depending on the sex and moral bent of the witness. Yes, I agree that it sounds like I'm betraying the sisterhood by saying that we sometimes have double standards when it comes to issues of morality and taste. I agree also that not all women are like this, and I certainly don't mean to paint every member of my awesome gender with the same brush, but I think most women will, if they're honest, admit to accusing a guy of being disgusting or creepy at one time or another, for doing nothing more than appreciating physical beauty.
I know I have.
Yet, to my knowledge, no such derogatory terms exist for women indulging in the same harmless pass time.
There are, however, unfortunate and equally degrading terms that people use to denigrate women who, for one reason or another, enjoy carnal festivities with successive partners. Although the words 'Whore', 'Slut,' and 'Mole,' have never escaped my lips, they were used to describe me at one point in my life and, you know what? It hurt, and needlessly so, because my accusers were wrong. Just as I believe anyone who calls a man a pig for looking at pictures of gorgeous, half-naked actresses is wrong. Men and women are very different, it's true, but what separates human beings from most other animals is that both genders in our species were born with desires, and although those wacky theologians might argue that those desires were put there for the purpose of procreation, the fact is that more often than not, we act on them because we want to, not because we have to.
To put it more succinctly; lookin' at pictures of them there pretty people in their skivvies is fun.
I think that the desire to look upon beautiful - dare I say heavenly? - creatures is perfectly normal, no matter what your gender. Doubling your standards halves your humanity.
Consider this: were I a thirty-nine year-old man, ogling a list of Hollywood's hottest 100 women, and someone were to walk in on me just as drool was beginning to course its way down my chin, I'd wager that terms such as 'Pig' and 'Dirty old man' would be bandied about, depending on the sex and moral bent of the witness. Yes, I agree that it sounds like I'm betraying the sisterhood by saying that we sometimes have double standards when it comes to issues of morality and taste. I agree also that not all women are like this, and I certainly don't mean to paint every member of my awesome gender with the same brush, but I think most women will, if they're honest, admit to accusing a guy of being disgusting or creepy at one time or another, for doing nothing more than appreciating physical beauty.
I know I have.
Yet, to my knowledge, no such derogatory terms exist for women indulging in the same harmless pass time.
There are, however, unfortunate and equally degrading terms that people use to denigrate women who, for one reason or another, enjoy carnal festivities with successive partners. Although the words 'Whore', 'Slut,' and 'Mole,' have never escaped my lips, they were used to describe me at one point in my life and, you know what? It hurt, and needlessly so, because my accusers were wrong. Just as I believe anyone who calls a man a pig for looking at pictures of gorgeous, half-naked actresses is wrong. Men and women are very different, it's true, but what separates human beings from most other animals is that both genders in our species were born with desires, and although those wacky theologians might argue that those desires were put there for the purpose of procreation, the fact is that more often than not, we act on them because we want to, not because we have to.
To put it more succinctly; lookin' at pictures of them there pretty people in their skivvies is fun.
I think that the desire to look upon beautiful - dare I say heavenly? - creatures is perfectly normal, no matter what your gender. Doubling your standards halves your humanity.
Monday, 9 April 2012
Ball's-out Barbie.
If you're a loser like me who follows these things, you will no doubt be aware that there are more single women over thirty in the world than there are men. According to one statistic, unattached Aussie women outnumber the guys nine to one. Unfortunately, there isn't much we can do about that, without the aid of Chris Hemsworth, a time machine, state-of-the-art cloning technology and chloroform, but I think I do have a suggestion to help combat the depression that often occurs as a result of this discrepancy.
Ladies, cast your minds back to your childhood, a time when nothing seemed impossible, thanks to one elegant, sophisticated, flaxen-haired woman.
BARBIE.
She has been a fashion designer, a doctor, a teacher, a veterinarian, a plastic surgeon (I kid you not, it was in 1973 - look it up), an army officer, an air force pilot, a marine, a policewoman, a fire fighter, a rock star, a scuba diver, the ambassador for world peace and even President of the United States, just to name a few. What's more, she still managed to get married, and ride horses in her spare time, and those perfect, rock-hard bazooms always pointed dead ahead. Barbie wasn't just a toy; she was an aspirational figure. She was a beacon for shy, oppressed little girls everywhere who looked at their two pack a day, serapax-gobbling Mum's and thought: That won't be me. I'm going to be just like Barbie. Sweet, I grant you, but realistic?
Hell no!
Pure and untainted by the lure of monetary gain as I'm sure Barbie's employment counsellors at Mattel were, they clearly dropped the ball when it came to preparing her little disciples for the harsh realities they would later face. Sadly, I was one of those disciples, and if I had the multi-tasking-maven herself here now, I would take her to task.
Where is my dream house? Where is my non-threatening, ever-present, perpetually-happy husband? Just how many tiny Ford Pills do you have to chug every day to maintain that girlish figure? If you truly want to enlighten and inspire your young fans, I suggest you give yourself a make-under. Force down a plastic roast chicken or three, tell us the true nature of your relationship with Ken, seeing as there obviously can't be much going on after dark, given his little anatomical problem and love of fashion. Show future generations of women the realities of post-war society and release a new line of likenesses. Prozac Barbie; Over Twenty-Eights-Night Barbie; Blind Date Barbie (complete with pink bucket and mace); and Settle-For-Less Barbie are some that spring to mind. Dreaming's fine, but little girls need to learn how to cope should they get past thirty and find themselves riding the bus alone as their friends rocket past in their hot pink convertibles with male model or muscular army lieutenant husbands arms draped over their shoulders.
Barbie, Mattell, I urge you to address this appallingly neglected niche before it's too late, and another generation of women live out the rest of their lives in small rooms surrounded on all sides by baby pink satin padding.
Ladies, cast your minds back to your childhood, a time when nothing seemed impossible, thanks to one elegant, sophisticated, flaxen-haired woman.
BARBIE.
She has been a fashion designer, a doctor, a teacher, a veterinarian, a plastic surgeon (I kid you not, it was in 1973 - look it up), an army officer, an air force pilot, a marine, a policewoman, a fire fighter, a rock star, a scuba diver, the ambassador for world peace and even President of the United States, just to name a few. What's more, she still managed to get married, and ride horses in her spare time, and those perfect, rock-hard bazooms always pointed dead ahead. Barbie wasn't just a toy; she was an aspirational figure. She was a beacon for shy, oppressed little girls everywhere who looked at their two pack a day, serapax-gobbling Mum's and thought: That won't be me. I'm going to be just like Barbie. Sweet, I grant you, but realistic?
Hell no!
Pure and untainted by the lure of monetary gain as I'm sure Barbie's employment counsellors at Mattel were, they clearly dropped the ball when it came to preparing her little disciples for the harsh realities they would later face. Sadly, I was one of those disciples, and if I had the multi-tasking-maven herself here now, I would take her to task.
Where is my dream house? Where is my non-threatening, ever-present, perpetually-happy husband? Just how many tiny Ford Pills do you have to chug every day to maintain that girlish figure? If you truly want to enlighten and inspire your young fans, I suggest you give yourself a make-under. Force down a plastic roast chicken or three, tell us the true nature of your relationship with Ken, seeing as there obviously can't be much going on after dark, given his little anatomical problem and love of fashion. Show future generations of women the realities of post-war society and release a new line of likenesses. Prozac Barbie; Over Twenty-Eights-Night Barbie; Blind Date Barbie (complete with pink bucket and mace); and Settle-For-Less Barbie are some that spring to mind. Dreaming's fine, but little girls need to learn how to cope should they get past thirty and find themselves riding the bus alone as their friends rocket past in their hot pink convertibles with male model or muscular army lieutenant husbands arms draped over their shoulders.
Barbie, Mattell, I urge you to address this appallingly neglected niche before it's too late, and another generation of women live out the rest of their lives in small rooms surrounded on all sides by baby pink satin padding.
Thursday, 5 April 2012
Shot Roast.
I recently had the pleasure of watching a celebrity roast. In the old days, these events 'honoured' the creme de la creme of the entertainment world, putting show business royalty in the oven for an hour or so to baste in their own sweat and giggle nervously as friends and colleagues rattled off a litany of their mistakes and indiscretions with impeccable comic timing. Given the state the world economy is in, it's no wonder that the choice of meat for these feasts has gone from prime rib to hamburger. The celebrity on the menu the night I watched was none other than the tabloid crowd's drive-thru dish of choice, David Hassellhoff and you know what? It was the best roast I've ever seen! His life and 'career' being what it has been, the celebrity chefs turned the heat up to three hundred degrees without raising a sweat, and The Hoff didn't even burn, (although he couldn't get any browner, let's face it), spitting Crisco back at them with retorts that must have had aspiring stand-ups taking notes. My romantic 'career' being what it has been, I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if I was the one in the baking dish, and my friends and exes were the ones serving me up? This is how I thought it would go...
Introduction - my best friend, Corrina. I've known Mel since we were eleven and twelve years old, and I'm pleased to say her taste in men has improved since those early days; she doesn't fall in love with thirteen year-olds anymore...well, not thirteen in the chronological sense. The list of her roasters this evening reads like the contents page on Don't Date Him.com. Her first boyfriend, Perry, is here. They dated for a whole two weeks until she got out in the world and realised that Eu de Marlborough wasn't a brand of men's cologne. Then of course there's her first real boyfriend, Aaron, who managed to squeeze us into his busy schedule between riding past Mel's house and pretending to be in love with his wife. I'm pleased to see Ryan here. He's the one who managed to stick with Mel the longest. Five whole years! I'd throw in the old standard 'you do less time for murder,' but in that scenario, it'd be kind of hard to pick the perp. Anyway, I volunteered to be the M.C. tonight because, of all the people in this room, I can safely say I know Mel best of all. I've seen her in just about any state you can imagine - happy, sad, angry, loving, bitter, regretful, exhilarated; and that was just on her thirtieth birthday. Mel has a little condition I like to call I.M.P.D - Inebriated Multiple Personality Disorder. When she's sober, she's a shy, virginal Sunday school teacher. When she's tipsy, she's a hyperactive leprechaun on uppers. When she's drunk, she's anybody's. Oh, while we're on the subject, could we get someone to come over here and keep Mel away from the open bar? Great. Mel, everyone in this room loves you, well, most of them...okay, just the ones who haven't actually had to live with you for longer than twenty four hours, and we hope you will appreciate this roast in the spirit with which it was intended; good humour...especially seeing as we're recording it for screening at your intervention.
First speaker - Perry Feldon. I first met Mel at a venue she was to frequent on and off throughout the course of her early twenties; the unemployment office. We bonded over mutual interests; we were both unemployed and desperate. When she first got a job I was overjoyed; finally, we could eat dinner in a place where they actually gave you cutlery, and not the plastic kind. But it wasn't long before she started to meet new people and when she asked to talk to me over lunch one day, I knew it was over before she said a word. But it wasn't as though she severed ties with me completely; we would bump into each other every now and then at the train station when she was on her way to work and she was always friendly...she never failed to give me a smile before dashing into the ladies to hide. I still held out hope though; she was a nice person, she'd soon realise that those guys in suits were phonies and come back to me...sure, she wasn't making eye contact with me these days, but that was just because of the sun glare in her eyes...in mid winter. Smitten as I was, I did bow out in the end. It took me a while, but I finally got the message that she'd moved on. That, and her mother threatened to castrate me if I came within a metre of her.
Second speaker - Aaron Smith. I once read that the definition of insanity was to keep doing the same thing and expect a different result. There, in a nutshell, you have my relationship with Mel. We first met at a club one Thursday night and I'll never forget what a vision she was; capering around on the dance floor, holding her fourth drink of the night and singing along to Peter Andre. I drove her home that night and we quickly became inseparable. Quite literally. She clung to me like we were bonded together with invisible handcuffs. Being a red-blooded twenty-five year old guy, I was taken aback by this so I ended things but, as Mel herself has documented in her blog, that was not the end of our association. We got together quite a bit over the next few years until she had her little epiphany and broke up with me. As the old saying goes, with progression comes change. I thought that with the progression of her age and her waistline her standards might change but alas, things didn't pan out that way. When you think about it, a moral compass is just like a Swiss army knife; it's easily adaptable and can be tucked away when you have no use for it.
Final speaker - Ryan Bunton. Mel and I were actually set up on a blind date. Of course, I mean a blind date in the traditional sense, not the colloquial, which from what I've been able to piece together from members of the audience describes her dating pattern prior to meeting me. We lived together for a few years and I must admit, I had doubts about where our relationship was headed, but we managed to work things out and stick together for a while...sudden parenthood is a great adhesive. Mel will tell you that I was difficult to live with and it's true, I was somewhat distant, but I wasn't like that all the time...Mel was a dab hand with the old bunji cord. But you need individual interests to stay happy as a couple and we certainly had those. I had dungeons and dragons, sport, and surfing for porn to psych myself up. Mel had the baby, reading, and playing with the voodoo doll she made that time I said hi to a girl I went to school with. The good thing about Mel is that she doesn't fit the stereotypical description of a woman in a long-term, co-habitual relationship. She never lost interest in sex. Never. Not once. Not even when I pretended to be asleep. It's a good thing really; now I'm prepared should I ever be doused in honey and cornered by a bear. All good things must come to an end and I did meet someone else one fateful weekend away with my football team, but Mel took it gracefully. There wasn't any begging or crying or clinging to my leg as I walked out the front door. She even took my announcement of our nuptials with amazing grace, despite my initial misgivings about telling her, and not once has she sought revenge...anyone can develop a spontaneous hernia on their wedding night.
Corrina's closing. Mel, despite any ill feelings that may be circulating around this room tonight, I think I speak for everyone here when I say that you are a uniquely talented and courageous woman. It takes balls to go out in public with your head held high, knowing where it's been. And I'm positive that the social anxiety you're currently experiencing will pass and you'll be back to your effervescent old self. Alcohol manufacturers have built an industry around it.
Introduction - my best friend, Corrina. I've known Mel since we were eleven and twelve years old, and I'm pleased to say her taste in men has improved since those early days; she doesn't fall in love with thirteen year-olds anymore...well, not thirteen in the chronological sense. The list of her roasters this evening reads like the contents page on Don't Date Him.com. Her first boyfriend, Perry, is here. They dated for a whole two weeks until she got out in the world and realised that Eu de Marlborough wasn't a brand of men's cologne. Then of course there's her first real boyfriend, Aaron, who managed to squeeze us into his busy schedule between riding past Mel's house and pretending to be in love with his wife. I'm pleased to see Ryan here. He's the one who managed to stick with Mel the longest. Five whole years! I'd throw in the old standard 'you do less time for murder,' but in that scenario, it'd be kind of hard to pick the perp. Anyway, I volunteered to be the M.C. tonight because, of all the people in this room, I can safely say I know Mel best of all. I've seen her in just about any state you can imagine - happy, sad, angry, loving, bitter, regretful, exhilarated; and that was just on her thirtieth birthday. Mel has a little condition I like to call I.M.P.D - Inebriated Multiple Personality Disorder. When she's sober, she's a shy, virginal Sunday school teacher. When she's tipsy, she's a hyperactive leprechaun on uppers. When she's drunk, she's anybody's. Oh, while we're on the subject, could we get someone to come over here and keep Mel away from the open bar? Great. Mel, everyone in this room loves you, well, most of them...okay, just the ones who haven't actually had to live with you for longer than twenty four hours, and we hope you will appreciate this roast in the spirit with which it was intended; good humour...especially seeing as we're recording it for screening at your intervention.
First speaker - Perry Feldon. I first met Mel at a venue she was to frequent on and off throughout the course of her early twenties; the unemployment office. We bonded over mutual interests; we were both unemployed and desperate. When she first got a job I was overjoyed; finally, we could eat dinner in a place where they actually gave you cutlery, and not the plastic kind. But it wasn't long before she started to meet new people and when she asked to talk to me over lunch one day, I knew it was over before she said a word. But it wasn't as though she severed ties with me completely; we would bump into each other every now and then at the train station when she was on her way to work and she was always friendly...she never failed to give me a smile before dashing into the ladies to hide. I still held out hope though; she was a nice person, she'd soon realise that those guys in suits were phonies and come back to me...sure, she wasn't making eye contact with me these days, but that was just because of the sun glare in her eyes...in mid winter. Smitten as I was, I did bow out in the end. It took me a while, but I finally got the message that she'd moved on. That, and her mother threatened to castrate me if I came within a metre of her.
Second speaker - Aaron Smith. I once read that the definition of insanity was to keep doing the same thing and expect a different result. There, in a nutshell, you have my relationship with Mel. We first met at a club one Thursday night and I'll never forget what a vision she was; capering around on the dance floor, holding her fourth drink of the night and singing along to Peter Andre. I drove her home that night and we quickly became inseparable. Quite literally. She clung to me like we were bonded together with invisible handcuffs. Being a red-blooded twenty-five year old guy, I was taken aback by this so I ended things but, as Mel herself has documented in her blog, that was not the end of our association. We got together quite a bit over the next few years until she had her little epiphany and broke up with me. As the old saying goes, with progression comes change. I thought that with the progression of her age and her waistline her standards might change but alas, things didn't pan out that way. When you think about it, a moral compass is just like a Swiss army knife; it's easily adaptable and can be tucked away when you have no use for it.
Final speaker - Ryan Bunton. Mel and I were actually set up on a blind date. Of course, I mean a blind date in the traditional sense, not the colloquial, which from what I've been able to piece together from members of the audience describes her dating pattern prior to meeting me. We lived together for a few years and I must admit, I had doubts about where our relationship was headed, but we managed to work things out and stick together for a while...sudden parenthood is a great adhesive. Mel will tell you that I was difficult to live with and it's true, I was somewhat distant, but I wasn't like that all the time...Mel was a dab hand with the old bunji cord. But you need individual interests to stay happy as a couple and we certainly had those. I had dungeons and dragons, sport, and surfing for porn to psych myself up. Mel had the baby, reading, and playing with the voodoo doll she made that time I said hi to a girl I went to school with. The good thing about Mel is that she doesn't fit the stereotypical description of a woman in a long-term, co-habitual relationship. She never lost interest in sex. Never. Not once. Not even when I pretended to be asleep. It's a good thing really; now I'm prepared should I ever be doused in honey and cornered by a bear. All good things must come to an end and I did meet someone else one fateful weekend away with my football team, but Mel took it gracefully. There wasn't any begging or crying or clinging to my leg as I walked out the front door. She even took my announcement of our nuptials with amazing grace, despite my initial misgivings about telling her, and not once has she sought revenge...anyone can develop a spontaneous hernia on their wedding night.
Corrina's closing. Mel, despite any ill feelings that may be circulating around this room tonight, I think I speak for everyone here when I say that you are a uniquely talented and courageous woman. It takes balls to go out in public with your head held high, knowing where it's been. And I'm positive that the social anxiety you're currently experiencing will pass and you'll be back to your effervescent old self. Alcohol manufacturers have built an industry around it.
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Happy first anniversary, PaperBlog!
I registered with PaperBlog back in November 2011, and it was the best decision I've made since deciding to air my soiled romantic linen on a blog in the first place. True, I also promote Disasters In Dating on Facebook and Twitter, and they were instrumental in growing my audience in the beginning, but my views since joining PaperBlog have gone from the hundreds to the thousands, and that can not be mere coincidence. I value PaperBlog both as a writer and a reader; one of the best things a blogger can do in terms of improving upon their own writing or just realising that what they do is not just their 'little hobby' is to read other blogs, and the list of writers on PaperBlog is phenomenally useful in both these respects. Everything you can imagine is on the site, from personal blogs (like yours truly), to those offering advice, current affairs, comedy, fashion, political viewpoints, and beyond.
Much as I love blogging, there are times when I feel as though I'm sending my thoughts into a vortex, despite the number of gorgeous, devoted readers that I clearly have, (clinical depression, what are you gonna do?). It was during one of these times that PaperBlog chose me as their 'funny and frank blogger of the day' and, let me tell you, my meds kicked in a whole lot quicker that particular morning. Sometimes, it takes a vote of confidence from their audience AND their peers before a writer finally snaps out of their rut and says 'You know what, I'm damn good at what I do, and now I have proof!'
In short, PaperBlog is awesome, and I want to have it's babies. Happy first anniversary, guys, and many more. xx
Much as I love blogging, there are times when I feel as though I'm sending my thoughts into a vortex, despite the number of gorgeous, devoted readers that I clearly have, (clinical depression, what are you gonna do?). It was during one of these times that PaperBlog chose me as their 'funny and frank blogger of the day' and, let me tell you, my meds kicked in a whole lot quicker that particular morning. Sometimes, it takes a vote of confidence from their audience AND their peers before a writer finally snaps out of their rut and says 'You know what, I'm damn good at what I do, and now I have proof!'
In short, PaperBlog is awesome, and I want to have it's babies. Happy first anniversary, guys, and many more. xx
Friday, 30 March 2012
Soul food
Thanks to the wonders of modern pharmacology, and finally finding a doctor who seems to give a rats arse, I am managing my depression, and the light at the end of the tunnel is getting brighter by the day. These days, when I say that I like myself, I can honestly attest that I still mean it twenty-four hours later. I know what I want from life, from myself and from the people around me, and that is immensely reassuring...except when it isn't. I know I can't even consider resuming the search for 'The One,' (pardon my Meg Ryan moment there), until I'm at least eighty per cent healed, (I'm nothing if not a realist about it), but that doesn't stop me from wanting it. This is going to sound uncharacteristically wistful coming from me, but I miss the comfort that sharing space with another human being can bring. Despite my oft-discussed determination to live for myself first, I must admit that it would be really nice just to cook for someone again. Relax; I'm not metamorphosizing into a fifties house-Frau, I just miss that gorgeous feeling that used to come over me whenever I did something nice for someone, just because I loved them. That's not to say I don't feel some satisfaction whenever I do things for my son, but parental love is an altogether different animal and besides, it'd be nice to cook for someone who appreciates the effort that goes into a good hollandaise sauce, and doesn't turn his nose up at anything that isn't flat-packed and delivered.
Creating an appetising meal for someone, nourishing them body and soul, is as much an act of love as sharing your bed, your breath, or your blood. Perhaps that's what I really miss; the notion that there is someone in the world whose existence I value to such a degree that the idea of sharing something of myself with them doesn't seem at all like a sacrifice.
And yes, it'd also be nice to have sex again while I still remember what goes where.
Creating an appetising meal for someone, nourishing them body and soul, is as much an act of love as sharing your bed, your breath, or your blood. Perhaps that's what I really miss; the notion that there is someone in the world whose existence I value to such a degree that the idea of sharing something of myself with them doesn't seem at all like a sacrifice.
And yes, it'd also be nice to have sex again while I still remember what goes where.
Sunday, 25 March 2012
Ambience.
Before I begin this post I, your humble narrator, would like to apologise for the tardy nature of its submission. Due to the unpredictable nature of thirty-six year old underground cabling, my home, along with ninety-seven others in our street, was hit with a major power outage that lasted until four o'clock this afternoon, and my son and I were forced to decamp to my mother's place until everything was put right again. When it first happened, I planned to wait it out, and to prove my resilience, I took a bubble bath. My toes had barely pierced the suds when my son bashed on the bathroom door to tell me that Nana had called my neighbour and wanted to speak to me urgently. I changed and rushed over, all sorts of dire scenarios playing out in my head, only to have my mother make the following enquiry.
'So, are any of the sparkies cute?' (For my non-Aussie readers, 'Sparky' is a colloquial Australian euphemism for an electrician).
My mother then went on to encourage me to go back outside and strike up a conversation with the, admittedly rather handsome looking, men. I declined, given my attire; beguiling a combination as blue rosebud pyjamas, five-year-old faded pink robe and brown knee-high ug boots might be, my hair was damp and doused in conditioner, and the juiced-up psychiatric patient look hasn't been in since Jack Nicholson popularised it in 1975. Undeterred, my mother then proceeded to give me a half-hour lecture on my unattractive habit of spitting in the face of opportunity whenever it comes knocking. I then explained to her that, should any of these potential suitors not be phased by my appearance, the fact that my son was running around trying to coerce them into playing 'Murder in the dark' might be a bit of a turn-off.
'There's always a bloody excuse whenever I make a suggestion, isn't there? You should be glad you've got a mother who cares enough to interfere.'
Which brought to mind another possible turn-off; one I didn't verbalise, for obvious reasons.
'So, are any of the sparkies cute?' (For my non-Aussie readers, 'Sparky' is a colloquial Australian euphemism for an electrician).
My mother then went on to encourage me to go back outside and strike up a conversation with the, admittedly rather handsome looking, men. I declined, given my attire; beguiling a combination as blue rosebud pyjamas, five-year-old faded pink robe and brown knee-high ug boots might be, my hair was damp and doused in conditioner, and the juiced-up psychiatric patient look hasn't been in since Jack Nicholson popularised it in 1975. Undeterred, my mother then proceeded to give me a half-hour lecture on my unattractive habit of spitting in the face of opportunity whenever it comes knocking. I then explained to her that, should any of these potential suitors not be phased by my appearance, the fact that my son was running around trying to coerce them into playing 'Murder in the dark' might be a bit of a turn-off.
'There's always a bloody excuse whenever I make a suggestion, isn't there? You should be glad you've got a mother who cares enough to interfere.'
Which brought to mind another possible turn-off; one I didn't verbalise, for obvious reasons.
Saturday, 17 March 2012
It's a set-up!
What I'm going to bring to your attention today is a global phenomenon that is perhaps the greatest personal threat we face as human beings. It is a ritual that has been carried out on the willing and the captive since time immemorial and is insidious, pervasive and downright evil. It is known colloquially as The Set-Up.
It is easy to spot the victims of this form of societal bullying; just follow the corpses of romantic ideals and friendships. To illustrate my argument against matchmaking, and to drown out the cries of protest from those who fall in to the lucky five per cent of the population for whom it has been successful, let me provide you with some examples.
Last year, a friend of mine had just sent her boyfriend packing, quite literally; she even paid for his passage back to America, for a myriad of reasons. After five years, his cheating, domineering ways had finally spurred her into action. Not to mention the fact that he drained her of most of her savings. She had begun to rebuild her life and her self-esteem was improving daily, and it was good to see her happy again. Then one day, she said something so unconscionable it almost pains me to write it here.
'He's a really funny guy, and very loyal. He's thinking about coming back here in a few months, I reckon we should set something up; he'd be good for you.'
I doubt this needs explanation, but for the few readers who are still in the dark as to what my 'friend' was trying to facilitate, it is what I like to call the 'Match of convenience,' IE: if Love Rat and I were successfully matched, it would be wonderfully convenient for her. I declined the invitation, very politely under the circumstances.
A woman I once worked with was set up by her best friend in an arrangement I like to call the 'Broaden your horizons because I say so' set-up. Armed with the knowledge that her friend favoured a particular physical type; tall, dark, and handsome; she then went about setting her up with a workmate of her husbands who was the complete physical opposite, citing that it would be good for her not to be so picky when it came to physical attractiveness. Not only was the date unsuccessful, it also put a strain on the friendship that never really went away. Still, it didn't end badly for all concerned; it turned out that the architect of the set-up had been harbouring a crush on her husband's friend for several years, and when he was sent by her husband to pick her up at the train station, he took her to his place. A month later, it became their place.
The final example I'd like to lay on you comes courtesy of a former neighbour of mine. She was referred to by most of her family as 'Poor Thing,' in light of her limited romantic and vocational prospects (from their point of view). To help her, and undoubtedly absolve herself of responsibility for her part in her daughter's misfortune, her mother set her up with a friend's son. Stacey couldn't believe her luck; Richard was gorgeous, funny, and polite to an other-worldly degree. He fit her criteria perfectly! The two of them were married two years later and even had a daughter, so I guess you might say it was a successful set-up.
Reserve judgement until the end of the story.
Within months of the wedding, cracks started appearing in their relationship. Stacey ignored them, attributing Richard's moods to homesickness, seeing as, at thirty-one, this was his first time living away from home, and he was still acclimatising himself to living with someone with different habits and rituals than those of his father and stepmother. Things did improve when Stacey discovered she was pregnant, but once the baby was born, life in her household returned to its familiar unsteady rhythm. When she finally decided to question Richard about it, on the morning of their daughter's second birthday, he irritably confessed that he didn't love her, and that the only reason he was with her was because his father needed him out of the house so that he could leave his second wife with a clear conscience.
Given the end result, I suppose you could call this a set-up of in-convenience.
I'm not saying that all set-ups are doomed from their inception, I'm just saying that the next time a friend/loved one/well-meaning-sticky nose says they know someone who would be perfect for you, consider their motivations first, and never doubt your own instincts.
It is easy to spot the victims of this form of societal bullying; just follow the corpses of romantic ideals and friendships. To illustrate my argument against matchmaking, and to drown out the cries of protest from those who fall in to the lucky five per cent of the population for whom it has been successful, let me provide you with some examples.
Last year, a friend of mine had just sent her boyfriend packing, quite literally; she even paid for his passage back to America, for a myriad of reasons. After five years, his cheating, domineering ways had finally spurred her into action. Not to mention the fact that he drained her of most of her savings. She had begun to rebuild her life and her self-esteem was improving daily, and it was good to see her happy again. Then one day, she said something so unconscionable it almost pains me to write it here.
'He's a really funny guy, and very loyal. He's thinking about coming back here in a few months, I reckon we should set something up; he'd be good for you.'
I doubt this needs explanation, but for the few readers who are still in the dark as to what my 'friend' was trying to facilitate, it is what I like to call the 'Match of convenience,' IE: if Love Rat and I were successfully matched, it would be wonderfully convenient for her. I declined the invitation, very politely under the circumstances.
A woman I once worked with was set up by her best friend in an arrangement I like to call the 'Broaden your horizons because I say so' set-up. Armed with the knowledge that her friend favoured a particular physical type; tall, dark, and handsome; she then went about setting her up with a workmate of her husbands who was the complete physical opposite, citing that it would be good for her not to be so picky when it came to physical attractiveness. Not only was the date unsuccessful, it also put a strain on the friendship that never really went away. Still, it didn't end badly for all concerned; it turned out that the architect of the set-up had been harbouring a crush on her husband's friend for several years, and when he was sent by her husband to pick her up at the train station, he took her to his place. A month later, it became their place.
The final example I'd like to lay on you comes courtesy of a former neighbour of mine. She was referred to by most of her family as 'Poor Thing,' in light of her limited romantic and vocational prospects (from their point of view). To help her, and undoubtedly absolve herself of responsibility for her part in her daughter's misfortune, her mother set her up with a friend's son. Stacey couldn't believe her luck; Richard was gorgeous, funny, and polite to an other-worldly degree. He fit her criteria perfectly! The two of them were married two years later and even had a daughter, so I guess you might say it was a successful set-up.
Reserve judgement until the end of the story.
Within months of the wedding, cracks started appearing in their relationship. Stacey ignored them, attributing Richard's moods to homesickness, seeing as, at thirty-one, this was his first time living away from home, and he was still acclimatising himself to living with someone with different habits and rituals than those of his father and stepmother. Things did improve when Stacey discovered she was pregnant, but once the baby was born, life in her household returned to its familiar unsteady rhythm. When she finally decided to question Richard about it, on the morning of their daughter's second birthday, he irritably confessed that he didn't love her, and that the only reason he was with her was because his father needed him out of the house so that he could leave his second wife with a clear conscience.
Given the end result, I suppose you could call this a set-up of in-convenience.
I'm not saying that all set-ups are doomed from their inception, I'm just saying that the next time a friend/loved one/well-meaning-sticky nose says they know someone who would be perfect for you, consider their motivations first, and never doubt your own instincts.
Saturday, 10 March 2012
Mel-ancholy.
I decided back in December that this year was going to be my year; I was going to look after myself and get my life together before I shared it with anyone else. I joined a reading challenge, started a vlog, and actually went out on a Saturday night for the first time in ages, all in an effort to increase my confidence so that I could love myself and make it easier for someone to love me. And it worked...temporarily. Every time I finished a book, I'd feel like my mind had been opened a little bit more. I signed off each vlog post exhilarated and exhausted, thrilled that people would finally hear me sing. I woke up the morning after my night out, happily hung over. But within an hour of achieving each of these triumphs, I was in my kitchen, staring out the window wondering what the hell I was doing in a world in which I had no purpose. I'd stand before that window for hours as a de-motivation tape played on an endless reel in my head. You're a terrible mother. You've screwed up your life and everyone else's. You've made a fool of yourself. Why were you born?
That tape had been playing since my early teens, and the volume gradually increased until two Wednesdays ago, when a conversation with my mother brought it to an ear-splitting level and I could take no more. The resultant torrent of blubbering gibberish may have taken a year off my poor mother's life, but it also motivated her into making an appointment to do what I had been putting off for half of mine; seeking help. I went to my doctor on Friday afternoon and am now finally treating the source of most of my problems. I'd liken this treatment to cleaning a cut knee and putting Bettadine on it, rather than just slapping on a band aid; it stings, even makes me a little nauseous, but I can already feel the wound starting to heal. It'll be a while before it scabs over, and when it does I'll more than likely want to pick at it occasionally, but the important thing for now is dressing it before infection sets in, and I think I've done that. Depression is a very personal topic, some might even consider it taboo, but the reason I wrote about it in this post was because it shouldn't be. If you're feeling torn apart, tell someone and start repairing yourself, don't smile and deny the fissure exists.
That tape had been playing since my early teens, and the volume gradually increased until two Wednesdays ago, when a conversation with my mother brought it to an ear-splitting level and I could take no more. The resultant torrent of blubbering gibberish may have taken a year off my poor mother's life, but it also motivated her into making an appointment to do what I had been putting off for half of mine; seeking help. I went to my doctor on Friday afternoon and am now finally treating the source of most of my problems. I'd liken this treatment to cleaning a cut knee and putting Bettadine on it, rather than just slapping on a band aid; it stings, even makes me a little nauseous, but I can already feel the wound starting to heal. It'll be a while before it scabs over, and when it does I'll more than likely want to pick at it occasionally, but the important thing for now is dressing it before infection sets in, and I think I've done that. Depression is a very personal topic, some might even consider it taboo, but the reason I wrote about it in this post was because it shouldn't be. If you're feeling torn apart, tell someone and start repairing yourself, don't smile and deny the fissure exists.
Saturday, 3 March 2012
A night on the town.
Despite the fact that I woke up this morning feeling like I'd been doused in honey and glued to a hornet's nest, I feel great. My mouth is as dry as if I ate a pack of Marlborough's, Keith Moon's playing a virtuosic solo in my head, and I may be having an out-of-body experience as we speak, but I can't bring myself to complain. The reason for my undue exuberance?
I went out last night.
It took two glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream and a best friend who claims English as her second language when someone utters the word 'no,' but I did it. We had planned this a week ago but true to form my nerves soon got the better of me and, by Friday night, I was on the phone trying to cancel.
She was having none of it.
Yesterday afternoon, she arrived on my doorstep decked out in her Saturday night best. Ignoring my protests as I let her in, she pushed past me into my bedroom, demanding to see my latest quarry from eBay, (I'm a bit of a vintage fashion collector). Throwing three dresses onto the end of my bed, she commanded me to try each of them on and report to her in the hallway for inspection. I obeyed, and we eventually decided upon the pink, polka dotted, a-line sixties dress I had originally intended to wear before I got an attack of hermit-itis. My bestie is one of those people who believes in imbibing a bit of dutch courage before embarking on a night out, and although this is not something I would normally endorse, on this particular occasion, it did wonders.
I arrived at our chosen venue with minimal expectations, based on previous experience, and decided to have a good time the only way I know how; by acting like no one was watching. Our laughter, and, I like to think, my 'ribald' sense of humour, attracted like-minded people of both genders and we were soon the most happening table in the tavern. I received some favourable comments on my dress, and one on my singing by a gentleman who happened to catch my You Tube vlog, (suddenly I'm not quite as embarrassed to have picked a country song), and despite the fact that I make Elaine from Seinfeld look like the chick from Saturday Night Fever, I even indulged in a spot of dancing. Did I kiss any boys? No. Were phone numbers exchanged? No. Did I have to go home at nine-thirty because I came down with food poisoning after eating three potato cakes of questionable quality from a dodgy fish and chip shop earlier in the day?
Yes, but despite the fact that I spent much of the rest of the night practising my scales in a tiled porcelain studio, it still goes down as one of the best nights I've had in a long time. I talked, I laughed, and other people responded in kind and you want to know something else? I'm doing it again next Saturday night.
Sans the potato cakes, of course.
I went out last night.
It took two glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream and a best friend who claims English as her second language when someone utters the word 'no,' but I did it. We had planned this a week ago but true to form my nerves soon got the better of me and, by Friday night, I was on the phone trying to cancel.
She was having none of it.
Yesterday afternoon, she arrived on my doorstep decked out in her Saturday night best. Ignoring my protests as I let her in, she pushed past me into my bedroom, demanding to see my latest quarry from eBay, (I'm a bit of a vintage fashion collector). Throwing three dresses onto the end of my bed, she commanded me to try each of them on and report to her in the hallway for inspection. I obeyed, and we eventually decided upon the pink, polka dotted, a-line sixties dress I had originally intended to wear before I got an attack of hermit-itis. My bestie is one of those people who believes in imbibing a bit of dutch courage before embarking on a night out, and although this is not something I would normally endorse, on this particular occasion, it did wonders.
I arrived at our chosen venue with minimal expectations, based on previous experience, and decided to have a good time the only way I know how; by acting like no one was watching. Our laughter, and, I like to think, my 'ribald' sense of humour, attracted like-minded people of both genders and we were soon the most happening table in the tavern. I received some favourable comments on my dress, and one on my singing by a gentleman who happened to catch my You Tube vlog, (suddenly I'm not quite as embarrassed to have picked a country song), and despite the fact that I make Elaine from Seinfeld look like the chick from Saturday Night Fever, I even indulged in a spot of dancing. Did I kiss any boys? No. Were phone numbers exchanged? No. Did I have to go home at nine-thirty because I came down with food poisoning after eating three potato cakes of questionable quality from a dodgy fish and chip shop earlier in the day?
Yes, but despite the fact that I spent much of the rest of the night practising my scales in a tiled porcelain studio, it still goes down as one of the best nights I've had in a long time. I talked, I laughed, and other people responded in kind and you want to know something else? I'm doing it again next Saturday night.
Sans the potato cakes, of course.
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