Sunday, February 21, 2010

My Sunday Life Letter

For those of you who haven't read the Gottlieb article which got my knickers in a knot, in a nutshell it said women are too picky, we have a heightened sense of entitlement and should just settle for whatever is available before it's too late. To top it off, this poppy cock was published on Valentine's Day. There was also a supporting article about how author Tara Moss waltzed onto the internet and found a husband, like it was the easiest thing she's ever done and we should all give it a go. Err ok, sure. One husband from the husband shop please. Too easy.

Anyway, here is my letter... this one's dedicated to all my single ladies! All my single ladies! 

Thanks Lori Gottlieb for telling thousands of single girls on Valentines Day exactly what we didn’t want to hear – we’re too picky when it comes to men. We already felt bad enough sipping our Sunday coffees on our lonesome, and then to open the paper and be told it’s all our fault. They may as well have handed out razor blades with that issue.

Although the article raised some valid points about being more realistic when it comes to finding The One, it failed to shed light on the fact that some men simply are jerks and will dump you quicker than a sack of… well you know the rest.

These days, all it takes to be Prince Charming in my book is someone who doesn't ask me back to his house within an hour of meeting him. For girls who do want excitement (at least in the beginning) and don’t want to settle for the mundane use my simple gauge when dating – if a dude doesn't give you butterflies, he's not worth it.

Heightened sense of entitlement? I think not. I believe we can find and deserve our equal counterpoints. Too optimistic? Well I'm only in my early 20s and definitely not ready to read such a pessimistic article on Valentines Day, and I'm definitely not ready to throw in the towel and trawl the Internet for Mr Right.

My good friend Sacky cheekily messaged me this morning saying, "I just read your letter. Do I give you butterflies?" I replied, "You're a douche. No, you don't. But I hope your girlfriend does!" 

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Confession: I Really Enjoy Babysitting, Maybe Even More Than Going Out

It's a Saturday night, I'm babysitting, and I couldn't be happier.

And it's not the fact I get to raid people's fridges, snuggle up on the couch and watch Foxtel, all the while being paid that I enjoy it. It's really because all the kids I look after are so ridiculously cute.

Today I went out for baby cinos with the family I used to nanny for. It was bliss. They have become like my second family and I miss them so much now I don't look after them once a week. Baby Georgia has just started to walk, Campbell is growing into a real little boy, Lucy's cuddles melt my heart and Pip just glows with love - she is the most amazing mum.

Tonight Harry and I made a cubby house and ate pretend chocolate cake.

This easily beats waking up on Sunday morning with a raging hang over.

Never Judge a Woman by her Foot Size

One of the joys of working full-time means I can now treat myself to things I usually wouldn't. After a massive bout of shoparrhea today (I seriously couldn't stop shopping) I decided to get a 'pedi' as my feet were looking quite barbaric (I'll spare you the details).

It was suppose to be a relaxing escape. As I dozed off in my comfy massage chair, the lady next to me interrupted.

HER: Sorry love, don't mind my asking but how old are you? It's just... well... I looked at the size of your feet and thought, my God! Why is that little girl getting a pedicure without her mother here? But then I looked at the rest of you and thought you must be at least 16.

ME: I am 21, 22 next week actually.

HER: Really?

ME: Yep, last time I checked.

HER: But you have the smallest feet I've ever seen, and such a young looking face.

ME: Just becuase I have small feet doesn't mean I'm young. I'm mortifyed you thought I should be here with my mother! Do you mind me asking how many sexual partners you've had?

Ok so I didn't say that last part, but I wish I did. It really pisses me off that strangers are so comfortable to comment on my physique like it's their business. Thanks for ruining my pedicure lady.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

My Valentine's Weekend....

consisted of watching some A grade telly. Bridezillas on Arena reminded me I would rather be single than marry a red neck named Wayde who calls me a peasant and demands I arrive on a pony to our ceremony, with a gun tucked down my cleavage (I am not making this up, people like this actually exist and are willing to let cameras film their ignorant slurs). 

Flicking over to Animal Planet, I was then treated to an informing doco about wild sex. Once again I realised I'd much rather be single than run the risk of being eaten after I make sweet, sweet love to a tarantula, yikes.
After watching animals mate then kill one another, 20 Acts of Love Gone Wrong on E! finally confirmed that my hiatus from the dating world could be a wise choice. Love can make the smartest of people do crazy things. Take NASA astronaut Lisa Nowak for example, who wore an adult sized nappy to save time while she frantically drove hundreds of kilometers across America to confront the other woman.

But then I snuggled up in bed and read the most poignant article in my favourite magazine, Frankie, on why being single sometimes sucks. It was absolutely spot on and so beautifully written it gave me goose bumps. 

"How can we meet new people? Us loners. Us washed-up lovers. How can we tune into the frequencies of those who would hold our arms as we picked out videos? Who would add a 'kiss me' to our things to do lists and watch the ground for us as we text-walked? What combination of words and actions could unlock the vault of chance that would lead us to a universe of warmth beneath covers and the body lock of sweetheart sweat - the autumn-fall of thoughts leading to the timeless utterance, 'I'm so glad I found you.' How can we find those we'd be so glad we'd found?

We go to gigs, parties, we flick about on Facebook. Everyone looks occupied and unattainable. The beautiful people have their friends, their drinks in hand, they don't need us and our over-thought desperation. We over-thought it already. Our sentences are like high-school clay, all fingerprints and lumpy joints. What could we possibly offer? We are on the outside of the painting looking in. Colours are creamy and expressions are effortless. It's a dream in there. How could we approach? We are covered in shadows. 

Within a typical day the average single person will create over 186 conflicting thoughts about love. They may tell themselves things like, 'This is a good time to be single' within the same stanza as, 'I'm horny, everything's fucked.' This is normal, and is reflective of the human experience. We are wise-cracking muddles all wrapped up tight in string, like Kris Kringles waiting to be given to the right person. We are store-bought bundles of poetic observations, clever humour and kisses. Oh dear god we are good kissers. Did we mention this? Upon the well-timed mouth we'll make you forget every insult you've ever been given. We'll take you up in a hot-air balloon and land you in a forest of flowers, make you biscuits of the ripest honey and read you the funniest and saddest story, in voices soft as rain.

You just have to find us. We just have to find you." (Excerpt from Hopeless and Romantic, by Justin Heazlewood in Frankie Magazine, March - April issue 2010)

So maybe I don't want to be with a red-neck, or a stabby tarantula, or a diaper wearing maniac. But I'd definitely like to have a little piece of what Justin laments over.... Wouldn't anyone?

New Slang

Reversey: Adjective; used to describe those who have regressed in looks. For example, Billy Bob was a babe in high school but now he has that nasty-arse receder and unsightly paunch. He is a total reversey.

Forwardsy: Adjective; used to describe those who have progressed in looks. For example, Neville was the pimply chubby boy growing up but these days he could be mistaken for Matt Damon. What a forwardsy!

Slashy: Adjective; used to describe pretentious, arty wankers with no exact direction in life. For example, I'd like you to meet my friend Mason he is a model, slash actor, slash installation artist.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

I am a Sucker for....

boys who read books on public transport.And yes, before you even say anything I realise this contradicts my previous rant but a girl can still look.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

All Hail the Cookie

"To every complex problem there is an easy answer; and it is usually wrong."

You know my life so well, Mr Fortune Cookie.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Dear Male Race,

this is just a little note to let you know I've lost complete faith in you and will be terminating my interactions with you until further notice. I'll give it to you, you're pretty to look at, fun to dance with and don't even get me started on your scruffy hair and skinny jeans.

But Male Race, you suck. You never call us when you say you will, your looks always supersede your intelligence, and these days the only place to meet you is out on a bender - which is a very tragic context to begin something. Cue the embarrassing conversation: "So where did you guys meet?" .... "Oh, off our faces in the Cross," mmmm romantic.

I promise I wasn't always such a Negative Nelly. Once upon a time I believed in all that wanky romance fluff. But in the past six months I have met more jerks than I can count. My personal favourite happened the other weekend, when I met an actor SLASH student (I think I need to ban myself from slashys). He was an Eager Beaver:

HIM: Do you have a boyfriend?

ME: No, do you have a girlfriend?

HIM: No.

ME: Why do you ask?

HIM: Because I’m interested.

We swapped numbers and he texted immediately. Awesome, I thought. I’m in! But then the communication suddenly stopped. Thanks to Facebook my dignity isn’t so damaged. After reading his relationship status it turns out Mr Eager Beaver actually has a GIRLFRIEND. He must have had a brain freeze and forgotten WHILE HE STUCK HIS TONGUE DOWN MY THROAT. Nice. Had I known this minute detail I wouldn’t have let him kiss me several times.

I don't believe in fairy tales and am not waiting for Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet, because the closest thing to a Prince in my books is someone who can spell properly, has good taste in music, doesn’t call me babe or ask me back to his house an hour after I meet him.

So thanks for the memories, it’s been shit house. If you want to send me hate mail, bring it
on! Please send it to my new address -


Saint Theresa’s Convent,
100 Ashby Road North Sydney.
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