ivory towers and sandstone walls...

Moving...

2006-07-07T17:49:00.000-07:00

I'm moving again!

Not house this time...blog.

Things are feeling different. I'm feeling different.

So follow me if you like...underneath the butterflies...

Girlfriends.

2006-06-29T20:52:00.000-07:00

It has never really bothered me that I have guy friends and not girl friends. It’s not like I’ve never had bestie girlies, but the girls have always come and go. They’ll be the girls I work with, the girls I have classes with, the girls I went to school with…but they will invariably depart my daily life when the means for our friendship ends. New semester, change of jobs, leaving school, leaving town.

My best friend from late primary school and I have been friends forever, and when we talk, everything flops right into place and it’s like the tides haven’t been ebbing for seven years. Thing is though, we hardly ever talk. Her grandfather died last year and at the funeral I felt a loss. Not only the loss of him, but the loss of her. I could hug her parents, hug her brothers, squeeze the squishy arm of her grandmother. I could hug her tight and wipe her tears, but there was a distance that affected me. A distance that told me that as much as we feel solid in our bi-yearly contact, things are different now.

We were always joined by birthdays if nothing else. We had them in the same month and we’d celebrate together. 16ths, 18ths…21sts. That was the last big one and it’s like something ended there. This July we’ll both be turning 25, and our lives and what I’d like to still call a friendship, are vastly different now. I don’t know if it was the scope of different towns, different career choices or different family situations. I don’t know where it’s changed, but it has.

The best girl from my high school years has been on a boat for the last year. She came home for a few weeks and we hardly caught up. It was hard when she left last year, being just about the only girl I’d have regular somewhat girlie chatty contact with. I actually cried. I don’t know if it was that I got used to not having her there or didn’t want to have three weeks of dancing stupidly on tables only to have it disappear again…but we didn’t even speak in the three days before she left again.

Then there was B. A pill-popping, ditzy, dancey girl who I loved to death. We were inseparable for quite some time. We were each the other’s confidant. For what happened between us, I blamed myself. See, the beauty of guy friends is that they can’t betray you with the guy you like…or love. It happened with my first love and I’d let it happen again.

Today I got to thinking that this inability I have to hold on close to girlfriends is not quite as okay as I’d always thought.

I don’t know if it is the age thing with a very real quarter life crisis breathing down my neck, but I feel alone. It has never been a bad thing, but this year I’ve been kind of mourning the lack of girlfriends, and at times it’s not just feeling alone…it’s lonely.

R, N and I are having dinner tomorrow night, and this afternoon I just randomly called an old school girlfriend of ours. The way she answered the phone made me instantly smile, and I think that is where this is coming from. I missed her. We were muck-up buddies in school. There were times when we’d egg cars, throw water bombs from balconies, put woopy cushions on the teachers chair (yes, even in high school…woopy cushions are pretty funny, you gotta admit). We’d get drunk together, hide behind buildings and share a naughty cigarette, and one time had midori shots before art class, where we were ultra-creative and rather giggly.

Anyway, she’s coming tomorrow night and I can’t wait to see her. I want a girl to talk boys with. I want a girl to back me up in conversations with N and R, because at coffee this morning I was standing alone on topics of sex and relationships. I want a girl’s opinion and a girl’s advice. I want a girl to make a real comment on my shoes, not just have my mate screw up his nose and say ‘they look so uncomfortable…do you want to borrow some thongs?’ I want to tell her about my boy. Point him out across the restaurant. I want to make some stupid chick joke and have someone laugh.

I love my boys to death, and I know they love me. They constantly spout lines like ‘Of course your boyfriend knows he’s on a winner…who wouldn’t?’ and ‘You smell good’. Today R actually told me he was going to call my Mum and ask her why I’d lost so much weight. He actually scolded me, with furrows between his brow. From a guy, that’s big. I wouldn’t trade them or their love for the world, but I just want something different as well. I think one of the holes in my swiss cheese life has been this. I’m trying to get more wholly happy again, and this is at least an attempt, if not a start.

Because I know he's hurting...

2006-06-28T17:38:00.000-07:00

This is where I went from there...

I was awoken from my sleep last night by J. It wasn’t late by any means, and he’d not long finished work. But after the devastating soccer morning, Tuesday was early to bed night for most Aussies I reckon.

Anyway. He called to say he’s sorry. Sorry because he knows he’s not been treating me the way he should. He’s been distant, not all there. I’ve been getting frustrated. Hurt, and the other night…angry. Me, angry. Last week I told him that if I felt like he was half-arsed, I just wasn’t going to bother. I need to know and feel that I am wanted. I deserve that.

He said he wasn’t making excuses, but he’d been having a tough time with his daughter (by this, I take it to mean with the mother). She’d been on holidays, it’d been unsettled, and I know that his time with her is his most precious. His dad was killed 10 years ago, and he still hasn’t dealt with it. I knew he’d be funny at this time of year, I just didn’t know how much it affected him until recently. It’s something he doesn’t really talk about.

I know he needs to work on this stuff alone, I understand. And I’m grateful that I know now that it hasn’t been me! I guess we all have our issues, and my weeks of neuroticism were mine. These are his.

So I wrote…

I don’t know much about loss. I’ve lost people I’ve loved, but I’ve never lost a parent. I know that in a week it will be 10 years since your father died, and I can see how much it hurts you every day. For a 17 year old boy to lose the man in his life without a chance to say thankyou or goodbye would be a horrible thing. I obviously didn’t know your father. But I know that he’s still around somewhere. The people we love and need don’t leave us, even if they go away. He’s still here in you.

Your father raised you to be the person you are and he would be so proud of the amazing man and father you have become. Your daughter is the luckiest girl in the world to have you as her dad and I can only hope that my daughter one day will be half as lucky, and that she will have a bond with her father that I never really knew. Your father instilled such values in you that are rare in so many people today. You know about life. About love. About family.

J, you are so special in so many ways. Your strength and independence, confidence and worldliness stump me every day. You are a man of so much character and so much life experience, and I feel so fortunate to be a part of your life. Your father raised the guy I’ve fallen in love with, so in my book, he must’ve been a bit of alright.

I know that you’ve got 27 years of life behind you that I will never be a part of. But I hope that in time I will become a part of your future, because you possess every quality I want in a partner. I know that in the beginning we were like lovesick crazy teens. I know we’ve already had some tough times in our individual life bubbles. I know that bubbles can stick together though, and I feel that ours can.

When we found each other, I think we both became calm. Happy in a way that had eluded us both for a while, and I don’t think that is something that will go away. You’ve taught me so much, about life and love, and even though there are other things going on right now, I know we can ride it out.

I want you to know that I am here for you, for anything you want or need. I’m not going anywhere, because this is where I feel right. As close as I was to walking the other night, I just wasn’t ready to let it go. You are too much to lose and I will be in this until I have nothing left. I feel blessed to be with you. Some days I can’t believe it took me so long, but then I guess it wouldn’t have been so beautiful or lasting. Most days I just can’t believe you’re mine. I just can’t imagine my life without you right now.

I love the man that you are. Everyone who knows you is better off for having you in their life and that is the man that your father moulded. Baby, he is with you every step of the way and he is sharing your life with you, just from afar. There will be a day when you will meet him again, and even though that day could be a hundred years from now, it will be soon enough. And I have no doubt that he will tell you just how proud he is of the way you lived your life. Who wouldn’t be?

I didn’t know men like you existed, and you exist as you are because of your father.

You can be sad, you can be hurt, you can cry buckets of tears or punch holes in walls. Just know that it’s not the end of your father’s influence on your life and you will never ever be alone, and at the end of the day, he did his job well…and he knew you’d be okay.

I love you more than I thought possible.

Auburn*

I forgot.

2006-06-27T18:18:00.000-07:00

In all my years of singledom, I forgot all the goodness that relationships possess. In the first few months of coupled bliss I forgot all the badness. I forgot just how fucking hard relationships are. I forgot how insane and stupid things can get when your life is all wrapped up around another and I forgot how the little things become big things which become mammoth things. With J, I forgot all about pain. I forgot how boys can hurt you, how loneliness and yearning makes you ache and how love can break your heart.

I forgot about the inherent dramas, which I hate. I forgot that it’s not all peaches and cream. I forgot that hand in hand with the good times come horrible times. Times that leave you unable to eat…unable to sleep. Times that have you looking at your phone, willing it to sing. Times that make you want to smash your phone against a concrete pavement. Times when the effort seems way too much, when you feel in it alone, or not at all.

Times when your mother asks you if anything is wrong because you’ve lost too much weight, and only then do you notice just how loose your clothes are. Times when the only place you fit is on the toilet floor, head in the bowl, throwing up everything, which is nothing, and thinking to yourself…I forgot how much love hurts. I forgot about the stupid fights which explode from nowhere, then ebb away almost as quickly.

I love J. I love what we have. But the moments like this in the last two weeks have made me realise that it won’t stay honeymooney forever. Last night I wanted to walk away. I nearly left, nearly put the key in his letter box and drove away. But I stopped…not what I wanted. I know it’s just turbulence. And I know that we’ll be in this until we have no feelings left. I’m just fucked if I know where to go from here.

Smiling.

2006-06-24T22:08:00.000-07:00

Today, things are good. I'm smiling. Like Trueborn. Like I have a magnificent secret.

But minus the weekend work I've become such a nanna that I'm now hankering for our guests to leave so that I can go to bed. Is this normal? I thought the partying and dancing me would return with free weekends, but now I'm just like "Oooh yeah...more sleep..." Loser. Yeah. I know.

A swiss cheese life...

2006-06-21T17:16:00.000-07:00

Ten minutes of mind blankness looking at a flashing cursor, not knowing where on earth to start. I have not written in two months. I have not written ANYTHING in two months. I think that’s where my problem starts. Writing for me is such an outlet. It’s the best friend mirror reflective ear that I just don’t have.

I have been living, sleeping breathing J. It was blissful, perfect. When I quit work he had holidays, so I still had him every waking second. Then he went back to work, and I got bored. Bitter and bored, not a good combination. My life is half as full as it was before, and it’s been utterly crazy. R and Bo have upped and left town (fuckers) and my life has slowly been starting to look more and more like swiss cheese. Little holes. Little on their own, but when one hole becomes three or four holes, shit feels different.

J, being the constant-slash-reliant in my life, copped it. Most, nay, ALL of it. I don’t know anyone more insecure than me. And one night my insecurities topped themselves with regard to his ex-wife (wife actually, they’re not divorced yet) which has been the biggest relationship hurdle I have ever had to deal with. But they have a child and I have been 100% supportive (the kid is adorable…seriously, he has good genes for future reference) and I know that is a part of his life that just doesn’t concern me right now. Anyway.

The last two weeks have been shit and Monday brought on a complete reassessment. Since he went back to work, I’ve been moody, empty and insecure which completely sabotaged us. We got so wrapped up in ‘it’ and each other, that we’ve kind of ignored ourselves. Realistically, we just aren’t going to spend every night together now that we aren’t going home from work together. I’ve moved house AGAIN and being half an hour away is actually a bitch if he’s working til 11pm. Like either of us wants to drive that distance now just to sleep.

I’ve been sick…sick enough to lose a few kilos which is great…how shallow is that? I need a new job because my weekends are now so BORING! I mean, I could go out, start dancing and partying again…but…I don’t know…I have not had weekends to myself for as long as I can remember. Can I even dance anymore? Scary much.

I was so scared, still am a bit, that I might lose him. I love him like crazy and he the absolute best thing that has happened to me in so long. Everything about him is just what I want. We fit…minus the last two neurotic weeks of course. Honestly, I would marry him tomorrow if the bastard wasn’t married already! When I thought it was over (Monday, argument, sobbing with complete disregard for running mascara) I…I don’t even know how to describe…trust me to fuck up the one amazing thing in my life…

The next few weeks will be hard. The make or break. I’m fucking terrified.

The shit hath hit-eth the fan-eth.

2006-05-16T17:44:00.000-07:00

I have been reprimanded re: workplace relationship. J and I got to a point of security where we were ready to let people know that we were together, so we didn’t have to hide anything, and now it’s all on.

To cut an insanely long story short, all of management are currently fucking or dating other staff. Here begins the hypocrisy.

J and I were upfront, honest. For close to three months, we have had this thing going and the ONLY people who knew were people who we had told. No-one knew, because at work we are totally professional. Completely 100% professional.

Now they know that there is a relationship there, they don’t want us working together. Only one of the owners (moreso his girlfriend) has a problem with us being together. Like they have any right when we have absolutely proven that it in no way affects our work.

Anyway. I got sent home from work last night because “we don’t you to be here while J is here”. Or tomorrow. But by Friday you will need to apologise to this person, that person, prove this, prove that…crawl up our arses to keep your job basically. We need you back for the weekend.

So.

They can get fucked. I am absolutely employable and I deserve much much better than this shit. They can’t sack me because they know they can’t do without me. So by trying to prove some kind of point, they have just really proven my unreplaceability. I know that’s not a word…bare with me. D cannot run the bar without me. He has completely fucked himself over. And if he didn’t have the balls to stand up for that, then he’s not worth working with anyway.

I got drunk and cried for hours until J rescued me from the pub last night. He took me to get ice-cream and cuddled me til I fell asleep. I couldn’t sleep a wink though, and my puffy eyes while teaching this morning would’ve looked a sight. (Lucky I used that conjunctivitis excuse last week hey Buggy!)

But wait…there’s more…

J, sous chef, just resigned. He carries the kitchen and they know it. His staff will frogmarch out that door behind him, and they know it. By allowing one of the management couples to create fucking Mt Everest out of a molehill they have just right royally screwed themselves.

I know people. If I want it, I will have a job somewhere else by Friday. They need me, I don’t need them.

They need us. But they had a problem with “us” even though we were upfront and honest about it. Regardless of what happens with us as a couple...Separately, we are neither of us prepared to work for people who lack the management and personal skills of addressing issues properly…the bitching, backstabbing, manipulating and downright lying about other staff is just pathetic. It looks like a couple’s revolt, but it’s not. If it were, that’s what they made it anyway.

What will this do to J and I? I don’t know. But I guess it can only make us stronger. I hope so, because I’m not prepared to kiss J goodbye just yet.

'Those' nights...

2006-05-11T22:36:00.000-07:00

I had one of ‘those’ nights last night.
Couldn’t get to sleep, no matter how many Stilnox I was tempted to pop.
I was wired, invisible matchsticks prying my eyes open.
When I finally let the fairies drag me away, they just couldn’t keep me.
I tossed and turned, was cold and hot, lucid and delirious.
My stomach coiled up, I felt like I was being stabbed, and was overwhelmed by the intense urge to throw up.
I was scared, I was nervous.
I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t make sense of what my body was doing.
I had dreams, nightmares.
I’m sure I was talking.

My alarm went off for school, and I had to call in sick.
I couldn’t stretch out of the foetal position just yet.
I felt so horrendously terrible, that in my halfway state I told them I had conjunctivitis, so that it would give me another days grace.
Not even the rain tinkering down could soothe me.
I felt like death.

J messaged me, bemoaning the weather…we were supposed to be going for a nighttime beach walk…
Corny, yes, but there was an alterior motive…
I replied, whinging my agony.
He told me to stay in bed.

Twenty minutes later, a coffee was brought to my door.
We have this coffee thing whenever one of us is feeling down.
Tired, wired or whatever.
If one of us can get to our coffee place, we bring each other one as well.

So there I was, in all my bedhead glory, whinging and miserable…
Yet grinning like a Cheshire cat.
He met two of my brothers.

Today, I’m going to stay in my pyjamas as long as possible.
If I change, it will be to go shopping.
Mother’s Day is pounding on the door, and I need to think of something special.
And today, I am going to let the rain soothe me.

J.

2006-05-10T14:01:00.000-07:00

I’m nervous spouting this kind of stuff on here. I’m nervous spouting any kind of personal information anywhere.

I am “well-caged”.

I have big strong walls, which we’ve spoken about many a time, which I just don’t let people scale. Someone seems to have got a custom-made ladder, because I’ve let someone in.

He shall be known as J. It’s been about 2 months I think. I tried to figure it out yesterday, but I just couldn’t make head nor tail of my diary/dayplanner…so it will have to remain a mystery.

I kinda like this one. I don’t know how I let him close, but I’m glad I did. There was an issue the other night about this girl who still wanted him, and for the first time in…maybe forever…I could say (and genuinely believe) that ‘I am not worried about who you’ve been with, because I know that you’re with me now…’

We are not boyfriend and girlfriend. We are both loathe to say it. But in every possible tangible and intangible way, we are a couple. It’s strange. It’s weird. It’s beautiful.

He tells me that I am beautiful. He tells me how special I am. He cuddles me. He winks at me across the bar. He told me the other night that I am the ‘package’. That he loves that I am a girly girl but at the same time a tomboy. I will dress up for dinner, wear make-up, shyly get prettied…but if we roll on down to the beach or the park, I will be in slops and sporting bed-hair.

Being wanted is a wonderful thing. Having someone not want to share you, is nice. One night last week we were snuggled up on the lounge and he looked at me…a funny look…like there was something he was about to say. But he didn’t, so I poked him. He turned back and said ‘I was just thinking what an incredibly beautiful woman you are’…

The other night, a random text… ‘I find myself looking at you with more excitement and anticipation every day…’

*sigh*

I like this. I don’t know what it is, or where it will go, but for now? I like this…and I haven’t felt so special in a long long time…

Like a dripping tap...

2006-05-06T13:39:00.000-07:00

My friend R and I started law school together. When I buggered off overseas, he kept plugging away. He graduated last year and landed a job at a big firm in Sydney. He made the move from the beach to the urban jungle, and swapped his surfing and sailing for a room in a concrete box. Yesterday, he resigned. Yesterday, he finished up. He told them he just couldn’t do it anymore.

I knew he wasn’t happy. We’ve talked about it since he started there in January. We both knew it was never going to ‘be him’, no matter how much he maybe wanted to think it could be. No matter how much he pretended to like the suits, the lunch at the desk, the entering the building at sun-up and the walking home during the sleeping hours.

Some people can do that lifestyle. Some people crave it. Some people get the ultimate satisfaction from flogging themselves stupid in a profession of banality. Some people will always just be the fish out of water.

This is how it was for him. I’m terrified, because I already know that I will be exactly the same. It’s not me. It never could be, although I’m damn sure that on the outer I could bluff and smile and manipulate an existence out of it. But I want to live, I don’t want to just exist.

My heart is aching today. I’ve been in the fragile depths of unhappiness, and seeing my best friend come so close to a breakdown, hearing him admit that he couldn’t make it work, hearing his silence on the phone…it hurt.

He deserves to be happy. He deserves to discover passion and fulfillment in life. I imagine my cheekbones burning from this mental slap across the face. It’s like a bit of deja-vu…kind of reverse…because I feel like this experience for him is exactly where my life is headed, and I don’t know that I have the heart or energy for that.

In the interim...

2006-05-03T12:50:00.000-07:00

I guess that the important stuff of the last month of my internet-free life will just slowly filter it’s way through to blogland, because sitting here now I am having real difficulty knowing where to start. I could bullet point the boring stuff, but I won’t.

To see your house demolished is a pretty weird thing. To sift through 24 years of accumulated crap until you are left with the bare minimum of possessions and memories so that you can squeeze into a miniature house for ten months is weird as well. To be able to draw rude pictures on your bedroom wall and then throw a shot-put through it is even weirder still. Somewhat liberating though, in the ‘look at me! I can wreck shit!’ kinda way.

So. I’ve moved house, but spent nearly two weeks house-sitting elsewhere as well, then a few days housesitting somewhere ELSE with a friend so that we could have a few days of a party pad before that friendship blew up in my face. Throw in the home of the guy I’ve been seeing, and I’ve been a little bit of a nomad.

Okay okay…back it up.

To remove emotion from the equation, B was hooking up with D behind my back and lying to my face, thus the friendship that has now ended. The Chef and I have been seeing a lot of each other, which whether unfortunate or not has meant that I haven’t really seen much of the ‘nice date boy’…and to cut a long story short, confusion reigns.

I’ve had one day off in three weeks, I’m tired as all hell, and this typing stuff is proving harder than I remember! I think I need to ease back into it and get my typing juices flowing. It’s good to be back though…at least now I may be able to get some more perspective (and help) from the viewers at home.

Aahh…blogland.

I’m home.

nearly back...

2006-05-01T23:59:00.000-07:00

I haven't touched a computer since my last post and whilst maybe my life got a dose of reality in its' absence, I felt like a part of me died. The champagne and caviar Jobe has been feeding me just got a bit too much.

I love you guys!

Shit I've missed this.

So...

I've moved house, it's been a right royally fucked up month. I've had one day off in three weeks now, but things are still good. Since the move though, I've had NO phoneline and NO internet. Fucking Optus. Telstra. I don't even know which carrier kept fucking it all up. Surely the fact that a house is demolished doesn't mean that everything else has to go right? Anyway, I'm at work being a very bad girl, but I got special permission to check my email. As I write, the Telstra-men should be finalising the internet at home, so hopefully tomorrow I'll be back to update on my life of dirt, dating, debauchery and...well...difference. Sort of.

Nah...I'm still the same. Just a different kind of limbo.

Damn I've missed writing!

Anyways my dahhhhlllings....if I even have any friends left....

Man do I have some reading and catching up to do!

mwah mwah mwah!

Amen.

2006-04-06T23:52:00.000-07:00

If you’re interested, you’ll be there.

I read this on a friend’s site today, and it has stalled my plans to tell you about my morning and my fire drill. This phrase is truth personified. It is perhaps one of the most blatantly simple statements I’ve heard this side my…well, my toddler years I guess.

I’m a straight-up person. Brutally, and abidingly honest. I’m sensitive, but concurrently leather-tough. I’m trusting, bordering on gullible at times I know, but you have to earn my trust. I’m nice, but I can be bad. I’m a laugher, but I can be serious. If you’re my friend, I’m a rock. I aint going anywhere. You do for me, I do for you. I’ve been used and abused too much to be a sap, so I can be somewhat cautious.

In friends, in love, in any relationship that is going to stand up in my life…if you’re interested, you’ll be there. I don’t want excuses. I don’t want left-overs. I don’t want to be the only one working.

I know that there are thrills in the unknown. I know that the mystery of ‘what if’ can often be the very reason to get out of bed each day. I know that wondering, questioning and just plain not knowing sometimes can evoke much more joy than the bluntness or monotony of truth could inject. I know that.

I don’t know if I’m too old or just too jaded for games. I’m at a point where I’m sick of putting my life, days, nights, wellbeing, emotions on hold for other people. If I were to walk out of this house and family today, things would crumble. I’m angry at myself being the backbone, the doer. I’m over being a doormat, a lapdog. I’m angry at me, I’m angry at them. I’m angry to the point of departure.

But as much as I espouse this stance of needing back as much as I give…I won’t do anything about it. I won’t take steps. I won’t jump. I just hopscotch around till I’m back at the beginning.

This is going to change. This will become my new mantra…not that I had an old one. Don’t let me be the only one working (ironic if you take this to include this ‘sphere… cause I’ve been absent, unsupportive and uncommenty for over a week now…apologies). Don’t let me question. Let me wonder about the little things, sure, but don’t let me doubt. I’m done doubting. Don’t let a bar of indifference get in the way, I’m done with indifference.

If you’re interested, you’ll be there. If you care, I will know you care. If you love me, tell me. If you’re angry, tell me too. Don’t tiptoe around me, I’m not precious. Don’t stomp all over me, I’m not that weak. Stand up. Bring it. I’m ready to embrace, but I need a little back. I’m done being the only one there.

Boomerang...

2006-04-04T17:54:00.000-07:00

PAUSE (pôz)

v. paused, paus·ing, paus·es
To cease or suspend an action temporarily.
To linger; tarry…
A hesitation…
A temporary cessation.

Everything in my life right now is mellowing into mediocrity.
I’m having trouble seeing.
I’m having trouble hearing.
I’m finding it really hard to think with any hint of assurance.
I’m mystified trying to make sense out of everything, and even nothing…when I know that the flickers of joy and clarity are often found within the nothing.
Nothing is everything.
I am usually an analyser of the nothing.
And assessor, addresser, observer, reveller and purveyor of the nothing.
My daily missives are consumed by nothing, and revel in nothing, yet at the moment, none of it seems to work.

I feel static.
I feel meaningless.

The most frightening part is that I probably am.

On my way home from work just now (I’ve started a second job) I was positive.
Ready to launch into a fantastically colourful post about how I’ve been gone four days and it feels like forever.
About how I’ve missed it.
And then I start googling a definition to intro…

because i'm in one of those moods...

and I find myself typing ‘mediocrity’… ‘indifference’…

Feelings are funny things.
I’m tempted to preach my disdain for all things emotional.
But that would be false.
I just wish I understood more right now.

I feel like I’m living a mediocre life.
I feel like I’m making no headway in any which direction.
I feel like just packing it in and flying off to backpack away my troubles.
I feel like I’m treading water, and my legs are getting tired.
I feel like I’m failing…the expectations of others and myself.
I feel like I should be somewhere by now.
Somewhere else.
I am terrified that I won’t get somewhere good.
I am terrified that I won’t work it out.
I am scared that this is all there is…and this isn’t much.
I worry that the end will hit me before I’ve even begun.
My insides twist and lurch at the prospect of not making anything more.
Of not becoming someone.
Of not finding myself or my direction.

I fear sounding like a broken record.
I fear that I may emanate boredom.
Ooze monotony.
I fear that this is tiring.
It’s wearing me out…and I don’t want to wear out my friends here either.

My daily life is full of shiny happy people.
I’m one of those.
Sometimes.
Until moments like these…where the letter Q and associated questions start tugging at me.
Just lightly…niggling…telling me they’re all still there.
And when they yank…and they hurt…
The boomerang of my mind and heart swings right on back.
And I can’t throw it far enough away.

Bootycall.

2006-04-04T12:43:00.000-07:00

I wish I were kidding.

This phone number has been calling me off and on for a few weeks. Sometimes once, sometimes thrice a week. I haven’t answered, because I don’t know the number.

Yesterday, I answered.

“Hello, Auburn* speaking”…

Silence.

More silence.

*beeeeeeeep*

Hang up on me. Whatever.

Text alert: Hey babe. You awake?

Me: Yes… (thinking, Duh…you just rang me arsehat…)

Texter: How are you? What are you doing?

Me: I’m really sorry, my phone recently lost half of its numbers and I am not sure whose number this is…

Texter: Oh that hurts…Still want you though!

Me: Wasn’t meant to hurt, it’s true. So…?

Texter: So I still want you.

Me: Who is this?

Texter: So you want to have sex?

Me: Who the hell is this?

Texter: It’s Dave, you dick!

Me: I know a couple of Dave’s, none of whom I would be expecting to booty call me! Give me a surname. (So I know who to rat out with this shit.)

Texter: Forget it.

Me: My boss is a Dave. My brother’s mate is a Dave. It’s not exactly a rare name. Who is this?

Texter: Nah, forget it. Bad idea.

Okay, I forget it. Whatever. I don’t reply.

Texter: I just wanted sex anyway.

Me: (seething) You can’t want sex that bad if you can’t even tell me who you are. And the way to a girl’s ANYTHING is not through calling her a dick. For future reference.

Texter: No sex for you then, Dick!

I have never given my number to a Dave. I don’t give my number out like that anyway, so I am absolutely baffled. I dated an American called Dave six years ago, but he is long gone back to the States, we aren’t in contact and it’s a different mobile number anyway.

I didn’t reply to that immaturity. I didn’t bite. And he’s calling me a dick. Pft.

I want to know who the hell it is though. I think I’ll wait a day or two then call him from a private number.

I’m taking bets as to whether it’s a scrawny 12yo or a wheezing 70yo.

My Life In Song Titles.

2006-03-29T15:44:00.000-08:00

"Do eet"...(Laurie). Queen of Cuteness.

Laurie's told me to answer every question or phrase with a song title of a particular artist. I added some questions...for the sake of a challenge.

As she is as crazy and emotional as me, I choose Ani Difranco…

Are you male or female? Lost Woman Song
Describe yourself: I’m No Heroine
Describe your inner: Not So Soft
Describe your outer: As Is
How do some people feel about you: Born A Lion
What about some others? 32 Flavours
How do you feel about yourself: Sick Of Me
How do you feel about pain: Willing To Fight
Describe your ex boyfriend: Heartbreak Even
Describe your current significant other: The Waiting Song
Describe where you want to be: On Every Corner
Describe how you live: Imperfectly
Describe how you love: Swandive
Describe how you wish you were: Fierce Flawless
What would you ask for if you had just one wish: Up Up Up Up Up Up
The way you feel right now: Sorry I Am
Your life philosophy: Swim
Your view for the future: The Next Big Thing
Share a few words of wisdom: Work Your Way Out
Your biggest fear: What If No-one’s Watching
Now say goodbye: Ain’t that the way.

I hereby tag those who have thus far escaped tagdom:
Stella (Super Stella Crazy Lush)
Coyote Mike (Drowning on the Prairie)
20-Questions (eponymous blog)
Chickybabe (The Chicken or the Egg)

My Voice. I'm Gospel...right?

2006-03-28T20:23:00.000-08:00

I must interrupt the talk of my bachelors to address an alarming trend. That is, Google’s decision that I am the oracle of things that…well…I’m not. People are finding me via random (and repeat) subject searches, and I would just like to set some things straight.

Firstly, NO YOU CAN’T MIX SUDAFED WITH ALCOHOL. Yes, I have done it on…hrm…numerous occasions. I’ve even washed my Sudafed tablets down with vodka. Yes, I’m still alive. Haven’t needed my stomach pumped or anything. But medically, it is a no-no. I’m just lucky. To the three people thus far who have asked for my opinion on this care of Google, you will probably not be so lucky. Pseudoephidrine does not go with alcohol.

Secondly, yes, some days I believe in love at first sight. Some days I don’t. To the sweet young thing who wants to know if love at first sight exists? I won’t be a total cynic and say no. I won’t send you off into the arms of some random by saying yes. But if you believe in your head and your heart…and if you believe that you deserve ultimate happiness and a fairytale romance…if you believe that love exists? Well that will get you off to a good start. The rest will write itself.

The next and probably most important search I would like to address, I have had a total of five times since installing my site meter. My puppy has an illness called ‘White Shaker Dog Syndrome’. It’s only really seen in Maltese, Bichon, Shitsu breeds…small ‘white’ dogs literally. In my baby, it came outta nowhere. At the same time, his brother got it too. It’s a neurological disease, and it manifests in basically uncontrollable, constant fits. At his worst (which lasted for about a month) he couldn’t stand, walk, go to the toilet or anything. He would just lie there shaking. It’s incredibly rare, the vet at first didn’t know what on earth it was. On Prednisolone, which is a steroid, his shakes eventually eased. Even now, many months later, he is still on the medication…he will be for life. His epileptic-style fit (it wasn’t fits, because there are breaks in between fits…white shaker dog causes a constant unrelenting convulsion) is still there in a shudder. Some days are better than others. The hard thing about the medication, is that he gets really hungry and really thirsty because it’s a steroid, so he of course put on weight. He only has one meal a day, but his body just retains it all. We cut back his medication when he got a bit better, but the shakes return quickly and badly, so if we keep him on half a tablet a day it’s generally okay. White Shaker Dog Syndrome is not immediately fatal, but it does slash years off their life. It took a lot to come to terms with this, because he’s just the same beautiful loveable puppy! He has a great life. He’s not the bundle of boundless energy he was when he was born, some days he doesn’t have the energy to get up at all. He’s one and two months, so still very much a baby. My girl puppy never stops bounding and playing, so it gets a little hard. But I love my baby to death, and I know that he has a fantastic quality of life considering. It’s a heartbreaking thing watching your pet fit and shake when you don’t see it coming. It’s heartbreaking watching a month of intense constant shaking. It’s heartbreaking now, almost a year on, seeing him still resting his head on a pillow to stop the shaking. It’s heartbreaking, but he’s alive. He has an adoring and beautiful personality and he knows we love him to bits. It’s not the end of the world, even though when I was at the vet and she told me that his life would be shortened, my heart broke a little. A lot even. I don’t know why I’m writing this, I just want to share my experience to anyone else who searches for this illness. It’s rare, there is not that much info around on it. It’s sometimes helpful to see what someone else has been through.

Anyway.

Google is funny.

Oh, and lastly, NO, I CAN’T HELP YOU BUILD A GODDAMN IVORY TOWER! They don’t exist. My ivory towers are just my dreams. And they’re not that sturdy.

Another tower that wasn’t too sturdy was this tower of gelati that I had in Melbourne. Dripped and fell apart all over the table, but MAN it was good. I remember posting about it but I only got the photo today. I cropped out my face I’m sorry, but hell…it’s all about the gelato anyway. Be warned, this will make you huuunnnnggrrry…

You shoulda seen my eyes! You'd think someone had dropped a whole carat emerald-cut diamond in front of me. I love gelato. And ice-cream. And sorbet. Same, same but different. I'm salivating just in memory of this dessert heaven.

seven.

2006-03-27T21:33:00.000-08:00

So I’m overdue for an update, but I haven’t even had time to scratch myself of late. My sick self has been covering the sickness of others at work, and four consecutive ten hour days minus any kind of breaks has completely drained me. I slept right through uni this morning and it was bloody brilliant. My older brother is visiting until tomorrow as well, so we went out for lunch today and after one glass of wine I was merry. One meal a day will do that to you. It will also completely fuck up your metabolism. But anyway.

We just had a family dinner at this restaurant about 2k’s away. First time the seven of us have been together since…well, Christmas. Anyway, my crazy-arse family decided that we’d all walk down…we all ate and drank ourselves stupid and didn’t regret it until exiting the restaurant and realising that we were car-less. Ergh…time to roll home.

I think the beers consumed were to blame for the trip home… passing motorists were entertained by our illuminated bodies pretending that we were professional walkers. The Commonwealth games athletes that have entertained us with their gamatronian movements would’ve been impressed. Maybe. My brothers’ techniques left a lot to be desired. And the stitches we all got were oh so painful.

Add it to my sprained wrist which has been sports-taped for ease of cocktail shaking, the knot in my back which makes sitting painful, the blue, purple, yellow and even green bruises that my body has sustained of late (I shit you not…I am covered with unexplainable bruises and I don’t know where the hell they came from or what the hell that means), AND my sliced thumb, and the ready-to-throw-up feeling I have due to walking is par for the course.

Ergh. I feel like crap. I'm absolutely shagged. I will have to leave it here for now.

Fuck I love my siblings.

3am nostalgic thought process...

2006-03-25T03:09:00.000-08:00

I love kissing.

That is all.

the sister bond...

2006-03-24T11:35:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who lives right smack in the heart of the city.
Pimp house (it’s her mothers’, who lives in Chicago for half of every year) so it’s just her, her sister and recently, her boyfriend.
Big step that.
Anyway.
They’re like my sisters.
Our fathers went through medical school together.
In our earliest photographs and memories, all our little munchkin faces and curls are there.
We’ve done family holidays together all our lives.
We played dress ups, we’d have sleepovers.
Our mothers taught us to cook together, we painted together.
We went on bike rides together, we broke limbs together.
We went to the same high school and even though we were all in different years, we hung out, partied, got drunk and talked about boys.
We talk about female bodily functions, good sex, bad sex…
Medical annoyances, problems, and all our innermosts.

Surrogate siblings.
So surrogate, that I can rock up and stay in the spare room whenever I want.
She lets me know the gate code whenever it changes.
It’s brilliant for when I need a night away from the madness of my family (nope, still not talking to my father)…
Or when I want to go out and write myself off without having a $40 cab ride home.
I can stay for a week if I want.

Anyway, last night I had plans in the city and there was no way I was driving.
So I went straight from work to their place to shower and pamper prior to going out.
I set myself up the spare room and took over the ensuite.
Cause I’m allowed.
The little sis was there with a friend and it was like I was just coming home.

‘Hi babe! Mwah! Have some grapes…’

I love these girls to death.
I don’t know that anything’s happened of late, but I’ve been taking stock of a lot of friends and people in my life.
I’m noticing more and more the ones who just fit.
The ones who make an effort.
The ones who love you regardless.
I’m noticing the ones who don’t seem to give a shit…
And who don’t make time for you.

I am a good friend.
I will do anything for my friends.
I will drive my arse to Sydney if R is upset, whether he asks me or not.
I would cancel on any boy if someone needed me.
I would be awake like a flash if I got a phone call at 3am.
I would fly to freakin’ Iceland if a friend was in trouble.
I will take a choccie to Bo at work if I go to the Chocolate Shop, cause I know her favourites.
I will tell you I love you just because.
Hell, I will even let you borrow my shoes and jewellery.
And my friends of friends, are the ones who would do the same for me.
Friendships are a two-way street.

But anyway.
This pad and these girls are like another home.

Their stuff is my stuff. My stuff is their stuff.

Hair products included.
So I sashay upstairs to get ready.
Shower, wash the hair. Blow-dry. Straighten.
The air is a little moist, so I better slick something over the hair.
Don’t want frizz now.
Fabulous idea…where are Bo’s gloss drops?
I’m rummaging away through the cupboards, drawers…can’t find no gloss drops.
Puzzling.
I walk into her bedroom, and spy them sitting next to her bed.
Sweet.
I pick up the bottle.
What the?
Don’t remember gloss drops being sticky like this.
Hmm…squeeze some into my hand.
Not the consistency I remember.
And why is the bottle all gooey?

Oh crap.
These aren’t gloss drops, this is that $40 lube she was telling me about.
Ew.
I hastily replaced the uncannily-identical-bottle back on the bedside table.
Thank fuck I realised in time.
Imagine if I had lubed my hair!
Imagine if her boy had gloss-dropped himself!

I told her about my close call as she was dressing me.
Well, not dressing me, styling me.
Not many people I trust to weigh me down with chunky necklaces.
I’m more an earring girl.

'Oh my god, I lubed my hair the other day!'

I nearly busted something laughing.
‘I didn’t even have time to wash it cause I was running late!’
We were laughing till we were crying, and it wasn’t even that funny.
It was just one of those things.
She found me the real gloss drops, and sent me on my way.

She crawled into bed with me at 7am with two cups of tea for a post-mortem of our evenings.
Not many people I would welcome when I’m all cosied up in knickers and a doona.
Ten minutes later her sister joined us.
I love those mornings.
I love that closeness, the comfortability.

My sister and I haven’t been as close lately.
I don’t know if she’s hit that age of privacy.
I don’t know if she’s feeling too cool for her big sister.
Sometimes I wish she’d crawl into bed with me for a chat.
For advice.
But the friendship aspect has been missing.
I want it back.
I want her to need me as much as I need her.
I want her to mistake my gloss drops for lube so we can laugh about it.

Laying bare the fear...

2006-03-22T23:39:00.000-08:00

The air yesterday had a slight nip to it. The sun was only tingling on my back, I couldn’t feel it burning, but it was warming me. Sitting on the beach, eating lemon and lime sorbet, and talking for a good two hours with someone…it was quite a blissful afternoon. One of those moments when the shit doesn’t matter. The seagulls were hovering in the wind, letting random rounds off at the surfers below…a small scattering of people chilling out on the sand, the clothing layers varying from the young to the old. Modesty was thrown to the crashing surf…I felt free.

Until we started talking about our fears.

Now, I don’t pretend to be a wholly confident, together, fearless creature. But I think I pretend to be far less chicken shit than I really am. There are things of which the mere thought makes my blood run cold. An image flash in my mind can induce such hyperventilation and electrified anxiety that sometimes even a slap across the face can’t fix. I have fears, phobias…everyone does. Does everyone experience the chest-tightening? The hand-shakes, the pins and needles? Does everyone have those moments when fear or the evasion of fear makes you burst into tears, even when that fear is totally unfounded and people are looking at you like you have a third eye? Does everyone have at least one fear which seems so irrational yet borders on the pathological? I have panic attacks. Stupid ones. Does anyone else experience those moments of terror when you just want to curl up, squeeze your eyes tight and wake up in the new millennium? Or think, if I let it all go now, then at least I won’t have to be afraid anymore?

I seem to have been overly blessed in the insane fear and phobia department. Like many, I fear snakes and dying alone. I fear the crowds at the post-Christmas sales, I fear snapping the heel off my favourite shoe, I fear cancer. I fear a life without chocolate. I fear flying…it just doesn’t, and will never feel natural to be zooming through the sky in a metal contraption. I have a deathly fear of spiders, to the point where I am convinced that the Daddy Long Legs I flushed down the drain this morning will unite will the millions of other spiders I’ve killed and come back to get me.

I’m feeling particularly fearful today care of the goddamn doctor, who wasn’t particularly gentle at 8am. So I’m chronicling my top ten physical fears.

Being a passenger.
I’m the driver. I don’t care who you are, or how much I love or trust you. My mother is the only other person I trust to drive. I’ve never (touch wood) been hurt in a car accident…yet every time I am sitting in the left-hand seat it feels inevitable. Driving with my father to Melbourne earlier this year, I’d be completely doped up on Redbull with one hand on the door handle, the other gripping the arm rest like it was Johnny Depp’s arm and I was never letting him go.

Big rooms with big pipes.
This is the setting of my recurring nightmare I’ve had for as long as I can remember. It’s like a big warehouse with a corrugated iron roof. Industrial pipes and vats all over. Bad room.

Needles.
Take heart in the fact that I could never be a junkie. My father, being a doctor, used to home-vaccinate us as children. I remember running away from home when I was thirteen. I think it was rubella injection time. I climbed a tree, missed dinner, and only came home when I was thoroughly mosquito bitten and utterly miserable. The only times I ran away were when a goddamn vial came out of the fridge with my name on it.

The mask from Scream.
I know I know, how juvenile does that sound. But even visualising it now, at home in broad daylight, I have an icy shiver in my spine as I peer over my shoulder. There was a guy at a party once who had the mask…I never saw his face.

Sharks.
Everyone has seen Jaws right? Deep Blue Sea? Open Water? Stuff of my nightmares. I have no doubt that I was eaten by a shark in a previous life. Snorkelling is fine…with goggles, with clear water, I love the ocean. But when I have no line of sight, when it’s black, murky, sinister…I just can’t do it. The time I tried, backfired to the point of heart attack. When I was about fifteen, I was swimming bravely at our January holiday location. It was in a bay and I was a long way out. Yes, this area was known for Tiger Sharks, but I was sick of being the puncey one. Sick of my heart leaping into my mouth every time one of the boys knocked me off the surfski. So yeah, my cousin and I were swimming out beyond the moored yachts. We were trying to make it out to this buoy and back…the boys dared us we wouldn’t. I was ahead of her by about ten to twelve metres. I spun around in the water to hurry her up, facing shore, my back to the bay. She surfaced and smiled, then in a second her face changed to a look of pure terror. She was looking just over my shoulder, screamed, splashed, turned and started swimming frantically away from me…I turned to see an enormous black fin less than two metres behind me. I could’ve reached out and touched it. I thought I was dead. I didn’t even scream. I think I was frozen for a good second and a half as I watched the fin disappear beneath the surface. I turned and kicked, and swam like crazy. I didn’t breathe, I was head—down to shore, but I was just waiting for the razor-sharp teeth to clamp around my leg. I was waiting to be yanked backwards, or under. It never came. My cousin couldn’t believe she’d left me. I could, her sister was killed by the ocean. But to this day I don’t know if I could fight off a shark. I think I would rather just die and let it all be over.

Drowning.
My cousin drowned when I was nine. I think I premonitioned it.

Claustrophobia.
Mostly elevators and boat cabins. I got stuck in an elevator once. On two more occasions they’ve gotten stuck and stopped mid-floor, so you can just see a gap of light (once at the top, once at the bottom) where salvation is. I remember seeing the shoes of the rescuers outside thinking I would never get out of the elevator alive. Possibly that is just me being a drama queen though.

My cousin drowned when she was trapped in the cabin of a capsized boat. I have hated boats ever since, though I am constantly trying. My work had a Christmas Party Cruise one year…top deck is not always fun, but I honestly think that the one time I go into a small cabin I will never come out.

Public toilets.
Especially those with white tiled floors. It’s not all public toilets, sometimes I’m fine. It’s not a white tile thing (the new house will have white tiled bathrooms)…it’s just a very specific scene…

Crowds.
I have intermittent agoraphobia. Some situations are much more intense. Bad things happen in crowds.

Knives.
I have always been terrified of knives in other people’s hands. I can cut and cook and hold a kitchen knife and be okay, but with someone else wielding them, I can go to pieces. It’s not just because I hate seeing people sliced and stabbed in movies. Any other method of death I can watch, but not knife death. I think I was murdered in a prior life. I have been attacked at knifepoint. It was a horrible jagged-edged curved blade. Black handle.

One time, only about two years ago, my little brother decided to try a joke on me. I didn’t know he was home. I didn’t know it was him. I was in the kitchen washing up. I heard a noise above and behind me. I turned around and looked up to the space between the internal wall and the roof. Right behind that wall was the entry, the front door. Anyway, in that space was a horribly masked face, just staring at me. I didn’t scream. I turned around and grabbed a machete from the knife block, turned around and the face was gone. I started screaming obscenities, then quickly stopped to listen. I snapped my head to the end of the wall, and the face slowly slid around the corner. He (taller than me) was dressed in black, kitchen knife in hand, slowly flipping it over and over. Had cocked in my direction. I felt fear I hadn’t felt in about another two years. I contemplated the window, but he’d reach me first. Stand off. The seconds dragged. I didn’t speak, and he didn’t move except to flip the knife. My insides were liquefied, but I snapped…I was going to kill this fucker. I had so much anger in me. My rage bubbled over and I was screaming blue murder. I grabbed another knife in my other hand. He wasn’t prepared for this. I stepped forward and he stepped back. I told him I was going to kill him, and I was fully prepared to. He dropped the knife onto the bench and pulled off the mask. It was my baby brother. I yelled and cried. He now understands me and knives…I don’t think he will ever try it again.

I didn’t talk about all of this at the beach yesterday, but what we talked about dredged a bit of it up.

I would like to be a stronger person. A person who could just stand up and scream ‘fuck you!’ to fear. To not worry, stress or obsess about sometimes or somewhat inconsequential things. To not drag up bits and pieces of the past and let it cast a shadow or a raging stormcloud over the present. I wish so often that I could dissociate from memories, random thoughts and fears. I wish fear didn't stop me sometimes. But I can’t do that. I’m too vulnerable and attachable for now. Too damn cautious, wary, panicable and terrified to just give up those niggling feelings of imminent disaster.

But hey, at least I won’t get eaten by a shark.

I shouldn't be awake...

2006-03-21T12:26:00.000-08:00

If it were possible for me to roll out of bed on the wrong side, I would say that’s what I did this morning. I’m grumpy. I’m stressed, confused, unwell, paranoid, vulnerable, annoyed and just downright pissed off to be awake today. Everything is getting to me. I only have one exit side on my bed at the moment though, so I’m going to blame it on the moon, the stars or maybe just damn karma.

In light of said mood, I’m oozing negativity. And I hate it.

I hate the way my brothers leave dirty dishes and glasses all over the house, so I always have to do laps of the house collecting everything to wash up in the mornings. They don’t even care when the cupboard runs out of glasses, they just start swigging coke and orange juice out of the good wine glasses. And then dump the wine glasses all over the house.
I hate raw onion.
I don’t like eggplant.
I despise bad drivers. I hate it when people potter in the fast lane. Move the fuck over!
I can’t stand religious door-knockers.
I hate it when people steal parking spaces. The other day I was waiting patiently for this oldie man to reverse away, when this stupid P-plater hooned around me and stole my park. I parked the fucker in.
I hate it when people put the toilet roll on the wrong way. Yes, there is a correct way. The paper should feed over the top. Don’t make me fish around for the end underneath.
I hate spiders. I committed spider-murder this morning on this goddamn huntsman that had the audacity to crawl out on the window in front of me. I was gazing out at the horses when I had a freakin’ heart attack. I screamed. I morteined it.
I hate it when you go to the movies and the theatre is not even full, but people sit right in front or behind you. There’s a whole slew of empty seats fucktard!
I hate people who don’t seem to understand ‘personal space’. It means it’s my space. Not yours, mine.
I despise people who push in.
I don’t like being sick.
I don’t like rejection.
I don’t like wanting and needing things I can’t have. Story of my life.
At the moment, I am not liking meat. Weird weird food cravings. Meat just makes me want to throw up.
I hate cockroaches.
I hate moving house.
I hate revisiting some stuff in my past when I trip over boxes of memories.
I don’t like being wolf-whistled at. Go and buy a dog. Take it to the park. Play fetch.
I hate disorder. I hate it when things are crooked. Or messy.
I hate being or feeling out of control.
I hate not being able to walk into the travel shop and just book a flight to Japan to visit my friends. It’s been too long. I’m feeling homesick. I just need like three grand and I could do it. I need it.
I hate needles. Two hours.
I don’t like typing right now.
I hate boys.
I love flowers.

I'm Tired (And I Hate Moving)

2006-03-20T10:16:00.000-08:00

I need matchsticks to hold my eyes open this morning. Holy Mother of God I despise moving house. Really, I do. And the move has only just begun. I despise the fact that I have to pack up my entire life for an eight month move. As much as I know that the house will be brilliant when it’s built, I would prefer right now just to wallow in whinging and selfishness because I’m thoroughly overwhelmed by the amount of ‘stuff’ I have.

I never would’ve believed accumulating this much ‘stuff’ would be possible. When the family moved house last time I was living overseas, so my first 21 years was boxed up and stored. Only now are these boxes reappearing.

11.47am yesterday. My father (who I’m still not speaking to) drags me to the storage shed and says: “See that wall of boxes? Yeah, twenty of them…well, they’re yours, you have to go through them today.”

Oh sure…right. Cause, you know, I start work in 2 hours and I’m already trying to frantically pack up my current bedroom whilst anticipating packing up the rest of the communal house because I know all you other lazy bastards won’t get around to it. Sure I’ll go through another twenty friggin’ boxes. I’ve got time to cull that. Me? Busy? Noooo…
*a breath*
You know what? Fuck it. Whatever is in those boxes I haven’t seen or felt the need for in three damn years, so…fuck it. I don’t have time to go through them, so just chuck them. Burn them, turf them, I just don’t care. I am angry, bordering on livid at the monumental bitch tasks I am facing…fuck it.

Him (opening the box closest to him). “You don’t want to even look? I think you should look”.

Holy Mother. Sitting right on top of that first darn box I spy a familiar purple notebook. It’s my Year 12 diary. I pounce. I gasp. I groan. What if this had made it’s way out into the aether? Either I would be seriously disowned or the delicate teenage ramblings within would cause admission to an institution of some kind. I flick through a couple of pages, nearly physically sick with the memories wafting from between the folds.

I snap it shut, remembering that my father (no, despite this interlude we are still not talking) is still standing there. I look back into the box. Photo negatives. A tonne of them.

Fuuuuuuuccckk.

I will have to go through these boxes, even if it’s not entirely thoroughly. Who knows what could be buried in the middle? Or more importantly, who the hell packed my diary? Did they look in it? Did they read it? Are there photocopies somewhere?

*hyperventilating ensues*

Like I’m not stressed enough.

And tired. I had a huge weekend at work and I’m feeling utterly shagged. Saturday became a ten hour straight marathon without a dinner break. Yesterday was another ten hours and my first dinner went cold and skanky because I didn’t get time to eat it. Eight o’clock came round and the Chef made me a new dinner…and we got hammered again and I only managed a few mouthfuls before it too, became cold and skanky. Ten o’clock appeared and I was like ‘Goddamn it…just gimme a Crème Brulee…at least that’s supposed to be cold’ (yes, I could’ve gotten bread or something…but I deserved something sweet and sinful, and well…fuck it, I don’t need to make excuses for my brulee cravings). I managed to finish the darn thing at about midnight. Crawled into bed at 1am to the soothing sound of rain on the roof but I needed way more than the 6 hours sleep I got.

I am the queen of digressing.

I think that relates a little to my hoarding tendencies as well. I ramble and float and seem to love excess. I go off topic, I keep things I will never need again, things that may only have relevance to one minute of my life thus far…but therein lies a memory. I am swayed completely by emotion. She is my teacher, learner, torturer, student, shrink, owner and mastermind all rolled into one. Emotion tells me that maybe in fifteen years time I will want that ‘I Love You’ teddy bear…that Valentine’s card…that photograph, that pen, that magazine, that crystal dragon, that bookmark, my Deb shoes, that skirt which I bought in Switzerland (though why, I just don’t know), the broken marionette doll I bought in France, the Happy meal toys that my ex-ex-boyfriend gave me, my teenybopper clothes (because who knows when a dress-up party might be just around the corner?)…earrings that I’ve lost one of (if mismatched earrings come back in I will be cool dude), the first card my godson made for me, the essays that got me HD’s six years ago on a topic I don’t even remember, old school text books with scribbled back and forths between me and my high school love-slash-bestie…just…stuff…

I’m a stuff person. An emotionally attachable, material, waste of space stuff person. My weekend resolution? Turf the stuff. Cull it, kill it, get rid of the stuff. Free my life, head, desk and wardrobe space for a new awakening. It’s going to be hard, but I’m going to be brutal. Now I’ll just have to call 1300-dumpster.

Big dumpster.

Pool party!

2006-03-18T02:04:00.000-08:00

Well here I go partaking in a little bit of the ol’ “drogging”. For the uninitiated, this is drunk blogging. I already fear that I won’t be able to fulfil many sentences of this.

YES. I was supposed to be home packing tonight, because the house move is happening this weekend and next weekend.

YES. I am too sick to be drinking anyway. I’ve been hacking and sneezing and coughing and just, dying all night…but MAN I had a good time.

BBQ at a mate’s place on the old Weber home barbecue. We had snags and lamb, salad and potatoes. Wine and wine and frangelico and cognac. Oh, and beer.

WE had an IPOD music thing happening, and I just couldn’t stop playing the CHEESE MIZ! It was all Beach Boys, Aretha Franklin, Temptations, party dance, boogie like it’s the 1960s, 70s, 80s…anything but the year freakin’ 2006!

And then my poor friend Bo got thrown in the pool. Yes, it MAYBE happened because me and Chris were being all bitchy-girly going ‘Yeah! Push her in! She’ll love us anyway!’….so funny. The boys were stripping off layers and bombing each other. I got a pair of jeans smack fair in the face, so there went all hopes of the mascara staying on…may as well join in.

Chef messaged me. I didn’t get it till now dammit.

But anyway...a note to girls going to BBQ’s on St Pat’s day…DON’T WEAR WHITE SKIRTS! Yeah. I wore a white skirt. With a baby blue g-string underneath, that spells trouble. With a capital ‘T’! And it seems, if you warn the guys that they better not or all hell will break loose, that only serves as more incentive!

Damn I had fun though.

Ooh yeah.

The drive home was fucking scary. Yeah, I did the illegal. I fucking HATE drunk drivers. I think I was okay though. I switched to water about the same time I was inhaling it in the pool…and we had cheeses with the cognac to chill. Yeah. I’m good. Sure.

Dammit, I’m going house-partying more often. I like having myself a life.

Calling all Samaritans...

2006-03-14T10:14:00.000-08:00

I need a nurse. I have just dragged myself out of bed, my crocheted blanky trailing behind me all the way to the computer, so I can sit here and miserably type…well…nothing again. I had crazy dreams last night. In between fits of coughing up my stoamch and choking on the air I just couldn’t get into my lungs, I was in la-la land.

So I have a date tomorrow night. If I’m well enough. Chef is taking me to dinner. I’m freaking. Thursday is D’s birthday…his present should be arriving from the States today. Gosh Australian bookshops are annoying. That’s three books so far this year that I haven’t been able to get here…not even in the Sydney Borders. Anyway…

I said I was going to post about ‘nothing’, so here goes. My blog is by no means popular. I don’t have a global cult following like our dear Steph. I don’t want one. I feel privileged to have the friends-slash-commenters who visit me everyday, comment, laugh with me, send telepathic hugs, winks, bitch slaps and well wishes. Okay, so I haven’t received any international bitch slaps, but wouldn’t that be something different! (Shut up. I’m sick. Somewhat delusional. Again.) To be honest, if this harem of ours were much bigger I fear I’d lose my life outside of the blogosphere, because I just want to check up on everyone… everyday.

I have a site meter thingy. I hardly ever check it. I don’t really understand much on it anyway. But this morning I scrolled by. I have about 58 visitors to my site a day. They stay for an average of 6 minutes 30 seconds and check out around 125 pages. That’s not muchby some people's standards I'm sure, but for me it is...and it’s humbling.

What could possibly be that interesting? I double-checked just to make sure that I haven’t inadvertently linked to any fantastic or innovative porn sites. And to ensure I haven’t promised money to readers in a drunken post or anything. But no. None of that. Maybe it’s the soap drama that is my life. I don’t know what it is. But I’m touched nonetheless.

Even for the following…that Google thought me worthy of linkage for the following random searches:

- quilt pictures professionally quilted tequila sunrise sick friend
- sorry for you she has no sister
- Chanel lip gloss lifespan
- can you miss someone you've never met
- Validations of Love
- wake towers and monkey bars
- blistered sandstone

I seem to be an oracle on Chanel, Validations of Love, monkey bars and blistered sandstone. Yay me. I wonder what these poor sods thought they’d stumbled across when Google threw up my name for help and advice on building a sandstone house or wall or something.

I’m good with walls…don’t get me wrong. I build them tough and strong and nobody can break them down. They’re slippery…and a bitch to try and scale. I can even put little pointy spears on top as a further deterrent. Seriously, who’s going to try and get to me then? And if there is a gate somewhere along an Auburn-wall, you can bet that it will be double or triple bolted like the doors and gates in the movies. Big iron-clad padlocks even. But I’m smarter than those chicks that live home alone in the movies. I actually bolt the fuckers.

I have just discovered that this is my 99th post. Shit. I better make the next one count more’n this one…

The snob in me...

2006-03-10T10:07:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make, and it’s going to be really hard. It’s going to make me look bad. It’s going to make me appear very superficial. It’s going to make me seem like I have less between my ears than Victoria Beckham. Except I am double the woman she is. I have my Momma’s hips. And my Momma’s brains. And…yes…my Momma’s taste.

My confession? I am a clothes snob. I really am. I didn’t realise quite how bad it was until yesterday when I took my sister shopping. When it comes to clothes and brands, I am all for quality. Now, I am not a brand snob…there is a difference. No, I don’t hang out in Louis Vuitton. I don’t actually own anything Louis Vuitton, because I currently need the use of both of my kidneys. Not quite ready to sacrifice one for a ridiculously overpriced generic handbag that every second person has a replica of.

I don’t shop Gucci, or Prada. I don’t strut around in Jimmy Choos. And although I dream every night of wearing a string of black pearls, I am not about to throw away money that I don’t have on a purchase from Tiffanys.

I am, however, a quality shopper. I believe that you get what you pay for (in the realms below the ridiculous. I don’t believe that any dress could be worth $60 000. Or maybe I do, and I’m just jealous. Mute point.) I boutique shop. I buy David Jones. I wear nice clothes. I would wear Alannah Hill every day if I could afford to, but I can’t, so I have special pieces.

I am a loyal shopper too. Eighty percent of my shoes are probably Sachi. Because they fit and wear well, and they’re hot of course. I will pay the money for shoes and clothes that I know I will be happy with. I don’t like to waste money on bad clothes, bad quality. This is where my dilemma kicked in yesterday.

Lil sis (who thinks the same as me MOST of the time) saw an ad for $39 jeans at a store I have not frequented since…well...since my first paycheck. She has just started Uni and I think she is lamenting the uniform days of school. Because Uni is a fashion parade for many, and she just doesn’t have enough clothes to keep up. I spoil her rotten, as does my mother, but I think I need to change my tactics. An Alannah skirt and Wayne Cooper heels aren’t going to fit in on campus, so yes…I was prepared to get her some everyday basics that she can mix up with the Sportsgirl trend pieces (not a bad thing, I am known at times to be a Sportsgirl accessory slut).

So. First stop, the $39 jeans store.

*gag*

Sorry.

She had to practically drag me through the door. The bins of bargains turned me right off at the entrance. NOTHING OVER $15. 2 FOR $10. The signs screamed at me. My sensibilities were hurting…or maybe it was just my ego. I don’t know. The glomesh…the fluoro…the bad un-funny slogan tees…don’t do it for me. Surprisingly, the sales guy was quite a dish. After the initial welcome when we were struggling to reach the racks in this shop that was packed floor to ceiling.

‘Don’t worry girls. I’ll reach that for you. I’ll be all over you like Oprah to a ham. Two hams in fact’…

*sales guy winks*

He was helpful, charming, funny and would you know it? He got a $39 sale. And my sister got a pair of black skinny legs. I even relaxed a little. Not enough to stop the intense involuntary shudder as we passed by Supre, but enough to enter a few more shops I would never normally venture into in search of tacky rip-offs. I mean, cotton singlets, plain unembellished tees and even this rather funky necklace. Stocked up on a few pairs of the stock-standard Havaiana thongs (yes, even I wear these…find me an Aussie who doesn’t) and a pair of sunnies to boot.

A successful day, but still one I won’t repeat in a hurry. Even though I kinda snigger at the Uni-age girls carrying Supre bags around (I don’t care who you are, that shit is tacky and a rather large fuck-you to fashion), I cast absolutely no judgments on OTHER people buying these clothes, just ME. So, while I might be a snob, I’m not a bitch. Just had to clarify that, because in hindsight, this post might offend people. Not my intention.

You know, I even had to park at a different entrance to the shopping centre for all of these shops. I felt like driving out through Myer to pick up some Chanel make-up or something to cleanse.

Reasons for a smile...

2006-03-08T15:17:00.000-08:00

Little rays of sunshine keep infiltrating my day. After yesterday’s post, this seems strange. But no…I’m not schizophrenic. I’m not premenstrual. I am however bewildered…but that I can deal with. And while I might be far from happy right now (didn’t realise it until I read and dwelled on an email I just received)…I am smiling.

Reason One.
I got told I was “stop-traffic-gorgeous”. The heart flutter that comment induced was wonderfully colossal. And relentless. I’m still fluttering. And grinning like a cheshire cat.

Reason Two.
Last night, this was said about me…it was completely re-enacted for me today…and I quote…
“Auburn*…(sigh)…she’s special. She’s the kind of girl I could spend every day for the rest of my life with. She’s so sweet. So…different. Her energy…her smile. Fuck. Man, I could love that girl so damn much”.

Reason Three.
Bumped into one of my darlingest** friends from school today. We went travelling together. I don’t see him nearly enough. Him:
“What? How the hell are you still single? You're too fucking good to be single! Girl! I don’t get it. What the hell is wrong with the men in this damn town? Shit Aub***. I swear, I shoulda snapped you up when we were teens. If I were single, look out. Seriously. There is something not right with the world”.

Reason Four.
I do believe the friendship with D has been rekindled close to what it once was. I love that boy more than my socks.

Reason Five.
B burnt me a copy of one of my favourite CD’s…one whose loss I sorely mourned. On it, she wrote: Here he is again…love you babe!

Reason Six.
I received a handwritten letter today. I love those more than…well, more than hand-delivered chocolates! And that’s saying something...even though I've never got hand-delivered chocolates. I am about to sit down and handwrite some letters to my beautiful girls overseas. Sally…on a yacht somewhere, and Kumiko…my best friend in Japan.

Reason Seven.
As I got to the end of Reason Six I received a text message from R. Love ya girlie. Hope you’re having a good day.

So.
Even though I am unlucky or just plain incompetent with men and love…and even though I still feel irked by all of yesterday’s crap…I have this (↑) many things, friends and little things in my day to make me feel special.
Gotta love that.

*Insert real name here…
**Yes, I made that word up. I’m allowed. It fit the sentence.
***Insert nickname here…

Can I blog when I have nothing to say?

2006-03-07T16:19:00.000-08:00

Can I tell you about my God-awful boring day and the fact that my air conditioner is broken and my poor puppies are sweltering in this heat?

Can I tell you that I got my hand smacked (literally…hand…smacked) by the petrol station man because I was talking on my mobile as I was pumping petrol…when you’re supposed to turn your phone off so that you don’t go up in flames? I could’ve died.

Can I tell you about how I’ve hurt my wrist and I don’t know how on earth I’ve done it? (For the record, it’s the LEFT wrist. Minds outta the gutter people.) No broken bones protruding or anything, just agony if it twists. Driving hurts. Swimming would definitely hurt. Cooking dinner might hurt…better get take-out.

Can I tell you about how utterly selfish my middle brother is, and even though I love him to death I just want to strangle him sometimes? How my Mum is about to trade her car in, and it’s not insured for him, and she left it at home today…so he ups and decides to steal her key and take the damn car for a spin to the beach? When he is a totally shit driver and unbelievably accident prone?

Can I say that this morning I discovered a darn rented DVD that my sister didn’t take back…nearly three weeks ago…it’s out on my card…and I’m going to have at least $120 in overdue fines…probably more?

That N’s father told him he’d throw $5000 in his direction if he’d move to California to act instead of just talking about it, and it broke my heart a little bit when he said he wasn’t going without me?

Is it blog-worthy if I talk about how my father and I haven’t spoken since my brother’s engagement party last Saturday night. Because he is an arse. And I have no intention of talking to him until I get a big fat genuine apology? But I know my father, and I know I won’t get one.

What about how I think the rest of this week is going to be just as disheartening? Just as…just as shit, really. And I have nothing to base that statement on except a feeling in my gut? And the fact that goddamn Blogger is still all in German or some language I can’t read, and I’m only getting by on the memory of where bits and pieces and ‘publish’ are?

Can I say all that? No?

Well then, I guess I shouldn’t blog today.

You are beautiful...

2006-03-06T11:09:00.000-08:00

Today is Monday, and I felt a little bit of relief when I finally got to the computer today.
Every Sunday I check the Postsecret website.
Every Sunday I can relate to at least one postcard.
Three times, three bookshops I have tried to buy the book.
Apparently we don’t have it in Australia.
I could order it online…but there is something in me which just wants to discover it on a shelf somewhere. Hand over the money and walk away with a whole book of reality in a brown paper bag.
I’ve made a few. They don’t go anywhere.
They’re still hidden.
I have a lot of stuff worthy of postcards.
Reading other peoples makes me want to do something with it all. Say something.
Even if it’s only ‘Thankyou for sharing..’
Every postcard, every secret, evokes something. Guilt, sympathy, loss, sadness, joy…and a lot of empathy.
What is it about real empathy that makes the soul tick so much?
The bits of other people’s lives that reach out and punch you right in the navel. Grab your stomach and twist it into knots. The memories that trigger something in your own…no matter how deep and well ensconced you thought it was. No matter how solid your walls, and how iron-tough your denial.
Having someone else verbalise what you are feeling.
Having someone you don’t even know put into words a time or a feeling…that you weren’t even willing or able to acknowledge.
Having someone know…recognise…understand…in a parallel life…the most minute, the most immense or even somewhat inconsequential moments of your own life.
Well, it’s a little bit more of the Validation I was talking about.
To know that other people have experienced, seen or felt something similar to you.
Something that you too, have failed to acknowledge.
I was going to post a few of my favourites…a few of the ones that over the last few months have made my heart or stomach go ‘thunk’ inside me.
But they are also the ones which contain a part of my life.
And by me posting them, it takes away from the anonymity with which you are supposed to view them.
Instead, I’m going to post a picture of a different kind of sharing that I ardently advocate.

I think people need to hear, every day.
In random, enchanting and delightful ways.
Whether it’s to ease tears, to lift a frown or just to give a smile.
Whether someone is having a horrible day, or a good day regardless.
The greatest gift you can give someone is a smile.
This campaign encourages smiles. Encourages people enhancing other people’s days. Other people’s lives.
You are beautiful.
Everyone deserves to hear it.
Everyone deserves to know it.

I get it.

2006-03-02T20:40:00.000-08:00

So I did rush back from Sydney…but not to pull down the post. My friend B phoned. You know when someone is trying to speak totally cool…sound completely normal…yet they have that slightly higher pitched tone which you can just tell is because of a painful lump in the top back of their throat? Well, she had that.

‘Baby, what happened?’

B has just gone through a rather nasty break-up. Partner of six years, house together. First time in her life she’s been single. She’s emotional. Understandably. She’s struggling.

‘Nothing happened. I just (choke) need you.’

‘Right. I’ll be (think, check watch)…I’ll be about an hour and a half honey…’

‘Okay. Don’t rush or anything. Just…just hurry.’

As if I wasn’t gonna rush. I signed the credit card slip in front of me (hot, hot dress) then lead-footed it back to the freeway. I have a whole rant to spill about drivers, but that is going to have to wait. If I get started here, I will not stop. Fuckers today…total fuckers.

So I hook back home…yes, I nearly died…pick her up from the shop she has aimlessly wandered into. I don’t think she knew how she got there…let alone what she was doing there. We need wine. Lotsa wine. Stupidly (full of stupidity today) we go to our favourite café. It’s a local institution. It feels like home. Except (momentary brain freeze) they don’t serve wine without food. Fuckers.

*pause*

Haha! Liqueur coffee. Aren’t we smart. B doesn’t drink coffee…she gets a double Bailey’s hot chocolate. I get a double kahlua latte. To start. Unusual, yes. Oh desperation.

Within ten minutes, we are emotional wrecks. The two of us. We were both just having shit days…both apparently minus catalysts. Her tears started when I told her about my night…morning…the random phone calls, the midnight tapping, the nightmare and the profound feeling of imminent disaster. My laughter turned to tears when I got to the ‘Goodbye I Love You’ note.

The waiters there know us…and they didn’t know what the fuck was going on. The happy girls, the bubbly girls who are always the nicest, most easy-going customers (hospitality code)…were cracking up. Breaking down. You know that crying-laughter when your tear ducts are relentless in expelling streams down your cheeks, but you’re sorta laughing hysterically at the same time? That. We were not in the back corner or anything either. Centre. Front. One up from the sidewalk. Our streaky faces on display for even the cars going past. Didn’t matter.

Fueled by kahlua, baileys and strong coffee, we were letting our minds hemorrhage. Our hearts melt. About being single. About being 24. About being still at uni. About our friends having salaries, families. Our schoolfriends marrying. About living in this town. About wanting to buy a yacht, rent a skipper/gigolo and sail off into the sunset. About us. About other people. I spilled all the stuff I said in my 'Unknown' post and and she cried…

‘Oh my God you get meeeee…’

*sob*

Yes honey, I get you. I get what you’re feeling…because I feel it too. Different, but same. Same, but different. I don’t get much, but I get this.

Happiness… expectation… hope… reality… ordinariness… desire… wanting… needing… yearning… anticipating… disdain… respect… self-respect… attitude…

It’s all subjective. But universally…individually…objective. I know I’m putting opposites together here. We sympathise, empathise, comfort, support, agree. That life’s a bitch, that respect is goddamn important. That he was never going to be good for you…or that this one’s a keeper. That something was unfair…that someone let you down. That this huge risk just might be worth it…but if you fall splat on your face, then I’ll get that too.

At the end of the day, it’s hers. Or it’s mine. But we get each other. And we will share the ride. If one of us gets bitch-slapped with a wake up call, we’ll ride out the pain together. Or we’ll ark up and declare war together.

Because reality just moulds incidence to match experience. Or experience to match incidence. People from all walks of life, drawn together by words and feelings and cycleways…have a common denominator. The ability to feel. The ability to recognise. The ability to know. We all get it.

N holds my hand crossing the road. Just because. R sends me texts, empty except for a “x”. Just because. I leave little chocolates on my sister’s pillow. Just because. I hug. Just because. I blow kisses. Just because.

We all do…just because. Because we all get it.

I love you B. Keep on tripping, keep on stumbling. I’ll try not to let you fall. But if you do, I’ll pick you back up. I’ve fallen too. I get it.

Overwhelming stupidity.

2006-03-02T09:10:00.000-08:00

This is going to sound like an overwhelmingly stupid thing to do, but I just did it.
Have you ever had one of those mornings where you wake up with a sick, horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach?
Where you just sense a bad bad day looming, and if you make it to lunchtime you’re cheering.
R rang me last night.
Never on a Wednesday since he started his big new job. Just too buggered by then, I understand. I’m not really lucid mid-week anyway.
But 11pm and he just wanted to chat. Touch base. Cry a little.
Just had to hear my voice.
Nice
Midnight. Sleeping.
There are weird noises above me. A tapping.
Tapping, yes, not the rain dripping anywhere.
Freaking me right out.
Back to sleep. 1am.
My phone is ringing. What the fuck?
It’s D. He didn’t know he was calling. I’ve done that before…before I got a flip phone…rolled over and pressed my cheek to the ‘call’ button.
I said ‘thankyou’.
Why, I do not know.
Back to sleep.
Wake up like I’ve just had a really bad nightmare…can’t remember the nightmare.
I would know it if it was one of my recurring ones…it wasn’t.
It was different.
So I’m all bleary eyes.
I’ve got to drive out of town today.
The rain is still here.
I’m worrying that there is no oil in my car.
Are my tyres bald?
My windscreen wipers have magically snapped themselves off in the night.
I’m fucking scared…but why, I just don’t know.
I hate trucks. Hate them.
I get scared shitless when I pass them.
I’m driving the freeway today…there will be trucks. It just all is adding up to be baaaaaddd in my head.
I feel like I will die today.
It’s insane.
So I sits my arse down (here comes the overwhelmingly stupid thing) and writes a letter. The briefest of brief letters, because I’m feeling like an absolute loon.
Simply…
I love you.
Know that.
Know that you are all my world…and that life anywhere else would’ve been a fraction of the life you’ve allowed me to have.
I’m crying.
What the fuck?
I’m crying again as I write this.
How do we have such days like this? I hadn’t even got out of bed when it promised to suck.
I slipped the piece of paper under my sheet. And my doona. Thoroughly…under.
Not under my pillow, that is an obvious place, and if somebody finds it before I get home then they will think me crazy.
I contemplated leaving my blog open on my screen. But my screen is password protected anyway, and the password is completely obscure to my life.
It’s someone else’s password. Someone I don’t really know.
I know this is insane. I will no doubt rush home (no I won’t, that would be silly…and dangerous…) and pull this post.
You will all be laughing at me when I get back.
At my overwhelming stupidity.
Much love people.

The Unknown.

2006-03-01T15:11:00.000-08:00

I don’t know much about feelings.
I really don’t.
Sometimes I think I’m brilliantly perceptive. Together. Lucid. Sharp.
Other days unawareness just smacks me upside the head.
My own feelings are the ones that confuse me most. Turn me into an ignorant that I despise.
My own feelings are the ones that never make sense to me instead of being the most coherent of the lot like they should be.
Like now.
If you can answer this with any trace of clearness, I take my hat off to you.
How do you form attachments to internet identities…words…ideals…conversations…the protected…the banned…the free...the unpromised…thoughts…potential?
How do we notice potential?
Does some magical power highlight the things we don’t know we’re missing?
You think you’re happy. You think you don’t need anybody but your cat. Anything but your typewriter. Then you get tripped. One of those snakey vines grabs your ankle, and you end up head first in a puddle of difference. That becomes a pond of confusion and a goddamn lake of mystification. Questioning. Wondering.
How do you know what happiness is?
Is happiness found in safety, in comfort…or in the prospect of difference, the untamed? Is only true happiness when you find a medium…a balance of characters. Someone or thing that can be so much of what you are, but also what you’re not.
A box of your favourite chocolate, steadfastly good, perfect with coffee, like an after-dinner mint…or an assortment of flavours. To mix it up. Keep it real. Keep it spontaneous. Keep it passionate.
How do you know if you’re happy or not?
What if the puddle you land in face-first holds the key to something better? What if it doesn’t?
How do you know what’s right for you?
How do you know who’s right for you?
How do you know that the person next to you on the bus wasn’t the person put on this earth for you…but you didn’t see them because you were looking away, buried in your self-help book? Or gazing at someone else out the window?
Will someone, or something else come along and fill the void? Will it ever be as good as the other would’ve been?
How do you know if you’re settling? If something feels good enough, right enough, but there’s question mark floating four years on?
Is the first or fifth thing right for you?
How different will life be if you take the fork in the road? Or build a goddamn hedge so you never have to think about the choice that might have been there?
How do you know?
Without throwing all caution to the wind in a gale-force storm…how do you know?
Silence is surrender. Acceptance is surrender.
But what is surrender?
Is it a bad thing? Or is it the promise of something good? The promise of happiness? Is it acceptance that time is up?
That risk isn’t worth it? But worth what?
The unknown.
And now I’m back to where I started.

Validation.

2006-02-28T11:43:00.000-08:00

I’m feeling a lot like this at the moment, and it seems I’m not the only one. Is it the post-holiday time of year that inspires such insecurity? And is it even insecurity?

Only the craziest of us don't need outside validation at some or many points. I am afraid and concerned that maybe I worry more about me in the eyes of others, than what I think of myself. I’ve never been the most secure of people. Take that for growing up a redhead I swear. The blonde girls were the ones who got all the attention. All the boyfriends. I wore glasses. I got called four eyes. I got called carrot-top. My favourite though utterly lame comeback was always… ‘carrot-tops are green’! In the eyes of a nine year old, that is one kickarse statement.

I was a tomboy. I just had to beat the boys at their game. I’d play bull-rush on the oval with the boys. The girls would be off on the monkey bars, swinging and screaming when their skirts fell over their heads. Meanwhile, I’d be up to my neck in mud. Gracefully, of course.

Changing schools changed me completely at the tender age of 10. My Year 3 teacher refused to grade my work, insisting that none of it was my own. I was a cheat, because I was too intelligent. I got him sacked, but it broke my little spirit. The spirit of a child just wanting to do her best. I did my best. And it ended with me leaving school and staying home for half a year, when I should’ve been living it up in the playground. I didn’t mind. I walked the other kids to school, then stayed home baking with my Mum.

New year, new school. I withdrew into my shell. I didn’t play bull-rush. I didn’t play. I sewed, knitted…made stuff to sell at the school fete. The boys who’d I’d been used to having as ‘mates’, didn’t become friends at this new school. They were better than me. I went to writing schools, became friends with authors. John Marsden was my idol. He became my mentor at the age of 16, taught me so much…believed in me…but by then I was changing again.

At fifteen I think it was, I no longer needed glasses. I was thin, my tomboy shaggy hair had well grown by now. I was an athlete. I was a brain. I was venturing outta my shell. I sorta got popular. I was in love with my best friend. He’d been my best friend since high school. The girls in all years loved him…many didn’t like that we were friends. I didn’t know what to do with the other boys. I ‘went out’ with a few. Holding hands in the playground and all, but the only one I cared about was doing the same thing with other people.

But I digress.

Boys were taking notice. The boys were my friends. My group, was boys. They were all crazy about me. And I them. They were the good times, the fun times. The ones that got me drunk on bourbon. But it wasn’t all okay. The girls didn’t really like me.

I got sick. I had glandular fever. I had an eating disorder. As much as I shrugged off the friendships of bitchy girls, I think I was desperate to be a part of that. The esteem of others is what drives us so much of the time.

My mother is the person I think of most with this. My heart broke when she told me, “I love you because you’re my daughter…but I don’t like you”. I was a child of an insanely high IQ. I topped everything. Extra-curricular exams as well. Just for fun. I had the world at my feet and a darn good brain in my head. But Mama sensed me going off the rails…as most teens do. I think my mother knew that I was depressed. She suspected that something was wrong. She would watch me eating. But she would hug me. Did she think I was doing all these things just to piss her off? I don’t think so. To this day she remains the most crucial person in my life. I love her more than life itself. But I’m not the same little girl I was then. Back when the only opinions I cared about were my parents. And my teachers. The teachers either loved me or hated me. The smart ones saw my potential and harnessed it. The not so smart ones were threatened by me. I was smarter than they were.

I’m digressing again. I have always had a carefree aura of not worrying about myself in the eyes of others. I just don’t pay myself enough attention to warrant it. But I think that’s a falsity, because I do care.

I turn heads when I walk down the street, because I’m different. My best friend tells me often, that people can’t help but be attracted to my aura. Of confidence, of mystery, of honesty. I just don’t know where I picked this aura up.

It gives such a feeling of self-worth to know that others think you're beautiful. That other people think you’re interesting. That others think you are worthy of praise, admiration, love, lust. That people want to know you, and talk to you, and be a part of your life. No matter how secure we are in ourselves, in our minds and in our bodies…no matter how secure we are all on our own, it doesn't change the fact that sometimes that just isn't enough.

I don’t have a high opinion of myself, I don’t have a big ego. I blush like crazy and falter when people praise me. When I find men staring at me. I mean, everyone likes being flattered, I just don’t know what to do with it. I’ve been proposed to. Not just by an ex, but by strangers in the street. I had a sixty year old man promising to make me the happiest wife ever if only I’d let him whisk me away to Spain. I was sitting on the footpath having a hot chocolate and he just wouldn’t walk away. The men at the table behind told me they’d love to make him leave, but they understood him, they would marry me too. Beetroot red, the blushing…

It’s a nice feeling, as crazy as it is. As shallow as it is. We love and need validation from others, no matter how much we profess to be whole, complete individuals. When I fall, I fall hard. I’m a romantic, we’ve well established that. If I feel for someone, it drives me crazy until I can figure out what it is. What to do with it. And I put on blinkers to the attentions of anything else. I think that is what prompted this.

The man last night who couldn’t concentrate on the conversation with his friend…because he was distracted by me. The customers who think you’re special…the people who see something in you that you don’t see in yourself. The best friend who rings you at midnight just to see how you’re doing. Your little sister who leaves your toothbrush on your pillow. The boss who has faith. The people who tell you you’re beautiful. The people who want to be a part of your life.

It all counts. It all counts worth a damn. Because regardless of who doesn’t want you, who hurt you, who snubbed you as a child or as a teen, anyone who has created a void in your life, crushed you as an adult…regardless of all of that…there are people who do care. Do want you. People who think you’re special. People who think you are worthy…of something at least. Or even the world.

Bruises fade. Heartbreak fades. Life is about moving on. Because we all deserve validation. We all deserve excitement. We all deserve infatuation, comfort, encouragement, passion. We all deserve to be happy. We all deserve to feel loved, desired, wanted. We all deserve to feel. We all deserve…whatever we darn well want.

Still a baby...

2006-02-28T09:08:00.000-08:00

There is this man who came into work last year on a rainy day when his golf game was cancelled. I was the only one working, he and his friend were my only customers. It was raining after all. I sat down and chatted for a while, charming waitress that I am. He’s been a regular ever since, and he is genuinely divine. He’s friendly, funny, compassionate, worldly, charming, attractive, intelligent…you know. All that. A couple of months ago he brought his wife into meet me. She is all of the same qualities as him. She likes me too. They are a lovely lovely couple, and we get along like a house on fire.

It’s strange when you get to a level of friendship with particular customers. I’m a hugger. Always a hugger. And a cheek-kisser. So, it seems, is this man. It won’t matter how busy we are, he will wrap me up and plant one on my cheek. Sometimes it’s only the cheek because I turn my head a tad at the last minute. Once he was having dinner at the restaurant next to ours, and he came over purely to kiss me on the cheek and tell me I looked a million dollars. So I think he’s got a soft spot for me. In a ‘you’re my favourite waitress’ sort of way.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. I’ve been away, he’s been away…

Anyway, so yesterday afternoon he swings by with a friend in tow. A friend who I apparently distracted. I got the hug and kiss like it’s been years, bordering on the inappropriate apparently, and D said to me ‘what the fuck was that? Bit much wasn’t it?’ Later last night he came back with his wife. He asked me to sit and have a drink…I declined, I was on the clock. He went and asked D if he could buy me a cocktail. D said ‘Suuuureeee’. Looked at me and winked. I could’ve killed him.

See, D thinks they’re swingers. So he’s laughing away while he’s muddling me a cocktail. I’ll give the boy this much, it was only a one-shot drink. He’s looking out for me a little bit.

So I got to sit my butt down for twenty minutes (this was after dinner service, so I wasn’t being slack or anything) and have chats and laughs. It was fantastic. I love being able to sit down with my regulars. Doesn’t happen often, I’m normally far too busy. I could see D in the mirror. He stayed within sight the whole time. Darling. I think he thought I was going to get whisked away.

I have no idea if they are swingers or not. If they are, and if the caressing of my foot was not as innocent as the story it was assisting, I’m flattered. A little weirded out, but flattered. They’re such a lovely pair, and have so much life to talk about, where they’ve lived and worked all over the world.

I’ve been quite candid with him before about possibly not wanting to complete law, but then thinking maybe I’m getting too old to change my mind….he’s quite the support base, and has advised me no end.

He asked me last night to remind him how old I was… “24” says I and winces. "Nearly 25".

“Honey, you’ve got plenty of time! You’re still a baby!”

A baby hmmm? I don’t quite agree with that. But with one degree soon and a language course looming, I’m not as paranoid as I have been.

“You can do anything. You’re an amazing young woman and one of the most capable people I know.” I was genuinely touched by that. Her nodding away in synch. If it’d been a real cocktail I was sipping on I might just have leant over and instigated a group hug. D would've been over in a flash.

Validation. As much as I don't need it from others. Or do I?

*sigh*

Fuck it, I can do anything I want.

Unchartered territory.

2006-02-27T00:49:00.000-08:00

Look at me...all chicken shit.

I tried leaving today's post there overnight, but I felt sick as I walked away from the computer. So...it's now after midnight...and I'm just home from work. Busy night.

I got called a 'cutie'.

Yes, a 'cutie'.

Collective Aaww please. I don't think I've ever been called cute unless I was trying to be cute.

Someone else commented on my 'elegance'.

*pause*

Cute. Elegant. In the same night? Maybe I'm tripping, but they seem so utterly different. I'd rather be elegant I think.

Anyway.

So now I'm postless, and I'm going to look like some kind of hypocrite I'm sure of it. But that's too bad. The issue is dead until I bring it up again! Just awaiting on a dose of strength. And a little perspective.

I'm going to rewind though. If you've read this bit, play along;)

A friend of mine the other day professed to have single friends with whom he would happily share me. He asked me to write a list…of requirements I have in a man. And I had to pause…because I honestly don’t believe I am a ‘requirements’ kind of girl. Maybe I was once, back in high school, when it was all competitive like ‘HER boyfriend bought her a rose for Valentine’s Day…mine just gave me a Tazo’. Did I want the tall, dark and handsome? Did I want the popular jock? I’m not going to be that naïve to say I never did. I’m sure I did. But that was naïve. And that was then.

Now with age and maturity, I want more. My father is nine years older than my mother. The age-gap works. My parents adore my best friend R…my totally platonic best friend . They love him for me…except for his age. “He’s way too young for you!” He’s my age. “Your age is way too young for you!” Works fine, because nothing ever has or ever would happen between us. He’s got himself a lovely young lass who I’m trying my best not to intimidate. Why is it that people are always insanely scared and jealous of the platonic best friend of the opposite-sex-breed? I could never be like that, purely because it would kill me if a guy ever turned around and got jealous of my best mates. N and R are in my life for good and proper. No guy could turf them, and anyone who tried would not be good enough anyway.

Anyway…the requirements. Because of course I've been thinking about it now. If I can base it on life experience thus far, I guess what I really want is a life and soul more rounded. And maybe I do have a few requests.

I want someone mature. You'd think that request would be simple hey?

Someone with good family values.

Someone with ambition and independence.

Someone who can make me laugh till I cry, or make me cry with happiness.

Someone who will tell me he loves me, and show me.

Someone I can curl up on the couch with and watch re-runs. And occasionally crack out the Nacho Cheese Doritos, or Cookies & Cream Ice-cream as an entree (or even a dinner substitute).

Someone who will put my sorry arse to bed if I go out dancin’ with the girls and come home wasted...and even take my shoes off.

Someone who will treat me well.

Someone who will be a wonderful father.

Someone who will share with me...the fantastic and the horrible.

Someone who is just bursting to see me at the end of the day.

Someone who will make me feel safe...yet someone who I can be wild and adventurous with.

Someone who will love and live with me in total passion.

Someone who will laugh at me when I accidentally mix Sudafed with alcohol. I did this the other night. Smashed on four wines...as if they were triple-shot cocktails.

Someone who will let me cook for them...even if I am trying to be Nigella. And someone who will cook for me.

Someone who wants to travel with me...and discover the hidden secrets of the world.

Someone who thinks I'm 'cute' in my nightie and fluffy slippers. Duh.

The ordinary. And the extraordinary. A relationship that can harness both. I want that.

Bad bad nights in a bad bad city.

2006-02-21T00:51:00.000-08:00

One night last year I was attacked as I was walking to my car after work. It was 3am…we’d had a few staffies…sat around playing trivial pursuit and just chilling more or less. I know it was stupid to walk myself. Every night since then (most nights at any rate), I’ve had one of the guys walk me to my car. I never thought I would have to in Newcastle.

Now…remember this post a few weeks back, when my poor baby car was violated by an irresponsible fucker who smashed it in and drove off without leaving me a note? That indecency blew my mind. Surely Novocastrians are nicer than this. Come on. Show me the proof.

Proof of the true character of Newcastle people came tonight, in the form of a hat-trick. The evil three rule. Bad, shit, fucked up things come in threes.

I hugged B goodbye as we got to our cars. She had parked about 15 metres from me. I unlocked my door, pulled it open and noticed receipts and papers spread across my seat.
It was late. I was tired. Confused even.
Jeez, I don’t remember putting them all there.
Glanced across to passenger seat…more papers. Pulled from my glove box, which was yanked open and spilling stuff everwhere.
My boot…well, I’ve been known to live in my boot. Shoes, clothes, spare clothes, handbags, winter jacket, uni books…you know, the essentials.
The seat between the car and the boot was forward.
My stuff was everywhere.
Shopping bags had been ripped open, clothes violated, books ripped.
I started to get an inkling (like I said, I was tired and slow).
Dialled B’s number before she drove off.
Said ‘I think my car has –‘
Walked around the car and noticed my fucked up passenger door. The lock ripped clean out.
‘Honey my car’s been broken into!’
Gutteral sobbing ensued.
She raced over and wrapped me up in her arms as I…seriously…sobbed.
She called the police.
She got in to see if it would start, if it’d been mechanically fucked as well.
She talked, she answered questions, she did everything, while I stood there crying…mascara running places it shouldn’t. I couldn’t stop.
Why is it always me?
Why?
I rang my Mum. Since I was attacked, she hasn’t wanted me working in town. ‘It’s not safe…you don’t need to put up with this…’
Then she started yelling at me. Because I was swearing.
I’d just discovered every goddamn CD I’ve ever owned…gone.
Little fuckers.
Thank Christ my CD player was still sitting pretty.
How old were these thieves?
I had Sachi and Mollini shoes in that car. Obviously none of them had girlfriends.
They’re going to get a nasty shock when they see my CD collection, if they’re the typical 50cent thug groupies of today. Dammit dammit they got my Enya.
I sound blasé, but I’m shattered.
My eyes are puffy and red. Harshly resembling black eyes right about now.
I didn’t know I had that many tears in me for something like that.
I guess it was the rule of third.
Maybe the lack of insurance. I won’t even get to buy a new Enya.
And now I can’t go anywhere and park it, because it doesn’t lock. It just has a warped hole where the lock used to be.
WHY ME?

The crime in the city centre is escalating at an alarming rate. Some shit needs to be done. I remember when reporting the attack, the girl on the phone at the police station said ‘Yeah, a girl got raped at the Brewery last night’.

FUCKING DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! Newcastle city is spiraling. It’s not appealing anymore. It’s not safe. Old people get beaten up, young kids gather in gangs, stabbings, rape…

I know I don’t feel safe anymore. It’s all too scary. And now I’m bloody angry too.

Can't sleep. Can't think. Can't really move my arms or legs either...oh alright...i'll get on with the post.

2006-02-20T02:22:00.000-08:00

I can’t sleep and I think it is due to the excessive consumption of Redbull* at work tonight. I only had one, but I don’t drink that much energy stuffs. One for me is a lot. Enough to pep me up and get me through another night of cocktails. Enough to keep me singing all the way home. Enough to keep me sitting here at the computer after completing the stocksheet for the ordering for the next week. Never done it before, but hey. Where was that deep end we were talking about?

I knew, but I never fully realised how physically demanding cocktail barwork would be. I do not have a muscle in my body that is not aching. I’m nibbling on cheese at the moment, because I’ve been skipping dinner for the simple reason, that if I sit down for a fifteen minute food break, there will be no way in hell I am getting back up to continue a’muddling and a’shaking. I have to do tomorrow night as well, but THEN… four nights off. Oooh the excitement. What to do?

Wednesday night I am going to a party in a park. One of the guys is apparently organising a slip’n’slide**. Oh the youthfulness. It’ll be brilliant. Friday night the only plan I have is that I’m going to go and be on the receiving end of a number of cocktails. And maybe a boogie. If it’s possible to stay on feet in new stilettos for an extended period of time.

Goddamn Redbull. I can’t sleep, but I’m not feeling eloquent enough to write anything of substance, thought or feeling. My brain is too disjointed and most probably ridiculously tired. I need a massage. I need iced water. I need to brush my teeth again now that I’ve eaten cheese. I need to email the stocksheet to D. Fuck me, it’s 2.22am. I need to go to bed.

I think I will dream of the Chef. Something's getting to me. Most beautiful kisser ever.

* Aussie energy drink. Guarana and whatnot.
** I think this one is self-explanatory…you know, a plastic water slide thingy that you assemble on grass…and slide down incredibly gracefully to end up wet and completely wedgied…with grass stains. Something like that anyway.

Realit...ies.

2006-02-17T10:44:00.000-08:00

re·al·i·ty (r - l -t )
n. pl. re·al·i·ties
The quality or state of being actual or true…
One, such as a person, an entity, or an event, that is actual…
The totality of all things possessing actuality, existence, or essence…
That which exists objectively and in fact reality…
All of your experiences that determine how things appear to you.

The internet has got me thinking. A wondrously baffled, confused and hesitant kind of thinking, but thinking nonetheless. My head is fit to burst from the questions flying around it at the moment, and whilst blogging about it may just be a big cliché, I need to get them out. Get them ‘down on paper’…an appropriately ironic statement there.

I’m not really sure why I started my blog. I’ve always been a diary girl, but the diaries of a sixteen year old girl have a vastly different reality to the musings of a twentysomething. A twentysomething with a lot of life under her belt. None of my friends know about my blog. None of my family members do. A few of them know I’m doing something on the internet, but my log-on is password protected, and it’s not like they could ever google and find me. If any of my friends or colleagues (especially colleagues!) ever found this, I’ve always maintained that I would close it down in heartbeat.

The ramblings of here are the most that I’ve shared with anyone. I know I’ve alluded to a lot without expressly talking about it, but I count that as the same. I am far more vulnerable on here. My brick veneer in real life is more a crumbling sandstone. With handholds and footholds to let things get over. My writings are unfailingly honest. It has, in a way, been a lesson in learning not to hide. A practice of letting people in. And it’s been okay. I haven’t come crashing down by any profoundly horrible comments. In fact, it’s been quite the opposite of what I’d expected.

I didn’t ever think strangers would read my blog. It’s like I said before…you can’t just google someone and discover their soul. Especially if their name isn’t their own. You just stumble across people. Or get curious about a commenter. I remember the first comment I ever wrote. I was like ‘Shit, that’s a little bit out there with the blog-solitude ambition’. I’ve since put my photo out there and everything.

There are many now, who I consider friends. And that’s the thing that’s got me stuck. In times of insanity, whimpering, anger, heartache…my blog-friends have had my back. I haven’t had an army of friends like this in years. When schoolyears drifted, our ‘group’ disintegrated, and the contact dwindled to once every 6 months, or one coffee or email a year.

But here I am, logging on daily to check on my American friends, as they are me. And it’s reality, in a way that I never thought ‘internet chatting’ could be. We live in different worlds, we have different day to day lives. We face different realities every single day…but have this shared cubicle of the internet (a nicely decorated Moroccan-esque cubicle of course) where we convene every day.
We talk to each other so much that it starts to feel like the truth. I think if I backed out now, something would be missing in my day. And that freaks me out a little bit, because I always thought… ‘Pfft. Chatrooms. You can’t meet people online.’

But you can. And I have.

I could go to Sydney and party with Steph and Jobe. I could go and make a snowman with Trueborn. I could go and teach with Ang in Taiwan. I could go carve up the dance floor with Meg (and yes, I would succumb to tequila shots), I could down vodka with Jane…I’m not going to name everybody, but I could.

What does this mean for my reality?

I demand truth in every aspect of my life, yet here I am, living pockets of my life online, where my friends are just like me, though inherently anonymous. People I’ve never met…but would in a heartbeat. Am I a nerd for having internet friends? A social weirdo? No. I have friends. I have a life. I have TV nights with my family, brunches and lunches with friends. I get drunk. I dance. I cook for my siblings. I buy chocolate for my friends when they are down. I go skinny-dipping. I work. I sing in the car. People appear to like me. I have numbers in my mobile. I play in the grass with my puppies.

Even if I didn’t play in grass or get drunk…would I be strange for playing online? For a while, I thought maybe I was.

My reality truly is how all of my experiences combine, mix, stir, mingle and mould with each other… This is a part of my life right now. I don’t know why. I don’t know if something is missing in my other realities. I don’t know what will come of it. But it’s me. And I like that.

I Have.

2006-02-16T13:24:00.000-08:00

The sequel to ‘I Miss.’
Because Jobe and Indiana booted my arse.

have (h v)v. had, (h d) hav·ing, has (h z) v. tr.
To be in possession of…
To possess as a characteristic, quality, or function…
To possess knowledge of…
To hold in the mind; entertain…
To partake of…
To suffer from…
To be subject to the experience of…
To come into possession of; acquire…

I have a Mitsubishi Lancer.
I have a lot of shoes.
I have a bear and bunny I bought myself in Harrods.
I have a beautiful Venetian mask.
I have a Hello Kitty water jug.
(I’m just warming up with the superficial stuff, alright?)
I have a growing DVD collection.
I have a beautiful bed.
I have two puppies and two cats.
I have a good family.
I have a mother. I very nearly didn’t.
I have four grandparents. Still. I even knew my two great-grandmothers.
I have an intense love of Vodka.
I have love, of the familial kind.
I have had love, of the romantic kind.
I have a few special friends. Who I would do absolutely anything for.
I have opportunity. My problem has been too much.
I have passion. Which I am having trouble channeling.
I have music.
I have two arms and two legs. They all work.
I have the blessing of all of my senses. And maybe even a sixth and seventh at times.
I have illness.
I have health.
I have appreciation. Of art, of history, of culture, of difference.
I have creativity.
I have a roof above my head. I’m moving in three weeks, but I have another roof waiting.
I have compassion.
I have weaknesses.
I have a love of chocolate. Which I’ve locked in a cupboard.
I have fascination.
I have intelligence. Even though I’m not really harnessing it at the moment.
I have the power of thought.
I have cookbooks. And I can work them.
I have the best kickarse wok ever.
I have potential.
I have support.
I have knowledge.
I have history.
I have a present.
I have a future.
I have.

So much.

I know it. I’ve always known it. But sometimes life gets in the way of you seeing and acknowledging it. Sometimes the voids just open wide and swallow you when you’re tiptoeing towards something you know, or something you have. Sometimes even when you’re crashing through the undergrowth with utter conviction, the voids of ‘missing’ or ‘wanting’ just trip you up so that you get a face full of dirt.

But here it is. An Ode to Jobe. I am thankful. I am blessed.

I miss.

2006-02-14T18:59:00.000-08:00

miss1 (m s)
v. missed, miss·ing, miss·es

To discover or feel the lack, absence or loss of…
To fail to hit, reach, catch, meet, or otherwise make contact with…
To fail to accomplish, achieve, or attain…
To let go by…

I miss cuddles.
I miss conviction.
I miss direction.
I miss Japan.
I miss my friend Sally.
I miss seeing the sunrise.
I miss my backpack.
I miss my harness.
I miss kisses.
I miss happy solitude.
I miss my friend Stacey.
I miss acting.
I miss understanding.
I miss not understanding.
I miss my own space.
I miss being fuelled.
I miss boundless energy.
I miss.

Fuck. I have nothing.

Blerh.

2006-02-13T18:45:00.000-08:00

This morning I felt paralysed. After three weeks of lolling in parks and doing a whole lot of nothing, eight hours of physical work last night has completely shot my muscles. My phone beeped a message at 9.46am. My first thought was, what the hell am I doing in bed so late?! Then I went to pick up my phone and realised why. I couldn’t really lift my arm. My body felt like a dead weight in bed. I was permanently moulded to the mattress. My eyes stung to open and as I slowly lifted myself up onto my elbows my abs and bicep-tricep-whatevercep (I forget which ones are which) were screaming at me to lie back down. But even that movement would’ve hurt. If I’d just come back to normal work, I would’ve been fine I think. But I don’t even use these cocktail-shaking-muddling muscles at all.

Lesson learnt. I’m back in the pool tomorrow morning, and I will probably be on my brother’s rowing machine to get my arm muscles in some kind of semi-strong (or maybe just maintained pain) by Friday.

Just typing this is hard. Okay, whinge over. I actually had a fantastic night. And a good day today at a single malt scotch whiskey tasting. My head is feeling it as much as my body. Hold on, I wasn’t going to whinge…hmm…

Well tomorrow is Valentines Day. Thank God I’m not working. I couldn’t take a restaurant full of lovey-dovey couples right now. I don’t know if I would be jealous, or just disappointed. Or just plain grossed out by that one couple you are guaranteed to have every year, who really should’ve just skipped dinner and gone straight to the hotel, because the display of tongue wrestling and dry-humping in the bar is enough to put you off your dinner…and maybe even your date.

I’m not going to go all Grinch-style and be anti-Valentine, because if I had a date, I would happily wine and dine by romantic candlelight and do the long walk along the beach thing…

I think I’ll have my own Valentines Day celebration. Maybe my little sister would be up for some cheese and champagne in a park somewhere, watching the sun go down. Maybe we go out together for some white chocolate mousse with poached strawberries. Maybe there would be two handsome brothers out doing the same thing. Oh whimsical cliché!

That said though, it is Tuesday. The OC night. So really, how would I fit in oysters, entrée, main and dessert?

My blog in words...er...yeah...if that makes sense.

2006-02-11T21:38:00.000-08:00

Would ya look at me...all multiple posting in a day. Why do I have time? Gee, because it's Saturday night and the couch argued a better case than the drinkies out in town. Pathetic. I know. It's not like there is even anything good on tele. Last time I checked, it was Back to the Future or Fast and the Furious. Two of the most annoying movies ever. So it's looking like a little bit of this, and then a jewellery-making spread across the loungeroom as I have the house to myself.

So I found a link to this site which creates a word picture representing your blog. I was too enthralled at how weird mine would be not to do it.

I wonder what that really says. I know it's all just random words, words that it has pulled from my ramblings. But what do I sound like? Do I think too much? Talk about life and love too much? Doesn't my blog title say enough about me? What does it all mean anyway? Is this link painting me as an emo? Eek. Do I really say fucking that much that it warrants a place on my word board?

Anyway. So my planned drinking friends and I were all feeling fucking lazy tonight, so we've shelved plans until tomorrow arvo. Would you look at that? Maybe this word picture thing knows me better than I know myself... An afternoon cocktail on the harbour will be sugar sweet if the sun is shining. Which it will be.

11.14pm...my evening update...

I found another site. Just as obsessively cool. You can make candy hearts for Valentines Day. The person before me was feeling a little anti-Valentine I think:

I was bored, it looked interesting, so I decided to play around...see where my Valentines head is at...

Then all of a sudden I was creating raunchy fuck me hearts...

Strange. Not sure what happened there. Can you tell I've discovered how to properly add images? Oh the realm of possibility...

A little girl called Sophie. And a stupid me.

2006-02-11T17:05:00.000-08:00

Why is it that the one time you say ‘Oh just throw the receipt in the bag because I’ve already zipped my wallet, put it away, clipped my handbag and flung it back over my shoulder’ you completely forget about the damn thing. The one time you really need to get rid of it.

Last month, a sleeping family of five were lucky to escape when their house above their shop was destroyed by fire. The cat escaped too. Imagine everything that you’ve ever owned being incinerated in a heartbeat? Everything except the pj’s on your back. I simply couldn’t fathom how utterly heartbreaking it must be. I never heard about the housefire. I don’t know if I was here or not, maybe I just wasn’t paying attention to the news.

My mum’s beautician is a friend of the mother, which is how it came to our attention. In the shed down the back we had my sister’s old iron canopy bed. It’s the prettiest little bed ever, but my sister grew up, and the little pink flowers and white lace ruffle had to be replaced by a nice carved timber number. So this bed (too cute to put on the street) had been sitting and waiting for…I don’t know…a grandchild or a garage sale.

The family has a little 7 year old girl, named Sophie. Her 15 year old sister went back into the building and got her to the footpath before she was resuscitated. They’ve been sharing a mattress since the fire, and when my Mum heard this, she instantly thought of our pretty little bed. Collecting dust. So today my Mum and I packed the car with the bed, the mattress, the ruffle and a teddy bear of mine (a random Valentine’s gift one year which has never had any sentimental value… I only kept it cause it was cute).

Now, my mother is the most selfless, generous woman ever, and wanted the little girl to have a beautiful quilt as well, so we swung by Myer and bought this absolutely gorgeous Sheriden patchwork quilt set, a set of pink checked sheets and a pillow. The quilt set was called 'Sophie'. We didn't actually know her name at the time, but the quilt looked perfect. We rocked up to the place they’re staying now, introduced ourselves and they were the loveliest people. The little girl was so shy, and the mother was quite timid…she’d had a stroke after the fire I found out after. The father was this little ball of energy and appreciation, and it was so heart-warming being able to extend even the tiniest bit of help to even just the little girl. The grandparents were this cute little Italian pair, who tried feeding us as soon as the bed was unloaded, and were grinning the biggest grins i'd ever seen when I told them the quilt and Sophie had the same name. All heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time.

At the end of the street though, Mum looked at me and said, ‘Tell me you got the receipt out of the bag’. Shit. I had taken the prices off everything, but I left the receipt in the bag. I don’t know why, I am SO paranoid about stuff like that. I don’t think I thought we would just hand them the shopping bag. Arrgh! I grabbed Mum's handbag, and I was like 'No, it will be in here itwillbeinhereitwillbeinhere'...but it wasn't. So angry at myself.

Driving home, and now, so fucking embarrassed.

Nervous...

2006-02-09T22:20:00.000-08:00

I know I’m going to cop it for this. I hate disappointing people, and I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that this post will disappoint you. By you, I am referring to my dear blog-friends who have listened, advised and supported me with the whole ‘work-bosses-unhappiness’ thing. And the praises I got for resigning made my heart soar. I know I’m going to sink some hearts with this, my own dropped like a stone mid-decision, but there is more to it.

All of last year I had a really good customer. Not a good customer as in he spent a lot of money…that’s not how I judge my good customers…maybe that’s why the big boss and I don’t get on. He’s a suck. Anyway, mute point. The man in question is my Dad’s age. He developed an intense liking for me because I was a lot like his daughter, and I remember a conversation I had with him just before Christmas. When I was bemoaning the expectations that the well-to-do townspeople, family and friends held of me, and how the town was suffocating me. He said something wise. Or maybe it just sounded wise because I’d never thought of it like the way he said it.

‘You know, the expectations you imagine other people to have, are just your projections of your own expectations. You expect more of you than anyone’.

It resonated. It stung. I think because I should know it. Or should know better.

And maybe I should’ve known better than the following, but I’m emotionally detaching myself and looking to the bigger picture. So, back from Melbourne and technically unemployed, squandered most of my money on puppy stuff (a post in itself) and a world of issues at home (a couple more posts).

D rang me on Monday and offered me bar work. Only two or three shifts a week, but a whole new ‘thing’ for me. Not waitressing, not doing the admin, just mixing, muddling and shaking the cocktails…and other such bar-related work or course. See, as much as I love hospitality and the people I get to meet…I just got jack of it. Over it. Cocktail work though, I’ve always been abnormally interested in as I’ve mentioned before. And although I will be working side by side with D, there is an upside.

To the skeptics (like I used to be) cocktail making is seriously a skill if you want to do it right. To actually learn about alcohol, flavours, combinations and creations, it takes time, effort and passion. I used to think, ‘Pfft! I can shake you a Cosmo. Piss-easy!’ But there is so much more to it.

Anyway, I have a point and I will get to it. I figure it’s a pretty unique talent to have if I ever want to take off backpacking again. Everyone can waitress. Everyone can make coffee (actually, in Melbourne I was taken aback at the lack of coffee-making skill amongst the cafés…frothed milk is not supposed to resemble a bubble-bath). Cocktails however…D has taught me a passion and after watching and learning for a year and a half I have a newfound respect for professional barmen.

The crux of this nervous post is to inform that tomorrow night, I will be back. Back but different. I’m shit-scared. Excited, but shit-scared. For fucks sake, I resigned!

If you want to slap me down, I completely understand. If you want to yell at me for being a silly little girl, I get that too. But if you come to my house, you can yell over a cocktail and things will all be okay;)

I hope.

moonlight swim

2006-02-05T22:35:00.000-08:00

I don't think I've ever missed home in just two weeks before...

This is where I went swimming by moonlight just before I left.

I think I'm ready to run back now.

I love music. And gelato. And snowmen.

2006-02-05T15:17:00.000-08:00

Trueborn wants to know about the songs I’ve dug this week. I’m going to adapt the tag a little, and talk about the songs of my day. See, I found this kick-arse mix channel which is electrifying my days with swingbacks to the 70s, 80s, 90s and noughties.

My brother and I were driving around for quite a lot of today, and there was not one song played that I couldn’t launch into full-belt. Honestly. Including *cringe* Celine Dion. My brother is an opera singer. You can’t shut him up at the best (or worst) of times. So today it was all about the tunes. While he did challenge my radio station selection, he caved. Darling that he is.

‘As Long As You Love Me’ (Backstreet Boys)
I know I know, I heard the laughter resonating around the world then. But they are the tween gospel band of the 90s, and my friend with a fellow love and I had many pyjama parties with these lads, singing into our microphones and doing their dance moves all around the living room. Her house, not mine. My brothers would’ve had my head.

‘Hero’ (Mariah Carey)
Try telling me that there is a girl out there who doesn’t know this song.

‘The Special Two’ (Missy Higgins)
A little bit surreal this one, bogan Aussie twang included, but nonetheless beautiful. And pangs of memory.

‘Dancing Queen’ (ABBA)
Yes. ABBA. Can I just say (yep, for the record) that I love ABBA. Gimme a jukebox and a microphone any time of day. Photos do exist of me hogging the song-selection at my brother’s 21st. So it didn’t even need to be ‘Dancing Queen’ to make me bop. Any ABBA song would’ve worked.

‘Just Feel Better’ (Santana)
Loving this one at the moment. Appropriate.

‘Songbird’ (Eva Cassidy)
One of the most beautiful songs ever. Very rarely heard on the radio, so you know you’ve found a special station. I mean, minus the Celine Dion and Mariah Carey.

‘Goodbye My Lover’ (James Blunt)
I think I have mentioned this song before, but it is one of the most hauntingly beautiful songs ever. Granted, Aussies may just be sick of it because it is suffering major overplay on our airwaves at the moment. Radio stations generally do that.

Disclaimer: Just to reinforce, this is not a record of what is currently stacked in my CD player. Merely the songs I belted out today in sync to the radio today.

We went to dinner at this ginormous Italian pasta house last night. I’d been bed-ridden with a headache so it was quite a late dinner. And we were hungry, which was a good thing. The meals were ridiculously large. Three times the size of what I would consider a normal serve of ravioli. We had a different pasta each, and it was like they had been transported direct from Italy. The most mouth-watering pastas ever. I was stuffed like a turkey before I’d even contemplated the thought of dessert, but it turns out I was not ALLOWED to pass that up. Sure, okay, we’ll share one of the $5 serves of gelato between the three of us.

Oh. My. God. We just had to get the camera out (again, because we’d already taken photos of the pasta mounds) and snap a photo of me with the mountain of ice-cream in front of me. If I could post the photo I would, but I’m not that keen to have my photo plastered across this page. Especially not with four litres of rainbow gelati flavours all slapped together in front me, and my wide-eyed smile holding a teaspoon and a very cheeky grin.

The guy behind the counter must had a big spatula and just slapped a pint of each on top of the other. There was mango, lemon, banana, strawberry, coffee, vanilla, chocolate, spearmint, choc-chip, you name it. It was pure heaven. And we very nearly finished it. It didn’t go well at all with the two bottles of wine we’d had already, and our plans to go out and do some tequila slammers were put well on hold. Actually, we canned them completely.

We rolled home and I had a very nice dream of making a beautiful snowman with a handsome stranger. Weird.

Love, Life and Valentine...

2006-02-02T23:33:00.000-08:00

I really like the colour of wasabi. Genki lime green…makes me fuzzy with happiness whenever I lay eyes on it.

Just back from dinner at this gorgeous little Japanese restaurant*. A hidden treasure in one of the million sidestreets in this idiosyncratic town. Food was delicious, and it felt like home sitting there (squashed in like sardines) watching the Sushi master create wonderfully symmetric dishes.

It really barrelled home what I have been feeling these last two weeks. Last two days in particular. I should not be a law student. My passions, whilst they do involve right and wrong, do not sit well with an 8-6 job in a claustrophobic office, making coffee for a year and sifting through Hansard archives. Not me. Never will be.

I love languages. The year I spent in Japan was the best year of my life. The time I spent in France using my school years of French education is up there too. I want to study languages. I want to be fluent again. I want to use them so often that there is no danger of me ever forgetting them again. I want to communicate with people I would otherwise have no similarities with. This passion sits quite well with my passion for travel (passion two). Very bloody well.

Passion three is writing. I love to write. I may jumble my thoughts often and use improper grammar, but the essence of me I just love to get down. Get it out. Get it organised (or chaotically disorganised if I’m having one of those weeks). And I like other people reading it.

Another passion which just snuck right the hell up on me is teaching. I always despised the thought of being a teacher. I am not the most secure of people, and the idea of the thin blonde whippets of today’s television programs ripping me to shreds as I tried to teach them Shakespeare always terrified me. Seriously, I would’ve rathered clean public toilets than become a teacher. But after spending a year immersed in a new life, teaching 2 year olds to 72 year olds…classes of six elementary students to 40 teenagers…the biggest range of humanity ever…it showed me the difference you can do. It showed me another side. It showed me a secret journey I’d never even contemplated.

These are but four of my passions. Whilst I am tempted to do a Coyote Mike and itemise the particular (potentially miniscule) different dreams of mine, I am for now just going to blend the four thus far, and display where my head was today. Bachelor of Modern Languages, with which I can major in two languages, a certificate to teach English in overseas countries, and writing as I go.

Karma yeah? I was in a shoe shop today tossing up between three pairs of hot hot Sachis (girls will understand), when my phone rings. It is the Headmaster of the school I’ve taught at on and off for the last two years. They have a 6 year old Thai boy coming to start school on Monday who has no English skills. 'Am I able to devise a program, work with him one on one and teach him English?' The Korean boy I taught has the best darn cheeky English in the playground by the way, congratulations me. He is the smartest kid in his class and one of the most outgoing. He’s an angel. Anyway, before I even knew what I was saying, I had agreed to a meeting next week. And I’m kinda looking forward to it. Maybe that’s a sign.

Do I believe in signs? I used to. I want to. I just don’t know right now. If I look for signs in everything I might lose track of my life. But then I wonder, what if I am supposed to take notice of signs, and see how they fit, and realise how important they might be to ‘me now’…but I flip them aside to uphold the ‘I don’t believe in signs’ mentality?**

I told my brother I might go home soon. Because apparently, no matter how shiny the diamonds in the now are, if you’re unhappy in your past, things won’t get better. Something like that. I need to tie up some loose ends.

I need to talk to my Mum. She deserves a paragraph of her own.

I hate it, but I need her to see the me who breaks down and cries when my brother tells me I’ll be okay. I need her to see the sick me, who’d always hid from her loving eyes. The unhappy me, who isn’t…or maybe is…the plasticine teenager I once was. I need her to see the girl who isn’t the old me. The girl who aced everything, coulda shoulda had a HECS-free uni, the girl who was going places. I’m not that girl anymore. Maybe I went off the rails, maybe I just grew up. Shit happened. My life was jolted violently into a different reality. Stuff became less important. I may have been lost. I very probably still am. But I am beginning to find a way. And that means the world to me. I am terrified. I will no doubt fall flat on my face. If I was in Hollywood, sure, I would keep acting like my life depended on it, but I can’t pretend anymore.

Now that really is an epiphany. And I kinda like it***.

*Yes, I am a little intoxicated. Quite heavily, in fact. Not to the point where it deserves a heading like last time though…I don’t think…

** If you have read this far then I am most impressed. And flattered. Flattered is an odd word. I don’t know if I like it really, but here it works.

*** Not just because I’ve been chasing the wine and Goshu Sake with Belvedere vodka. Honestly! No really, honestly:)
I actually had this conversation with my bro’s fiancée yesterday as we were wandering through the massive Valentines display at David Jones in the city. When I say massive, I mean ginormous. Seriously, about a tonne of processed woodchips in that room, smushed into cards. But that’s another post in itself.
Anyway, in 8 years, my brother has never given her a Valentines Card. Am I a romantic?
Yes, sometimes. Okay! Often.
In even non-romantic times do I believe in romance?
Yes. I said Yes, alright?!
I believe romance is one of the most vital and beautiful parts of a relationship. I still have old cards I have been given, and memories of a random Valentines Day rose in Year 9. I remember, because those moments completely warm your heart and feelings of self-worth. In the eyes of another, you are validated. Liked, loved, cherished, whatever. I haven’t had Valentine love in a while. I haven’t been given flowers since the completely off-the-cuff work delivery bunches I got back before Christmas. I haven’t been given chocolate since my Dad shared his box of Lindt balls with me at Christmas.
So.
It’s nearly Valentine’s Day again. I don’t really want to face this reality. I don’t want to send myself flowers at work, I don’t want to send myself a bottle of Belvedere Vodka (so much more raunchy than champagne). I don’t want to acknowledge it at all if that’s okay. One day, sure, I will be all Valentiney again. But until I don’t have to rely on myself for Valentine’s bliss, the holiday can just go and get stuffed****.

**** Sorry, I got carried away.

Love.

Senses.

2006-02-01T10:22:00.000-08:00

I’ve been going for early walks the last couple of mornings and have re-discovered the headspace I was so desperately missing. It really is amazing how much life gets away from you when you are running yourself into the ground, and how a break helps you get back to what’s important. I have always, and will always, live life all about the little things. The little things are what make every day and every moment special.

The gruff good morning from the old man out walking his poodle at 7am. The bus driver waving you past as you fish for the money you were so sure you had. The nervous grin of the young man who moves his briefcase for you. The driver flashing the hazards so he can stop and help the little lady with a walking frame get off the bus. The bubbly waitress whose vibe brushes off on you like a cold you can’t shake. Your cat curling itself around your feet as you boil the kettle, and your puppy watching, too scared to get too close to the cat…his tail thumping against the floor and his head cocked to one side as he mentally begs for a cuddle.

I love finding pockets in a city I don’t know all that well. This morning I stumbled across a park. A huge suburban wilderness of lush green grass, cobbled pathways, little wooden bridges over trickling creeks, moss, ferns and a leaf-veiled park bench. The fields were well maintained, and I could smell fresh cut grass hovering fervently on the wind. I remember thinking how much I love smells. Scents and aromas that have the ability to evoke so much feeling, and so many thoughts, and so many memories.

My walking had slowed to a standstill and my body just wanted to drink up everything that was around me. The city sounds had seemingly evaporated. Instead, I could hear the creek trickling. I could hear the breeze rustling the fern fronds. I could hear the birds warbling in the trees above and around me.

I reached over and touched a raindrop on a lily, still glistening after the nights’ rain.

I could see all of this. It was poignant. It made me thankful. Not just that I had stumbled across this pocket of perfection.

I simply can’t imagine living a life without all the senses I take for granted. I mean, I’ve known people who’ve been deaf…blind. And I know they can do it. It might be pure selfishness however, to not know how.

If I think about not being able to hear love or laughter…not being able to smell rain or roses…not being able to hear the birds sing, a baby cry, or the thunder rolling in…

If I think about not being able feel the sand as I make a sandcastle, or the soft skin of someone else’s hand…if I imagine being unable to taste food, wine and kisses, and if I think about being not able to see any of these things… well, I just don’t know what I would do. I just can’t imagine not being able to love the little things. I know that would probably lead to a deeper appreciation of what I could do, sure. But that’s not where my mind is going with this.

I am just thankful, that’s all. Because I have full use of all of my senses and I can’t imagine re-working my life now without even one of them.

I guess that brings up a question for my dear readers though, and it’s going to be hard. I just hope I don’t offend, because I have absolutely no intention of insensitivity behind this. If you had to lose one sense…what would it be? And what one…would you most be unable to live without…

Weather inflicted weirdness...

2006-01-30T12:53:00.000-08:00

I don’t have anything to say today.

I do have thoughts on the weather though.

Now if that isn’t the most exciting intro to a blog-post ever, I don’t know what is.

My random thoughts are about mood and weather, and my absolute confusion as to how the two are always so intrinsically linked. For the last two weeks, I think Zeus has been in a mini-mental crisis point as similarly exhibited by moi. He doesn’t know whether he wants hail or fire…he doesn’t know if he’s feeling like sweltering heat, comfortable warmth or the vibrations of icy shiverings. So he’s throwing the lot at us in a total jumble of fronts. Last night I was sweating in my underwear. Now I’m shivering, huddled in a jumper, as Poseidon and Thor have their ways outside my window, and wishing to Zeus that I felt like going into the city to indulge in some retail therapy as was the plan.

My heart wants to go and buy a pretty dress…then find a beautiful dog-eared second hand book and take myself off to Koko Black, and nestle in the corner with a steaming mocha and a hand-knitted nanna rug.

My head can’t be arsed, because the afore-mentioned bliss would require a walk to the train station, half an hour on the rocky thing with ice-blue wind squealing through the cracks in the door, then a tram transfer, while the Gods of wind, rain and thunder dance around in the sky above me, laughing at how easily they crushed my spirit this morning.

I’m not crying ‘bring back the 43۫ days of last week!’ Oh no.

I love the rain. I love storms. I would much rather have an umbrella blowing inside out above my head than be battling with severe heatstroke. I love the sound of rain belting down on a corrugated iron roof over my head. I love standing in the rain with my head tipped skyward…crystal-shapes dripping off the tip of my nose, my eyelashes and the lengths of my hair. I love feeling this life-force falling all around me from the massive usually diamond-dusted sky.

Okay. That’s what I needed. I just needed to remember to beauty of nature and the freedom of rain. Yes I’m feeling strange today but temporary rain-sadness has been vanquished. Keep on playing up there Zeus. I’m going to dance through the park to the train station. Pirouettes all the way.

I've been tagged by a Coyote.

2006-01-27T12:42:00.000-08:00

The ever creative educator has asked me about my oddities. Where on earth do I begin? Keeping in mind that he only wants to know about ten of them. In an even crueler blow, I not only have to lay my weirdness out for all the world (well, maybe just a fraction of the world) to see, but I have to divulge the reasons behind them. Here (somewhat flummoxed) I go…

I like to have my toenails and fingernails painted at all times, except when I’m doing my outdoorsy stuff, because it inevitably gets all chipped, and I hate chipped nail polish. Absolutely no idea where this stems from. I never wore it until I lived in Japan, but they are very into their nail painting and nail art there. I hate nail art. Ew. I’m not like a nail polish beacon or anything, I mostly wear bronzes and neutrals (that said, I do have the odd plum or turquoise day…never lasts long though).
I love to eat all kinds of seafood, but the only fish I can eat is salmon. I am averse to eating white fish. I don’t know where this comes from. I do know it’s weird though.
My bedroom is the only ‘messy’ room in the house. I am completely OCD about the communal and living areas displaying Vogue-worthy cleanliness, but I can leave clothes on my bed and shoes falling out of the cupboard and it is okay to walk away. One plate on the kitchen bench however shits me to tears.
I blush like crazy. I don’t think there is a reason behind this oddity.
If I have to go beyond the local store, my sexay trackie-dacks must stay behind. I love lolling about in their comfortability at home, and they are okay for a quick dash for bread, but unfortunately they just cannot go excessively far out in public. Not saying it hasn’t been done, maybe I just need some new trackies that don’t say ‘harder please’ across the arse. Reasons would be vanity and the petrol station pumper.
I have recurring nightmares. Two of them. Since I was about seven or eight years old. One I only have once every year or so, one I have more often. I keep meaning to start a record of when I have them. I keep meaning to try and find out why. But I never do.
I like to wear flowers in my hair.
I love watching sports. I was born a tomboy (I know this completely contradicts the flowers and nailpolish thing) but I have always been one of the boys. My high school group of close friends was um…all boys. We’d go to the footy on weekends, we’d go watch each other’s games. The first alcohol I got drunk on was bourbon. Straight from the bottle. After my Year 10 Formal, my big group of friends had sleepovers. Boys went to one house, girls went to another. I went with the boys.
I will read anything. Is this an oddity or does it just make me a whore of the literary (and non-literary) word?
I sleep on one side of my beautiful queen-size bed. And I’m single. Call me a fool, call me a hopeless romantic, I don’t mind. I never really even noticed I was doing it until it was pointed out to me. At the moment, it’s one side for me, one side for my books. Now that’s love.

In the spirit of Coyote Mike's tag-plan, I am 86-ing the 'link five people' rule and instead tagging whoever wants to play.

excuse me, your life is waiting.

2006-01-24T23:49:00.000-08:00

I got a phone call today.

In my right mind, I never would have correctly answered the question I was asked by the voice on the other end of the phone. But I did. And raucous laughing ensued as I burst into laughing tears.

“Where are you honey?”

“I’m in Borders. (Pause). I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor. (Bigger pause). I’m sitting on the floor in the middle of the self-help section”.

My brother’s fiancé started laughing. I started laughing as I felt the first real tears of the last five days pricking at the inner corners of my eyes. I had less than two hoots worth of cares about the people around me. The geeky guy in the yellow shirt looked concerned, but my ‘don’t-mess-with-this-bitch’ walls were up. A greying little man with bifocals in a wrinkled tomato sauce-stained brown shirt scuttled away. Far away from the crazy young girl buried under a mountain of books.

She came and got me. We went home where we tried to focus on their wedding list. I ravaged their home-bar and started creating cocktails. Then in a matter of four words, I just couldn’t be bottled anymore. The tears came, the sobbing came, and they just didn’t leave. Her and my brother told me everything I need to hear. Everything I needed to hear five years ago. Stuff that should be resonating inside my sensibilities like I have been intelligent and aware enough all along.

I’m not happy. I haven’t been happy in a long time. I am living for and through other people. I don’t like my life, or myself.

They say that getting that much out is the first step. That once you are able to acknowledge unhappiness you can formulate a recipe to fix it.

I can’t fix it. I don’t know how. I don’t even know what’s wrong. I used to see the glass half full. Now it’s always empty.

Yes. I’m stuck in a degree that gives me no passion and no enjoyment. I am headed to a career that I never wanted, that I don’t even understand. I am on a one-way track to fulfill every desire of the people around me, while the real me gets squished further and further into this big black hole that is slowly suffocating me. I don’t want to spend my life in the self-help section. I don’t want to feel the pull of other people’s reasoning in a desperate effort to grapple with the nothingness of my life. I don’t want to feel like a basket-case because I don’t know what to do. I never wanted to feel like this. I want to go back to the time before the time and start again. I want to pretend like things have never happened. I want the life I was supposed to have. I want the other.

I am sick of waking up every day, and spending every waking moment thinking that my life will start next week. You know, just tread a little more water, wade through a little more shit, then you will have a life. Then you will discover who you are and who you want to be. Then you will be happy. I want to be like this in Corsica. I want to live a life for me. Be me. Not be for anyone else. I want to dye my hair pink and expose my breasts if that's what mood strikes me. I am sick of crying. I am sick to death of postponing my life. I am sick to death of it all.

My soul mate...

2006-01-23T12:36:00.000-08:00

The beginning of the 'me' time. Painfully clarifying.

I broke a promise. To the most amazing person I have met in my life. I was a young impressionable eighteen year old when we met. I need to tell this story again, and my linking isn’t working. Voila! Cut’n’paste.

At 18 I crashed a cosy little backpackers in Nice in the middle of the night, and discovered an intriguing guitar-strumming American, as though he was just sitting there waiting. I remember the twinkle in his eye as we shook hands. We became friends, and to this day he remains the most fascinating and heartwarming person I think I've ever met. We clicked. He was 21 at the time, but not like any other 21 year old...or even any other guy I'd ever met. After I was robbed in London, he hugged me...I remember it like it was yesterday...and I felt electric energy coursing between us and I just knew that I had met this guy for a reason. His outlook on life inspires me over and over again, with the passion and energy to go on.

We emailed on and off over five years, but somehow lost it about a year and a half ago when I was living in Japan, and he in Mexico. He always manages to pierce my thoughts though...sometimes he floats into my mind, sometimes he just appears. His person is someone I aspire to, and i hope that just knowing him will influence my life to be even half as fulfilling as his has been thus far. Many people talk about the journey of life...how it's a continually evolving process of experience and education. Many people talk about persistence, variety, living for yourself. Everyone talks about self-fulfilment, happiness, and helping others to be happy. Everyone says that the world is your oyster.

He, however, is the only one I believe. He speaks, moves and lives with passion. A passion and a hunger which i've never witnessed in anyone else. I genuinely love the person he is.

One night in October he popped into my head when I read a blogpost of someone else...can't even remember whose because I closed the screen instantly and re-opened another to Google him.

Yes, I googled him.

And I found his own dot.com. My heart leapt and I nearly cried with happiness for him, even though it's something that I would've never have doubted he would achieve. He was touring the States with his own jazz, folk, bluegrass album.

So I emailed him and he replied straight back, titled 'a ray of sunshine'. Then I actually did cry.

There's a reason we fit so easily into each others life, I just don't know why yet. I do know that I want him to stay in my life.

I promised him that I was here to stay. We got excited that we would know each other’s lives again. Then he was touring, and I was slack.

He was concerned that the pace of my life would get too fast for me to step away from it. It did. I didn’t know how to fix it. I still don’t. It’s hard making decisions about the future when you don’t feel like you have a future. It’s hard to step away when you don’t know which direction you want to be stepping in. It’s like I think, that if I let the intensity build, and the carousel of my days gets blurrier and blurrier, the busy-ness will allow me to postpone life. The problem with that is that it doesn’t leave me with any life. I want to be inspired. I want the passion in me to breathe.

It breaks my heart that I let the pace of my life carry me away from me again. I want him back in my life to stay. He’s my ray of sunshine as well.

Tagged...ish.

2006-01-23T08:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Adam was confused. He didn't really understand the tag because his brain was slow from too much hot chocolate. He has thus drawn up a things of things that Auburn (read 'me') wants.

But he called me lovely. And 'potentially' charming. So i'm not going to point my finger at him and laugh, i am going to link his list of what Auburn wants.

I feel my horizon expanding. Borders here I come.

Looong weekend.

2006-01-22T20:57:00.000-08:00

Twelve hour trip. Not nine, not four, but twelve long hours. Absolutely wrecked at the end of it. Twelve hours, just my father and I…lots of bonding. Actually, lots of “bonding”. The tempestuous relationship history between my father and I is a post in itself. He got two speeding tickets, but I was an angel:)

Have spent the last two days moving house with my brother and his fiancé. Two sweltering days, of 43 degrees. That’s Celsius, and I unfortunately cannot translate that into Fahrenheit for my dear American friends. I don’t even know if that’s how you spell Fahrenheit. But it’s DAMN HOT. I can assure you of that. It actually reached 48 in the unfortunate suburb of Geelong, and there are bushfires raging out of control across the state.

Today we were known as the “bikini removalists”. Nice. I think the guy moving INTO the apartment which we were moving OUT of was rather disappointed.

I had this whole descriptive post planned, because the trip down was just so Aussie-beautiful. René Magritte clouds melting onto a Salvador Dali landscape. Cherubs hiding in the cotton-ball clouds, trees speckled across the sunburnt rolling hills, wooden windmills scattering the plains. My senses deserted me, and I just soaked up the primal natural beauty…for just so long…

Yay! My blog friends think I’m a 10! Oh happy day-ay! Anyway, tomorrow I will have time to catch up on my online life (that sounds kinda weird…a bit freakish actually…but at least I know we are all freaks…)…

I am going to sweat a little more now. And try and replace the sweat with vodka. I know that that won’t help, but that’s the plan and I’m sticking to it.

Love.

What i want to accomplish in life...a list of sorts...

2006-01-18T09:17:00.000-08:00

The big things or the little things?

First of all, I’m not going to number these. I don’t want to itemise the hopes and dreams that sometimes invade my consciousness. I don’t want to try and denote numbered meaning and guage importance. It’s not like that.

But I have been struggling. Struggling to determine whether I want to continue with uni, this degree or something different. Trying to discover what I want to do with my life and passions. Trying even to find out what my passions are. Which loves are more important…are any more important? I’ve been earnestly wishing that some book of logical life progressions would fall from the star-filled sky and into my lap. Hoping that a career path would materialise in the middle of my hazy life. Praying that maybe, just maybe…this day would be different.

I dream that one day I will wake up and a multi-rose-coloured light will be streaming through my window. A different window. And a different light to the confused grey illumination that currently shades my view of life. I don’t want a beam of light. I want a light with hints of colour. Flecks, speckles, blushes, motley bruises, tints and stains of colour.

I’m searching for a life. A rainbow life. But too often I am overwhelmed to look hard enough. Overwhelmed by thoughts that I’m wasting my time…and wasting this one shot I have. Smothered by the hopes of others and intense expectations of others that are supporting my pedestal. Scared that if I move one foot to the left, or even the right, my little ivory tower will shudder…and topple.

But I have been challenged, and I am going to aim high. Maybe verbalising some of this ‘stuff’ will help create perspective…remind me…elbow me. Maybe it will make me remember what I used to want before the blue clouds came rolling in. Maybe it will shoulder some grey out of the way so that some shards of light will pierce my consciousness. I’m all wrapped up in metaphors…but I’m game.

I want to create my own jewellery line. On a scale far beyond what I do now.
I want to write. It is therapeutic. I think my head is too big to contain all the thoughts, ideas, confusions and ramblings that flicker between my neurons. There is a certain peace to be found constructing sentences with words.
I want to write a book. My life is boring. I’m not special. But I want to write about what I know. I want to use all the days of my life and turn them into words. A record, I guess, of a life…ordinary…or less ordinary.
I want to travel. Forever. I want to see the squalid underside of humanity and the experiences of simplicity. I want to write postcards from the backstreets of nowhere, the majestic heartlands, the ubiquitously hidden nooks and alcoves and the footpaths that see a million different feet an hour.
I want to learn languages. Multiple languages. I want to immerse myself in the lives and cultures of those I don’t know, and probably won’t understand. I want a nomadic life of sorts, in that I want to feel what others are feeling. See what others are seeing. I don’t want to leave this life with a destination on my atlas overlooked.
I want to ride a bicycle around Vietnam.
I want to go on a safari in Africa.
I want to go to Antarctica. I want to see a polar bear. I want to see a killer whale breaching between the icebergs. I want to see lion seals basking on the ice.
I want to learn to surf.
I want to be famous. I want the world to know me. I think I’m scared of leaving this world and being forgotten.
I want to start my own magazine.
I want to act. I want to make movies. I want to play roles, pretend to be someone I’m not. I want to channel stories, lives and characters through me. I want to feel the passion of others.
I want a career. I don’t want to be lost forever. I want a life and a future. I want to fathom a career, a direction. I want to work at something, towards something…to keep getting better and better.
I want to have a home.
I want to design it and decorate it myself.
I want to be financially comfortable. Actually, I want to be financially well off…so that I can visit every corner of the globe, and take those I love with me. So that I can help improve the lives of others, of those less fortunate than me. So that I can help those who research and study illnesses that are killing all over the world. I don’t want to be helpless to help.
I want to adopt a child. Not now, but one day. I want to help a child to have a better life.
I want my parents to help my children grow up. I know that’s not an accomplishment as such. But I want my children to have what I’ve had. Grandparents, family. Avenues of love.
I want to keep my friends forever. The friends who I’ve laughed and cried with. The ones I’ve grown with. The ones who were there when I had my first kiss, my first love, my first heartbreak. The ones who I can call to save me from myself. The ones who I have hugged a million billion times in my life. The ones who I have shared a bed with a giggled through a sleepless night with. The ones who I have dropped everything in my life for, and who have done the same for me. The ones with whom bonds will never disappear, bonds which are learning to wrap themselves around the globe.
I want to meet my new blogger friends.
I want to road trip the US in a combi.
I want to save the animals. Animal cruelty makes my heart cry.
I want to swim with dolphins.
I want to overcome my fear of sharks and get my scuba diving license. But I want to maintain a healthy fear.
I want to climb Mt Everest.
I want to have a life of laughter.
I want to grow old gracefully…not have facelifts until my ears meet.
I want to be happy. I want to learn how to find and cultivate happiness. I want to discover what true happiness really is.
I want to go to Disneyland.
I want to see Stonehenge.
I want to find love. Don’t we all? I want to find real love. Love that helps complete me. Love that helps me complete another. Love with trust, with honesty, with harmony. Love with passion that transcends time. I want to find the person who I am meant for.
I want to be a wife and a mother. I want a family. I want to raise my children to be good. Honest. Caring. Compassionate.
I want to be able to show my children the world…and give my children the world.
I want to feel love every day of my life.
I want a Japanese garden…where I can lose myself in serenity.
I want to learn Latin dancing. I stopped ballroom and Latin dancing when I was about 12. I wish I never had. Oh to be one of those people who can break out into semi-choreographed movement on a dance floor and have everyone stop to watch you.
I want to find myself. I need to do this before I can do any of the others.
I want to study history again.
I want to do a photography course.
I want to own a restaurant. A cosy, homey one.
I want to work in a cocktail bar. I love it.
I want to shoplift. Just once. I was always too chicken-shit when I was younger. Not even nail polish.
I want to live in Santorini.
I want to live in Tuscany. A stone’s throw from Paris, Nice, Florence, Venice, Innsbruck…all the other places I would love to live.
I want to get a tattoo. Accomplishment…yeah…
I want to buy a Vespa. So I can ride it all around the beautiful windy roads in Greece and Italy. Preferably a lime green Vespa.
I want to go ice-climbing.
I want to dye my hair blonde and cut it really short. Just once. Then magically change it back. Just so I’m not always that boring girl who has never dyed her hair in her life. Blonde because I always wanted to be blonde when I was little.
I want to dance an Irish jig. Really.
I want to skate on a frozen lake.
I want to skydive.
I want to go shopping on Rodeo Drive with gay abandon. And someone else’s credit card. Duh.

I think that might be 52, but my eyes got all blurry when i was trying to count them. I am so bad at inserting links, but i will try and tag the following...
Janie
Rolligun
SAAK
Adam
Meghan

C'est moi...pour Trueborn. Because i copied his idea.

2006-01-16T17:01:00.000-08:00

I don’t think I will be able to complete this list of 100 things about me.
I never really have faith in myself.
I am 173cm tall. I don’t know how many feet and inches that is.
I was the third tallest girl in my final year at school.
I am the second oldest of five children. My siblings are all ridiculously good-looking, but we all have different hair colours.
My hair colour is titian. Not red, not auburn. It’s titian. Pronounced tee-shun.
I got a dancing prize at my Year 6 farewell. He called me up on stage as “the red-headed girl”. I replied, “it’s not red! It’s titian!” My teachers never let me live it down.
For the last two years I worked with some of those teachers.
I taught English to a little Korean boy who came to Australia with his parents and started school two days after arriving.
His English is now perfect and he’s the cheekiest kid in the playground. I miss him.
I love kids.
I love playing on slippery dips and monkey bars with them.
Sometimes I wish I was a kid again.
I was an intelligent kid and I think I grew up too fast.
When I was 11 I was already doing my big brother’s high school English assignments.
To this day he hasn’t rerad Taronga, the novel I studied for him for a full term.
I love English. I love words. I have always wanted to write.
I want to write a novel.
I have a lot of passion in me.
My mother nearly died when I was 11. She bought me a flute as a goodbye present.
She is my best friend.
I have a long musical history. Violin, clarinet, flute, drums, piano, song.
I swam competitively in high school. I still love to swim.
I love to be alone.
I hate being lonely.
I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 18.
I have been in love once. He broke my heart with my best girlfriend.
My second near-love was a pot addict. I rarely saw him not stoned. I thought I could help him. I kind of did. But it wasn’t love.
He got another girl pregnant.
I still have four grandparents.
I also had two great-grandmothers until I was 8.
My cousin was killed when I was 9. I remember kissing her frozen 5yo body in this beautiful white coffin. I remember standing next to her 8yo sister, holding her hand as she screamed at her sister to come back. I wonder if the adults comprehended just how aware we were then.
I have a good memory.
I still remember the phone number of my first primary school friend even though I haven’t seen her in 15 years.
I am good with dates. The number kind.
I am bad with dates. The guy kind. I think I need to go on more.
I am terrified of getting hurt.
My brother broke my arm when I was in Year 2.
My first swear word was shit.
I make beautiful jewellery.
I would be perfectly happy with an all-black wardrobe and just buckets of accessories.
Except I love colour.
Until recently, I avoided wearing green, orange and yellow. I thought it clashed with my hair.
I will never wear red.
I have blue eyes. Some days they are green, some days grey, some days turquoise. They’re like one of those mood rings.
I hate spiders.
I love trekking through the Australian bush.
I am an abseiling instructor. I haven’t abseiled or rockclimbed in four years since two guys in my mountaineering club were killed.
I love snow. I was once hiking in bushfire weather when a weathersnap brought on snow. I had to naked-snuggle with my fellow hiker who had hypothermia.
I love to ski.
I wish I could snowboard, but I am not coordinated enough to have both feet strapped to the same board.
I find cleaning therapeutic.
I love dancing around the house whilst cleaning to 70s and 80s classics.
My shoe size is a 9. That’s big for a girl. Shops never put my size on display.
I shop when my life feels out of control.
My life feels out of control now.
I was attacked at knifepoint once. I hate knives.
I love clouds. I love all that you can see in clouds.
I love the nightsky. Spangly stars scattered across a black velvet cloth. I love knowing that there is so much else out there. There is a world beyond the clouds.
I am a confirmed Anglican.
I don’t go to Church now, but I did every Wednesday morning with school. Now I only go for funerals.
I got into the Navy when I was 18. I wanted to be in the army because I don’t really like boats. My parents preferred the Navy. So I went to law school.
I have seen two ghosts. One of them in my current bedroom.
I have OCD tendencies.
I like lists.
I like Newsagents but I’m not sure why.
Ten female teachers at my school have had cancer in the past five years. One died. Another one is about to.
I love kokeshi. Kokeshi are Japanese dolls.
I love everything about Japan.
I have never had a car accident, but I once reversed my Dad’s car into my brother’s car in the driveway. The outside house light AND the reverse lights were broken, so I couldn’t see anythinig.
I have never been hospitalised but have had major bouts of illness.
I love laughter.
I love hugs and cuddles. I am a touchy-feely person.
I cried this morning.
I want to live all over Europe. I don’t really want to settle in Australia.
My best friend and I don’t really talk that much, but I still think she’s my best friend. Life just picks up again when we speak.
I am unfailingly honest.
My favourite brand of Vodka is Belvedere.
I love making cocktails. Quality cocktails. I genuinely love work behind a cocktail bar. Bizarre.
I love storms. I love watching black clouds roll ominously in. I love lying in bed with rain pounding on a corrugated iron roof. My house now has tiles. I don’t like it.
I was born as Princess Diana and Prince Charles were saying their vows. My dad delivered me because all the doctors and nurses were off watching the wedding on television.
I cried when Princess Diana was killed. I thought someone was playing a cruel joke.
My mother is the spitting image of Princess Diana. I have photos of the two of us together, and everybody thinks it is me and Diana. A man who once came to clean the carpet in our house was temporarily starstruck.
I started modelling for a while. It was never going to suit me.
I followed Naomi Watts up the red carpet at last years AFI (Australian Film Institute) Awards. I talked to Geoffrey Rush. I have always wanted to be an actress. Always.
I wore glasses until Year 9. I was painfully shy.
I stopped wearing them to be cool and my eyes magically corrected.
I still love my best friend from high school. He is a hippie.
I want to be in love again.
I never give the right guys a chance.
When I was 12, I broke my ankle water-skiing. My ankle got wrapped up in rope and my uncle kept circling in the lake looking for me, not realising I was being dragged around underwater behind them. They couldn’t hear me screaming as I was nearly drowning.
I get migraines. Bad ones. They knock me out for two days at a time. I need two needles in my butt. One to stop the pain (this one causes me to throw up) and one to stop the nausea.
I hate needles. I once ran away from home when it was needle time. My dad is a doctor, so needles are always on hand.
My older brother is an opera singer. He just got a contract with Opera Australia.
I love music. All kinds of music.
I love history. I went to my history teachers’ house a few times during my final year to go over practice essays.
I love languages. I used to speak French and Japanese. I want to get them back, because I hardly remember a word.
I don’t think I have a type when it comes to guys.
Although I love accents. I am a sucker for accents.
I don’t know what or where it is, but I want to find my place in the world. And yes, I want to be happy.

Spineless.

2006-01-16T13:32:00.000-08:00

To the FUCKER who reversed into my car last night while I was at work…didn’t leave a note and just drove away, leaving me to discover a smashed in front guard in the light of day this morning…leaving my uninsured arse to cop a $700 repair bill because you are a selfish maniacal driver with no goddamn conscience…I DON’T HAVE $700! I haven’t even been able to afford more than the compulsory third party insurance for the last two months.

I had JUST demonstrated the strength to resign from my goddamn job, even though I knew I would be skint for while, when YOU decide to play god and slap me with some ‘don’t-quit-your-job-karma’.

How the fuck could you smash someone else’s car in and drive away? How damn spineless can you be? Didn’t you think that maybe that car belongs to that nice bubbly bargirl who was just slaving her arse off for you and your friends for an absolute pittance just so she would get enough money together to walk away from life for a while?

Did you think? Do you care? No. Don’t worry, everyone else in the world always wants to cover your back, pay your bills, make your life cushy. Fucker.

I would continue, but my eyes are getting blurry.

headspace.

2006-01-15T01:58:00.000-08:00

I forgot how liberating the beach could be at 1.30am in the morning...all starry skies, translucent moonlight and the soothing sound of waves crashing, and crashing...and crashing...

There was a loan crab and me.

The water was warm, the salt was awakening and i have never felt so damn liberated in so damn long...

Two Things

2006-01-12T09:36:00.000-08:00

And yes yes, i've been multiply tagged!

Two Parts of Your Heritage
1. Irish
2. English

Two Things That Scare You
1. Spiders
2. That I won’t ever be happy

Two fears you have overcome
1. Living overseas on my own
2. Flying. I still hate the lift-off but I just try and forget that I am thousands of miles above the sea in a big metal contraption that was never probably meant to get off the ground.

Two of Your Everyday Essentials
1. Water
2. Make-up

Two things you are Wearing Right Now
1. The two rings that I never take off…they are kind of stuck on me.
2. A hot pink with brown lace trim PA nightie.

Two things you wore too much this year
1. Black-fucking-waitress clothes.
2. I guess my sister would say skirts…because I never wear pants.

This year's Favorite Bands or Musical Artists
1. James Blunt.
2. Gypsy Kings
3. Backstreet Boys. Oh my gosh they’re back! (Yes I jest…)

Two Things You Want in a Relationship
1. Trust
2. Passion and butterflies

Two of your favorite Movies of the Year
1. Love Actually
2. The Wedding Crashers…saw it at the movies (it’s not out on DVD yet) and laughed my arse off. Maybe it was just at the time in my life when I needed some light-hearted relief, maybe it will totally disappoint a second time.
3. I saw Just Like Heaven last week. Beautiful little romantic comedy Trueborn;)

Best movies of all time
1. Chocolat
2. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Two things You hate
1. Arrogance
2. Ignorance

Two of Your Favorite Hobbies
1. Reading
2. Writing

Two things you learned this year
1. I keep making the same damn mistakes. Maybe this year will be different.
2. Life is too short to be unhappy.

Two Accomplishments You are Proud of
1. Last year was the year of unaccomplishment, and I don’t really have anything to be proud of.

Two Things You Want Really Badly
1. Life
2. Love

Two places you went this year.
1. Melbourne.
2. Like I said, boring year.

Two Places You Want to go on Vacation
1. Cambodia and Vietnam
2. Backpack South America.

Two Things You Want to Do Before You Die
1. Be content.
2. Find and maintain love and life happiness.

Two Ways that you are a Stereotypical Example of your Gender
1. I won’t leave the house without makeup.
2. I spend money on frivolous things.

Two things that make you stand out.
1. My hair.
2. Apparently my aura.

Two Things You Normally Wouldn't Admit
1. I don’t really like myself at the moment.
2. I’m scared to go back to Barcelona.

Two Goals for the New Year
1. Fathom some sort of career.
2. Find a life which makes me happy.

I hereby tag anyone who has not yet done this...

Owatta!

2006-01-12T09:20:00.000-08:00

I resigned to D yesterday. Big boss wasn't in and wasn't answering his mobile, so i had to do it to D or else my one weeks notice wouldn't really be a week. I had a splitting headache all day...still have in fact. Promptly threw up and still feel like ratshit.

I'm going to stay with my bro in Melbourne for a couple of weeks...like a little holiday. Yay!

It's not like i could say "Hey guys, i'm off for a month...but i expect my job to be here when i get back!" I know they'll have to put someone on to 'replace' me...so resigning was my only real option.

That's my story and i'm sticking to it.

I still feel sick to my stomach though, and i have two-day old furrows between my eyes.

Weird stuff...

2006-01-06T16:57:00.000-08:00

Everyone seems to be so wise about love…but then I guess we all have our moments. Some days I have to catch myself from being the most cynical bitch ever. Some days I stop and do the Aww’s at a really young smooching couple in the street…other days I feel like going over and slapping them into a ‘don’t-let-go-of-your-childhood-you-silly-kids’ reality. A few weeks ago at the restaurant where I work, this guy proposed over dinner. He gave the ring to the Chef after they’d ordered (on the sly of course…he pulled the whole ‘I’m just popping to the men’s room darling’…although I don’t think he was that charming or articulate…I think it was more of a ‘I’ve just gotta go piss’…but anyway…) and asked the Chef to put it in her entrée. Not dessert, her entrée. She’d ordered soup.

“Yeah yeah, just plonk it in the soup!”

Okay, sure, your money. Taptaptap…just to check that it’s not a plastic piece from a holiday bonbon or something. Whatever.

So obviously, the whole staff is not-so-subtly observing the devouring of the entrée until the point when she ends up with a ring in her mouth. Yep, she was kinda hovering the meal in there. She pulls it out of her mouth, a little stunned while he started speaking (didn’t actually hear the proposal) and did the whole girly-hand-flapping-in-front-of-the-face thing. Hate that. All the other girls i work with were practically fainting and Aawwing at the sweetness of the guy, and I was like…

“Excuse me? He put her ring in the soup! She very nearly choked on it! Now it’s all pumpkiny and bug-taily! SURELY he could’ve done something a little more romantic.” Yes, my nose was a little screwed up.

I looked at the disbelief around me and subsequently swallowed the cynic, because I was obviously outnumbered. But I mean…he could've put it in the dessert at least?

I guess after reading all the wonderful, uplifting, like-minded or not comments about love, this story popped back into my head. Why? Each to his own i say. Some girls want proposals in the sky, some girls want it left on a pillow, some girls are happy to slurp it out of soup (not that this is a bad thing!). No matter how it finds us, or how much it makes the earth move under our feet, we all want love.

Whether we find it in a friend, or a one-night stand. At a bar, at the beach, or in an adjoining supermarket trolley. Maybe we’ll stumble across it in a library, twenty hours across the globe, maybe we’ll find it in a Mexican café. I believe that it’s out there for everyone. I think everyone believes.

I’m going to digress from this issue now, purely because I just remembered something really funny from last night. I went to the movies with my youngest brother and sister. What we saw must remain undisclosed due to intense embarrassment…but it was my sister’s choice. Embarrassment would ensue because I was more than happy to go. But anyway. I bought the tickets, a bag of maltesers and three cokes. After the necessary exorbitant monetary transaction I reached down for three straws, only to find none. No straw dispenser. Not even any of those spoon-straws (which I happen to think are up there with the greatest inventions of all time).

“Excuse me, but can I have three straws please? There don’t seem to be any here…” I ask in my politest of polite voices, quite baffled. Normally there are straw holders everywhere.

“You’ll just have to go to the straw station”.

Pause. Rather a pregnant one.

My brother snorts beside me and the guy behind sniggers too.

“Um…I’m sorry…straw station?” What the fuck is that?

“The straaaw staaation” ohmygosh the girl said it like I was a simpleton “is over there”. And she pointed her boney little finger behind me to the left. And there it was. A big square trolley thing with the words STRAW STATION staring at me in big fat capital letters. And boy were there straws. Regular straws, short straws, spoon straws, fat straws, those little things that you stir your coffee with that aren’t supposed to be straws but you can actually get a teensy slurp out of them if you try hard enough.

I didn’t even thank her for directing me to this fantastic new-age creation due to her insinuation that I was a half-wit for not know what a straaaw staaation was. I don’t know if it designed to speed up the service process because everyone spends too long trying to get those darn dispensers to actually release a straw, but I find it highly unnecessary. Now if they would care to set up an un-manned malteeeeser station…

a little bit of love...

2006-01-03T20:03:00.000-08:00

I’m going to write a post about love. I don’t know why. It could be because I was unpacking boxes of my stuff that I haven’t seen in three years this morning, and stumbled across a box in a box. Not just any box, but the carefully artistically decorated box that holds all the letters, emails and little random presents that I was given by my first ‘love’. I put the ‘love’ in inverted commas there, because the thought of ‘him’ and ‘love’ in the one sentence makes my stomach churn. He broke my heart, ran off with my best friend and became a nasty little boy. Obviously we are no longer friends, but I did sit myself down for over an hour to read through all the things he’d written to me. It made me think.

For the last four years I have hated the memory of him. He went overseas, then I went overseas, so we’ve only bumped into each other three or so times at this pub or another…he is always fake and I just say hi and walk away, with my heart in my mouth and my stomach threatening to explode.

But he loved me once. He wrote poems for me, and sang songs about me. He wrote me letters, he knocked on my teenage window at 4am because he missed me. He stroked my hair while I was sleeping. He said things to me that no-one else ever has. So even though he’s not a part of my life now, I know we fell in love once. We FELL in love. He spied me spying on him in the back row of class. I saw him looking sideways at me. A flirty friendship around town ensued and one night we kissed in my backyard pool. Is love even like that these days?

I wouldn’t know.

The logistics of love confuse me completely at the moment.

Today everyone seems to have prerequisites for love. There are physical, cultural, geographical, political and chronological requirements. People know what they want. They want a tall person or a short person. A fair or dark person with clear blue eyes or deep brown ones. A person with long straight hair or a person with no freckles. They want a reader or a swimmer or a skydiver. They want a broad-shouldered person or a big or little busted person. A person with tanned legs or skinny feet. They want a Christian, a Muslim or a Jew. They want a person with money or with a small cottage by the sea. Whatever happened to falling in love?

It seems that love nowadays is as finely calibrated as writing a resume for a job application. There is no room for chance anymore. No room for the unexpected, the unpredictable. Hardly anyone ever mentions the word ‘destiny’ anymore. The notion of it seems to have disappeared completely. Maybe I am a hopeless romantic, I don’t know. Maybe I am just that wrapped up in waiting for signs, or for something magical, that I really am missing all these fantastic guys wading through my life.

Then there is the issue of timing. “I want to be in love…but now is not the right time for it”. Is it that today, love is as carefully regimented as a bus or train timetable? Is everything prepared beforehand and expected to go according to schedule? As though all the fundamental things in life are calculated as carefully as a mathematical equation.

I KNOW I’m picky. I KNOW I have high standards. I KNOW that I would be lucky to end up with half the guys that ask me out. But why am I waiting for my stomach to say yes? I’m waiting for butterflies…not just fluttering.

I want to FALL in love, not feel obliged into it. I want to bump into him whilst carrying two armfuls of groceries, not be set up in that awkward “oh my god, meet Joe, you two will LOVE each other” way. I want someone to notice me, and then forehead-bump into a telegraph pole. I want him to get butterflies.

At my friend’s wedding I went to a few months back, they were talking about how they met. It doesn’t get any more perfect. He was busking in a backstreet in Ireland. She was walking along a cross-street, and backtracked…went to him…mesmerised. She returned the next night, and that’s really where the story ends. Or where it really starts, whichever way you want to look at it. I’m a big fan of the double-take.

Maybe I’m that naïve enough to think that there’s a difference. Maybe I’ve just forgotten what love is like. Or maybe I never really knew.

fuzzy holiday...

2005-12-29T12:18:00.000-08:00

I have been on a vodka, champagne, beer, wine, tequila...ALCOHOL drip for nearly a week now. I’ve been house-sitting in town (minus net access if that’s ANY kind of excuse for my absence) and have been within walking distance of pubs and bars. Dangerous that is.

It all began on Christmas Eve when my darling mates N and R downed some bottles of fine vino with me (totally civilised, beautiful balcony, relaxingly drunk) before deciding that the night needed to continue at the Beaches…all the while knowing that I had grandparents to face at 8am. Eek. My brother rescued me and shuttled me home where I TOTALLY won the prawn eating competition (okay, so it wasn’t a competition, but I still got the most, regardless of my intense inebriation). Everybody got angry at me. You know how you all sit around the big bowl of prawns in the middle of the table? Well, you’re either a peel’n’eat person or a peel’n’pile kinda person. Me? I’m a peel’n’pile. So of COURSE I’m going to get more prawns in the end because everyone else wastes time in between eating! I would much rather build a little mound and anticipate a little prawn feast. Same thing happened on Christmas Day. I would only really pause peeling to slurp down an oyster. Mmm…the prawn and oyster table is possibly my favourite part of Christmas. That and the absolute necessity of drinking for at least 12 hours straight or else subject myself to ridicule by my brothers and alcoholic cousins. Meh…one day a year you’re ALLOWED to pass out.

The thought of drinking at the races made my stomach literally churn. But this week I have genuinely discovered that the best cure for a hangover is to jump right back on the bandwagon. Another lesson of late? Green cordial concentrate is nasty shit. But the weirdest thing, is that if you add a little bit to a shot of Absolut Vodka it completely disguises the metho taste! Pure sugar seems to cancel out pure alcohol, so you can drink it without the evil afterburn. GOOD to know.

My brother came up from Melbourne for Chrissy, and he and his girlfriend came to my work yesterday when I finished and the three of us went out for a lovely dinner. We had delish thai, got blind drunk and kicked on across the road to a pub which they hadn’t been to since their high school days. Her and I were like giggling schoolgirls, and when my slightly more mature brother suggested that we just have a softdrink, we told him that our doublevodkalimeandsodas were really just limeandsoda. We had so much fun. Her and I have just reached the ‘I love you, you’re like another sister to me’ stage and I love that. Timely too, because after they rolled into a cab and went home, he proposed. They’ve been together for eight years. Since they were fresh young 18 year olds. Even though we were smashed, I like that I was out with them that night. Ohmygod my brother is getting married! Ohmygod maybe I can be a bridesmaid!

Ohmygod….so….adult.

I haven’t resigned people. I still hate going to work, and the little changes that were supposed to make it better just haven’t done a damn thing. I hate money. I hate that we need money. I hate that people have to live unhappy jobs just to live. I think I will work for another three weeks. I don’t like me right now.

I DO like this living alone thing. I forgot how damn peaceful it is. I forgot how nice it is sometimes to not have to cook a fancy dinner to feed the hordes, and do loads of washing every damn day. I forgot how liberating random nudity is…yes, I CAN do that dash without anything on cause there’s no-one around to see! Woohoo! That said though, I came home this morning to see my puppies…little munchkins nearly broke the door down when I drove up. God I love them.

Things I have learnt this week...Volume 1

2005-12-16T11:22:00.000-08:00

1. Blessed though my English/Irish genes are, they come with the unfortunate dilemma of being very sensitive to sun. Thus the reason I don’t really go to the beach much unless I’m decked out like Nicole Kidman in that magazine that time. Thus also the reason I wear sunscreen every day, even to work. That’d also be the reason why my shoulders and back harshly resemble a lobster-tomato cross right now. Forty minutes in the sun (hey, I NEEDED that mango frappe and the walk along the beach) was a rather regrettable lesson of yesterday. Damn this schizophrenic weather. There were storms predicted.

2. If you want to play like Paris Hilton and try a little self-tanning to try and ease the visual severity of the sunburn (I mean the home DIY spray-on ones you can get these days, not the loving lash-out of a salon visit), you are advised to do it in the shower recess. Yes, that much is pretty clear. You don’t want your towels, make-up or puppies being coated in self-tan residue. However, you are also advised to scrub your damn feet afterwards, or else you’ll walk away with the soles of your feet slowly turning an evil shade of orange. Exhibit: Auburn, one day later.

3. When it’s a really windy night on the harbour, it is inadvisable to wear a skirt to work. Tips were good last night.

4. Belvedere Vodka on ice is a seriously beautiful drink. Don’t think you can switch to Absolut Vodka on ice and enjoy the same smooth trickling down the esophagus. There is no comparison.

5. A boy will only want to talk when you say Fuck you. I don’t respect you anymore…and walk the hell away. This method is enhanced when you’ve not said a bad word to or about him ever. He will get the shock of his life that you dared utter the f-word in his direction.

6. When you say you’re going to resign, fucking do it. Rather than be faced with the incentive of quite a nice pay rise to stay. Yeah. TOLD you I was worth it you dickhead boss you.

7. Always end a list on your lucky number.

The year that...wasn't, really...

2005-12-05T18:54:00.000-08:00

1. What did you do in 2005 that you hadn't done before?
Okay, so the first question has already got me stumped and thinking that this has been a wasted year. What the fuck have I been doing? Surely every WEEK should hold new experiences…why am I having trouble thinking of even ONE 2005 virginal event?

*thinks*

Ooh ooh! I pole-danced. I mean, not just on a random pole in a nightclub under the influence of sweet fermented beverages, I had classes. Fun, liberating classes.

*thinks a bit more*

I went back to the hotel room of a dashing British customer one night and got strawberries, champagne and a banana split delivered via room service. My mum called my mobile at about 4am asking me where I was.

2. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yes, my cousin who is three weeks older than me got engaged, preggers and had a baby girl. One of my best friends’ sister had a baby girl last Friday. A girl I work with had an abortion.

3. Did anyone close to you die?
Yes, my best ‘old school forever’ friend’s grandfather passed away and a family friend committed suicide.

4. Did you travel? Where did you go? Best holiday memory?
This was actually the most boring travel year ever. I only went to Melbourne to house-sit for my brother, and that doesn’t count!

5. Best thing you bought?
Best thing or multiple best things? My GHD hair straightener…love of my life. Actually, I will stop there because this has been the most worthlessly materialistic year of my life.

6. Where did most of your money go?
Shoes, clothes, accessories, spoiling my little sister and food for the family. Really, food for the family.

7. What do you wish you had done more of?
Can I just generalise and say ‘I wish I’d done more’? I wish I’d had more fun, more sex, more love, more time off, more me time.

8. What do you wish you had done less of?
I wish I’d done less slaving my arse away for a pittance because I’m too damn nice. I wish I’d done less crying.

9. What kept you sane?
I’m not sure really. I was automatically going to say ‘nothing’, but if it was ‘nothing’ then I probably wouldn’t be here right now. My big brother and his girl in Melbourne have been my support crew this year. And my friend R.

10. What drove you mad?
D. D drove me up the fucking wall. For pretty much exactly a year now, so here it stops. Work drove me occasionally insane and my parents have got me teetering on the edge of fullblown apathy.

11. What made you celebrate?
All the good things that happened to other people.

12. What made you sad?
I had a lot of sadness this year…a little about others, a lot about me. It was sad to see a beautiful young girl leave this world when she should’ve had the world at her feet. It was sad to see my brother heartbroken time and again by a horrible horrible girl. It was sad seeing my mother cry. I’ve spent months crying at being too weak to be able to stand up for myself or even formulate a vague desire of who I am, what I want or where I’m going and feeling profoundly worthless in every aspect of my life.

13. How was your birthday this year?
Weird. Not really a birthday. No presents in the morning. My mum stood me up for lunch so I took myself shoe shopping. I had cocktails with a group of friends and the people who came weren’t the ones I expected. D drove me home at the end of the night and we spent some time kissing in his sexy sexy car both agreeing that it wouldn’t happen again due to work.

14. What political issue stirred you the most this year?
I think the hanging of Van Nguyen in Singapore last week, and the war in Iraq now that I have read and discovered a ‘real’ perspective.

15. Were you in love in 2005?
No…

16. What would you like to have in 2006 that you didn't have this year?
Oh. My. Fucking. God. Where would you like me to start?

*pauses to stop a self-pity rant*

I would like to be at a place of acceptance and contentment and on the way to discovering happiness for myself. I would like to fathom some kind of career (non-law career thankyou) that excites me and puts a smile of my face every morning. I would like to have a…future…rather than just plodding along and wasting my time and life.

17. What date from 2005 will be etched in your memory and why?

Three Tuesdays ago…so fucking close to being so fucking wrong.

18. What song will remind you of 2005?
Album? James Blunt Back to Bedlam. Simple Plan Untitled. Gabrielle Stay. Lamb…I don’t know what the damn thing is called…

19. Compared to this time last year are you happier?
No.

20. Biggest achievement this year?
Surviving.

21. Biggest disappointment this year?
The feeling that I have wasted it.

22. What is the one thing that would have made you more satisfied?
More love. More sex;)

23. Best new person you met this year?
I met him last year, but there's this special taken guy who makes my heart flutter randomly. He's a Chef. That can only be a good thing.

24. A valuable life lesson you learnt this year?

Life is short.
So many people have it worse than me.
Happiness is everything.

Well. Thanks for that tag Steph. It was blunt and…hard.

Most of my blog friends have already been tagged by Steph’s insane generosity! I hereby tag the following who have thus far escaped tag-dom…
Adam
Illegally Blonde
Lizzie
Michellesarah
Mr Shife
Trixi

I have been email-bereft since my last post. I have emails coming for the unforgotten:)

Does this have to have a title?

2005-11-30T17:07:00.000-08:00

I think I should explain why I had my head in the toilet on Monday morning. Actually, I don’t think I really CAN explain it. So I had my friend’s engagement party on Friday night in Sydney which was awesome. I knew three people there and I had the best time letting my hair down and meeting new people (and people from way back in the day when we were nine years old playing in wheelbarrows). See, I don’t have much of a life to speak of. I know it sounds like an excuse, but I literally…don’t. have. time.

I liked the freedom. I liked having the night off to dance a little bit, drink a little bit and flirt…a little bit. I stayed at the house where the party ended up and kinda liked waking up and doing the whole “where the fuck am i?” I liked doing a lazy coffee in the morning with the girls I went with, all smudged eyes, wrinkled clothes and bigarse sunnies. I had fun.

Then I got to work and spent another night being emotionally crushed by my boss and by…well…D…my other boss. No appreciation for the fact that the night would simply, not have run without me. I got shitty, and the liberation that I had felt the previous night evaporated. Again I did the Saturday close then Sunday open, getting about 5 hours sleep (after a whole two if lucky the night before) and spent Sunday simmering at the way I am being taken for granted. Sunday afternoon we had farewell cocktails for this absolutely DAHLING girl who is leaving. For about an hour it was just the two of us, and we proceeded to display what cheap drunks we are…especially on cocktails. Anyway, THEN people started buying bottles of champagne. Bottles and bottles. On top of wine and cocktails, this was lethal.

My memory of the evening is a little bit fuzzy, and the next morning I was forced to do the four metre bed-toilet dash a few times over (I crashed at my friend Bo’s house, who quite kindly brought me Panamax, Vitamin B, tea and icy water before she went to work…none of which my stomach was feeling hospitable towards).

The bit of the night I DO remember though, is the following. A few posts back (I think…it’s been a while) I mentioned this guy at work who tells me every day (without fail) how beautiful I am, and how I deserve someone to tell me that every day. He also tells me OFTEN that he wants to marry me and make me the happiest woman alive. He said he would cook me breakfast every day for the rest of my life. Well, I thought it was just playful banter. I mean, he’s got a girlfriend…or at least, I thought he did. Anyway, when he asked me how the engagement party was, I grinned and said “Great…I met my future husband!”

He got upset. Not teary or anything, just…hurt I think. I was stunned. And I was like… god, I don’t even know WHAT I was like. It was over in a second when he regained his composure and said “Just joking beautiful…” But still…after the hugs, I felt terrible. I mean, of COURSE I was just being dramatic about the future husband thing…I hardly thought it would be a problem, because:
a) he knows about D. He thinks I’m a dick for liking him and he thinks D is a dick for not liking me, but he knows nonetheless.
b) He has a girlfriend! Yes we flirt and laugh but come on…
c) I don’t think I have anymore…I just wanted to make a list to try and back myself up…

Anyway, I was a little spun out. Why am I the kind of girl guys just blatantly say they want to marry? I’ve been proposed to by strangers WAY more than is normal (if that’s ever normal). I’m not precious, I’m not a trophy. I hold my own in a room full of men. I’m a red-headed Leo for Christ’s sake! I'm a touch bitch! I love that guys want to protect me, and look after me. I just don’t know why. My best friend R said that I have an aura and that I leave a trail of something special everywhere I go. I think that was possibly the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me.

This sounds like such a wanky post now. And to think it started off with my head in a toilet. Now THAT is attractive.

Anyway, how is this weather? Yesterday i awoke to thunder and lightning, and i was thinking 'Yay, work don't be busy at all!' But for three hours the sun came out, bearing down and mocking me. I even got sunburnt. So yes, we were busy. Flat-out-fucking-busy. Then the black rolled in and the harbour was awash with hailstones, 100knot winds (is that really fast?), the walls were shaking and it was like the earth was going to swallow everything up. Global warming, global cooling...i don't know which it is, but it's getting scary.

Life in a fishbowl.

2005-11-28T22:48:00.000-08:00

The search party has found me. I was a little bit lost. It was that crazy time of year where shit gets real, and I’ve spent the last two weeks deciding that YES…I am quitting law and getting the hell out of this fishbowl town, where everyone knows me and everybody expects of me. I don’t know how it happened, but something thunked into place in my head…or maybe it was in my heart…and I just decided that it was time for me to stop living for other people.

It scared me when *she* killed herself last month. It scared me because I could understand. I know it’s not fair of me to say that. I don’t really have any right to claim comprehension of what she was going through or how she got to a point where death was her only way out, or forward. I don’t pretend to know why. I just know that I don’t want the calm that I felt to become my reality.

I just know that something needs to change. When I was 18, I got accepted into the Navy’s Officer Program. When I was 18, I was studying writing with John Marsden. When I was 18 I wanted to run away to LA and become a famous actress (and yes, I think I genuinely believed that Leonardo DiCaprio would fall in love with me). When I was 18 I applied to law school because my parents knew I would get in. How did it take me this long to realise that I picked the wrong one? So very wrong. I feel like I have wasted six years of my life. Surely I should have it all figured out by now?

Sometimes I wish I was one of those people who knew from birth what they wanted to do. Why do some people have career destiny from the age of six? What are the stragglers supposed to do?

Oh, that’s right. They run away from home at the age of 24 to find some cosy backpacker’s on Chapel Street where their whole existence is expected to just fall into place. Quitting law will probably turn out to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Maybe when I’m 40 I’ll be kicking myself. But it’s better than pretending to be happy any longer.

So…that was my absence. And I come back to flirty shoe wars, internet love and porn. Romantics and shoe-addicts unite!

A family friend got engaged, and I went to Sydney for a shindig on Friday night. I think I met my future husband. You know how you can rave about someone, and there always becomes a ‘but-‘? Well, this guy has no ‘but-‘. He truly is quite perfect. Please, just allow me to have the illusion for a little while.

As for real life, the D being my boss thing has been so fucking hard. Some days he’s cool, some days he’s a completely different person. But I am STILL being the stupidly supportive and understanding friend. Not stupidly…sorry, I don’t mean that. I know he’s going through a tough time…and he knows he has me. That kind of sums up our whole relationship at the moment. He knows he’s got me. I’m too fucking sweet to force my boot up his arse to show him the light. Too fucking sweet…yeah, that’s gold…

Apologies if this post is a little disjointed…I spent the morning with my head in the toilet and I’m still feeling a little bit fragile.

My Japanese name is...

2005-11-16T07:58:00.000-08:00

渡辺 Watanabe (near a crossing) 美晴 Miharu (beautiful clear sky)

What's yours?

Or if i put my last name first like the Japanese do, it's...

原 Hara (wilderness) 千秋 Chiaki (very fine in autumn)

Okay, so i just did my sister too, and we had the same 'first' name of Miharu. So i think you have to put your surname first. Thus, the second one is me. Dammit, i'd rather be a Kumiko or Ayumi.
This is D...

藤原 Fujiwara (wisteria fields) 一真 Kazuma (one reality)

Oh dear, i've named the puppy!

When i was living in Japan i was always strangely attracted to the names Takeshi and Takuya...must be a sign...

The trolley lady...

2005-11-15T17:37:00.000-08:00

Old people are so cute. Not the nasty "Git your lazy buttocks off that chair and give me your seat after all i did for you in the war you ungrateful little scoundrel" whilst hitting with walking cane types.

I mean the other ones. The regular ones. The squishy 'round the middle two foot tall ones who totter around the supermarkets squinting at the labels on the tuna cans. The ones whose wavering voices call you 'love' and either press a home-cooked date scone into your palm or try and slip you one of the old 2-dollar notes. The ones who are genuinely chuffed when you let them across the crossing with their walking frames and even pause to lift their frail arm in a wave and smile at you with their big dentured grins. The ones who drive a few hundred metres to the local store on those electric scooter machines with the tall orange flag, and are happy to take up a full lane to do so.

And as annoyed as i get at them, the ones who sit on the yellow pages to get their bifocalled eyes high enough to peer over the big-arse steering wheel in their old old Bentley and drive at a standard 30km/h BELOW the speed limit.

Yes, old people are cute.

I went to the supermarket today and there was this cute old duck fumbling with a trolley. You know the new-fangled ones which lock each other up, and you need to insert a gold coin to release them? Well, she'd put her $2 coin into the $1 coin slot. Needless to say, it had been swallowed by the trolley and all she could see was the edge of her money...jammed in too far to extract. People were walking past her staring, and she was all flustered. I went up and asked her if she needed any help.

"I just don't know what to do," she bumbled. "I don't use these much, and it all seems so unnecessary. I can see my money, but it's stuck..." as she proceeded to try yanking the trolley from its hinge with a surprising amount of strength...

I assured her that it was okay, and that I too shared her distress when it came to the silly technical trolleys...i pulled a bobby pin from my hair and managed to prise her $2 coin from the slot. She got even more flustered when it didn't work in the $2 slot either. I pulled out my purse and got a $1 coin out, which wouldn't bloody work either. The poor dear was getting worn out from anxiety i think.

"Don't worry," i said to her. "Let's just get you a different trolley". So i popped my dollar into another trolley and Bingo! Out it slid off the wrought iron chain...full of someone's bloody rejected lettuce leaves...the most ANNOYING trolley peeve ever. I detest the baskets with other people's scraps in them. Anyway, i cleaned out the lettuce leaves while she was cooing about what a darling young thing i was.

It was right at the entrance to a busy arcade, i just wonder how many people went by but didn't bother to help her before me. Or if i hadn't stopped...would someone else have?

She tried to make me take her $2...tried to press it into my hand like it was one of her hand-crocheted handkerchiefs, but i couldn't and wouldn't take it. I told her i was happy to help and continued in to do my own shopping. I looked for her every now and again, but didn't see her amongst the aisles. I guess she was stuck in the tuna aisle, squinting at the labels of John West. She was the highlight of my day.

we call this AVOIDING STUDY...

2005-11-14T12:34:00.000-08:00

Good luck reading the following post in its' entirety. Consider yourself forewarned that it will be about 8 minutes of your life that you will not get back;) So, in the spirit of the MeMe tag…I divulge the following useless facts...

The first swear word I uttered was when I was in Year 2. My big brother and I were playing on the swing and he kicked the table out from under me (from which we were jumping onto the swing) and I fell backwards and snapped my wrist. I vividly remember the sound of the bone breaking, I screamed ‘shit!’ then ran inside to my mum crying…who told me to be quiet because she was on the phone. Love.
In Year 3 I did an assignment on Aborigines and my teacher refused to mark it because it sounded too professional and he told everyone I had cheated. I got him sacked. Mm hmm, at the age of 9.
The first boy I kissed darted his tongue like a lizard and it was the most disgusting kiss ever. I kissed him again about two years later (as you do in school) and he was only marginally better. Poor boy.
I love maltesers. I’m eating them at the moment. I love the way malt and honeycomb just melt in your mouth, and every now and again you can feel the reducing air pocket suck on your tongue. (Just to continue the weird tongue facts there…)
I am the second oldest of five children. My siblings are all ridiculously good-looking, but we all have different hair colours.
I, like Steph, have been in an abusive relationship. He was one of those boyfriends who your mother would subconsciously disapprove of straight up. He lived in a beat-up caravan in his parents backyard, smoked pot for breakfast, lunch and dinner (and recess and afternoon tea), took my money, hit me and got another girl pregnant. He proposed in a drug-fucked state when I was leaving…I said no.
I am in love with Japan. I lived there for a year and it wasn’t nearly enough time. I love the rice paddies in the countryside, the lights of Tokyo, the perfect fusion of old and new, tradition and modernisation, history and now…the people are the most amazing and hospitable I’ve ever come across, the culture is rich, the food is exquisite and my life there so satisfying. I want to go back.
I make beautiful jewellery. I love it, so therapeutic, but have had no time to do any for a few months. Bring on uni holidays!
I’m obsessive compulsive. I used to think I was just a perfectionist, but I’ve accepted that I get too passionate about truly inconsequential things (I mean, inconsequential to OTHER people or in the grand scheme of things inconsequential) for it to be really normal. I like a job done well and I hate sloppiness. I like efficiency, order and organisation. I also like lists. I’m going to stop now before I sound like an anal freak.
I love crime shows and crime books. It’s a truly bizarre fascination of mine, but I really like Patricia Cornwell novels, CSI, Law & Order, The Practice…NYPD Blue before it left our screens. I also love Oprah. And while we’re scraping the barrels of socially acceptable television, I used to watch Passions and B&B (if you don’t know what that means I am SO not enlightening you)…Big Brother and Australian Idol. I watched one episode of Australian Princess and it made me gag. Is that the best we have to offer?! Although if there is a Prince William at the other end…*scurries off to search for application form for Australian Princess 2006*
I am chronically single. I get a lot of offers (compliments, dates, numbers…not offers of sex as that may have implied!) at work (cocktail atmosphere, sexy wallpaper and flirty waitress must inspire confidence) but I think I am picky. Even the ones any girl in her right mind SHOULD accept, I knock down with the ‘I have a boyfriend’ line. I think there’s more to it. I think because both of my LONG-term boyfriends have cheated on me and ended up being arseholes, it has completely fucked my faith in guys, so I can’t really be bothered giving anyone else a chance to break my heart. Even dating is hard…I always freak out and run away. The right guy will get me over it I guess, but sometimes I worry…did I just bar the right guy? Could that guy have been good for me? Maybe I need to listen to my gut rather than just blurting out ‘No, I don’t date customers’, or ‘I’m flattered, but…’ or ‘Thankyou for telling me I’m the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. You’ve made my day/week/month but I’m just going to burn you like I burn the others and walk the hell away’…maybe it’s my own bridges I’m burning. Meh. One of the chefs at work tells me every day that I look beautiful, and that I deserve to have someone tell me that every day. Collective AAawww please…or maybe he is the right guy for me? Hmm... What a point this has turned into! Now where’s number 12…
I love snow. Something about it is so peaceful. I just want to make snow-angels or a snowman! It’s so pretty and innocent it just makes you wanna be a kid again.
I have reconnected with a soul mate, light of my life. Thinking about him seriously makes my heart smile.
I had glandular fever when I was in Year 12. I got dumped by my boyfriend of three weeks because he couldn’t kiss me! I didn’t give a shit, because I was tired all the time, went to school late because I couldn’t get out of bed, fell asleep in class, missed classes, got angry, got depressed…and still got into law at a time when I was trying to rebel.
I don’t like uni. Actually, I hate it. I don’t want to finish law. I want to travel and write freelance for magazines like Gourmet Traveller, marieclaire, National Geographic, Yen, Frankie… I want to be the next Jana Wendt, reporting and dodging bullets, investigating culture, crime, heartache and human rights all over the world. Something like that.
I am a Sachi size 9. Girls will understand.
I backpacked through Europe when I was 18 and am absolutely desperately keen to go back. I want to go to Kansas to visit my friend from point 13 above…then do New York, LA, Vegas (duh…the big ones), Miami and then backpack my way down South America completely avoiding the big smoke. I also want to go on a safari in Africa, work with a mission in somewhere like Bosnia, go to Thailand and trek through Vietnam and Cambodia. Closer to home I want to explore the Northern Territory and the Great Barrier Reef. Methinks I just want to travel.
I am deathly afraid of spiders and sharks. Even the fake machine-ness of Jaws terrifies me, because I know there are real ones. I can’t swim at the beach because I KNOW that I will get eaten by a shark the one day I let my guard down. As for spiders, even Daddy Long Legs spiders scare the shit out of me, and if there is a Huntsman in my room or shower I scream and cry until my brother comes and gets rid of it. If there is a Daddylonglegs in the shower I will not hesitate in maliciously washing it down the drain. But I am always scared that the little bastard will climb back up the drain and hunt me down for revenge. They are the stuff of my nightmares. Do you know how much poison those little fuckers carry?
I am claustrophobic. Elevators, little rooms, coolrooms, crowds...conquering the Tokyo subway during peak hour is one of my biggest accomplishments.
I don’t like “fish”. I love seafood…prawns, crab, lobster, oysters, mussels, octopus, squid…the lot. Absolutely divinely love it all. But the only “fish” I will eat is salmon. While I’m on the topic of food though, I have eaten some weird shit care of Japan. Raw whale, chicken cartilage, rotten beans (this is an actual delicacy called Natto), raw horse…I won’t continue because I’m making myself sick.

I’ve just remembered I did a list of things I liked when I was a virgin blogger. I might cut and paste them here…for no reason really, except to make you read even more useless ‘things’ about me. So if you STILL have nothing better to do…this is MORE of me…

THINGS I LIKE…

My bed. Even though my room is shit. No really…it is warm and cosy and always makes me feel safe. I try not to have a ‘side’…I don’t think that’s healthy. I’ve only shared it with two people, S and A (best friend and bro). I did have N in it for about half an hour, and I think my Mum might have half-slept with me one night, but that is the extent of its action. It’s seen no kissing or anything raunchier, and I don’t think it will. Not only because of the lack of prospects, but the wall behind my bedhead is right next to my sister’s bed as well…paper-thin is not cool.
My sister. She’s gorgeous. She’s not as neurotic as me.
Metallic coloured gel pens. Hybrid brand. It was love when I discovered them. I remember it too, in lil Rathmines newsagency. What can I say? Actually…
Newsagents. Unexplainable really. I like “things”. I like order, and anything that helps achieve that, like colour-coordinated desk accessories, pens, notebooks, folders (4-ringer of course), UHU glue and liquid paper.
Liquid paper. It’s a gals prerogative to change her mind and insist on perfection. Oh, I sound bitter…
Books books books!! I don’t know if I was locked in a room of books as a child, but I have a deep attachment to the literary word. I can read anything, anytime, and I think the world would be such a boring place if we couldn’t read. Novels, autobiographies, lonely planets, Harry Potter, dating self-help (I. Am. So. Embarrassed. That I EVER bought this. One, just one!! But it did come highly recommended…dearest Oprah…)
The number ‘seven’ (7) is one of my favourite numbers. And I don’t think it has anything to do with there being seven in my family.
ORGANISATION.I’m anal, I can admit it. I’m obsessive-compulsive. But as unfocussed as I get, I like to have plans. I despise having decisions made for me.
I like having lists. An offshoot of OCD, but any kind of list, I like. I feel secure, and more confident. Shopping lists, ‘to-do’ lists, lists lists lists. Maybe it doesn’t feel real until it’s written down, I really don’t know.
Clothes♥ Accessories♥ Fashion♥ SHOES♥I am not materialistic, I just love fashion and beauty. I think it is the creative part of me coming out a bit more, as the traditional methods of my creativity (piano, art, music…) have kind of been squashed a little.
Time.It deserves a heading. Time is precious. Time is fleeting. I always feel like I don’t have enough of it. I wish it were reversible, and pause-ible. I wish I was the boss of it, but too often it is the boss of me.
My starsign…LEO.
I love everything about being a Leo. I don’t believe in much funky shit, but I believe in this. I am a lion. Generous and loyal, feisty, fierce and loving. My feistiness can get me into trouble, but you know what?
(Bullet point →)
I don’t think I am a pushover. I don’t like being taken for granted. I don’t want to be used or abused. But I am indecisive. I like attention, but not too much. I love, but I hate being smothered. I give, but don’t want it to be expected of me. I like…
BALANCE.
Freedom. Freedom of speech, freedom of self, freedom for all to live the way they wish in peace and harmony.
My wrists. They are little and delicate.
Elle Macpherson bras. Is that strange? I won’t go into all my fave brands and designers…I might make a separate list.
Photographs. Mine and others. Hang on, I don’t mean photos OF me, I just mean MINE as opposed to….um…scratch that, I love photos. Professional, landscape, portraiture…I love the ideal that a moment, a memory can be captured in a life-like essence. And be revisited in a more than nostalgic way.
I love laughter. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.
Quotations.There is something amazing and inspiring about wisdom. I’m sure that’s the point, but I’m sure most people aren’t quite so affected. They inject life, thought and energy through resonance.
The letter Q. Q is beautiful.
Sleep.I need it or I get angry/depressed/upset/anxious…etc… Actually, I’m all that anyway…lack of sleep just makes it worse. I'm not really getting enough of it at the moment.
White wine. I don’t know when I started drinking it (okay, I was a teenager), but I know that it doesn’t really fit with my lifestyle at the moment, and maybe I am drinking too much. It is just so easy to flop on the lounge after a full-on 8-hour shift and sip on a glass whilst chilling with the close crew. The hour between one and two am on Saturday and Sunday mornings really seems to make my weekend at the moment. Maybe it would be different if I had somewhere to go after work where I actually wanted to be…where I didn’t feel alone and lonely all the time. Maybe it’s just a symptom of regularly living through the witching hour, I don’t know. I know I want it to change though. I don’t think I like this being my normality.
Writing I find therapeutic. Sometimes I feel like I could sit and write forever. I am always thinking. Maybe I should get one of those machines which types your thoughts…but I think if I got one of those my disjointed musings would be just too weird for the normal people ‘round me to consume.
Non-judgmental spellcheck!! I am very opposed to this Americanization which dominates Australian computers and is favoring American-Western spelling. Pfft. Who says ‘color’. It just looks and sounds like collar. EDIT: No offence to my American friends!
I have two cats (one tortoise-shell Persian and one Himalayan Persian) and two puppies, Maltese-Shitzus.
Films. I love films. I think that The Aviator is the most boring film ever made.
Johnny Depp is one of the most intriguing (not to mention astoundingly gorgeous) people ever. He does everything for me. But i've mentioned this before...*cough*
I'm drinking coke in a wine glass with ice cubes at the moment. Dammit i was trying to give up softdrink...

Hope that aids workplace procrastination! I don't know why the computer won't let me put a line between some of those points. That bugs me. I am really computer literate, but i can't fathom it and am going to momentarily pause my OCD and post it regardless.

Steph's Meme...

2005-11-12T12:59:00.000-08:00

I'm tagging myself with Steph's totally cool MeMe.

1. Better quality to have. Good kisser or good conversationalist?Good conversationalist of course. Can’t stand people who can’t handle a conversation! But can’t handle a bad kisser… sorry, I need both.

2. Last time you cried? Last night.

3.How old do you wish you were? I dunno…14? I think I liked that age. But I guess I just want to keep getting older…um…a year at a time…

4. What's your real life nickname? Um…can it please go no further than here? (I know I know, just had to say it!). Mostly POSSUM, but if my family wants to bug me, then Sassafrass. Er, don’t ask.

5. How often do you talk to your mum? Every day.

6. When is the last time someone gave you a dirty look? Last night. I work in a Lounge Bar for fucks sake. Drunk people can be arseholes.

7. Most embarrassing cd in your collection? Just one? Sorry Steph, but I think Human Nature beats Spice Girls…(but I have that too)… I have quite a lot of…shit.

8. If someone accidentally spits on you while talking do you acknowledge it or ignore it? Depends who it is. I try and subtly brush it off usually, unless it’s someone at whom I don’t mind yelling “Eewww! You spat on me you pig!”

9. Eternal love or endless money supply? Both please. Don’t make me choose! No, really…don’t make me!

Okay, fine then. I suppose eternal love AFTER I’ve had about seven years of endless money. That should do it;)

10. If you were guaranteed that you would succeed, what is the one thing you would do? Write a book or go tear up Hollywood and be the next Julia Roberts.

11. Finish these sentences;
A) Sex on the first date is...what’s sex?
B) On Saturday night I like to... boogie. But I never get a chance to cause I’m always working.
C) I try to avoid...arrogant people. Also other cars at the moment due to car uninsurance.
D) My childhood dream was... initially to be a doctor, then to be a famous actress. The latter will stick forever I fear.
E) I secretly envy... people in love.

Well that was more fun than my uni essay.

Okayish.

2005-11-12T12:26:00.000-08:00

Today I think will be better than yesterday. Isn’t that the way it goes? My last post, I was overwhelmed and confused. I still am, but the beautiful comments I received by my blog friends has helped me take stock.

It’s an odd feeling having strangers care more about you than those around you everyday. Maybe that sounds dramatic. Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not. But if that’s the way it feels, then that’s the bit that counts right? Maybe it’s the whole ‘expose thyself in blogosphere’ that allows you to see a part of me that is hidden in my daily life. Maybe this part of me is dormant. I don’t really have enough ‘me’ time to see it. I don’t know. I know that thinking too much is dangerous and I’ve already done enough for one morningJ

This is a *bloghug* to those who warmed my heart and helped put me in a space that is some variation of okayish (Adam, that golden line makes me smile)…

love cocktail

2005-11-10T14:46:00.000-08:00

I met a couple last week who were visiting my town and decided to spend both nights at my restaurant. They were the most lovely people, and they told me that i'm a very special person. This they base on my interactions and conversations with them over the two evenings. I don't think i have ever had such affirmation from strangers like that before. They were talking to two of my bosses, who apparently think very highly of me.

Why do things like this simultaneously feel so shocking and yet so important? Why don't you notice how deeply your self-worth is attached to the opinions of others, until a stranger thinks you're special? Why doesn't it resonate from people you know?

I don't think i'm special. I think i could have been once. I think that if i had kept my life on course i could have done great things and special things. As a youth i had it in me to make a difference. I was intelligent. And i cared.

Then i cared too much. For too long.

Then everything got fucked up. Can i narrow it down to one man and one night? Can i blame so much on a little darkened box within a raving techno sarcophagus of 'love'? A pill, a knife, a bloodstained room, a broken heart, a damaged soul and a lonely tear so quickly wiped away by others. Others who didn't know or care if i was special. It seems so pathetic to blame, or even let anger permeate my present consciousness, when so many people experience and rise above such deeply horrible lives.

I am weak. I want to be strong again. I need to wake up and begin every day as though it is on purpose. And not spend every waking moment treading water. I feel like i am slowly drowning.

I don't want to love right now.

the girl has a night out! (i think...)

2005-11-07T22:37:00.000-08:00

I don’t call in sick, ever. Honestly, with every job I’ve ever had, I’m a totally committed, reliable workaholic. I am always early, always full of beans and never go out if I have to work the next day. I actually haven’t had much of a life outside of work for a while. And I don’t even KNOW how long since I’ve been OUT. I don’t know whether to be proud of the following, or ashamed…

I called in “unavailable” to work on Saturday night after the shit fight that was Friday. Went to a party still riding the wave of anger and betrayal, and skipped dinner. Those two factors in combination are an alright thing, except when combined with the absolute intention to consume copious quantities of alcohol. Even though I knew I had to work at 8.30am for a bitch of a shift, I was loyally planning to get smashed. We started on the white wine (quite civilised) before cracking open the bottle of vodka (mixers were optional). Was having a blast checking out some sexy male specimens when I burnt my hand on the oven. A girlfriend and I were attempting to make these delish little toasted tapas rolls. Fantastic besides the burn! I couldn’t really feel it much anyway.

Then out came the birthday cake. MMmmm! Chocolate Mud! My favourite! Everybody had a piece. Everybody. I was impressed. People normally pass on the cake when the universal objective is to get blind. I was halfway through my second piece when I realised that the funky smell (usually whiffed coming over the fence) was actually emanating from my cake. My hash cake. I swear sometimes I should be blonde.

Ended up at my workplace with a group of about fifteen friends, where my nice boss (who was absent for the Friday shenanigans) greeted my stoned and highly intoxicated arse with “Well…you got better!” Don’t worry, he was grinning. Apparently the girl had written down I was sick. Ever the professional (no…really…I am normally SO professional!) I made my face deadpan and said “I never said I was sick. But I will be tomorrow”, before staggering (possibly sideways) into the ladies. Luckily, he laughed.

I can’t recount the entire evening. A fuzzy haze seemed to descend that night and eradicate my memory. I am unfortunate enough, however, to recall the following. The toy gun that I had strapped to my inner thigh with a silk scarf (that had fluoro lights and a big ‘Pow pow POW!’ sound which turned some young men into gaping codfish when my girlfriend reached under my skirt and showed them where it came from). I remember going into the men’s toilets with the same troublesome gun and two friends and offering to kidnap the guys that were in there. I remember D being offended that I didn’t go and say hello at first (um…duh…I was messy…like a lady wants to advertise that fact)…but then I ended up talking to him for about twenty minutes (er…apparently), not a word of which I can recall, except the big bear hug at the end. I remember falling asleep in the stairwell of a train station waiting for my darling sister to come and pick me up. I remember her having to pull over for me to expel the nasty hash cake.

I can handle my alcohol. Vodka doesn’t give me hangovers…neither does white wine really. Have not had an alcohol-related spew in as long as I can remember. But never give me hash cake again. No muffins, no cookies. No thankyou. It just doesn’t suit me.

I woke up in a panic on Sunday, with sunlight streaming through my window, thinking...

Where the fuck am I? *pause*

How the hell did i get home? *acknowledges sunlight*

Ohmy god I’m late for work! *No. It’s 7am dickhead. Go back to sleep*.

Fuck me. My head has a separate pulse and it’s fucking killing me.

And yes. I think I used every one of those expletives. So busy, all day. Then we had a communal meeting where the news about the new owners was made public.

There was no sunshine for me that day, just a lot of pain. Physical and mental.

I think I was trying to kill the mental pain by fucking my body and head up. It didn’t work. It just made everything so much worse. You can’t replace pain, you just need to ride it out.

Speaking of pain…who the fuck is voting in Australian Idol this year? How is it possible that the whinging, crying sob-story Emily is still a contender and tonight we had to see the seriously talented Dan leave? It’s a travesty, Australia. I could say a lot right now about the voting demographic, but I’m going to bite my tongue. But if anyone actually gives a shit about diversity and originality in the Australian music scene, GET YOUR ARSES BEHIND LEE HARDING! Seriously.

Over it.

2005-11-05T01:12:00.000-08:00

I just typed up my resignation.

To leave a shift in tears is never a good thing. To leave a shift screaming blue murder at one of your co-workers is similarly, not a good thing. To walk out the door telling one of your bosses (for now) that he’s a “fuckin’ idiot” (in your most bogan voice) would probably also be lumped on the DON’T DO list.

Tonight, I did all three. I finished at 10, the first time ever I have been the first to sign off. I am always…ALWAYS (no…really…I mean every night…) on close. And I always DO close without complaining. I actually enjoying shutting it all down. When the last customer leaves as you are vacuuming around their feet, is kinda therapeutic. It gives the night closure. Returning everything to its beautifully organised place is calming. But tonight someone had to finish (we weren’t busy) and my hand was up. Another girl was supposed to finish at 10 and we were going to have a cocktail (10 then became 10.30)…but 11 o’clock rolled round before the wanker in charge gave her the okay. Meanwhile the fucking boys had eaten our food that we’d bought and paid for, the kitchen was well and truly closed, and her cocktail was flaccid. Yes, flaccid. The shit hit the fan.

I have had an emotional time lately and have been used and abused so much by this workplace, that the run of working six and seven days a week came to a head. I’ve been biting my tongue for the sake of D, but even HE tonight could’ve copped a garnish knife in the shoulder. I sent D a message after we left, simply saying resignation is pending… and the tosser hasn’t even replied.

I am so sick of fighting against the boys’ fucking UGF (United Golf Front), and getting no recognition in a friggin’ arrogant-male-dominated workplace. I just want D to stand his ground just ONCE and back me up! He’ll talk the talk, but he seems too chicken-shit to EVER walk the walk. I know I’m a bloody asset, and when I call in sick for the next two days and then shove my resignation up their arse, they are going to be screwed. Then maybe my workaholic tendencies will be recognised. Maybe then they will kick themselves for taking me for granted.

Half of me is already kicking myself for even writing my resignation up. Do I have the strength to walk away from D, even though I know it’s going nowhere? If he can’t ever defend me, or stand up for me, maybe he isn’t worth my loyalty anyway. I know my workplace doesn’t deserve me, and I think I know that neither does he.

Guidance for the unacquainted shopper.

2005-11-02T19:33:00.000-08:00

New month, new season…the beginning of the silly season. Time to shop, time to eat, time to party…time to drink.

I can’t really verbalise my thoughts re: work or D at the moment, so I am going to spew forth some superficial thoughts for the sake of a blog update! Okay, so last Summer is soooo over (or soooo small) and Winter appears to be dead and buried. Spring is here with verve…and you need a new wardrobe. These simple shopping rules will at least get you back on track…

8. Don’t shop when you’re pissed. I did this after the Spring races last month and I spent a fortune on big-brand make-up that I didn’t need.
7. This is going to be so anti-Vogue of me, but skinny-leg jeans don’t look good on anyone. So stay clear.
6. If you love something, or even just really like it, buy it in a multitude of colours (at least two, preferably three)…because,
a) the orange might look really good today, buy what if you’re having a green day?
b) they make mixing and matching so much easier…
c) Spring and Summer are all about the colours, and
d) you’ll kick yourself if you don’t.
5. Never shop with a brother. They will either bluntly tell you that you shouldn’t waste your money (or their time)…or they will tell you that you look beautiful in everything (even though you know your arse should have a separate postcode). Take a sister, or a very honest friend.
4. A girl can never have too many shoes. Never. Once again, if you find the perfect pair with a perfect fit? Multiple colours. It’s not excessive, it’s sensible.
3. A girl must have enough handbags to match her shoes.
2. Don’t trust the salespeople. They are SALESpeople. Once they max out your card they will be laughing at your stupidity all the way to the commission-bank. And I will never understand how people fall for the line, “Everybody is buying these! This is our third shipment this week!”…do you want to look like everyone else?
And the number one shopping rule…
1. If you want it, get it. Don’t lay-by while you think about it, because if you don’t love it enough to run it screaming orgasmically from the shop, it’s just not worth it.

Coming soon…eating etiquette, drinking decorum and party politesse…

Common sense rules to follow...

2005-10-31T21:30:00.000-08:00

Ignorant or even just silly people take note. The blog community is compiling a list of common sense rules to live by. Contributions follow...

Toilet paper. There IS a right way for the roll to sit on the holder. Place the roll so that the paper feed comes over the top for easy access. Trying to find the end from underneath the roll whilst tottering vicariously on the edge of the seat, is not only uncool, but entirely unnecessary. And yes, if I use your bathroom and see it sitting the WRONG way, I absolutely reserve the right to fix it. Public toilets included. No excuses will be accepted.

Ordering. Bar, restaurant, deli…wherever. If you say you’re ready to order, be ready. As a waitress in a bloody busy lounge bar, it shits me to tears when you do the whole “Umm…..yeah, maybe I’ll have a Cosmopolitan. No wait! I’ll try the Cuban Beret. No no. I’ll have a Daiquiri….or should I just have a glass of chardy?” Meanwhile, the person at the next lounge who’s been waiting possibly longer than you is jumping out of their skin damn sure they want a Caipirosca. It’s selfish to waste time when precious cocktails are involved. There are other people waiting too! I can always come back and get your order in one minute when you ARE ready. And that way, you will maintain a happy waitress and you won’t cop daggers from the table next to you.

Boys. Boys boys boys. Deserve a subheading here…
Don’t fuck with our minds. If you say you’re gonna call, call.
Don’t lead us on.
You are intimidating when you’re in groups, so don’t try psyching us out.
Don’t EVER pinch my arse. Unless I give you permission. Intoxication is not an excuse. Neither is it an excuse to wolf-whistling or cat-calling. Animal noises of any kind are inappropriate when aimed in our direction.
Don’t call us frigid just cause we don’t wanna fuck YOU.
The Remote is not an extension of your manhood. Relinquish the desire to have total control and accept that we are just as capable of pressing the mute button in the ad breaks.
I’m going to digress from this subheading now…

Move to the LEFT. If you are happy to experience your day at an amble, be it at the supermarket, shopping centre, footpath, escalator…move to the left. Don’t perch in the middle of the pedestrian flow. Don’t wander aimlessly from curb to shop window and make those in a hurry dodge you. If you want to just observe the day go by at a civilised pace, get out of the way. You have more chance of smelling the roses away from the bustle anyway. Same goes for driving. If you are going to sit on 60km/h, drive in the LEFT LANE. Whether there is anyone burning down your trail or not, there are two lanes for a reason. It’s common courtesy, and it’s actually law. Move the hell over.

I have so many peeves this is getting ridiculous.

I am currently trying to find my inner zen. More on that later.

Johnny Depp. It should be universally acknowledged that he is the sexiest and most intriguing man ever. Work with me people!

Bible-bashers. Previous rant…enough said.

Excessive texting. I’ll admit it. I’m a texter. It’s so damn easy. But sometimes people push it too far. If you need to say “Pick up@7”...fine. But a “Hey babe! Long time no see. How was your day? Just wondering if you wanna catch up for coffee soon? I’m free Tuesday...etc etc…”…not okay. Bring back verbal communication!

I could go on, but I’ve already surpassed Steph’s request of five, and I’m getting frustrated just writing these. I would like to Ditto all the common sense rules listed by SAAK. True wisdom.

You must get this all the time...

2005-10-27T20:40:00.000-07:00

A guy I work with is trying to booty-call me. Don’t get excited for me though, the WRONG guy I work with is trying to booty-call me. And I don’t just mean pinching my arse and doing the whole “How ‘bout it babe?” (Well, he does that too…) but I mean actively calling and texting mid-week asking me if I am “up for it”. I have given the guy no indication that he has an even remote chance of getting me in the sack, yet he maintains that it is a mutual booty-call and that he is determined to break the ice.

His arrogance is sickening and his attentions stifling.

I don’t think I will ever understand guys. Why are they so confident (arrogant), headstrong and determined, yet the minute they are shot down become defensive and even abusive? Two guys today were friendly and happy, but the more they drank, the more they were being crass and offensive. The minute I knock them back they’re downright rude and stung. This is nothing new, but today it just shit me because I am so disillusioned with men at the moment. And it was a Thursday lunch for fucks sake!

Take that with a grain of this though…

Why is it that the minute a possibly nice one shows genuine interest I freak out and amazingly, my imaginary boyfriend Fred resurfaces? And yes boys, he is imaginary.

Last Saturday I was serving this group of guys all night…the beers and hours ticked by…we were so obviously trying to close and they were still there…then one of them stood right up and walked towards me at the bar, as though he had been jabbed with an electric prod (but more likely his mate who’d been making comments about me throughout the evening). Anyway, I knew what was coming…

“You must get this all the time, but -“

Stop. Stop right there. Unnecessary introduction to what every girl genuinely does love to hear, regardless of the imaginary boyfriend situation. Slurring “sheez your arse ish fine…” or “areyagonnagimmeyournumberorwhat?” is not cool. But telling a girl she’s just beautiful, or has the most amazing eyes or smile you’ve ever seen, or that she seems like such a special and interesting person and that you’d love to take her out sometime… well, they seriously make our stomachs flutter and put a smile on our face, corny as they may seem. So even if you get subtly introduced to Fred (the long-term boyfriend or the new guy we’re seeing), and you know damn well we’re lying…just know that you put a smile on our face and probably made our day.

It’s just that next step which is so damn hard. I don’t give my number to customers. I don’t give it out at the pub. I don’t give my number to random pashes. Dating is terrifying, and unfortunately I need some extraordinary vibe or surreal feeling to project me from that polite “Thankyou, but I’m not really looking for anything right now” (as nice or as perfect as you may seem)…to the “Yeah, you know what? Here’s my number…I think I want to see you again…”

As anti-feminist as this sounds, I wanna be bowled over. Blown away. Swept away. I’m not too picky, I just have high standards. I’m not superficial. Hell, my ex-boyfriend lived in a cockroach-infested caravan out the back of his parents house…he smoked pot, um…24hours a day…treated me like I was disposable, took my money and eventually got another chick pregnant. So I am ALLOWED to want something special goddammit! It’s just so hard to get beyond the sleaze…

I’m a nice girl, I really am. I hate being treated like a piece of meat. I just want someone to think I’m special. Oh crap, now I sound desperate. I’m not, I’m just over it…

Does this even make sense?

i sometimes hate computers...

2005-10-26T18:26:00.000-07:00

cause it has twice decided that my post was unnecessary for publication, ate it up and spat out a CANNOT FIND SERVER and i am too pissed off and brain dead to write it again.

Believe in private.

2005-10-24T13:50:00.000-07:00

It was 8.03am yesterday when the doorbell buzzed loudly. I was standing in my underwear (most unattractive g-string of course) and detangling my just-washed hair, all the while in silhouette against my bedroom curtains, which I am sure are almost see-through. I’d had five hours sleep after a ten hour shift and was already cutting it fine to get back to work on time. Understandably, the disturbance at that hour on a Sunday morning was a little frustrating.

As I grabbed Dad’s plaid dressing gown to offer a little modesty and stomped down the hallway, I grumpily wondered who was disturbing my bleary-eyed work preparation. I was fully prepared to throttle my younger brother if he was standing there, too lazy to fish his own damn house key out of his pocket (or if he’d been too drunk the night before and lost it). Or if it was the man next door with an embarrassed complaint about my habitual morning dash to the fully visible clothesline in my underwear (I entertain much of the neighbourhood this way).

I flexed my fist as I opened the door to reveal (surprise, surprise)…two rather handsome men, mid-20s I would guess. I thought my day had just got off to a very nice start, and my mind was still readjusting from the thought of throttling my little brother, when I realised one of them was asking for a minute of my time and I had completely missed the reason why. “Excuse me?”

The taller one repeated…”we would like to come in and talk to you about how Jesus can help you have a more fulfilling family life”. That was it. The defining moment. The instant when the two young men at my door morphed from potentially eligible bachelors into irksome biblebashers.

Now, I am a very open and accepting person. I don’t care what people believe in or what religion someone is. I believe people are entitled to worship any god they like. I even accept those who worship bug-eyed aliens.

But I do not approve of door-knockers. I don’t like people who try and force their opinions onto others. The people who dress themselves and their little children up in suits and go on a house-to-house pilgrimage trying to spread the word of their lord.

I find it invasive and aggressive to be harassed by preaching strangers early on a Sunday morning or at the exact moment dinner is being served in front of the 7 o’clock news.

I think it is arrogant of them to assume that their god is the only god, and that their beliefs and way of life are the only paradise. Moreover, I object to a total stranger implying that my family life is in need of salvation.

I tried to be pleasant to the boys (no longer men) at my door. I told them that my family and I had our own beliefs and our own values and did not need new enlightenment. They persisted, asking me to remain open to the possibility of letting Jesus “help and heal my family”. It is that kind of condescension that I object to, so I told them so and closed my door.

They are lucky it wasn’t my brother who answered the door. He has been out for revenge ever since a religious peddler came to our door and plied him with wildlife magazines. Being an avid animal lover (and maybe a little naïve), he was chuffed, until he discovered the “Find Jesus” pamphlets stuffed inside them. It’s not exactly honourable when you have to trick people into accepting your preachings.

It seems however, that religious communities are recruiting with vigour at the moment. In this morning’s paper a “Let Jesus Save You” ad jumped off the page and soured my coffee. Whilst newspaper ads are fair game, the constant pressure from home doorknockers is demeaning the practice. If people want to believe, they will. We don’t need rescuing and we don’t need to be harassed. The most compelling way to show allegiance is just to believe. Stay true to yourself and don’t judge others because they happen to be different. Not everybody flaunts their beliefs, and any God who is that judgmental is not worth reverence anyway.

Thankyou for listening, end of rant.

In other news...I saw the wedding boy the other day. Beautiful day, fascinating guy...but then i went and hung out with D again when we both took the night off work. I'm absolutely totally fucking crazy about the damn guy. Shit.

lucky

2005-10-19T17:51:00.000-07:00

Chaos at the ol' lounge bar last night. And to the drunken arsehole who decided to up-end my tray of drinks and leave me smelling like a brewery before getting yourself kicked out...i hope you are very very sick. And you are lucky my boss intervened because I was about to deck you. Yes. ME. Deck YOU. You silly little man.

I don't like pushy people. As fiery as i am (red-headed Leo after all)...i am a pretty cruisy and easygoing person. And i can't stand people who:

a) think that they're better than everyone else and deserve instant and special attention;
b) arrogant wankers;
c) people who love drama simply for the sake of drama!
d) arrogant wankers;
e) people who sneer;
f) did i mention arrogant wankers?

Seriously, take a Valium and get the hell over yourself. What makes you so freaking fantastic and deserving of preferential treatment?

Two hours of pole-dancing yesterday has massacred my muscles. I am in agony. I don't think there is a muscle i didn't use (read...attack).

The girls want me to go salsa dancing tonight at 8 o'clock...but i really think i just need a night in front of the television. My workaholic tendencies (40 plus hours a week, a fulltime law degree, a second job teaching for 9 hours a week...i will start and leave the sob story list there...) have me quite fucked up at the moment.

Hmm...I could go to the movies tonight...haven't been for a long as i can remember. Weird saying that one, isn't it? Doesn't really make sense. I can remember going grocery shopping with my Mum when i was about 4 years old, and i was dressed half as Spiderman and half as a princess. Mum tried dressing me in OshKosh and such, but i adored my dress-up collection. Actually, i adored my brothers dress-ups more! I've got a photo of my middle brother and I. I was about 6 and he was about 4. I'm dressed as Batman and he is dressed as a sunflower. He's the cutest thing ever! And no, he's not gay.

Anyway, yeah...movies. That would require getting mine arse out of the chair now and making it beyond the couch that looks so bloody comfortable...even though it's leather and i know it will be freezing.

I would go and rent a flick...but unfortunately i have ridiculous fines at both of my localish video shops. Damn overdues.

idol crush

2005-10-19T17:48:00.000-07:00

On another note...i think i have a major major crush on this guy. Talent and vibe...

What the fuck is it about his sex appeal?

If the world were a village...

2005-10-19T09:17:00.000-07:00

In a world of wondering...this is definitely worth pondering on.

This is where it's at... the picture alone makes me tingle...

I HOPE YOU ALL HAVE A BEAUTIFUL DAY!

Tagged!

2005-10-18T20:59:00.000-07:00

I have been tagged by Janestarr...

Rules are as follows:Remove the blog at #1 from the following list and bump every one up one place;add your blog's name in the #5 spot; link to each of the other blogs for the desired cross pollination effect.
1. Never promised you a rose garden
2. ShutterJane
3. SwissTwist
4. Unraveling the Princess
5. Ivory Towers and Sandstone Walls

Next: select four new friends to add to the pollen count.(No one is obligated to participate and anyone can play if they want to).
1. Much Ado about Sumthin
2. Hay – that’s what horses eat
3. Not Going Anywhere
4. Not working to potential

What were you doing 10 years ago?
I was 14, the class brainiac, studying, learning, reading, accompanying the school choir on the piano, writing stories with John Marsden.

What were you doing 5 years ago?
Second year uni with my first real love a year long and going strong, partying three or four nights a week and living off the travelling high, sailing through a Law degree without opening the books, becoming increasingly dissatisfied with an apparently empty life.

What were you doing one year ago?
Back in Oz after living in Japan for a year, struggling to complete a year back at uni and deciding to get my mind wrapped around languages again…

What were you doing yesterday?
Funeral of a school friend who committed suicide…spent the day wondering what the fuck in this life makes sense, where we are all headed and if we ever really know anything about ourselves or each other. Then I went to work where D made me a cocktail to calm my nerves and gave me a big fat hug.

5 snacks you enjoy
1. chocolate (Cadbury or Lindt). By the block is good.
2. Brie cheese and lavosh
3. Double coated TimTams
4. Summer fruits…Mango, rockmelon, strawberries (optionally coated with chocolate), nashi pears…
5. Cocktails

5 songs you know all the words to
I honestly can’t list five. I can sing anything!

5 things you would do if you had a million dollars
1. Travel
2. Build my parents house
3. Pay off my HECS debt (which is still continually growing)…
4. Buy a Vespa and scoot around Italy…and the rest of the world.
5. Shop. But quality shop like I never could UNLESS I had a million bucks…ie. Chanel, Jimmy Choos, Chloe…

5 things you like doing
1. Dancin’ baby
2. Reading
3. Writing
4. Shopping
5. Cuddling

5 bad habits
1. Drinking (it’s just the ease of post-shift drinks in a lounge bar!)
2. Shopping. Like you wouldn’t believe.
3. I think I could get addicted to spray tans.
4. Chocolate. So much worse than a habit, it’s an addiction.
5. Loving

5 things you would never wear again
1. Three quarter pants…I just can never find ones to suit me.
2. I must echo the scrunchies thing. Photo of me with 8 different coloured scrunchies in my ponytail is testament to the scrunchie curse.
3. Leg warmers. I bought some when I was in Japan actually, but failing to be anything like my 4 foot, size 6, trendy-like-i-just-don’t-care co-worker, I just could never pull them off…and I will never try again…
4. Plaid.
5. My hot pink snakeskin (faux and so obviously faux) halter neck top which reveals love handles beautifully.

5 favourite toys
1. My jewellery collection (and bead boxes with which I create my beautiful collection)…
2. My car. Mitsubishi Lancer. Love it.
3. My mobile phone. Couldn’t live without the damn thing. Even though it is a financial curse.
4. My Canon IXUS digi camera.
5. My two cats and two puppies.

A ray of sunshine...

2005-10-14T14:09:00.000-07:00

At 18 i crashed a cosy little backpackers in Nice in the middle of the night, and discovered an intriguing guitar-strumming American, as though he was just sitting there waiting. I remember the twinkle in his eye as we shook hands. We became friends, and to this day he remains the most fascinating and heartwarming person i think i've ever met. We clicked. He was 21 at the time, but not like any other 21 year old...or even any other guy i'd ever met. After i was robbed in London, he hugged me...i remember it like it was yesterday...and i felt electric energy coursing between us and i just knew that i had met this guy for a reason. His outlook on life inspires me over and over again, with the passion and energy to go on.

We emailed on and off over five years, but somehow lost it about a year and a half ago when i was living in Japan, and he in Mexico. He always manages to pierce my thoughts though...sometimes he floats into my mind, sometimes he just appears. His person is someone i aspire to, and i hope that just knowing him will influence my life to be even half as fulfilling as his has been thus far. Many people talk about the journey of life...how it's a continually evolving process of experience and education. Many people talk about persistance, variety, living for yourself. Everyone talks about self-fulfilment, happiness, and helping others to be happy. Everyone says that the world is your oyster.

He, however, is the only one i believe. He speaks, moves and lives with passion. A passion and a hunger which i've never witnessed in anyone else. I genuinely love the person he is.

Last night he popped into my head when i read a blogpost of someone else...can't even remember whose because i closed the screen instantaneously and re-opened another to Google him.

Yes, i googled him.

And i found his own .com. My heart leapt and i nearly cried with happiness for him, even though it's something that i would've never have doubted he would achieve. He's touring the States at the moment with his own jazz, folk, bluegrass album.

So i emailed him last night and he replied straight back, titled 'a ray of sunshine'. Then i actually did cry.

There's a reason we fit so easily into each others life, i just don't know why yet. I do know that i want him to stay in my life this time.

In other news...the funeral is on Monday. Her parents and sister have requested that everyone wear bright colours. I cried when i read the funeral notice. For her, for feeling so alone, for her parents, who will always wonder where they went wrong, and for her younger sister...who must feel like her life has ended as well...who probably wishes it would...

Beauty quiz time...

2005-10-13T15:00:00.000-07:00

Quizzes...fun! I'm borrowing this from Trix...a fellow...um...voguette&music&fashion&makeup junkie slash procrastinator to whom i owe so much more than this :)

My Makeup brand is CHANEL... i can handle that. I love Chanel! And no...i'm not a beauty addict or anything...:)

What (non drugstore) Makeup Brand Are You?

I wanna play!

2005-10-13T13:50:00.000-07:00

7 things I plan to do before I die
1) Live on every continent
2) Fathom some kind of career path for myself
3) Become famous
4) Fall in love properly (hey, you know what I mean…)
5) Adopt a child
6) Speak French, Japanese & Italian fluently.
7) Make babies with Johnny Depp

7 things I can do
1) Cook.
2) Teach little kids
3) Shop…sale or no sale…
4) Reverse park. Damn well for a girl!
5) Love. And Give.
6) Spoil my siblings rotten.
7) Drink cocktails…

7 things I cannot do
1) Get my act together and get mine arse to uni.
2) Say No…
3) Take time out for myself, for ‘me’ pampering…much as I need to…
4) Call in sick when I’m not sick. I even have trouble doing it when I AM sick.
5) Forget…even when I want to.
6) Deliberately or maliciously hurt another person
7) Pay bills on time.

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex
1) Quick wit…I love a good sense of humour. Make a joke and take a joke.
2) Prolonged and electric eye contact
3) Teeth. Perfect teeth.
4) Cheekiness.
5) Cuddles…I’m a touchy-feely person and I love to hug.
6) Sexual tension…but only for so long!
7) Mysteriousness…

7 things I say most often
1) ‘Hi, how are you?’…in really happy bubbly waitress mode.
2) ‘Are you ready to order or can I recommend a few of my favourite cocktails?’
3) ‘What would you like for dinner?’…in good daughter mode.
4) ‘I’ll pay’…family mode.
5) ‘Don’t wait up’…
6) ‘Fuck’.
7) ‘Oh whaaattt….’

7 celebrity crushes
1) Johnny Depp
2) Colin Farrell
3) Orlando Bloom
4) Chad Michael Murray
5) Oliver James
6) The lead singer of Green Day…
7) Lee Harding from this years Australian Idol

people who need to do this
1) Trix from Hay-that’s what horses eat
2) Janestarr from Unraveling the Princess
Anyone who wants to share the love…

i have no respect for policemen.

2005-10-13T01:43:00.000-07:00

I have no respect for policemen.

Three weeks ago i took my little sister to Sydney. So we were sitting in Market Street i think it was, 50 metres back, well stopped at a red traffic light. The hand brake was ON. We were jampacked like sardines. We weren't going anywhere. My phone rings, it's work with a generic rostering question...i answer and hang up as a little pudgy finger taps on my window. A squat little policemen, shaking his head at me and asking for my license. Conversation roughly as follows:

Me: 'Yes sir?'

Him: 'You know it's against the law to talk on the phone while driving?'

Me: 'Um...yeah...but i'm currently stopped at a standstill, redlight and all, with the handbrake on, clearly not going anywhere, and the phonecall was literally a 10 second one...?'

Him: 'Too bad missy!' (proceeds to get out ticket book).

Me: (baffled, thinking that surely just a warning on the cards)...'Surely i can just get a warning for this seeing as though 95% of the population probably think it's okay when your handbrake is on and you aren't moving?'

Him: Rolls his eyes at me and barks 'Don't argue with me. Arguing will get you nowhere. Mate, can you do a walkaround of this one?' (like i'm an escaped felon)

Me: 'But surely...'

Him: 'Stop talking! I told you...' (sneers at me, looks at my sister and says...) 'How old are you? We're actually doing a truancy patrol here as well...'

Me: (so fucking angry right now) 'Call the bloody school mate, she's in Year 12, she's on stu-vac. I work at the damn school.'

Him: 'What are you doing in Sydney?' (barked at me again)

Me: 'Well, i was buying her a formal dress because my mum can't right now, but i'm not going to able to afford it now, am I?'

I even tried tears, but that arrogant fucker was exactly that. His partner was looking at me with pity, and even tried to suggest a warning...but no budging from the little-loser-man-turned-cop. I swear to god, surely those guys have some kind of discretion available to them? Eight years and a squeaky clean driving record, and the guy was just in need of a totally unnecessary power trip.

EXAMPLE TWO (I'm going to sound like a law-breaking bogan, but it's just unfortunate)....

Tonight, had a beautiful birthday dinner with N and got stopped for an RBT just after dropping him off. Freaking out whilst counting the drinks and the hours as i sat hyperventilating in the queue, i was relieved to be okay (you know, some nights you just aren't quite sure if that last drink was entirely necessary...) THEN the tosser goes...

'So. Forgotten to renew your registration?'

I looked at him dumbfounded. 'No. Why?' (A few quids short i admit)

'It's expired. 8 days ago.'

Relieved, i think. Sheesh, only 8 days. Lucky they reminded me, as i've moved house and had the rego transferred from another family member. Obviously, as i explained to the "officer", i hadn't received any information regarding the renewal. But no, not enough.

'It's a big fine for you tonight, and i can't let you drive this car anymore. Turn it off. I'll post the fine to you'....Gorillaman proceeds to walk away and continue breathtesting.

What the fuck? Okay...hmm....allow me to just sit my arse on the highway and let everyone think i'm a drunk driver? Yeah, um, thanks but no thanks. I sat for a bit, then crawled forward and drove around the corner. Messaged D, the only person i knew who would probably still be awake at that hour, who had nothing but smart-arse comments for me.

It's times like these you need minties... Yep, that's what he said.

For real. Fucker.

So, i burst into tears, rang and abused my father for not forwarding the rego papers (unfair i know, but i was emotional), then sat there and watched the wanker through the trees breathtest for another 5 minutes before he got in his car and drove around the corner to me. Nose in the air i rolled down my window. 'Got someone coming for you?'

'Yes'. I kinda spat at him as he drove off laughing. WANKER! So i sat there, knowing damn well he would be waiting around the corner for me so he could book me AGAIN. FUCKING wanker.

So, am i naive to think that policemen should have some kind of discretion? This all seems so unfair given my perfect record and the lack of either warning or compassion. Are all policemen the little loners turned powertrippers as per previous related chef-post? What kicks could they get out of watching a pretty little girl cry, when no dramatically criminal act has been committed? Is it all about commission? Yes, i was in the wrong, but honestly. Get out there and hunt down the real law-breakers, the real criminals. Don't be so fucking petty, and cut the good citizens some slack.

flatline

2005-10-11T18:06:00.000-07:00

just home from work. my feet are blistered (damn you supersofts), my legs are like jell-o (don't make me run you understaffed workplace), my back is aching (no, i don't need days off. ever.), my fingernails are weak, splintered and unpainted and my hands are dry and cracked (fucking metho), my hair is saltwater windswept (aka knotted), my eyes are tired (damn sunshine), my cheeks feel like they are screwed into a smile (oh happy waitress) and I. JUST. WANT. TO....lie on the lounge in front of a damn good movie with a bottle of wine or three.

on the up side though, my sales at work last week were more than double any other staff member....yeah....like THAT don't deserve a payrise and a little appreciation.

a girl i know killed herself on the weekend. 22 years old and she hung herself. i found out via text in the middle of a shift. what kind of fucked-up text message is that? (no...not fucking angry...) part of me is like, how can someone get that bad that they can't see a way through the storm at the age of 22? but then the scary part of me thinks...yeah...i get it...now you're at peace...now it's okay...

fuck.

i think i need to post on this....but my mind is currently numb.

i seem to have developed an addiction to chocolate covered strawberries.

i'm going to make some now.

pipe down chachi!

2005-10-06T01:01:00.000-07:00

The most annoying thing about my day today? Well, I thought it was the blow-up I had with a guy at work…until I snuck in the house, hungry as hell, and spied a plate sitting on the bench, with a bowl tipped upside down over it, simultaneously protecting and hiding what I expected to be a beautiful chocolate cake…or chocolate-covered strawberries! I was drooling as I approached, handbag still in hand, my shoes still on and softly clicking as I tip-toed towards it. I was already wondering whether I wanted my mud cake warmed up…would you like that with double cream or ice-cream ma’am? Hell…I’ll have both.

Then…I lifted the bowl-lid, and was confronted by a mound of…

boiled potatoes. Yes, boiled potatoes. Mushy, white, starchy, tasteless…boiled potatoes.

I felt wronged. Cheated even. I choked back a sob as I replaced the bowl and turned away, scorned. My appetite had been spiflicated by disappointment. How can something as inconsequential as an up-turned bowl stimulate such hope and anticipation? I think i have an overactive imagination at times.

I also imagine that the guy at work with whom I had a rather loud and prolonged confrontation today, is a few cards short of a deck. I know the school-age him. He would’ve been one of the weedy, nerdy kids. Not very bright, and not really going anywhere except the games shop to buy the new star wars figurine collectors edition chessboard. The one whose mother came rushing into class with the forgotten puffer in case ickle Johnny had a dust allergy kick in. Maybe he had one girlfriend in high school, maybe not. A fellow nerd who sat opposite him in the library during lunchtime…because who wants to play handball anyway? He did. Desperately. He wanted to be popular, and have a cool haircut. He wanted to have a hot girlfriend and be able to sit on the backseat of the bus and laugh at the little kids in glasses. I think he was unpopular. I don’t think he’s ever got over it. Everything he says now is demeaning to the boys under him. He treats his staff like total shit and turns everything into a power trip. He loves to talk about his authority, and today tried to pull the call, ‘Don’t disrespect my authority. Don’t laugh at me.’ He’s paranoid of losing any edge he’s gained on his teenage self. He’s aggressive and disgustingly arrogant. He is a control freak. He's obsessed with NOT being the little man. Me politely pointing out that he had no authority over me whatsoever and that he could elegantly go stick his threat of a written warning up his skinny white arse, merely served to inflame his aggression. It's sometimes funny watching people try and generate a confrontation out of nothing. When there is no damn argument, let alone two sides to an argument. Do you have nothing better to do? Surely...

My suggestion that he find something worth worrying about went down like a sack of unboiled potatoes. Fuck no, you did NOT just diss me.

I’m not dissing nerds here. I was one for a good few years. Actually, I might still be one. Aren’t we all kinda nerds? What’s got me irritated and what I’m dissing is this dude’s total arrogance and complete disdain for the hard-working and genuinely keen apprentices he abuses on a daily basis. The only conclusion my observations beget is that he was picked on throughout his childhood and/or teenage years…and made to feel small, useless and unimportant…by his father or peers, or probably both…and now he is only satisfied when he can make others feel even smaller and more useless than him. Sad.

This quintessential Leo won’t stand for that shit. I despise arrogance. I’m feisty and I bite. Hard. This dude pissed me off today. And i was not in the mood for that shit.

Signing off before i use the word 'diss' one more time. Sheesh, i sound like a born-again nerd myself.

a kind of love...

2005-10-03T23:16:00.000-07:00

It's been a very sad weekend in Newcastle. The suicide bombers in Bali have attempted to decimate our collective spirits and send shudders of fear through the world. Congratulations...a ripple, yes...heartache, yes...but you will not win. We won't cower before you, or praise Allah to bless your disgustingly inhumane actions. Only cowards prey on the innocent. Only weak minds hide behind terror. A shard has pierced our community, but it has also strengthened our resolve. Terror can bruise, terror can burn, terror can even kill. But we have each other, and we have love, and we can rise up and we can fight. You want to make a statement, you want to prove a point? There is a way to gain credibility and fight for a cause, and murdering innocent human beings is merely going to spiral the world into an even deeper pit of war and hate. Then...it will be too late. And nothing will be able to save any of us.

Watching those around you lose people hurts. It makes you sick. It makes you think. About what you would do if it was SOMEONE to YOU. Tangent topic here...I think it's love.

stuff i've done...

2005-10-03T11:29:00.000-07:00

I am a very nostalgic person. I love memories, making and living them. I love those "Have you ever?" questionnaires. I love taking risks and being wild. I have experienced a lot...of good and bad stuff. But it's things like this (this list i've poached from a friend) which make me stop and think...

What the hell am i doing? I have so much more to do, so much more to live. Stop treading water at the peak of my youth and get thy arse to Mexico. Learn to speak Portuguese and go on a motorbike road trip with a Columbian drug lord. Tell your boss to get fucked. Tell someone you COULD love them, because i think recognising that potential is a beautiful thing. Buy a one-way ticket around the world and let strangers choose your stopovers.

I could go on forever, but i won't.

Have i lived? I guess i've started to...but i think need reminding that the world is my oyster.

Stop dicking around.

The X's are my journey thus far...

(X) skipped school
(X) nearly died
(X) been dumped
( ) shoplifted
(X) been in a fist fight
(X) snuck out of your parent's house
(X) Had feelings for someone who didnt have them back
(X) gone on a blind date
( ) been to Canada
( ) been to Mexico
(X) been on a plane
(X) eaten Sushi
(X) been snowboarding
(X) been moshing at a concert
(X) taken painkillers
(X) love someone or miss someone right now
(X) laid on your back and watched cloud shapes go by
(X) made a snow angel
(X) had a tea party
(X) flown a kite
(X) had sexual intercourse
(X) made out with someone you shouldn't have
(X) built a sand castle
(X) gone puddle jumping
(X) played dress up
(X) stripped down in front of the opposite sex
(X) jumped into a pile of leaves
(X) gone sledding
(X) cheated while playing a game
(X) been lonely
(X) fallen asleep at school
(X) watched the sun set
(X) felt an earthquake…I lived in Japan for a year…
(X) touched a snake
(X) slept beneath the stars
(X) been tickled
(X) been robbed
(X) been misunderstood
(X) pat a reindeer/goat…both actually…
(X) won a contest
(X) had a parent run a red light ...
( ) been in a car accident
( ) had braces
(X) felt like an outcast
(X) eaten a whole tub of ice cream in one night
(X) had deja vu
(X) hated the way you look
(X) witnessed a crime
(X) squished barefoot through the mud
(X) been lost
( ) been to the opposite side of the country
(X) swam in the ocean
(X) played cops and robbers
(X) sung karaoke…Once again, I lived in Japan for a year...
(X) paid for a meal with only coins
(X) made prank phone calls
(X) laughed until some kind of beverage came out of your nose
(X) caught a snowflake on your tongue
(X) danced in the rain naked
(X) written a letter to Santa Claus
( ) been kissed under a mistletoe
(X) watched the sun rise with someone you care about
(X) blown bubbles
(X) made a bonfire on the beach
(X) crashed a party
(X) gone rollerblading
(X) had a wish come true
(X) worn pearls
( ) ate dog/cat food
(X) sang in the shower
(X) wore a little black dress
(X) glued your hand to something
( ) got your tongue stuck to a flag pole
( ) kissed a fish
( ) been a cheerleader
(X) sat on a roof top
(X) screamed at the top of your lungs
(X) done a one-handed cartwheel…nearly broke my arm doing it!
(X) talked on the phone for more than 6 hours
(X) stayed up all night
(X) picked and ate an apple right off the tree
(X) climbed a tree
(X) had a tree house
(X) are scared to watch scary movies alone
(X) believed in ghosts. Believe actually…
(X) have more then 30 pairs of shoes
(X) worn a really ugly outfit to school…matching red tracksuit…year 7…
(X) pushed into a pool with all your clothes on…both willingly and unwillingly!
(X) broken a bone
(X) been easily aroused
(X) caught a butterfly
(X) laughed so hard you cried
(X) cried so hard you laughed
(X) cheated on a test
(X) have a Britney Spears CD
(X) forgotten someone's name
(X) French braided someone's hair
(X) been to any other countries besides yours
(X) had serious surgery
(X) gone out in public in your pyjamas
(X) kissed a stranger
(X) hugged a stranger
( ) been arrested
(X) pushed all the buttons on an elevator
(X) swore at your parents
(X) kicked a guy where it hurts
(X) been in love
(X) been close to love
(X) been to a casino
(X) skinny-dipped
(X) saw a therapist/counsellor
(X)done the splits
(X) played spin the bottle
(X) gotten stiches
( )drunk a whole gallon of milkin 1 hr...but I’ve watched someone else do it!
(X) bitten someone
( ) been to Niagara Falls
(X) gotten the chicken pox
( ) crashed into a friend's car
(X) been to Japan
(X) ridden in a taxi
( ) been fired
(X) lied to a friend
(X) had a crush on a teacher
(X) been to Europe
( )been to africa
(X)Driven interstate
(X) Been Skiing
(X) Met someone in person from the internet
( ) Been to a moto-cross show
( ) lost a child
(X) had a crush on someone you shouldn't
( ) own an ipod
( ) own an mp3 player
( ) fancy someone on your contact list
( ) kissed a girl
(X) kissed a boy
(X) purposely set a part of yourself on fire
(X) questioned your heart
(X) been obsessed with post-it notes
(X) cried yourself to sleep
(X) done something you told yourself you wouldn't
(X) jumped off a bridge
(X) kissed a mirror
(X) been offered a job