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.

You're not that cool, you work in a shop.

I have a couple of friends who work in retail so before I continue, this post is not about them.  Just getting that out there before the tirade begins.

Firstly, what is it with sales assistants pretending to be interested in your life?  We both know they don't give a shit either way.  I find particular types of retailers to be major offenders of this type of over-familiarity.  Surf/urban/hip/street wear type shops seem to train their staff in this sales "technique".  The staff tend to be about 12 years old and appear to have been employed because they are the only people who can fit into the clothing sold in these establishments.  Unfortunately the only people who can afford to shop in these stores are my age or older. Here is a sample of an actual experience I had in such a store:

Saleschild:  Big night planned?
Me:  Sorry?
Saleschild:  I was just asking if you had a big night planned tonight.
Me: Oh.  Um.  No.
Saleschild:  Really??  (Initially shocked but then gives knowing grin) Did you have a big one last night?
Me: Ah, not really.  Just a few wines at my mates place.
Saleschild: Wow, that sounds awesome. I totally feel like doing that tonight as well.  It's just what you feel like after a massive day isn't it?
Me: Yeah.  It was ok.
Saleschild:  So can I give you a hand with sizes?
Me:  Um, yeah.  Do you have this top in a size 14?
Saleschild:  Actually that's a dress but I guess you could wear it as a top.  I've never seen anyone do that before but you could totally pull that off. I don't think we have any 14's in that brand.  Let me just check out the back honey.
Me:  Thanks, that'd be great.  (Waits for saleschild to pretend to look for size 14 garment and does the bolt)


Looking back it would have been fun to have approached the conversation like this:

Saleschild:  Big night planned?
Me:  Yeah actually.  It's going to be awesome, super fun.  Honey, my mates and I are planning to snort lines of cocaine off a dwarf's head, Freddy Mercury style.  Oh, and I think I might wear this skirt as a belt.  By the way, you should eat something.  Your arms are getting a little hairy as your skin attempts to counter your lack of body fat.

Worse than the overly interested yet seriously disinterested pre-teen sales assistant is the "I'm wearing the clothes you can't afford to buy bitch" bitch. Everyone has encountered this particular type of shop worker. You walk into the stylish boutique for a browse and she barely raises her eyes from a glossy magazine.  She's dressed head to toe in the label.  She might throw a smile your way but she doesn't smile with her eyes. She is bored beyond belief and this is what she says:

"Let me know if I can help you with anything."

What she is thinking is:

"Listen lady, just piss off okay?  I'm not getting off this stool for the likes of you.  You can't afford anything in here and quite frankly, even if you could, the only thing you could buy is that scarf over there because we only sell things in single digit sizes.  Clearly you lack the funds and I can see from your high-riding arse crack, you are not going to fit into anything here."

Well this is what I want to say to you shop girl:

"YOU WORK IN A BLOODY SHOP!!!  That's what you do for a living.  And whilst the world needs retailers, you are doing a piss-easy, ridiculously unimportant thing.  If you weren't given an eighty percent discount on everything in here, you wouldn't be able to afford it either!  So get off your stool before I make your relationship with it much more permanent.  Let me say it again: YOU WORK IN A SHOP!!

And I'd like to buy that scarf now please."

You can therefore you should...have sex that is.

Ok married women of the world.  I don't get it.  You have access to a perfectly good, consensual partner everyday of your lives and yet you have reluctant sex every six months or so.

I understand you have small children who wake inconveniently and at strange hours.  I understand that you don't feel sexy when your pyjamas are stained with breast milk and your hair has mashed banana in it.  I understand that you have seventeen thousand other priorities and foremost of these is the replenishment of the years of sleep you are owed.  I understand that your partner is basically useless in terms of assisting you in the parenting of your children...try as he might, he can't do what a set of boobs can for a baby.  I understand that at times you might resent the poor bastard as he swans through the door at seven at night after a hard day's work and comments on the untidy state of the kitchen.  I understand that your vagina has been through a degree of torture that is unthinkable to me and my non-breeding peers.

Nevertheless...

Lying next to you every night is a perfectly good penis attached to a perfectly good man.  Whilst we single ladies have many things you don't have (regular manicures, unscheduled daytime naps, weekend sleep-ins, privacy, unlimited drinking opportunities, no responsibility at all, etc etc), we think it unfair that you should not take advantage of your situation more regularly.

Several of you have even admitted that while most of the time although the thought of sex is actually repulsive to you, when you actually engage in it you seem to remember why you once enjoyed it.  Sex is free.  Sex is fun. Sex is the one thing you could do that would have absolutely nothing to do with your children.  Unless of course you are doing that weird attachment parenting which means your baby will be way too close and might psych you out of any erotic endeavour).

So on behalf of all the people for whom abstinence is not a choice, GET ON WITH IT.  If you can't remember how its done I can recommend some websites that should provide enough visual cues to get the balls rolling (sorry, I couldn't help myself).

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.