I got burgled recently. I always feel so violated after being burgled, I think I’m just too territorial over my own space to be comfortable with someone else having occupied it. It’s always my poor little shitbox of a car that is attacked in these violations and blessedly not my houses, I’d like this status quo to remain, if I must be burgled, let it be my automobile. I drive a 1998 Mitsubishi Mirage, it’s scrapped, scratched, dented has clocked 200,000K’s, but she still goes god bless her. I managed to blow the speakers this weekend, her last feature of any value, listening to folk music of all things but, even beat-up and worthless, I know I’m going to find her smashed in once again. There is never anything of any real value to steal, I think I have less money now then I did when I was a struggling student and yet douche bags still feel the need to pinch my meagre possessions to sell for crack or whatever. Sigh.
What kills me time is I stupidly left my iPod in the glove box but the klepto would never have known this from looking into the windows. I have never before left my iPod in my car, with exception of this one time, when I had hidden it from view on a pit stop on my way back from the mountains resulting in me forgetting to take it with me when I got home. I remove everything that could be construed as valuable from my car because I live in one of the dodgiest parts of Sydney’s inner west. The most puzzling disappearance of all was my picnic blanket. A promotional off cast that I got from a former flatmate who had performed PR work for the company in question and had brought the leftovers home to create more space in their office. The blanket itself is quite nifty, folds up, zips up and turns itself a little satchel, one that looks just the right size to hold a mid sized notebook, and thus we solve the mystery. They got lucky with the iPod, I got unlucky with the repair bill. That free, slightly mouldy picnic blanket cost me my iPod, my car windows and my positivity for an entire weekend.
This January I offered my services to the always awesome Sydney Festival. In return I was given a two-for-one pass to see Bright Star. I was excited. I found myself a date, a session time and I was on my way. I jumped into my car to pick up my aforementioned date, and found my right hand passenger windows smashed in, picnic blanked gone, glove box strewn about the car, iPod missing, morning ruined and a heart that appeared to be sinking. I cancelled my date and got into the car forced to seat myself on the bed of glass that had ricocheted onto the driver’s side. The glass, that crumbly safety glass, left lots of little pricks in my rear end that bleed into little red dots on the arse of my white skirt. Merging onto the Western Motorway I felt myself going through the gambit of emotions including frustration, anger, dismay, tears and finally pity.
Self pity consumed me that weekend. I guess I’ve always championed the Robin Hood concept of thievery, robbing the rich to give to the poor. I guess it’s the pinko- lefty in me. Getting behind the cause of the battler, “from each according to his ability” and all that. Problem here in lies, I’m not the rich. The iPod was a gift; it wasn’t bought with my spoils of exploitation. I’m against exploitation; I’m the daughter of unionists! The most frustrating thing of all is, each time this has happened I’ve been a student, a traveller or in this case, a two-bit office bitch trying to get by in a world that seems to undervalue my sheer awesomeness in lieu of natural talent! I sustain myself regularly on lentil soup which rounds up to be about $2.15 a serve, I take advantage of the unwanted goods of others and when I need an iron uplift I assume the student position and go back to my parents. I don’t laze about in the lap of luxury, I’m a battler like so many others, so why me then? Why does it always feel like me?
The truth is, it isn’t. I was unlucky. I’ve just been unlucky three times. The frustrating thing is, had I have been in a better neighbourhood, with better neighbourhood security and probably flasher cars, it probably wouldn’t have happened. It just so happened that in the desperation of a come down, my little picnic blanket held a glimmer of hope to some crack addict. I cursed them with karma for a little while, I hoped their crack pipe broke and I hoped they lost a toenail in a particularly painful incident. Now that I’ve finally swallowed my self pity and abandoned the notion that I have a neon sign on my head that says “Please Screw Me”, I really just hope that their situation in life improves, sooner rather than later. If this hadn’t happened in the same year that I got mugged in Vietnam, owed the evil tax department money and been covered in the vomit of a fellow passenger two hours into a fifteen hour flight from hell, the more compassionate side of me probably would have revealed herself earlier, but at least she came to the table and we should be thankful for that.
Truth be known, I have a lot to be thankful for, the friends that took me out that night and got me drunk, the flatmates that made me chocolate sundaes with chocolate sauce and chocolate chips and especially to my one loyal fan in some crazy Swiss village who made me write this and always intuitively knows when something’s gone wrong sending me something life affirming to fuel my delusions of awesomeness mentioned above. This still doesn’t mean I want my car smashed in and while I’ve rescinded my wishes for bad karma from the good folks that look after the karma department in the metauniverse, I’d still be grateful to them if they bumped up my file in the good karma department giving me something a little extra to be thankful for.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Monday, December 21, 2009
When a Problem Comes Along, You Must Whip It
I hate crying in public. I tend to turn into a puffy ball of redness, it’s as if someone came up, punched me in both my eyeballs with handfuls of red dust. I can’t hide if I’ve been crying either, you can tell, my eyelids tend to be six times their normal size. It’s decidedly unattractive. I regularly go to the cinema alone for this reason; I’m a movie crier, big time, in-the-dark catharsis is very much my bag. In my late teens I lusted after the guy who worked in the local record store, a few years later he started at the local indy cinema. I spent a positively unhealthy amount of time trying to think of something to say to him, always coming up with nothing other than my interpretation of a goldfish, mouth open, mouth close, mouth open, mouth close. Fancying myself quite the hip, indy cinema kid, I took myself to see Dancer in The Dark, to which I unleased an epic episode, those of you familiar with the film should know why. Puffed, wet and positively distraught, I walked out of the auditorium, only to see him on the approach. There was no way this could be my moment, panicked, still sniffling and snotting, I tore from the venue and drove home as quickly as possible to recover in the privacy of my postered bedroom. I never saw him again. Angst ridden teen love stories aside, I burst into tears at work today, my boss, who I don’t think has ever seen me cry, couldn’t talk to me for the rest of the day, I think it freaked him out, which I must confess amused me greatly. He’s usually a toughie.
I gave myself a choice this year to go and visit my mate in the US or I could go to hospital and get my wisdom teeth removed. I picked the holiday, which naturally is the more “fun” option, but given my current predicament wasn’t the “smart” option. Fortunately I’ve never claimed to be smart and as a result, I feel that my liability in this situation is absolved. Should you disagree, I ask you to read the aforementioned statement regarding my intelligence and we can go forth on the ring road of arbitrary debate. Either way, I have been suffering all week with the curse of wisdom teeth, trapped in the prison of my undersized mouth, desperately seeking their freedom to do their thing, whatever that is since chewing animal tendons for tools went out of fashion. Those who’ve experienced wisdom teeth will know I’m in excruciating pain. Excruciating. While known to embellish from time to time (under artist licence of course), on this occasion, I am a mouth of truth, and I speak no falsehoods.
I haven’t slept all week, sure I’ve closed my eyes and drifted from the strict definition of consciousness, but at no time have I dropped into that fascinating, wonderful realm of fully fledged, restful sleep. I miss it, and the less I get the less mental stability I’m able to maintain. I’m a woman on the edge. I’m tired, sore, self pitying and a little bit off my crumpet. Soon I will be right off it, my crumpet that is. The pain usually subsides after a week or so, I am in day seven today, the end is nigh, but it can’t come soon enough, not just for the pain factor, but for the loco factor too. Much more of this no sleep palaver and I won’t hold myself accountable for any actions, if you see a mad ginger woman losing her rag on the street, it’s probably me and I advise you to approach with caution. Until then, I’ll just shed some tears. At work.
My boss, god love him, was trying (very hard) to communicate with me, which had epic fail written all over it before he even tried to engage me. In the height of his frustration, letting out an expletive or two, he turned to find my face, downturn, bottom lip a-trembling, tears dripping and a set of puffy, bloodshot eyes staring back at him. Silence ensued and not a word was spoken for the next hour, I was embarrassed, and he was in a state of shock. Little did he know his expletive was not the cause of the tears. The tears were for Devo, the world’s best mongrel Whipit in the world. Yep, I named my dog after the band that sang Whip It, seeing them in 2008, perform that song is a personal highlight in my life. Judge me as you will.
Devo, my dog, was unwanted, unloved and her original master wanted nothing to do with her, we were given her for a trial and were instructed to dump her if we didn’t want to keep her. My brother and I fell instantly in love with this hyperactive ball of fur, dog breath and ungodly stench and after a few baths, my Mum warmed to her as well. Her favourite game was to steal socks and make you chase her for their return. I lost numerous pairs of socks to that game, unfortunately for my Dad, Devo wasn’t the best at telling the difference between socks and jocks, and at the height of her fascination, she would stalk my mother to the clothesline and steal said jocks straight from the clean laundry basket, hence why it took mum a little longer to warm to her. She’s a toughie too.
I was in the first year of Uni when Devo trotted into our lives, that was nine years ago now. She’s been a loyal friend since that day in spite of the sock losses. It never ceases to amaze me how in touch with their masters animals really are. In mid 2008 I had my first operation, while not major surgery; I was in some discomfort and I went to my Mum’s house to convalesce and scab food. That night, drugged up and curled up on the foldout sofa, I went to sleep, spooned by my wee dog. She stayed, not moving for twelve hours wrapped around my buttocks. It was, to this day the best, most needed cuddle I’ve ever received. She’s good like that though, she seems to know when you need a cuddle, she’s the first to greet me whenever I go home, will howl until I resurface every time I submerge in the pool and she’ll be the first to notice when I’m blue. She’ll definitely never miss a beat if I’m hungry, there’s no shaking her if you’re off to the kitchen, but I think that’s less about love and loyalty and more about food.
I love my dog, I am fortunate to have a handful of very close, loyal friends and I count my dog as one them. My human friends have remarkably better breath, but I think they’re on par with the nutbag factor, I actually caught one of them sniffing my (clean) underwear (as a joke of course) in a burst of hyperactivity. It amused me greatly and everyday I’m thankful that they don’t have blogs to share my more retarded stories in turn. It would be a long and very full blog if they did. My blubbering outburst at work will go down as one of those retarded moments. A member of the team that sits behind me lost her cat today, she felt about her cat the same way I feel about my dog. Her team were musing on the loss, I tried to ignore, but they aren’t quiet people by nature, blocking them out is difficult and eventually, I began to muse on the loss of my dog.
I had seen Devo the week before, we were out the front, I was throwing a ball and she was catching it. By throwing and catching, I mean I threw the ball once; she caught it and then ran around trying to get me to chase her to get the ball back. She was always a terrible student and eventually my brother and I stopped trying to teach her to drop the ball and the principles of fetch and just dealt with our lot. In the thrill of the chase, she must have landed awkwardly and she let out an almighty squeal, she dropped the ball and as I looked into her tiny face, I notice just how flecked with grey it was. Devo never really stopped being a puppy in my eyes, she generally became more obedient, stopped stealing socks and jocks and adapted more to routines, but she never lost that energy of a puppy. The word “walk” still sends her into a frenzy of excitement, which is frustrating in itself because it mostly demonstrates a capacity for selective learning meaning as a family, we’ve been wrapped around the little paw of the animal we’re supposed to dominate. How can this smart, energetic, giant rat be getting on? It makes me sad. It makes me cry.
I have as much power over death as the next person, loss is unfortunately an inherit part of living, the older we get the more we learn that. I just hope she’s still around for cuddles when I finally bite the bullet and have these pesky teeth removed. I think I’ll need her. I definitely needed her today while I teetered on the edge of madness, in tears in front of my colleagues. If I don’t get some sleep soon and end up doing something I’ll regret, I’ll be taking her and her stinky dog breath to prison with me. We’ll be the bitches of cell block H.
I gave myself a choice this year to go and visit my mate in the US or I could go to hospital and get my wisdom teeth removed. I picked the holiday, which naturally is the more “fun” option, but given my current predicament wasn’t the “smart” option. Fortunately I’ve never claimed to be smart and as a result, I feel that my liability in this situation is absolved. Should you disagree, I ask you to read the aforementioned statement regarding my intelligence and we can go forth on the ring road of arbitrary debate. Either way, I have been suffering all week with the curse of wisdom teeth, trapped in the prison of my undersized mouth, desperately seeking their freedom to do their thing, whatever that is since chewing animal tendons for tools went out of fashion. Those who’ve experienced wisdom teeth will know I’m in excruciating pain. Excruciating. While known to embellish from time to time (under artist licence of course), on this occasion, I am a mouth of truth, and I speak no falsehoods.
I haven’t slept all week, sure I’ve closed my eyes and drifted from the strict definition of consciousness, but at no time have I dropped into that fascinating, wonderful realm of fully fledged, restful sleep. I miss it, and the less I get the less mental stability I’m able to maintain. I’m a woman on the edge. I’m tired, sore, self pitying and a little bit off my crumpet. Soon I will be right off it, my crumpet that is. The pain usually subsides after a week or so, I am in day seven today, the end is nigh, but it can’t come soon enough, not just for the pain factor, but for the loco factor too. Much more of this no sleep palaver and I won’t hold myself accountable for any actions, if you see a mad ginger woman losing her rag on the street, it’s probably me and I advise you to approach with caution. Until then, I’ll just shed some tears. At work.
My boss, god love him, was trying (very hard) to communicate with me, which had epic fail written all over it before he even tried to engage me. In the height of his frustration, letting out an expletive or two, he turned to find my face, downturn, bottom lip a-trembling, tears dripping and a set of puffy, bloodshot eyes staring back at him. Silence ensued and not a word was spoken for the next hour, I was embarrassed, and he was in a state of shock. Little did he know his expletive was not the cause of the tears. The tears were for Devo, the world’s best mongrel Whipit in the world. Yep, I named my dog after the band that sang Whip It, seeing them in 2008, perform that song is a personal highlight in my life. Judge me as you will.
Devo, my dog, was unwanted, unloved and her original master wanted nothing to do with her, we were given her for a trial and were instructed to dump her if we didn’t want to keep her. My brother and I fell instantly in love with this hyperactive ball of fur, dog breath and ungodly stench and after a few baths, my Mum warmed to her as well. Her favourite game was to steal socks and make you chase her for their return. I lost numerous pairs of socks to that game, unfortunately for my Dad, Devo wasn’t the best at telling the difference between socks and jocks, and at the height of her fascination, she would stalk my mother to the clothesline and steal said jocks straight from the clean laundry basket, hence why it took mum a little longer to warm to her. She’s a toughie too.
I was in the first year of Uni when Devo trotted into our lives, that was nine years ago now. She’s been a loyal friend since that day in spite of the sock losses. It never ceases to amaze me how in touch with their masters animals really are. In mid 2008 I had my first operation, while not major surgery; I was in some discomfort and I went to my Mum’s house to convalesce and scab food. That night, drugged up and curled up on the foldout sofa, I went to sleep, spooned by my wee dog. She stayed, not moving for twelve hours wrapped around my buttocks. It was, to this day the best, most needed cuddle I’ve ever received. She’s good like that though, she seems to know when you need a cuddle, she’s the first to greet me whenever I go home, will howl until I resurface every time I submerge in the pool and she’ll be the first to notice when I’m blue. She’ll definitely never miss a beat if I’m hungry, there’s no shaking her if you’re off to the kitchen, but I think that’s less about love and loyalty and more about food.
I love my dog, I am fortunate to have a handful of very close, loyal friends and I count my dog as one them. My human friends have remarkably better breath, but I think they’re on par with the nutbag factor, I actually caught one of them sniffing my (clean) underwear (as a joke of course) in a burst of hyperactivity. It amused me greatly and everyday I’m thankful that they don’t have blogs to share my more retarded stories in turn. It would be a long and very full blog if they did. My blubbering outburst at work will go down as one of those retarded moments. A member of the team that sits behind me lost her cat today, she felt about her cat the same way I feel about my dog. Her team were musing on the loss, I tried to ignore, but they aren’t quiet people by nature, blocking them out is difficult and eventually, I began to muse on the loss of my dog.
I had seen Devo the week before, we were out the front, I was throwing a ball and she was catching it. By throwing and catching, I mean I threw the ball once; she caught it and then ran around trying to get me to chase her to get the ball back. She was always a terrible student and eventually my brother and I stopped trying to teach her to drop the ball and the principles of fetch and just dealt with our lot. In the thrill of the chase, she must have landed awkwardly and she let out an almighty squeal, she dropped the ball and as I looked into her tiny face, I notice just how flecked with grey it was. Devo never really stopped being a puppy in my eyes, she generally became more obedient, stopped stealing socks and jocks and adapted more to routines, but she never lost that energy of a puppy. The word “walk” still sends her into a frenzy of excitement, which is frustrating in itself because it mostly demonstrates a capacity for selective learning meaning as a family, we’ve been wrapped around the little paw of the animal we’re supposed to dominate. How can this smart, energetic, giant rat be getting on? It makes me sad. It makes me cry.
I have as much power over death as the next person, loss is unfortunately an inherit part of living, the older we get the more we learn that. I just hope she’s still around for cuddles when I finally bite the bullet and have these pesky teeth removed. I think I’ll need her. I definitely needed her today while I teetered on the edge of madness, in tears in front of my colleagues. If I don’t get some sleep soon and end up doing something I’ll regret, I’ll be taking her and her stinky dog breath to prison with me. We’ll be the bitches of cell block H.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Pearls of Wisdom
I’ve been kicking around share house digs since I was 21. I was a regular lounge room floor figure at friends flats in my uni days, but my first foray into a share house of my very own was with three friends, under the roof of quite possibly the most dilapidated piece of shit in Western Sydney. The place looked like it hadn’t had a scrap of work done to it since 1889, when it was built, making it the perfect party house. We never had to worry about Jehovah’s witnesses or door-to-door sales people, either they assumed the place was abandoned or one step onto the buckled, half-rotted porch usually proved too precarious, even for the most tenacious and they would quickly retreat back down the dishevelled garden path. Eventually however, all the locks broke, the bath and my flatmates bed fell through the floor and the approaching winter made the outdoor dunny anything but appealing. The discovery of a makeshift bed up the side of the house was probably the final straw, I was the first to jump ship, off to Europe, the others were quick to follow. Years later, in a bout of nostalgia, we drove past the property, it had been torched to the ground and to our complete surprise, the only part of it left standing was that very porch.
Since then, some seven years later, the abodes which I’ve inhabited have been in remarkably better neighbourhoods and certainly more sturdier structures, we’ve not been forced to use any subterranean furniture at least. My much beloved housemate has just recently decided to return to her native Melbourne, leaving me in search of another to join our band of three. The remaining flattie and I have been conducting the mandatory viewings and interviews, alas everyone appears normal during a five minute chat, I’m sure I’ve sufficiently deceived people in the past. Experience has taught me it’s generally three months into the cohabitation that you realise the incumbent occupant is either mentally unstable, has a penchant for dancing around in your fancy knickers or as a drunk flattie once admitted to me, a lusting love and a habit to listen in on you and your partner through the paper thin walls, while helping himself, to well, himself. It can often be nothing less than awkward living in such close proximity to people we would be unlikely to keep as friends. Some of my housemates have gone on to join my wider circle of friends, while others burned into my memory, I’ve tried hard to forget. Inevitably, anyone who has done house share properly should have a book in them about their experiences, all of which should teeter on the edge of surreal.
We’ve decided on a young chap to join our fold, a fellow writer in fact, taking us to a grand total of three whittlers of words, it will be interesting to see if this potential den of creativity breeds inspiration or devastation. I am very fond of my remaining flatmate, a little older and a littler wiser, she has travelled the world as a professional, student and adventurer, at present; she slots into the latter category. Her travels and cohabitation experiences, have led her to befriend many unique individuals from the world over and it’s not uncommon for us to lose three hours waxing lyrical about life, love and whatever else piques our interest. After translating for me a poem written by a former roomie, a gorgeous motif on love and consciousness we launched into a discussion on memories and most importantly, their creation.
The persisting metaphor was a string of pearls, discussing why certain times in our lives our string is dense while others seem bare, but the essence of the debate was what merits a pearl? To what memories to we tend to allocate a pearl? I have a love of photographs, I have more pictures in frames then I have surfaces to display them, I think I like to create my memories in the same fashion, put a frame around it so to speak and let it tell its thousand words, a neat, well formed pearl. It’s a simple task for easy memories, but what about messier memories? Travel tends to make for the easier memories; I guess it the almost liquid quality of time, but what about the memories that encompass the flux of emotions? I always remember my last six months in Europe as the happiest time in my life, it’s certainly the densest section on my string, but happiness, is surely a much more elusive concept? I suspect that happiness is one of those experiences not so much lived as remembered. I doubt for those six brief months that I realised I was experiencing, breathing, literally living happiness? Having said that, I’m sure it wasn’t all smiles and teeth during that time, but these are the memories to which I’ve allocated my pearls. Perhaps I didn’t want any unhappy memories to tarnish my well formed pearl? Does this however call into question the validity of our memories? Are we the unreliable authors of our own narratives, culturing our own pearls?
I have to confess here and now, that I have been prone to minor embellishments from time to time when recounting my memories. Certainly some of my cohabitation tales have erred on the side of weird, so much that even I’ve questioned their reality as I’ve tried to leave some behind in the ether of forgotten memories. These same ones have however cultured many a giggle from fellow pub goers and backyard BBQ attendees. Popular recounts include the time I had to remove my naked, acid fuelled housemate from my bed at the height of his trip on what was only my second night in a new abode, avoiding starting at my ridiculously, well hung, frequently naked housemate as we passed each other on early morning visits too and from the communal loo, practicing calm breathing exercises while listening to a pathological liar literally conjure phantom people and events into life, trying to politely decline the culinary offerings of a generous housemate who served them in the same salad bowls he soaked his puss infected toes in and of course, trying not to giggle at the abashed young men that would leave the room of the rubenesque dominatrix upstairs. Beyond this there were also the wide variety of mental breakdowns, domestic disputes and general madness that you happen upon when you’ve lived a colourful, shared-living life. For me, yet another chapter begins this weekend and in spite of the good memories, the older I get, the less I think I can go on. Just this Thursday I had to restrain two American boys who decided to wrestle at around 2am taking out the crockery and living room furniture as they went. Never more so, than staring in the face of sleep deprivation did I wonder if I could keep doing this, but it dawned on me, that if it wasn’t for house share, what could I entertain my captive audiences with? Without these moments of pure frustration what would I look to, to bulk up my string of pearls?
Since then, some seven years later, the abodes which I’ve inhabited have been in remarkably better neighbourhoods and certainly more sturdier structures, we’ve not been forced to use any subterranean furniture at least. My much beloved housemate has just recently decided to return to her native Melbourne, leaving me in search of another to join our band of three. The remaining flattie and I have been conducting the mandatory viewings and interviews, alas everyone appears normal during a five minute chat, I’m sure I’ve sufficiently deceived people in the past. Experience has taught me it’s generally three months into the cohabitation that you realise the incumbent occupant is either mentally unstable, has a penchant for dancing around in your fancy knickers or as a drunk flattie once admitted to me, a lusting love and a habit to listen in on you and your partner through the paper thin walls, while helping himself, to well, himself. It can often be nothing less than awkward living in such close proximity to people we would be unlikely to keep as friends. Some of my housemates have gone on to join my wider circle of friends, while others burned into my memory, I’ve tried hard to forget. Inevitably, anyone who has done house share properly should have a book in them about their experiences, all of which should teeter on the edge of surreal.
We’ve decided on a young chap to join our fold, a fellow writer in fact, taking us to a grand total of three whittlers of words, it will be interesting to see if this potential den of creativity breeds inspiration or devastation. I am very fond of my remaining flatmate, a little older and a littler wiser, she has travelled the world as a professional, student and adventurer, at present; she slots into the latter category. Her travels and cohabitation experiences, have led her to befriend many unique individuals from the world over and it’s not uncommon for us to lose three hours waxing lyrical about life, love and whatever else piques our interest. After translating for me a poem written by a former roomie, a gorgeous motif on love and consciousness we launched into a discussion on memories and most importantly, their creation.
The persisting metaphor was a string of pearls, discussing why certain times in our lives our string is dense while others seem bare, but the essence of the debate was what merits a pearl? To what memories to we tend to allocate a pearl? I have a love of photographs, I have more pictures in frames then I have surfaces to display them, I think I like to create my memories in the same fashion, put a frame around it so to speak and let it tell its thousand words, a neat, well formed pearl. It’s a simple task for easy memories, but what about messier memories? Travel tends to make for the easier memories; I guess it the almost liquid quality of time, but what about the memories that encompass the flux of emotions? I always remember my last six months in Europe as the happiest time in my life, it’s certainly the densest section on my string, but happiness, is surely a much more elusive concept? I suspect that happiness is one of those experiences not so much lived as remembered. I doubt for those six brief months that I realised I was experiencing, breathing, literally living happiness? Having said that, I’m sure it wasn’t all smiles and teeth during that time, but these are the memories to which I’ve allocated my pearls. Perhaps I didn’t want any unhappy memories to tarnish my well formed pearl? Does this however call into question the validity of our memories? Are we the unreliable authors of our own narratives, culturing our own pearls?
I have to confess here and now, that I have been prone to minor embellishments from time to time when recounting my memories. Certainly some of my cohabitation tales have erred on the side of weird, so much that even I’ve questioned their reality as I’ve tried to leave some behind in the ether of forgotten memories. These same ones have however cultured many a giggle from fellow pub goers and backyard BBQ attendees. Popular recounts include the time I had to remove my naked, acid fuelled housemate from my bed at the height of his trip on what was only my second night in a new abode, avoiding starting at my ridiculously, well hung, frequently naked housemate as we passed each other on early morning visits too and from the communal loo, practicing calm breathing exercises while listening to a pathological liar literally conjure phantom people and events into life, trying to politely decline the culinary offerings of a generous housemate who served them in the same salad bowls he soaked his puss infected toes in and of course, trying not to giggle at the abashed young men that would leave the room of the rubenesque dominatrix upstairs. Beyond this there were also the wide variety of mental breakdowns, domestic disputes and general madness that you happen upon when you’ve lived a colourful, shared-living life. For me, yet another chapter begins this weekend and in spite of the good memories, the older I get, the less I think I can go on. Just this Thursday I had to restrain two American boys who decided to wrestle at around 2am taking out the crockery and living room furniture as they went. Never more so, than staring in the face of sleep deprivation did I wonder if I could keep doing this, but it dawned on me, that if it wasn’t for house share, what could I entertain my captive audiences with? Without these moments of pure frustration what would I look to, to bulk up my string of pearls?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Burn After Reading
I was amused recently by a comment by a friend who has just returned from his honeymoon, he went on Safari in Africa; I can only imagine what a mind blowing experience this was, having never been. It’s one of those things that is on my do list, I’ve eaten sushi off a naked woman in Prague, let carnivorous fish eat my feet in Cambodia and been doused head to toe in tomatoes in Bunol, but I’ve not as yet ticked safari off my list. My list gets longer as I get older and my ability to tick things off is inhibited by “life”. When catching up for a beer with my newly returned friend, he said to me, “you know what you realise when you get back from something like this? Everyday life is shit”. I’m inclined to agree.
Every minute is a gift, I passionately believe this. I don’t have it printed on a shirt or a mug, I hate that Chicken Soup for the Soul crap, in fact I went out of my way to prove it in a workplace once, surrounded by mugs that had happy-clapper axioms, I bought myself a hideous, decrepit looking skull one. This aside though, life is this great, wandering experience and I wonder then, why so many of us waste these wonderful gifts. I make no delusion that I work to live, I don’t know that I have it in me to be so passionate about anything that I could live to work. Unless it involved travel, perhaps then and only then, could I reassess that claim, but for the moment, I work to live. My biggest fear at the moment is that I’m not really living, or am I? I’ve spent the last three months clearing out the proverbial cobwebs, I feel a change looming and I want to be ready for it. I want to embrace it. I’m not clairvoyant, I don’t know what this change will look like, I don’t even know that I will see it coming, but I can feel it and I want to let it sweep me away. I’ve been waiting. Patiently.
I think somewhere at the turn of 2009 I decided that this year represented something symbolic for me, that it was my “Saturn Ascension” maybe it’s something to do with being 27 this September or maybe it’s just time to learn from mistakes and move forward. Whether my perspective has been influenced by some cosmic schism or just some mental shift, I’ve shaken things around a bit. I guess you could call it Fung Shui of the soul, but whatever it is, I plan on it being my conduit to change after getting a little lost somewhere in my mid twenties.
Lost or found, one thing I’ve always had to my credit though is knowing who I am. I’ve never known where I’m going, let’s not create the illusion that I’m anything other than a total airhead floater, I’ve been around plenty of people who know their path and are happy to commit to it, I’ve just never been one of them. In all honesty I doubt I ever will, but no matter how lost I’ve been, I’ve always known who I am at my core and not some social chameleon. I accepted long ago that sometimes I don’t fit in and I’ve come to embrace that as a blessing in disguise. I definitely get less eccentric the older I get, but I still manage to sit on the cusp of societies brands rather than in them.
A friend of mine just returned from Burning Man, one of the 20th/21st centuries most endearing experiments on social behaviours, communities, spirituality, commodities etc. I can’t really begin to imagine what it was like and I don’t know that she could really explain it either, “intense and emotional” were her words, but after 8 days in the desert, mind bending drugs and the general delirium of the event itself I imagine the experience kind of transcends words. Out of all her photos and recollections, I was particularly struck by the wooden temple, adorned with well wishes for those loved, lost and departed. It is burnt (as is the fashion) at the end of the event and all those wishes are taken with it. I like concept. I’ve always been more drawn to concepts, I’ve never really been able to take something as a whole experience, I always tend to walk away with a piece of it. A small concept from an inevitable whole. I wonder how I would have gone at Burning Man unable to comprehend a complete experience?
I guess the cynic in me is always left a little perplexed by such experiments, it also makes me wonder at what point in time hippies, bent out of their minds on hallucinogenic substances, developed an almost monopoly on these critical experiences of love, acceptance and inevitable communion. Why is an event like this a departure from the norm and why are these sorts of utopias only sustainable in our hearts and minds for such a limited time? Why are we so devoid of escape in the “shit” of everyday life? Where did we all become so lost and when will all our communal Saturn’s ascend?
Maybe I’m just in need of a stiff drink and need to stop crossing paths with so many bohemians. Truth be told my melancholy is probably the by-product of a wild envy at the fact this very minute I’m behind a desk, sober as a judge, contributing to corporate Australia while a pack of wild, boho, experimentalists are exploring the windmills of their minds.
Every minute is a gift, I passionately believe this. I don’t have it printed on a shirt or a mug, I hate that Chicken Soup for the Soul crap, in fact I went out of my way to prove it in a workplace once, surrounded by mugs that had happy-clapper axioms, I bought myself a hideous, decrepit looking skull one. This aside though, life is this great, wandering experience and I wonder then, why so many of us waste these wonderful gifts. I make no delusion that I work to live, I don’t know that I have it in me to be so passionate about anything that I could live to work. Unless it involved travel, perhaps then and only then, could I reassess that claim, but for the moment, I work to live. My biggest fear at the moment is that I’m not really living, or am I? I’ve spent the last three months clearing out the proverbial cobwebs, I feel a change looming and I want to be ready for it. I want to embrace it. I’m not clairvoyant, I don’t know what this change will look like, I don’t even know that I will see it coming, but I can feel it and I want to let it sweep me away. I’ve been waiting. Patiently.
I think somewhere at the turn of 2009 I decided that this year represented something symbolic for me, that it was my “Saturn Ascension” maybe it’s something to do with being 27 this September or maybe it’s just time to learn from mistakes and move forward. Whether my perspective has been influenced by some cosmic schism or just some mental shift, I’ve shaken things around a bit. I guess you could call it Fung Shui of the soul, but whatever it is, I plan on it being my conduit to change after getting a little lost somewhere in my mid twenties.
Lost or found, one thing I’ve always had to my credit though is knowing who I am. I’ve never known where I’m going, let’s not create the illusion that I’m anything other than a total airhead floater, I’ve been around plenty of people who know their path and are happy to commit to it, I’ve just never been one of them. In all honesty I doubt I ever will, but no matter how lost I’ve been, I’ve always known who I am at my core and not some social chameleon. I accepted long ago that sometimes I don’t fit in and I’ve come to embrace that as a blessing in disguise. I definitely get less eccentric the older I get, but I still manage to sit on the cusp of societies brands rather than in them.
A friend of mine just returned from Burning Man, one of the 20th/21st centuries most endearing experiments on social behaviours, communities, spirituality, commodities etc. I can’t really begin to imagine what it was like and I don’t know that she could really explain it either, “intense and emotional” were her words, but after 8 days in the desert, mind bending drugs and the general delirium of the event itself I imagine the experience kind of transcends words. Out of all her photos and recollections, I was particularly struck by the wooden temple, adorned with well wishes for those loved, lost and departed. It is burnt (as is the fashion) at the end of the event and all those wishes are taken with it. I like concept. I’ve always been more drawn to concepts, I’ve never really been able to take something as a whole experience, I always tend to walk away with a piece of it. A small concept from an inevitable whole. I wonder how I would have gone at Burning Man unable to comprehend a complete experience?
I guess the cynic in me is always left a little perplexed by such experiments, it also makes me wonder at what point in time hippies, bent out of their minds on hallucinogenic substances, developed an almost monopoly on these critical experiences of love, acceptance and inevitable communion. Why is an event like this a departure from the norm and why are these sorts of utopias only sustainable in our hearts and minds for such a limited time? Why are we so devoid of escape in the “shit” of everyday life? Where did we all become so lost and when will all our communal Saturn’s ascend?
Maybe I’m just in need of a stiff drink and need to stop crossing paths with so many bohemians. Truth be told my melancholy is probably the by-product of a wild envy at the fact this very minute I’m behind a desk, sober as a judge, contributing to corporate Australia while a pack of wild, boho, experimentalists are exploring the windmills of their minds.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Hairspray
I’ve been in mourning lately. I get like this with the summers end. It happens sometime in April when the denial of winters coming can no longer be ignored. It happens every year, I spend most of March anxious about it grabbing at every last second of sun and being outdoors as much as I can. I suffer from the cold, badly. I’ve always had lousy circulation; I blame this on my mother. I have vivid childhood memories of she and her sisters crowded around our fireplace, desperate for the prime position over the grate, even my Mum and the cat would fight it out, the cat generally winning. Now I do the same, in winter you will find me plonked in front of the closest heater being spooned by my dog, striving to warm my luke-warm blood.
As a moderately appropriate aside to the former comment, I recently saw that 'Twilight' movie, there is no romanticism for me about being with a vampire, no matter how much the broody and pensive soul might appeal to my sensibilities, the idea of cuddling up to something so stone-like and cold in the summer is at best unappealing, the idea of doing it in the winter is utterly repulsive, sans blood-sucking, death potential.
My enemy status with the cold saw me bail on the UK to return to Australia, about to go into a third winter. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the UK, I even loved London. I spent a good deal of that time in a little attic room, above a pub in Kentish Town where I lived and worked from time to time. I was even occasionally paid in cherry brandy to host the Monday night trivia, I would have done it happily without the brandy, although it would have been rude to say no, especially given its, ermm, warming properties. I’ve never been 100% sure why I look so fondly on that period of my life, fun as it was, I feel like it was some way the autumn of my existence. I was, by this time 23 and the incarnation of the person I always thought I wanted to be when I was 17. I was the essence of a free spirit. Dressed in my cheesecloth skirts and oversized hippie flares, sporting some kind of Mohawk arrangement, I dotted about doing various jobs that even included a stint as a tour guide. I went about my day with a periphery of eccentric characters to inspire and enlighten and The Mixer, arguably Camden’s finest pub, was a second home to me and Dana, easily the most fascinating person I’ve ever met not to mention the quintessential free spirit. Every month I would pack the bare essentials into a day pack and be on my way to some fringe festival out of town, musical festival in continental Europe or some random “right of passage” event that would make for a good story to anyone that read my bulk updates back home. Until the cold set in anyway.
This is where we get to my mourning. Lately, I feel like my inner 17 year old has finally passed on. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not one to look on my teenage years fondly, I was at best, an awkward teenager, in truth, I was a fugly teenager, with a very misguided (never-the-less fun) sense of what was cool, bad hair, colourful braces, glasses, matched with an over-inflated sense of social anxiety and my fair share of insecurities that seem to be part of a teenage girls genetic make-up. My only redeeming factor was my ten hole, Doc Marten’s that were my much coveted 17th birthday present and which my father, to this day, refers to my “Gestapo boots”. Yes, I still wear them, with the same sense of pride and the same purple laces as when they first graced my foot. But, these were the times when I had the most idle time to think about where I was going, what I was going to do and who I was going to be. I had a great many ideas of what I was going to be, but who was always unfaltering, I would be me. Is it possible that I have gone against my own grain?
This was somewhat emphaised last week when I was pulled aside by my boss, informally, and spoken to about my hair. A haircut I incidentally presumed was relatively conservative by not just by my own standards, appeared misjudged. My boss who in all fairness did try and broach the subject in as “cool” a way as he knew how, told me it was considered inappropriate. I honestly didn’t see this coming, I already thought I’d sold out to 'the man', dressed that very day in a brand new suit that I had bought with the funds I would have spend on better ACDC tickets, had I not been trying so hard to conform.
The only saving grace that I can think of is that my boss, who isn’t aware of just how like my own father he is in the way he relates to me, didn’t ask me outright, he did it a way that left the final decision up to myself. If I am on cue here, and reading the conversational nuances correctly, he appeased my stubborn streak knowing that a better resolution would be achieved in the asking and not the telling. Or did I just dupe myself into towing the corporate line?
The hair is really just transference. I’m not really that bothered no matter how much I’ve played it up for laughs, I already had a penchant for wigs that I am now more than encouraged to indulge, what bothers me most was that I didn’t fight it. After a few tears, that were a by-product of yet another 'transferred issue', I was able to put it in perspective, this haircut, it is a path to a pre-Christmas pit stop in New York, a conduit to keeping my heater going, an opportunity to build on my miserable $2.75 savings account, a means to an end to pay for my white water rafting expedition this August in NZ. And yes, I am deeply aware that my seasonal choice was a markedly stupid one, but where was the 17 year old me, begging me to be true to myself, to not give into the masses?
Now the question is? Did watching 2009’s answer to the angst ridden The Crow of my own teenage years on a bleak and raining Sunday in June, feeling ill and cold, (always cold), exacerbate my goth-like pseudo-funeral of my soul? Or is the girl of my youth really dead? Have I deviated so far from the plan? I guess the most important question of all has to be, would the Erin of 1999 have been proud of the 27 year old she will have become at the close of this year? I haven’t decided yet, but let’s see if she resurrects herself before her potential ten year anniversary, crazy hair or no.
As a moderately appropriate aside to the former comment, I recently saw that 'Twilight' movie, there is no romanticism for me about being with a vampire, no matter how much the broody and pensive soul might appeal to my sensibilities, the idea of cuddling up to something so stone-like and cold in the summer is at best unappealing, the idea of doing it in the winter is utterly repulsive, sans blood-sucking, death potential.
My enemy status with the cold saw me bail on the UK to return to Australia, about to go into a third winter. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the UK, I even loved London. I spent a good deal of that time in a little attic room, above a pub in Kentish Town where I lived and worked from time to time. I was even occasionally paid in cherry brandy to host the Monday night trivia, I would have done it happily without the brandy, although it would have been rude to say no, especially given its, ermm, warming properties. I’ve never been 100% sure why I look so fondly on that period of my life, fun as it was, I feel like it was some way the autumn of my existence. I was, by this time 23 and the incarnation of the person I always thought I wanted to be when I was 17. I was the essence of a free spirit. Dressed in my cheesecloth skirts and oversized hippie flares, sporting some kind of Mohawk arrangement, I dotted about doing various jobs that even included a stint as a tour guide. I went about my day with a periphery of eccentric characters to inspire and enlighten and The Mixer, arguably Camden’s finest pub, was a second home to me and Dana, easily the most fascinating person I’ve ever met not to mention the quintessential free spirit. Every month I would pack the bare essentials into a day pack and be on my way to some fringe festival out of town, musical festival in continental Europe or some random “right of passage” event that would make for a good story to anyone that read my bulk updates back home. Until the cold set in anyway.
This is where we get to my mourning. Lately, I feel like my inner 17 year old has finally passed on. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not one to look on my teenage years fondly, I was at best, an awkward teenager, in truth, I was a fugly teenager, with a very misguided (never-the-less fun) sense of what was cool, bad hair, colourful braces, glasses, matched with an over-inflated sense of social anxiety and my fair share of insecurities that seem to be part of a teenage girls genetic make-up. My only redeeming factor was my ten hole, Doc Marten’s that were my much coveted 17th birthday present and which my father, to this day, refers to my “Gestapo boots”. Yes, I still wear them, with the same sense of pride and the same purple laces as when they first graced my foot. But, these were the times when I had the most idle time to think about where I was going, what I was going to do and who I was going to be. I had a great many ideas of what I was going to be, but who was always unfaltering, I would be me. Is it possible that I have gone against my own grain?
This was somewhat emphaised last week when I was pulled aside by my boss, informally, and spoken to about my hair. A haircut I incidentally presumed was relatively conservative by not just by my own standards, appeared misjudged. My boss who in all fairness did try and broach the subject in as “cool” a way as he knew how, told me it was considered inappropriate. I honestly didn’t see this coming, I already thought I’d sold out to 'the man', dressed that very day in a brand new suit that I had bought with the funds I would have spend on better ACDC tickets, had I not been trying so hard to conform.
The only saving grace that I can think of is that my boss, who isn’t aware of just how like my own father he is in the way he relates to me, didn’t ask me outright, he did it a way that left the final decision up to myself. If I am on cue here, and reading the conversational nuances correctly, he appeased my stubborn streak knowing that a better resolution would be achieved in the asking and not the telling. Or did I just dupe myself into towing the corporate line?
The hair is really just transference. I’m not really that bothered no matter how much I’ve played it up for laughs, I already had a penchant for wigs that I am now more than encouraged to indulge, what bothers me most was that I didn’t fight it. After a few tears, that were a by-product of yet another 'transferred issue', I was able to put it in perspective, this haircut, it is a path to a pre-Christmas pit stop in New York, a conduit to keeping my heater going, an opportunity to build on my miserable $2.75 savings account, a means to an end to pay for my white water rafting expedition this August in NZ. And yes, I am deeply aware that my seasonal choice was a markedly stupid one, but where was the 17 year old me, begging me to be true to myself, to not give into the masses?
Now the question is? Did watching 2009’s answer to the angst ridden The Crow of my own teenage years on a bleak and raining Sunday in June, feeling ill and cold, (always cold), exacerbate my goth-like pseudo-funeral of my soul? Or is the girl of my youth really dead? Have I deviated so far from the plan? I guess the most important question of all has to be, would the Erin of 1999 have been proud of the 27 year old she will have become at the close of this year? I haven’t decided yet, but let’s see if she resurrects herself before her potential ten year anniversary, crazy hair or no.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Lasting Impressions
There is all this malarkey floating around those “restore your inner fluffy bunny” websites suggesting we ‘never get a second chance at a first impression' *insert cheese queen, life coach voice*. I think this is complete balderdash; moreover, I’m relying on it. I make lousy first impressions. If I am going to make an offensive joke or controversial comment, burp, fart, fall, sing it’s going to be when I am making that all-important first impression. It’s what I do. Last night was a shinning example of how I can make an appalling first impression. Wait for it.
I went to a singles date night last night, not because I wish to cure my current single-dom (I really don’t!!!), I was rent-a-crowd for my mates first foray into organising said event, plus there was poker and booze. The promise of booze tends to ensure my attendance at any event which may have otherwise not engaged my enthusiasm. I won’t hold you in suspense, I didn’t win, I didn’t come close, I was pretty much out of the game shortly after it started, but I was definitely not the first, which at the end of the day, is a win for me. I lost my competitive streak the day my little brother, otherwise known as Mr Peunyverse grew to six-foot-three overnight; I remained at five-foot-three and still do.
Unfortunately it wasn’t my abysmal poker-man-ship that tarnished any first impression I made, it was my perhaps misguide sense of the hilarious that saw me describe myself on the registration form within my three word limit as “Noisy, Neurotic, Junkie”. Regrettably this was to be the tagline descriptor on my name badge. Opps. I have to plead ignorance here, I didn’t realise that I would be wearing my misnomer. In truth, I find this funny, especially when around the like minded, however, I think I may have missed the mark and said missed mark was my first impression. “Noisy, Neurotic, Junkie”.
Jumping ahead, I seemed to have made a little friend by the end of the night, lots of discreet back touching and a few more intimate arms-on-shoulders for photographs, while this was unreciprocated affection, the moral of the story here is that I obviously had my second chance and proved myself to be a cut above “junkie” even if that impression may have been “easy”, who knows?
I think there is a certain sense of nostalgia dating back to a first impression that may have not been an entirely accurate portrayal of the individual in question. An inquisitive friend/former colleague of mine recently asked me about the first impression she made on our team. I squirmed, tiptoed around the answer until eventually giving in, answered somewhat severely – “Intense. We thought you were intense”. The retaliation for this (in good humour of course) was informing me several of my former colleagues thought I was a bitch on their first encounter. Then the laughs ensued, for me this was actually a great compliment, I’m actually an old softie when you get to know me, but normally, I come of as a bit of a dim-wit on first meeting.
I have these thoughts painfully swimming around my mind at the moment. I’m starting a new job next week and more than the adorning dorky, impractical, corporate attire, the subdued newsreader haircut and the professional manner that I have to adopt, the thing I am packing it about most is having to make my first impression. You know all those ridiculous conversations you have to have about generic topics, like the weather, which will consist of me having to say “My yes, it was a little crisp at the station this morning” naturally moving on to where I live, “Oh, I reside in Emu Plains, it’s the bottom of the Blue Mountains” progressing to recoils in horror asking me if I mean the Emu Plains near Penrith, which will force me to reply “Yes, good man, the one and same!”. The conversation thus comes to a grinding halt where I can either not gage the conversation has stoped and keep going or do one of the following; burp, fart silently but stinky, fall or spill my bowl of baked beans down my front bringing attention to my Target Classic white shirt I got on sale for $18.99. First impression? Dumb-shit, westie chick, too tight to by lunch with odour problems and bad taste in fashion who DOESN’T SHUT UP. Sigh.
I’ve never been good at making small talk, whenever I do all I seem to achieve is displaying zero personality content. The weather, the public transport system (sans a string of expletives I would normally use), how $5.00 doesn’t go far anymore, how small mobile phones have become are all key features. I am a grandmother’s wet dream and my own worst nightmare. So gripped with this knowledge I have to march into a brand-new office come Thursday, with fifty fresh faced colleagues all full of expectation and all I’ll have to offer is “My, it was mighty chilly this morning and it’s not even winter yet!” let’s hope my second chance at a first impression is sans flatulence and baked bean mishaps. *Burps*.
I went to a singles date night last night, not because I wish to cure my current single-dom (I really don’t!!!), I was rent-a-crowd for my mates first foray into organising said event, plus there was poker and booze. The promise of booze tends to ensure my attendance at any event which may have otherwise not engaged my enthusiasm. I won’t hold you in suspense, I didn’t win, I didn’t come close, I was pretty much out of the game shortly after it started, but I was definitely not the first, which at the end of the day, is a win for me. I lost my competitive streak the day my little brother, otherwise known as Mr Peunyverse grew to six-foot-three overnight; I remained at five-foot-three and still do.
Unfortunately it wasn’t my abysmal poker-man-ship that tarnished any first impression I made, it was my perhaps misguide sense of the hilarious that saw me describe myself on the registration form within my three word limit as “Noisy, Neurotic, Junkie”. Regrettably this was to be the tagline descriptor on my name badge. Opps. I have to plead ignorance here, I didn’t realise that I would be wearing my misnomer. In truth, I find this funny, especially when around the like minded, however, I think I may have missed the mark and said missed mark was my first impression. “Noisy, Neurotic, Junkie”.
Jumping ahead, I seemed to have made a little friend by the end of the night, lots of discreet back touching and a few more intimate arms-on-shoulders for photographs, while this was unreciprocated affection, the moral of the story here is that I obviously had my second chance and proved myself to be a cut above “junkie” even if that impression may have been “easy”, who knows?
I think there is a certain sense of nostalgia dating back to a first impression that may have not been an entirely accurate portrayal of the individual in question. An inquisitive friend/former colleague of mine recently asked me about the first impression she made on our team. I squirmed, tiptoed around the answer until eventually giving in, answered somewhat severely – “Intense. We thought you were intense”. The retaliation for this (in good humour of course) was informing me several of my former colleagues thought I was a bitch on their first encounter. Then the laughs ensued, for me this was actually a great compliment, I’m actually an old softie when you get to know me, but normally, I come of as a bit of a dim-wit on first meeting.
I have these thoughts painfully swimming around my mind at the moment. I’m starting a new job next week and more than the adorning dorky, impractical, corporate attire, the subdued newsreader haircut and the professional manner that I have to adopt, the thing I am packing it about most is having to make my first impression. You know all those ridiculous conversations you have to have about generic topics, like the weather, which will consist of me having to say “My yes, it was a little crisp at the station this morning” naturally moving on to where I live, “Oh, I reside in Emu Plains, it’s the bottom of the Blue Mountains” progressing to recoils in horror asking me if I mean the Emu Plains near Penrith, which will force me to reply “Yes, good man, the one and same!”. The conversation thus comes to a grinding halt where I can either not gage the conversation has stoped and keep going or do one of the following; burp, fart silently but stinky, fall or spill my bowl of baked beans down my front bringing attention to my Target Classic white shirt I got on sale for $18.99. First impression? Dumb-shit, westie chick, too tight to by lunch with odour problems and bad taste in fashion who DOESN’T SHUT UP. Sigh.
I’ve never been good at making small talk, whenever I do all I seem to achieve is displaying zero personality content. The weather, the public transport system (sans a string of expletives I would normally use), how $5.00 doesn’t go far anymore, how small mobile phones have become are all key features. I am a grandmother’s wet dream and my own worst nightmare. So gripped with this knowledge I have to march into a brand-new office come Thursday, with fifty fresh faced colleagues all full of expectation and all I’ll have to offer is “My, it was mighty chilly this morning and it’s not even winter yet!” let’s hope my second chance at a first impression is sans flatulence and baked bean mishaps. *Burps*.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
It's the Final Countdown...do do do, do do do...
I've come to terms with the fact over the last year, I've gotten a bit porky, alright a bit more than 'a bit' porky, fortunately, no one reads this, because only two people know it exists, so my confession is not really, a confession, but hey ho. I've spent the last twelve months drinking heavily, in fact I have probably consumed more alcohol in the last twelve months then I have in the last twelve years, a recipe for liver damage? Probably. Fun? Fuckin ay!
I've enjoyed every minute of it, sans the time I publicly chundered over a tree out front my house with my house mates watching and when dealing with the nausea, headaches and abdomen cramps (and on occasion, behavioural embarrassment) that comes with the excesses of 40% proof, or in the case of Chartreuse, 70%. I learnt about wines this year too so have shaken it up a bit with a few crisp Sem Sav's and the inimitable goon for when the booze needs to go the distance and the wallet crapped out two weeks before payday - monthly pay, quite frankly, is a cunt of a thing.
I've developed quite a love for the old social lubricant. I enjoy drinking, I enjoy meeting new people when drinking, I enjoy the ease of the jokes, the conversation, the laughter when there are a few brew-ski's down the old hatch. It's now something I often crave, I love the warm feeling I get inside, the rise of heat in my cheeks and the way I walk head held high (until it turns into a stagger) when the VB is flowing. Would some boring twat declare this alcoholism? Probably, but I just don't think they get it.
Like a typical white, middle class kid, I come with baggage. That baggage came to the fore at the close of November 2006 when I found myself in a situation way above my head, but I didn't know how to ask for help. The decisions that I made were evidently the wrong ones, but lessons were learnt and at the end of the day, that is the prime result of a lousy episode in ones life, don't worry, I'm not going to philosophise any further, this isn't the Erin Winfrey show. My point is that my mother once told me that I was a hard person to love, sounds harsh when not in a context, but it came to the fore that I've never really been open about stuff, don't get me wrong, I bitch, moan and whinge like a trooper. I am whinny fucker most of the time, (endearing ay?) but I don't necessarily open up. This was never more evident that when I found myself in a position when I should have asked for help and I didn't.
I didn't learn this by 'working through' my problems... I actually learnt this with a beer in hand. The vodka flowed and as did the ease with which my emotions finally started creeping out, getting easier and easier. By the end, it was a veritable explosion of what I was going through, what I thought, what I was confused about, what I didn't know I knew, what I didn't know I didn't know I didn't know and all the questions I didn't think to ask, myself and more importantly, others.
So, with the burdens off my chest, a reigniting of my self confidence, a revitalised recognition of my inner strength and an acceptance of my own mistakes, I carried on the way someone in their mid twenties should, having fun. This is the first time in my entire life I shucked a few shackles and decided to embrace some wild abandon...it was thrilling, even more so then the new acquired ability to be able communicate.
So, what was the consequence of this "wild abandon"? I got a little porky and with that comes it's own sense of insecurity blah, blah, blah. Like any girl, I don't want to be the dropped meat pie of the group, so I've been talked into joining a gym. Not just any gym though, the big chain one, the ones with the back packs, bottles, sweat bands...that's right, the McDonalds of the gym world - Fitness First. I refuse to use the ridiculous back pack, but at $30 fucking dollars a week, I plan to use the clubs right up until I again fit into my wicked little wardrobe I acquired after two years of hedonism in England's capital - Camden Town.
I feel like I have completely sold out, not just in a supporting corporate giants, but to the 17 year old in me that didn't think body image should have so much stock in ones life and the 26 year old in me who struggles to see the attraction of such arbitrary task as peddling a stationary bike being screamed at by a cougar with horrendous acrylics and bad leggings or using a ski machine while staring at a white wall or a room full of vacuous males resembling condoms full of walnuts as opposed to homosapiens.
Alas, in about half an hour, I make my first trip. From 1pm today I am turning my back on booze for a while, I'll be forced to sacrifice the expulsion of intoxication for inanely stepping on and off a 10cm step. Instead of the duckling, I hope to be the smashed crab that turned into the swan, lets just hope I don't turn into the chowder. While this is supposedly the healthier life alternative, stay tuned to hear just how much carnage a goon deprived girl with the emotional capacity of a teaspoon can do. I am your social experiment.
I've enjoyed every minute of it, sans the time I publicly chundered over a tree out front my house with my house mates watching and when dealing with the nausea, headaches and abdomen cramps (and on occasion, behavioural embarrassment) that comes with the excesses of 40% proof, or in the case of Chartreuse, 70%. I learnt about wines this year too so have shaken it up a bit with a few crisp Sem Sav's and the inimitable goon for when the booze needs to go the distance and the wallet crapped out two weeks before payday - monthly pay, quite frankly, is a cunt of a thing.
I've developed quite a love for the old social lubricant. I enjoy drinking, I enjoy meeting new people when drinking, I enjoy the ease of the jokes, the conversation, the laughter when there are a few brew-ski's down the old hatch. It's now something I often crave, I love the warm feeling I get inside, the rise of heat in my cheeks and the way I walk head held high (until it turns into a stagger) when the VB is flowing. Would some boring twat declare this alcoholism? Probably, but I just don't think they get it.
Like a typical white, middle class kid, I come with baggage. That baggage came to the fore at the close of November 2006 when I found myself in a situation way above my head, but I didn't know how to ask for help. The decisions that I made were evidently the wrong ones, but lessons were learnt and at the end of the day, that is the prime result of a lousy episode in ones life, don't worry, I'm not going to philosophise any further, this isn't the Erin Winfrey show. My point is that my mother once told me that I was a hard person to love, sounds harsh when not in a context, but it came to the fore that I've never really been open about stuff, don't get me wrong, I bitch, moan and whinge like a trooper. I am whinny fucker most of the time, (endearing ay?) but I don't necessarily open up. This was never more evident that when I found myself in a position when I should have asked for help and I didn't.
I didn't learn this by 'working through' my problems... I actually learnt this with a beer in hand. The vodka flowed and as did the ease with which my emotions finally started creeping out, getting easier and easier. By the end, it was a veritable explosion of what I was going through, what I thought, what I was confused about, what I didn't know I knew, what I didn't know I didn't know I didn't know and all the questions I didn't think to ask, myself and more importantly, others.
So, with the burdens off my chest, a reigniting of my self confidence, a revitalised recognition of my inner strength and an acceptance of my own mistakes, I carried on the way someone in their mid twenties should, having fun. This is the first time in my entire life I shucked a few shackles and decided to embrace some wild abandon...it was thrilling, even more so then the new acquired ability to be able communicate.
So, what was the consequence of this "wild abandon"? I got a little porky and with that comes it's own sense of insecurity blah, blah, blah. Like any girl, I don't want to be the dropped meat pie of the group, so I've been talked into joining a gym. Not just any gym though, the big chain one, the ones with the back packs, bottles, sweat bands...that's right, the McDonalds of the gym world - Fitness First. I refuse to use the ridiculous back pack, but at $30 fucking dollars a week, I plan to use the clubs right up until I again fit into my wicked little wardrobe I acquired after two years of hedonism in England's capital - Camden Town.
I feel like I have completely sold out, not just in a supporting corporate giants, but to the 17 year old in me that didn't think body image should have so much stock in ones life and the 26 year old in me who struggles to see the attraction of such arbitrary task as peddling a stationary bike being screamed at by a cougar with horrendous acrylics and bad leggings or using a ski machine while staring at a white wall or a room full of vacuous males resembling condoms full of walnuts as opposed to homosapiens.
Alas, in about half an hour, I make my first trip. From 1pm today I am turning my back on booze for a while, I'll be forced to sacrifice the expulsion of intoxication for inanely stepping on and off a 10cm step. Instead of the duckling, I hope to be the smashed crab that turned into the swan, lets just hope I don't turn into the chowder. While this is supposedly the healthier life alternative, stay tuned to hear just how much carnage a goon deprived girl with the emotional capacity of a teaspoon can do. I am your social experiment.
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