Gettin My Happy On

I was wondering if I'm happy.  Because we all "just want to be happy" right?  No major life goals or anything.  Just happiness.  Which I think is about the same thing as Miss World hoping for world peace.  Nobody ever wakes up one day and spends the whole day in blissful recognition that their world is now a sound place, they have realised personal satisfaction and are indeed, happy.  Okay, the only exception to this is that ridiculously exciting first three weeks of lust wherein you may wake up feeling happy, spend all day feeling happy and go to bed feeling happy, but somewhere in the back of your head you know it's getting to be slim pickings in the underpants drawer and your mobile phone is about to be disconnected due to late payments.

But whilst I'm not running around claiming to have attained happiness in life (it still does seem to be a future focused goal), I don't think I'm unhappy most of the time.  Don't get me wrong.  There are white hot flashes of epic unhappiness that regularly darken my doorway and send a somewhat intimidating scowl to my brow.  But on the whole, as an average, with a bit of give and take, generally speaking, I'm mostly okay.

But my joy comes in small packages.  Nothing earth shattering happens frequently in my life and if I sat around waiting for great moments, I'd be disappointed.  But there is happiness to be found in the small stuff.  It might be fleeting.  It might be brief laughter.  A shared smile.  But it exists in urban settings.  And I am going to highlight but a few I have witnessed.  Please feel free to disagree if you don't find the following in the slightest way to be smile provoking:

The moment when you cross paths with a complete stranger.  Literally.  As in your paths are crossed.  You go to step around and they step the same way.  This mental dance can literally go on for 3-4 sidesteps.

You change handbags to suit your outfit and find a cheeky $20 from a night out long ago.

You score the most unbelievably good car space on a Saturday morning when you've got to be in and out in five minutes.

Someone in the toilet cubicle next to you asks meekly, "Do you have any toilet paper in there?"  And you do.

Someone famous responds to one of your tweets.  Oh shut up you miserable old farts.  Twitter is not that bad.

You see a small toddler start gathering speed on a small downhill slope.  You know they are going to faceplant and it shouldn't be funny when they eventually fall but it is.

Maggie Beer "Burnt Fig and Honeycomb" Ice Cream.

A really good Mojito.

Stripy clothing.

Reading any Dr Seuss book to a gathered group of children.  Read it with a performance quality.

Dressing up as someone else.  Being a different character.

Seeing the look on a friend's face when they open the gift you found for them which happens to be perfect and special and so hard to find.

The moment someone first starts laughing through their really sad tears.

Watching Alan Alda in any episode of MASH.  Because it is literally the best show of all time (Mad Men is its only competitor) and Hawkeye Pearce is the most charismatic man that never existed.

Clean sheets under a naked body.

Tulips. Peonies.

Nick Earls and every book he has ever written.

Tea cups.

Wristwatches on the toned arms of men who have their shirt sleeves rolled up.

Old ladies on dancefloors.  Old men on dancefloors.

Seeing old people walk along holding hands.

Aretha Franklin.  

It's everywhere and it's happening all the time.  It's happening so many times a day that we forget to remember that it's all good shit.  I know that I sound like I'm preaching but this post is for myself as much as it is for you my friends.  I need to remind myself that things are good even when it's mostly crap.  I'm not climbing Everest, I'm not in love, I have a mortgage and a job that really feels like hard work at the moment, I don't go to Ivy bar and swim in their pool, I haven't won any money and I should probably think more about a superannuation plan.  But my boring little world is full of great stuff.  Things.  Everywhere. And yours is too.

Do I look desperate??

Lately I have been lumbering under the misconception that I am a desperate, egg-incubating, husband hungry soon to be infertile, loser.  Well quite frankly, I'm jack of it.

Apparently all one needs to be painted with the "Desperate" brush is to be female, single and in your thirties.  God help you if you occasionally seek the company of men in whatever form that might take.  According to my reputation, if I have just met a single man I am thinking the following:

"Hmm.  I wonder if he's a commitment phobe?  I wonder if he's ready to settle down and have kids in the next few months?  Hmm, I wonder if he would be happy to get married as well as donate sperm?  Hmm, I wonder if he wants to meet my parents next Sunday?"

Couldn't it be just as likely that I am thinking this instead?

"Hmm, I think it's my round.  I really feel like a beer but I'd probably better order a girly drink instead.  I wonder if my tits are looking ok...  Oh shit, he's a legs and arse man, well that doesn't bode well.  Hmm, I'm actually feeling a little bit pissed.  Did I just slur then?  I wonder where he got that shirt?  My brother could do with something a bit like that in his wardrobe.  Have I made any sense in the last five minutes?  I wonder what he likes in bed....probably a bit of left of field I reckon..."

And that's pretty much it.  I realise my internal dialogue is far from intellectual.  But neither is it about forming lasting foundations for my future family.

So to the people who keep giving me pitying glances.  And to the people who keep saying boring, inane, shit like, "He's out there somewhere..." when all I've asked is for you to pass the chips. Can you all just back off? If it happens, it happens.  If it doesn't, I'm still a really great person.  On my own.  All by myself.  Breeder or non-breeder.  Married or single.

This so called "air of desperation" that is sometimes discussed in relation to women of my age is stigmatising bullshit.  I refuse to be painted that way.  So let it be said.  I don't want to marry anyone or have anyone's babies.  I just like men.  There is nothing "desperate" about that.

I just desperately need a drink.  To the fridge!

Not A Lot On

Someone asked me last night: "So what do you do when you're not working?"

It was such an unsettling question.  I mumbled something incoherent in answer but below is the truth.

• I  sit and drink coffee and watch people and try and assess whether their lives are more interesting than mine
• I listen to my friends talk about their relationships and I offer advice which has basically not a leg to stand on as I am unattached and therefore under-qualified
• I buy clothing to make myself feel fabulous for a few hours, then I panic about the money I have spent and try and make amends by taking my lunch to school for a few days
• I drive around in my car listening and singing to the radio.  Sometimes I imagine I am at an audition and I surprise even myself with my vocal talents.  I do the facial expressions and everything.  I "own" it.  I have, at times, been caught by other drivers performing my imagined scenario.
• I clean my flat but I have to be hating or resenting someone to really do it well.  My anger is a vehicle for really thorough cleaning.  Don't worry, I hate or resent someone at least weekly.
• I hold my phone in my hand and try to think of witty things to post on Facebook or Twitter.  I type and delete hundreds of status updates.  I also over-analyse my obsession with social networking.
• I think about food and what I can do with it
• I think about wine and what I can do with it
• I think about sex and how I never seem to have it anymore
• I attend rehearsals for a musical I'm in and I think about whether I'm actually good or just okay but probably better suited to some sort of drag show. 
• I look in the mirror and consider plastic surgery. Until five years ago, I was always a hater of this kind of self-mutiny / self-mutilation.  Now I understand why women do what they do.  I can't afford it.
• I call to apologise to the friends and members of my family for whom I have once again forgotten to call for their birthday.
• I watch a lot of porn and worry about what it's doing to my hard drive
• I do crosswords in the Herald and play online scrabble and think that it must be good for keeping early dementia at bay
• I have increasingly tame nights out with my friends where we dress beautifully and look amazing and NEVER meet any single men.
• I worry that I will never have another idea for this blog.  I worry that I have nothing to say.  I worry that I say stuff anyway
• I spend quite a bit of time bitching about other people and how they shit me/annoy me/are tight-arses/have awful girlfriends/wear ridiculous clothes/need to address their body odour situation/can't spell to save themselves/can't pronounce certain basic words/are obsessed with their annoying children/are inconsistent and make poor life decisions regularly/are too skinny/are bad drunks/are boring and conservative and judgmental. (hahahaha....how ironic)

But I wouldn't tell anyone any of the above.  Nor would I tell them that I:

• love playing with my nieces and nephews even though I don't do it enough
• love hanging out with my friend Jane and watching her paint and repaint and repaint her nails
• love lying on my bed reading or writing
• love reading the reactions to my blog and checking my stats
• love chatting to my new friend Ruby about how we are the same and have never met www.rubywildflower.wordpress.com
• love singing my guts out with my friends to Air Supply or Heart or some such crap band from the eighties
• love having a good cry about how I'm so not as fabulous as I thought I was but will be okay because everyone who really gets me still loves me even though I can be a selfish nasty bitch

So there is the truth about what I'm doing with my time.  It's pretty lame really.  I hope it helps you feel better about your own home truths.  ;)

No, not everyone's a winner.

Last year a kid in my class stood up in front of his peers for his weekly "news".  Much to my boredom he dragged behind him a clinking sack of what I guessed were trophies.  Sure enough, out they came.  One after the other they were lined up along the edge of the whiteboard.  There were about seven trophies.  Knowing this child was somewhat challenged in the coordination department I was unable to hide my surprise. "Wow, what are these for?!!"

The child pointed to each trophy and named each sport or activity attached to the trophies.  "This one is for OzTag last year, this one is for Soccer this year, Soccer last year, Cricket last year etc etc etc".

I asked. "Yes but what are they for?"

He replied, "I already told you, this one's for OzTag, this one's for Cricket..."

I repeated, "Yes, yes but what are they for?? What did you win?  Best and Fairest? Most Improved?"

The child just looked at me blankly.  "What? No. Everyone on the team got a trophy. We all got one."

And there it is.  This is the age of "Everyone's a Winner." Even when you're a loser.  Or in the middle somewhere.  You don't have to actually win anything to get first prize.  Participation is as valued as winning.

When I explained to the class that I did not own a single trophy, they let out a collective gasp.  I had unveiled myself as a social and sporting pariah.  Clearly, they assumed that I had not attempted a single sport as a child, for if I had, and being the crusty old lady that I am now, I would have vaults stacked full of the things.

Following last year's swimming carnival presentation, a mother approached me, dragging her wailing seven year old behind her.  Clearly outraged and on for a fight, this woman proceeded to harangue me for neglecting to present participation ribbons to each and every student at the school.  Her son had no ribbons to speak of and was traumatised beyond belief.

So I said to her, "Okay lady, I'm going to give everyone a ribbon.  So they all think they are great swimmers.  Even though half of them think dog paddle is an actual stroke.  The kids who train four hours a week (as sick as that is for a seven year old) won't mind that their first ribbon is as common as mud and not worth the vinyl it's printed on but yeah....everyone should get a ribbon for being...present.  Yep.  Good idea."

Ok, I didn't say that.  What I actually said was, "Look lady, your son can't swim for shit.  What he's really good at is back-chatting his teacher and being a smart-arse, which may not earn him any ribbons now but might see him heading down a successful career path as a politician.  What I suggest is that you take your son home and explain to him that he needs to harden the fuck up. Because the reality of the situation is that he didn't win.  He didn't come second or third.  He came fourth.  And that's just tough luck.  Sometimes we don't win.  Sometimes we don't place.  Sometimes we accept that we aren't brilliant at everything.  That we can be really crap at some stuff and fantastic at other things.  Sometimes, some of us may even have to accept a life where we get pretty used to other people winning.  Lots more than we do.

"And that lesson is all about building "RESILIENCE".  Because if your son crumbles and sulks every time he isn't rewarded or compensated for not winning, he will be a crap adult.  The kind of arsehole who never congratulates another on their success.  The kind of boring human who doesn't know how to really celebrate true success.  The kind of sad person who expects everything and brings nothing. So no.  I am not giving him a ribbon."

Ok, so I didn't actually say that either.

What I said was, "Um, right, yes, I think those ribbons are on back order from the printers or something."

Epic Fails of My Life

So after my last post caused widespread upset and offense, I decided that it was in poor taste, not very fair and undeniably, an epic fail.


I lay awake worrying about it until I decided I would just learn from the experience and add it to the list of my other misdemeanors and epic fails of the past.

And so readers, I have decided to balance out the scales a little by sharing with you some other of my epic fails. Hopefully you are entertained by at least one of my little anecdotes.  As you read, try and imagine the level of humiliation one might experience following an event of this nature, and then laugh as you remember that only a truly stupid person would allow it to happen.

I once attempted to flirt with a guy whilst grocery shopping.  I decided it might be fun to throw witty banter in his general direction whilst "skating" with my hips balancing on the trolley handle.  This works well when the trolley is heavy and weighed down with groceries.  One can have quite the pleasant journey along a supermarket aisle.  Unfortunately on this occasion, we had only covered the fruit and veg sections of the supermarket and the trolley was unable to counter my weight.  Needless to say, within an instant, I found myself pinned on my back by an inverted supermarket trolley.  Apples and oranges rolled past my head as I processed this unfortunate downturn of luck.  Looking down on me was my crush who (with much pity and some embarrassment) said, "That was really uncool."

I once decided that I didn't like having a widow's peak.  My aversion dated back to being forced to play the witch in playground games of "Witches and Fairies".  Of course someone has to be the witch, and being afflicted with a widow's peak means that one is immediately shunned to the coven.  As an adult, I justified my distaste for this inconveniently positioned hairline as limiting to my modern look.  There was no way I was going to be able to pull off the much adored Gwyneth Platrow pixie cut with a whopping big arrow head of hair pointing in the direction of my fairly ordinary nose.  So, in a late night, mirror staring moment, I shaved it off.  Yeah.  I did.  And for the next year I was forced to explain myself to many a confused hair stylist.  "You did what??!!"  Let's just say I had something very odd growing out of my head for some time.

I once skipped a whole page of dialogue whilst on stage.  Whilst the plot went out the window and my fellow thespians struggled madly to establish some sense of order, I was fixed wholeheartedly on saying my favourite line in the script.  You can imagine my disappointment when my hilarious comedy moment fell flat as a pancake as the audience members whispered in confused tones to each other.  I walked off stage, rolling my eyes and muttering, "Shit audience tonight huh?".

I once left seven kids in a classroom reading room and took the other 23 to the local oval for sport.  We were gone an hour.  It wasn't until we were almost back at the school (a good 15 minute walk away) that I realised I was missing seven boys.  As my voice escalated in panic, a couple of the kids in my class said, "Oh yeah, you left the green group in the reading room."  We were gone an hour.  An hour!!!  On return, the boys waved from the playground lunch area.  "You forgot us!!  Hahahahaha."

I once had a tampon fall out of my pocket in the high school canteen line.  I was 16.  I have no idea if anyone saw it but people began pointing and laughing at it lying on the asphalt.  I joined in of course.  "Oh my god (pre-OMG days obviously), what loser dropped that tampon?!! That is SO wrong."

So you see, I have had some absolute shockers. In fact, I should re-title this post "Epic Fails of My Life: Part One".  Because I have enough material here to write a thesis.

No. I don't have a type.

In the space of a year I have been attracted to an large number of men.  There's nobody in particular that has the focus of my attention at this point in time, however it needs to be said that I probably find myself attracted to new men every day.

When I say attracted, I am not signing my life away or anything.  I mean, there may not even be any actual interaction with that individual.

What is interesting is the variety.

Sometimes even I am flabbergasted by what catches my eye.  Whilst my friends will tell you I'm a sucker for a hot nerd, I submit that I do not, and will never have, a type.

As proof I offer the following list of people to whom I have found myself (strangely at times) attracted.  It is quite possible that my gentlemen readers might indeed find themselves on this list.  If you do recognise yourself, please don't be scared.  The attraction may very well have been fleeting.  I may never have intended to act on it.  I am fully aware of your unavailability and make no attempt at securing your affection.  I ask that you merely accept it for what it is:  A nod of appreciation.

So here goes.  In no particular order, over the past year I have found myself attracted to:

* A director of a play I was in.  I liked that he taught me something new.  I was also a little scared of him and that is a rare thing for me.  He was probably one of the more charismatic people I've met lately.

* A guy who plays guitar and several other instruments and is one of the most quirky, odd guys I've met.  He gives off this vibe of intense nonchalance which I find engaging if at times bizarre and hard to read.  He falls into the Talent Hot category which my friend and I have discussed at length.

* A tradesman.  Actually, several tradesmen.  There is something undeniably sexy about men who are useful with tools.  They are generally good with their hands and extremely masculine.  A special nod of thanks to whomever invented the Bonds wife-beater.

* A DILF from school.  Actually, several DILFs from school.  See previous post for further explanation.

* The guy who is renovating the flat next door to mine.  He isn't Swedish but I pretend he is.  He wears overalls and cleans his paintbrushes outside my bedroom window.  He has one of the best asses I've seen in a long time.  He also has about five degrees.  Handy and clever.

* Craig Silvey.  The guy who wrote Jasper Jones.  I don't even know what he looks like but this was my favourite book of the year and whoever was genius enough to pen this book already has my heart.

* A Kiwi lawyer/surfer who I went out with on what I thought was a great date. He was irreverent and took the piss out of me on one or two occasions.  I like a bit of that.  He never called and therefore was "Not that into me".

* A small Scottish lad with a broken heart.  A very complicated situation.  Heh heh.

* A smart guy living in a shitty part of Sydney, who is clever but pretends not to be.  He lifts weights and has a lot of silver chains happening.  A total shocker.

* A friend's boyfriend's wayward but very funny brother.  Possibly the biggest smart arse I've met.  Smart and a car crash at the same time.  A wasted mind.

* A guy who I met a few years ago and haven't seen since.  He moved to Melbourne and his wife is having their first baby.  He is just lovely in every way.  He's attractive because he never pretends to be anything but exactly who he is.  His Lego obsession is slightly odd though.  I follow him on Facebook and Twitter and he always makes me laugh.  When I understand what he is saying, that is.

* Christina Hendricks.  Ok, so she's not a bloke.  But she is just so beautiful.

So You tell me. Is there a pattern?  I can't see one.

Keeping up with Kissing

I've noticed some recent changes in kissing trends recently.

Apparently we don't shake hands with anyone anymore.  It has been my experience that kissing has replaced the introductory handshake in many social situations.  The only exception I can find for this is the workplace, where since none of us are really happy to see anyone at work, we want to keep touch to a minimum.  Lately it seems I'm kissing everyone and as I'm leaning in to kiss them on the cheek I am also saying, "It's so nice to meet you."  Well it must be nice to meet them otherwise why would I feel the need to attach my lips to their head?

There's a worrying stage to any kiss.  It's the unspoken moment of acknowledgement that both parties are somehow going to have to participate for it to work.  The introductory kiss is made more awkward if one party has ignorantly and unfashionably gone in for a handshake. To their surprise and distress they are likely to have their body literally dragged in for the kiss.  I love when this is followed by comments made to dilute the nervous tension in the air.  "Hahahaha! Oh we're so European these days..."

More awkward than the hello kiss is the goodbye kiss when you really don't know someone.  You can imagine the situation can't you?  You turn up at a barbeque with friends and you may have been introduced to someone at a distance as you arrive.  You probably spend the day talking to a small group of people and then when it comes time to leave you go around the room kissing everyone you know.  It is then that you realise there is only one person in the room you don't know at all.  You were told each other's names three hours ago but you literally haven't said a word to them since "hello".  You have kissed every single person in the room goodbye.  Every single person.  And here you have arrived at the last unknown soldier.  Do you just wave and say "See ya"?  I have often kissed this person because I don't want them to feel left out.  The poor bastard is thinking, "Please lady, don't do it, I don't need your pity."

And now to my favourite...

The "We Are Going To Have To Have Sex Now" Kiss.

This is for the over thirties only folks.  Those of you in your twenties will still recognise the kiss but it might have a different name.  The Pash.  The French kiss.  The Tongue sambo. The Tonsil Tickler.  Or The Dance Floor Hack.

This type of kissing is a strange thing.  Somehow it can be the most erotic, pleasurable and sensuous of experiences.  Yet it has the potential to be messy, unhealthy and uncomfortable as well. Personally, I love it.  Have always done.  Once you let yourself get your head beyond what it is you are actually doing with your mouth and the mouth of the other person, it is the sexiest thing you can do with a person. Well almost.

In your thirties this kiss is basically a gate way to sex.  For married people, I believe it is somewhat of a "Do Not Pass Go/Do not collect $200" situation.  That meaning, if both parties let the kiss happen, it means they both have to follow through and have sex.  NOT that this should be a bad thing (please refer to my earlier post).  I have friends who will avoid this type of kissing for this reason.  They miss it.  They want to kiss in a sexual way without it leading to sex.  Alas, it is impossible.

For the over-thirties single person, engaging in this type of kissing only serves as a reminder of what you would like to be doing more often.  So you will also be thinking a lot about sex and will probably try and make it happen shortly after.

I recall that in my twenties, it was still possible to meet someone and kiss them in this way, and not have sex.  It seems a long time ago and I'm happy to hear of any changes to this status.

In your teens, pashing is all about numbers.  You need to go out there and kiss as many people as you can.

Someone recently told me that I didn't seem like a hugger.  Well unless you are my smelly great aunt or a really revolting sleazy man, you're right.  I'm a kisser.