Punching above weight and getting KO'd.

Do you ever have those days where you are convinced that you are a really attractive person? No really.  Have you ever left the house and thought, damn, I look good.  I'm actually a really good looking person.  I've been underselling myself for years.  Actually, now that I review it, I might even go so far as to label myself sexy today. (Just go with it kids, I'll reality base in a paragraph or two).

So one leaves the house and enters the world with a newly found spring in one's step.  Eye contact is made with the devilishly handsome and maintained for just that second too long.  Outfits selected from the racks are just beyond one's normal safety zone of comfort and practicality.  One walks tall with shoulders back and breasts (yes I know I go on about them) heading in a forward direction.

And then, you see a mirror.

And there it is.  That "Ah shit" feeling.  Is that what I really look like??  And it's like you've just met yourself for the first time in thirty-something years and had actually no idea of your appearance.  It's actually a sad little sort of disappointment.  It's like your head is reminding you of the reality of your situation.  Um, yes, sorry to put it bluntly but you are indeed average looking.  Your head has many flaws and your body is slowly accepting the idea that an investment in cosmetic surgery is no longer something that one might mock.

So it was in one of these moments that my friend Rocket and I decided we were punching above weight.  And worse still, that we hadn't thrown a punch in ages.  We just seem to like men who are way more attractive than ourselves.  Perhaps we should carry a hand mirror next time we sit on the beach and giggle at the guy in the budgie smugglers.  Or perhaps I should ask him out.  :)

Dear Santa...here's what I need.

Dear Santa

Here is my list of stuff that I want. Fortunately for you and unfortunately for me I've not been naughty at all lately so you had better deliver.

1. I would like my hangovers to get better each time rather than worse. I would like to wake up after two or three wines and spring out of bed like the eighteen year old shop assistants do. You know the ones? They are irritating in their bubbly, effervescent and completely manufactured interest in your life. Yet you just know they were bouncing off the walls four hours ago on Jaeger Bombs.

2. I would like my arse crack to desist in its mission of world domination. Stupidly I have a mirror in front of my loo at home. When I stand up I often think, "It could be worse, things aren't too hideous, let me just check the behind view....Jesus WEPT!! How massive is my arse??!"

3. I would like the producers of modern porn to start hiring attractive men. It can't be a rule of nature that only ugly men have big penises. Why should women have to watch ugly men have sex? I mean, if Bambi or whatever her name is, is going to sigh and moan and scream about the guy she's with, it's going to be a lot more convincing if he doesn't look like the 50 year old roadie from a Guns and Roses concert.

4. I would like to be attracted to someone who is attracted to me. I know this is asking a lot Santa. And I know that there really aren't that many fish in the sea. But it seems to me a little cruel that I have no trouble getting the attention of the 65 year old guy with a limp and a missing tooth who takes the reading from my electricity meter, yet the men I (rarely) meet for whom I feel an instant spark are usually approaching me to ask me about whether my friend is single.

5. I would like someone to invent a decent umbrella. Raincoats are ridiculous. Umbrellas are annoying, inefficient, painful to carry and only protect your upper third from rain. How is it that we are now in 2010 and we still have inadequate protection from precipitation?!

6. I would like my blog post to reach 100000 hits. I want it viral. I want the world. I want the whole world. I want everyone to realise without me typing it, that I just stole the last two lines from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

7. I want someone to invent small talk that isn't boring. They should write a book that becomes so universally accepted that it will one day be fine to start a conversation in the following manner:

"Hi nice to meet you. Did you mean for your hair to look like that when you left home?"

"Hi. No actually, a bird shat on it on the way and I had to find a public toilet and hand dryer. So are you aware that I only want to meet you because my mother is concerned that I don't put myself out there enough and I just want her to stop nagging?"

"Yeah, that's fine. I'm kind of hoping you'll introduce me to your friend anyway. She has great tits and I bet she goes like the clappers."

"People tell me she does although she doesn't really go for men who look like David Hasselhoff when he was in Knight Rider so I'm not sure how you'll do."

"Cool, well when I get bored talking to you, do you reckon you could introduce me anyway?"

"Sure, it'll be a laugh for both of us won't it?"

"Exactly"

8. I want a national DILF day. I'm not really sure how this would work but it would have something to do with there being an amnesty on approaching DILFs and saying the great unsaid. "Excuse me, but do you even realise how hot you are right now? I mean, there aren't many men who can carry a small child and a pool pony at the same time and look sexy, but you do."

9. I want Johanna Griggs removed from my television screen. Is there a show that that woman hasn't done?? She's a massive cheese ball with seriously wide shoulders and boring hair.

10. I want re-gifting to become an accepted past-time. So instead of lame office organised Kris Kringle, you have to re-gift something of your own. This is me doing my bit for the environment. It's also my way of getting rid of the hideous stuff I've been given over the years. I've never been good at faking excitement so I'm not sure why people insist on giving me ugly and stupid things for Christmas. I'm sorry I made you cry but don't wrap things in duck-egg blue boxes and expect anything but scorn if it isn't a gift from Tiffany's.

11. I'd like something from Tiffany's. It ain't gonna happen.

I've Cracked It.

My bum-crack is higher than most. I've investigated the biology behind this and most medical practitioners have responded with something close to eye rolling and evasion. But it seems to me a phenomenon shared by women (and sadly a few lady-arsed men as well) the world over.

Where most women might show a little bit of crackage if crouched over a small child or dropped coin, I need only lean across a table and my arse is practically leaping out of my jeans wanting to introduce itself.

And before you start, no. My jeans are no lower than anyone else's. I'm as fond of a hipster as the next kid but given the height of my crack, I'm always conscious of this when purchasing pants.

So I've developed my own theory. It's twofold.

1. I have more junk in my trunk therefore making it harder to close the boot. My arse cheeks are fuller than most and go some way to creating crack merely by deepening the canyon. It is logical no? My only worry about this is if I keep adding arse, will my crack end up around the base of my neck? That might rule out low-backed tops as well and I've always been fond of those.

2. If humans evolved from apes, and nobody has been specific about which type of primate in particular, then perhaps some of us have descended from particular types of monkey. If this is the case, I'm not chimpanzee, gibbon or gorilla. Methinks I have the arse of a baboon type creature. Pronounced. High-riding.

I recently took a facebook poll for suggestions of blog topics. A dear friend mentioned I should write about the high-riding g string and why they should be banned. Well I'm the first to jump on the banning of the g string bandwagon. I've always believed them to be the ugliest of underpant and flattering to none. (Subclause 1A: when wearing formal wear of the hugging variety the g banger is advisable).

But I must jump to defend those whose g strings occasionally rise into visibility. It's not planned. It's just that our bum-cracks are very high. The g has a lot to traverse in this situation. It will fall where it lands and if the only flat place is just below the rib cage then physics is the winner on the day.

Look, I know it's not pretty. But I'd like to quote from one of my old favourite films:

"I like a woman with a bottom you can park your bike in."

I AM success.

Lately I haven't been in love, had a baby, been promoted or won any sort of prize. Other than these things, good stuff happens to me all the time. I aim to celebrate the small stuff.

So in no particular order I am proud to report the following:

I found two lovely leather handbags at Vinnies for $6 each. The old lady complained that I had messed up her display. Have almost got rid of the mothball smell.

There have been almost 800 hits on my blog since I started. Only about 300 of these have been me checking to see if I've had any new hits.

I borrowed several books from a public library and none of the pages had dried boogers on them.

My pet bird seems to hate my flatmate slightly more than me.

One of my students wrote a cinquain poem about me. The second line of the poem calls for the poet to use two adjectives to describe the subject. Loud and crazy were selected.

My upstairs neighbours are fighting less. They are having giggly, repetitive sex more often.

The cold sore forming on the end of my nose doesn't look like a booger according to a close friend. Apparently it would be better to have a booger permanently hanging from the end of one's nose rather than a cold sore.

Okay okay, I'll stop bragging. Nothing worse than someone who is constantly reminding you of how amazing they are.

Shocked, appalled and yes, flattered.

I'm not the kind of girl that has men's tongues dragging on the footpath. Apart from my height there's nothing remarkable about my overall appearance. I'm not a dog. But I'm no model either. I can look pretty good when I put a bit of effort in and thanks to my hair stylist I've got nice hair. So it's not every day that I get random compliments from strangers on my looks.

I did today.

Crossing the road this morning I almost walked out in front of a car waiting at the lights. The car started to move a little and then stopped. I jumped back on to the footpath, only to notice that the lights had just turned orange. The driver had had plenty of opportunity to go when they were green but was apparently waiting for me to cross. I smiled and nodded in thanks as I finally passed the bonnet of the car on foot. To my surprise came the confident and calm reply, "Nice tits".

I was shocked. I actually did a corny double take to check that the comment had been meant for me. Thanks to the guy's wry smile and an apparent lack of any other tits in the vicinity of the incident I was able to confirm that he had in fact been talking about my breasts.

I know I'm supposed to be offended by this blatant comment. Most modern women would probably roll their eyes in disgust at such an act. Some might even turn around and give a little lip service of their own.

But alas. I'll be honest. I loved it. The moment put a smug and ridiculous smile on my face. I walked along the shop front windows just catching glimpses of my boobs.

So I'm giving a little shout of thanks out to the universe. And a note of encouragement to a more tentative male. If you're thinking about sneaking in a cheeky and bold, perhaps slightly sexist and inappropriate comment, go ahead. She might roll her eyes at you but she'll be secretly checking out her tits in mirrors all day long.

"Brang" is not a word

Yeah. You heard me. "Brang" is not a word. I will fight this battle for many years to come and I don't care how stuffy and boring I become in the process. It's not that hard. I brought my book to school. I bought a new pair of earrings. Look, I can see the thinking (or lack of thinking) behind it..."I sing therefore I sang", "I ring therefore I rang", "I bring therefore I brought" just doesn't have the consistency one looks for in a language. But life wasn't meant to be easy and some things should be corrected.

While I'm on it I'm going to set a few youngsters straight on some other absolute pet hates in the language department:

Listen up kids....you can't "verse" anyone at sport. I can't tell you who you're "versing" this weekend at soccer because...."VERSING" IS NOT A WORD!!!!!!! I love it when you argue the point. "Verse is in the dictionary!". Yes it is you little moron - and it relates directly to the structure of correct English language.

Further to my rant, you never usen't to do anything, especially not in relation to articulation. What? You don't say this one? "I usen't to like chocolate but now I do."

A wise older teacher once reluctantly explained to me that these common errors eventually become an accepted part of speech. Well this is a battle I'm willing to fight. I'll verse anyone. I usen't to be so combative about it but now that I brang it up I mean business.

Ladies Who Get Nude and Stay Nude

Summer's almost here and what a long time it has been coming. With Summer comes swimming and I will be one of the first to jump on in. The beach is my preference but I may also try the pool. I'll convince myself this is an exercise focused endeavour but will probably be spending much of my time with the nannas in the slow lane.

But this post is not about swimming. It's about what goes on in the ladies dressing room, post-swim. Try and imagine feeling comfortable with the following:

1. You throw on the thongs and head into the communal showers.
2. You strip off in a nonchalant manner and stand buck-naked under the shower's warming heat. You take your time whilst others queue anxiously behind you.
3. You wonder why others avoid eye contact with you as you take care to wash well between your legs and remove all sand in all crevices.
4. After toweling off you hang your towel over a hook and decide to...
5. Blow-dry your hair. Heading for the basin area you plug in your hair drier and face yourself in the mirror for a better view.
6. Others awkwardly approach the basins to wash their hands having been to the toilet.
7. You smile and laugh lightly as someone is accidentally bumped into your buttocks. At first they don't realise they have knocked into a naked person but a shocked glance brings your lady garden into full view and they reel back in embarrassed horror.
8. You roll your eyes at the ridiculousness of the other, mortified, curious, offended patrons present. How could it be that women are so uncomfortable in the presence of something so familiar??

Sound like something you'd go for?

Me neither. Well I know I sound like a prude but those who know me well would probably defend me on that. My issue with the CBN (Communal Bathroom Nudist) is this: I know you have a vagina. I have one too. I know you have confidence in your body. I occasionally do too. I know you don't have hang-ups about your breasts. Neither do I. Here's the thing. Can't you be a bit more embarrassed please? Your level of comfort with your nakedness makes me feel....well...naked. I don't mind you being nude for a bit but do you have to look like you could be waiting for a bus while you're doing it? Your nudity just doesn't have the right sense of urgency about it. For most of us, when in public places, nudity is a transient, if albeit occasionally necessary, state of being. (Drunkenness is the only exception to this rule).

So put some clothes on for shit's sake. At least a pair of undies.

Could you be a cougar?

I have, of late, by way of a personal interest, been introduced to a new group of people. One that is populated mainly by those in their very early twenties. Having been involved in a few of their conversations, it is plain to me that despite some common interests in the arts, we have almost nothing in common. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy their company, they are fun, silly, irreverent, and probably a lot like myself when I was that age. But their conversation centres around things they do that I haven't done in years. For example, university based social activities, going to see university based theatre productions (med revue). Most of them are still on their green Ps!!

Despite their youth, or should I say, because of their youth, some of these young people (and now I am referring to the male members) are very good looking. I would challenge many of my friends to not find this the case. Whilst many argue that attraction is a subjective issue, I've always thought that for a few lucky members of the community, it is completely non-debatable. Some people are just good looking.

So with this in mind, I was chatting to my good friend about this the other night over a couple of wines. Could we be Cougars?

Issue Number One: You can't call yourself a cougar.

To be a cougar you have to be good looking yourself and if you are calling yourself a cougar then you are probably a bit of a wanker. So technically we can't be cougars. And for the case of my further argument, when I say cougar, I mean, someone who would go out with much younger men.

Issue Number Two: You are old.

That's right. As a cougar, and by definition, you have at least 10 years on your target. The reality of this cannot be underestimated. My friend was very clear in her position. There is no way she could put her 3o something ish body next to the much younger male version and feel good about herself. She suggested that this would disengage her mojo so intensely that any cougar power she had originally felt would be sapped instantly.

I argued that she had skills on her side. Experience, confidence and a significant skill base that would surely dazzle a fresh, young man. She replied that it would be difficult to remember this when she looked at her not-as-pert-as-they-were breasts.

I am very interested in public opinion on this one.

As far as I see it, there is something that society finds very wrong about the Cougar. What do you think? Could you be a Cougar? Could you go for a Cougar?

Facebook Lurkers

I am an oversharer. I'm aware of that. I'm fond of posting ridiculously mundane crap on facebook and will happily chuckle away at my own boredom. So far I am yet to post anything quite as boring as "Off to bed now" or "Can't quite find a matching pair of socks" but I'm aware that people whom I've not run into in years may not care to know that I've had an altercation with a trolley in a supermarket and I'm fairly sure I've noted this type of event on occasion.

I don't expect everyone to post frequently on facebook. I don't expect people to post anything on facebook. But today's blog post is about The Facebook Lurker. Look. I get that you people don't go about friending people just so you can laugh behind their backs and if they're stupid enough to accept your friend request then so be it, but can't you at least occasionally remind them that you're there??!!

You know who you are. We're not talking about the group of individuals who got pushed into facebook by insistent family members months ago and are yet to check the bloody thing. Oh no. Facebook Lurkers are a whole different group. You are the people who say absolutely nothing. Never register a post or a thought or a comment about anything. Yet (and this is the crucial point), you read everything. You check facebook perhaps three times a day.

Then (and this is the second horrifying detail) you run into me at the shops. For some funny reason we became facebook friends (a precarious status in itself and a whole other blog) and you know every ridiculous (I admitted it earlier didn't I) detail about me and I know NOTHING about you!!!

You: "I saw you were hungover the other day, must've been a big night."
Me: "Yeah...so what do you do for work these days?"

Look, reading this back I know that I am mainly to blame. I need to cull. I need to say less. But I just find the whole damn thing so hilariously entertaining. I laugh at my own status updates. There. I said it. And before you start eye rolling, ask yourself if you don't occasionally laugh at your own. And I love reading your posts. Although some of you really are boring and need to get on board with the arts of sarcasm, wit and innuendo and this needs to happen quickly.

To the Facebook Lurkers (you know who you are), why not post something. Even if it was "you people are mental." I think that might be the funniest update of all.

A Nod to the DILF

My friend and I love DILF's. And it's not just for what you'd expect.

There is a bit of a well known phenomenon that involves the lurching of one's ovaries at the sight of some poor bastard who just happens to be holding a newborn baby. Women my age tend to get a bit ridiculous at the sight of a young father fumbling his way around the collapsing of a pram whilst juggling a small child.

Advertising companies have known about this reaction for years and have been milking us for every one of our broody instincts. You know it well people. You've all seen the ad with the naked DILF torso facing away from the camera and the small baby peering over his shoulder at the camera. What that baby is actually saying is, "Yes. Buying this hand cream is going to land you a hot bloke with a six pack and an overwhelming desire to breed gorgeous babies like me."

For those who appreciate the physicality of a hot DILF and a small child, my friend and I recommend one of the Sydney beaches on an early Saturday morning. This is sleep-in day for young mothers and one of my favourite times. Freshwater Beach is literally bustling with hot dads at this time of day and (sorry to be so blatant) they almost always have their shirts off. It's pretty funny watching them actually. Almost none of them have the same level of paranoia about their children swimming in the surf as a young mother would exhibit. There's always a last second panicked dash to pull their three year old out of the wave by the floaties. And you can almost hear their thoughts.

It's not: "Oh my God. How could I be so careless? My child almost drowned! I am a bad father."

It's more like: "Woops. That would have been an ugly conversation with Mel later."

Another classic is the day before Mother's Day. This is shopping day for the DILF. DILF's who almost never venture into shopping centres are forced to grab their children and head to the shops in search of mummy's gift. This day is an absolute favourite of mine. There is nothing more hysterical than seeing the DILF negotiate pram, children, parking, escalator, nappy changing and shopping all at the same time. It is the ultimate in multi-tasking and takes the man completely out of his natural environment. Very funny. Check it out.

But for my mind, the real beauty of the DILF lies in their reality. DILFS have purpose that other men don't. In my experience, men who are fathers tend to be less selfish, more realistic, more balanced, less self-obsessed, more generous, more practical and most importantly better lovers and partners. They get that the world isn't all about themselves. They understand that having children doesn't end your life as a young person.

To all the DILF's I know and all the DILF's I'd like to know, thank you. Keep up the good work.

Where are your pants?

I am getting old. I don't dispute that. But I don't think there should be an age limit on the wearing of pants.

The more I look around these days, the more I notice a distinct lack of pants in the younger generations.

Here's the thing girls. Leggings are not pants. Tights are not pants. Stockings are not pants. And most importantly, if you are wearing shorts that are slightly shorter than the length of your t-shirt, we don't know you are wearing pants and so therefore, they ALSO do not count as pants.

I don't have a problem with great legs. Don't get me wrong. I'm supportive of hot women getting out the short dress, the tight short shorts, the very brief skirt etc etc. More power to them. If you've got it, flaunt it. But my problem is with the unfinished outfit. It's like women are pulling on their undies, dragging on a pair of tights, yanking on a t-shirt, answering an urgent phone call and then running out the door without remembering to put SOME PANTS ON.

I don't know. Maybe I am wrong.

Don't even get me started on leopard print tights.

Yes, she's gifted.

Yes, your child is special. Gifted actually. And her behaviour is more than understandable, it's justified. What the world doesn't understand is that she is a child with an intelligence that means sometimes she isn't always mindful of the needs of others. This doesn't make her any less empathetic towards the needs of others, it is just that she takes her pursuits very seriously.

We understand why one rule applies to your child and another to every other child. Of course it's fine for us to take into account her busy schedule and allow her to skip the qualification stage of the event and send her straight into the competition. We all know she'd make it into the team if she had the opportunity to try out, she's gifted after all.

You're right, she's exhausted. And that's why she refuses to do anything the other children are expected to do. She's also extremely passionate and takes conflicts to heart. When she pulled the pants down of the child hanging from the monkey bars, it was because she was expressing her frustration at that child dominating the climbing equipment. She would have explained her frustration if she had been able to find words small enough for that child to understand.

And you're also probably right that she is reading at a much more advanced level than the one for which I am currently giving her credit. I keep forgetting that just because she has no idea what she's just read, the main thing is her ability to phonetically decode really hard words. I understand that I'm asking the wrong questions after she's read the book and that the questions you ask are probably the right ones.

This is how it goes right?
Parent: What was that story about?
Gifted child: A dog.
Parent: How did it end?
Gifted child: Happily.

So, I think I need to focus more on your child. Because they just aren't getting the attention they need. After all, they are a gifted child.

Baby Showers and Other Ridiculous Traditions

Dear Friend,

I recently received an email from another of your close female friends. I believe she was head brideslave at your wedding to end all weddings. The email outlined plans for what seems to me to be a baby shower. I realise your friend had camouflaged the true nature of the event with cunning references to "a small gathering" and "casual afternoon tea". But I want you to know that I, and a few other unimpressed individuals, are not so easily fooled. We know what you are planning and we are not happy about it.

At the risk of damaging our friendship I need to clarify the reasons for my distress at what, on face value, appears to be a harmless and even pleasant invitation to an enjoyable social event.

Having been to several baby showers over the years I am almost certain of the following:

1. Nobody will be drinking alcohol except me. I will feel bad about this initially and then will accept the fact that it serves a self-medication purpose. There will be bottles of champagne of course but it will be flooded with guava juice.
2. We will watch you open countless presents for your unborn child. None of them will be too impressive. People attending the shower will have decided that since they're going to have to shell out several more gifts for your child, they'll be needing to pace themselves. So you'll probably ooh and ahh over a packet of plain white Bonds singlets. It's amazing what you can find in a supermarket these days.
3. There will be cupcakes for Australia. Nothing says Baby Shower like a cupcake. It's all part of the "cute" factor. Normally a fan of the cupcake, I'll be reaching past them for the savoury stuff having overestimated the lunch substitutes.
4. Your ex-chief-brideslave/maid-of-honour/pushy-cow will almost definitely reassure us all that there will not be any silly traditional games. Then, it is certain, she will insist we mark the occasion with one, just one, fun, "not to be taken seriously", little game. We will all look at each other with the familiar "Christ. I knew we weren't going to get out of this alive" look before reluctantly accepting our hideous fate and participating.

(NB. For the uneducated, baby shower games involve various humiliating and mind-numbingly pointless attempts at guessing the sex/size/date of birth of the unborn. I have also experienced more extreme gaming. One particular shower (for a really great girl actually...I think something went astray) involved having to guess which chocolate bar corresponded to which smashed up chocolatey mess deposited in a row of six disposable nappies).

So no. I don't want to go to your baby shower. Thanks but no thanks. And while we're on it, I'm pretty sure that most people who received your invitation were less than excited about it. I have rarely encountered a woman who said, "I'm so excited! My friend's having a baby shower in 3 weeks. I can't wait!"

Thirty-something and lost, lost, lost

People in their 30's are burnt out by their own ideals.

I have a friend who has lately been dogged by this phenomenon. She has consecutively dated several men who have turned out to be somewhat disappointing. Lame even. Before I begin the sorry tale, you should know that this woman is capable of maintaining a long (3 year proven) term relationship, is slim, attractive, intelligent, cultured, well-travelled and very social.

The first man she came across on her dating trails appeared the goods. He loved hanging out with her. She enjoyed his company. They had similar interests. The sex wasn't bad. Cracks started to form when he was awkward in the company of her friends. When he was reluctant for her to meet his friends. When he didn't want to go out at all. Anxiety around social situations stopped him from letting the relationship develop. My friend, being the social person that she is, was struggling to find a way around it. Could it be that anxiety is a deal breaker? In my own experience, it can be.

The second lad was of the eccentric, independent and interesting variety. With a bathroom that seemed to house more indoor plants than toiletries and a collapsing bed that eventually gave way and gave purpose to a rather derelect chaise lounge, this individual was behind from the start. The problem with this guy is that he was never available. He worked constantly and even when he was working from home, he was unable to make time for my friend. Once again, my friend ended the relationship. The deal breaker? Neglect and poor prioritising.

The last of these men was on face value, amazing. Successful, cultured, interesting, good-looking, charming and (most importantly) really into my friend. Or at least in the beginning. He came out with a few clangers towards the end. He was all about no contact between dates and dates fall on wednesdays and saturdays and that's how it is unless a boys night falls on one of those nights and then it's just once a week. Something along the lines of "I won't be pushed and it's good that you're not like that - in fact, that's why we work so well". His reaction to the break up was underwhelming to say the least: "Well it hasn't been a bad experience."

So I'm wondering about why these things end so often. My friend is subsequesntly a little down on herself and is unsure if there is indeed something wrong with her and NOT the men she has gone out with. My response is that she is generally a more patient person than most and maybe she needs to be tougher.

But I'm also left thinking that I have no idea why we don't seem to be able to match up these days. People in their 30s can't seem to get their shit together. We don't seem to know what we want despite trying very hard to get it. Women are probably unrealistic about what they want and need in men. And men, well. I don't know what men want. We've probably overthought everything by now.

Everyone is a little bit nerdy sometimes

Everyone has a nerdy thing.

My barista makes the best coffee by far in my local area. He has a cool designer-style girlfriend. He owns a cool espresso bar. He has cool music playing in the shop (with some worrying exceptions). He also chases helicopters. A helicopter stalker if you will. As in, he was cooking the evening meal last week and heard the exciting sound of rotating chopper blades. He screamed at his girlfriend to watch the stove whilst he jumped in his car and literally followed the helicopter to its landing in a nearby suburb. He even admits to being known by several helicopter crews as "the helicopter guy". Yes, he's the one who casually walks over after landing to check out the helicopter and its features and without a hint of self-consciousness, interviews the pilot about his experiences with that type of aircraft.

His assistant in the shop was giggling away with me as he told the story and I challenged her to admit her own nerdy secret. She is an otherwise cool chick. To demonstrate her normally cool type behaviour I should point out that she and her cool husband happened to get married on the wettest day in 40 years. Not to be flustered, she cheekily donned a pair of designer gumboots for her outdoor wedding photos and I kid you not, they are some of the most stunning, amazing, joyful photos I have ever seen. Nevertheless, she and her husband cycle on the spot. They set their bikes up on some sort of stationary rig and cycle together in their lounge room. Even though it isn't traditionally nerdy, it's still nerdy. It's nerdiness is defined by its extremeness. Like nothing will stop their need to ride.

My nerdy thing? Yeah, it falls into the traditionally nerdy category. Amateur theatre. Yes folks. I'm what those in the know call "a carnie". I know a few show tunes. Occasionally whilst trying to impress friends with recent purchases on my ipod, I've been known to quickly skip through a few Les Miserables London Production numbers that have worked their way into the mix. I like to throw a few theatre terms around in conversation with my non-carnie friends to make myself sound even more cultured than I already am. "Yeah, I don't think I can come to the BBQ you had planned, we've got bump-out that day and I'm responsible for moving the flats..." Yes, you see? Nerds away!

I'm also a massive spelling nerd. I am all about "there/they're/their" and "your/you're" and the amount of people who can't spell the word "definitely" constantly astonishes me. I swear I have seen 50 versions of this word. Now this is NOT to say that I don't occasionally struggle with spelling myself. I'm even now looking at the word "occasionally" and wondering how I went with that and if there is indeed another 'n' required. I would be an absolute idiot to blog about my perfect spelling but I do admit that it never stops interesting me. I never stop being annoyed by people spelling words incorrectly on shop blackboards. Capuccino is a classic.

You may scoff at my nerdish ways but you should ask yourself this...if you had to sell yourself, really advertise yourself, to someone you really liked, what wouldn't you tell them? For example: "Hi, I'm so-and-so. I like rock-climbing, surfing, going to music festivals, drinking with my friends and ..."

bird-watching?
collecting war memorabilia?
playing with meccano?
scrapbooking?
listening to Demis Roussos records?
online Dungeons and Dragons?
writing my own self-indulgent blog?

Please feel to add your own nerdy confessions... you know you have something lurking.

I don't mean to offend you but...

Have you ever noticed that right before someone is about to offend you they say something a little like the following:
a) Don't take this the wrong way but...
b) I don't mean to offend you but...
c) No offense but...
d) It's just my opinion but...
e) I don't mean to tell you how to do your job but...
f) This isn't a criticism but...

It is my observation that these phrases are the social equivalent to a get out of jail free card in a Monopoly game. It's like saying: "I'm about to say something now that is utterly rude and offensive but if you act like I have offended you, you will look ridiculous and seem to be totally over-reacting. So toughen up because it's about to hit you and you don't want to look like a complete knob."

Am I too guilty of this guilt-freeing offense evasion? Of course, I've been known to pull out an entire string of these phrases in the attempt to steer a friend away from what I believe to be a bad move or decision.

Example monologue:

I'm no expert on it but it seems like things aren't working too well the way they are. I don't want to tell you what to do but maybe you should think about it really carefully. I mean, and this isn't a criticism, but you're not the best judge of character, are you?

Monologue minus the "no offense" approach:

I'm no expert on it but I think I am in this situation and you're having a complete shocker. Someone needs to tell you what to do because clearly you have lost your mind. I should probably also point out that you are significantly flawed in your judgement of character and you should totally defer to me and other learned friends for all of your decision making.

Yes, and as a post-script, I am truly successful in every one of life's endeavours and so am highly equipped to make this call.