I signed back up to findsomeone.
What happened was, I was lying in bed doing all sorts of nothing on the computer feeling bored.
Then one of those online dating ads came up on the side of my screen, you know how the rockerfellers are monitoring my every move and all that... yeah so I slide on over to findsomeone to check out some boys.
A bit like how you might go onto countdowns website and check out the price of ham. You don't even necessarily want to eat ham, just checking the price.
And all the faces that pop up, honeys!
So I sign back up, fuck it.
And search again... and where are all those honeys..?
Nowhere to be seen.
Total decoy profiles, I just know it.
Anyway so I'm signed up now. And I think with better self esteem than last time. So this time when some average guy doesn't reply to my message of interest, i won't crumple.
But it's very de ja vu.
I mean, it is actually the same hundred profiles I have seen before. Either we chatted and I decided they were too stupid/weren't the same enough (too into rugby and barbecues)/said some dodgy innuendo.... Or they are just ug boots.
Or five foot eight.
Or Christian. Lotta christians!
One guy, who is unreasonably tall (we're talking just shy of two metres here, but not going to let that bother me), said hey you were here before and you disappeared, why'd you come back.
And i said i don't know really, don't have much hope for finding anyone.
And he said me neither.
And i said, well that's good then. Hopeless. Things can only go up from here.
One guy is a pirate.
Or at least, his profile name is something pirate. And we've shared a few 'aaargh me hearty' messages.
Here I am thinking, sense of humour, tick.
And then he says something about massage and think of me.
And i'm like, GODDAMN innuendo.
I'm no prude, but three messages down you're already insinuating that you're going to rub me all over?!??!
Don't know why I have a problem with this, but I do.
And god forgive me, but some dudes can't spell. And it's so off putting.
I mean, I'm not talking about words like restaurant, or mississippi here. I'm talking four letter words. Like 'busy'. Is it wrong for me to judge?
Never the less. A couple seem decent and things are a stirring.
And so now I'm in that same old predicament of actually having to do something. As in, go out.
Leave the house.
Forgot about this bit.
So tentatively have a 'drink' date for tomorrow, he left a message on my phone and already gets points for having an nice voice. Who doesn't like a nice voice. And he does waka ama, so you know brothers got a body.
And a maybe sunday date, or should i say, if i go up north for a surf, catching up with him up there.
So many difficulties inherent in this situation.
Bikini. That's one. Arrgh that reminds me to wax!
And, I go purple when i'm cold.
I'm not pretty purple. I struggle to hold it together on the best of days... but purple...
And besides all this there's a guy in my wider circle that I have a real crush on. As opposed to a fake, it's all a mirage, internet crush on.
Although it could all be a mirage, because it usually is.
So stay tuned. There's bound to be some funny out there somewhere....
Friday, September 14, 2012
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
“ Give up defining yourself - to yourself or to others. You won’t die. You will come to life. And don’t be concerned with how others define you. When they define you, they are limiting themselves, so it’s their problem. Whenever you interact with people, don’t be there primarily as a function or a role, but as the field of conscious Presence. You can only lose something that you have, but you cannot lose something that you are. ”
—Eckhart Tolle
—Eckhart Tolle
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Don't have a cow man!
I thought I would tell you one of my favourite jokes.
Two cows are standing in a field and cow 1 turns to cow 2 and says:
'Hey man, have you heard about that Mad Cow Disease? I'm really worried'
Cow 2 turns to cow 1 and replies:
'Yeah man, I've heard of it, but I'm not worried'
'Why not?' Asks cow 1.
'Because' says cow 2 'I'm a helicopter'.
Disclaimer:
The cows in this joke are fictitional characters.
No cows were harmed in the telling of this joke.
By telling this joke I am not implying that mad cow disease is a trivial issue.
I am actually not making a political statement about mad cow disease at all, it is simply a joke.
I do not mean to imply that I understand the challenges of a cows life.
I do not consider myself an authority on cows, diseases, diseases of cows, or cows with diseases.
Try not to take this joke too seriously.
Try not to take yourself so seriously. Just try.
Cows around the world, do not need to feel minimised or marginalised just because I have mentioned them in my blog. in fact, cows don't need to have any feelings because I mention them in my blog. I am not The Leader of Everyone and Everything in The Whole World.
If you don't like my jokes, just ignore me.
Cows who read my blog should not read into this joke any hateful, negative, or judgemental sentiments that are in fact, not there.
If cows should do this, then it is said cows who are responsible for their own silly misery, and I would hereby like to officially state that I Don't Create Your Feelings. You do. With your mind. So be careful what you beleive.
And if anyone like to know my REAL opinion, instead of thrusting one upon me... the truth is...
I like cows.
Happy, crazy, silly old cows.
Two cows are standing in a field and cow 1 turns to cow 2 and says:
'Hey man, have you heard about that Mad Cow Disease? I'm really worried'
Cow 2 turns to cow 1 and replies:
'Yeah man, I've heard of it, but I'm not worried'
'Why not?' Asks cow 1.
'Because' says cow 2 'I'm a helicopter'.
Disclaimer:
The cows in this joke are fictitional characters.
No cows were harmed in the telling of this joke.
By telling this joke I am not implying that mad cow disease is a trivial issue.
I am actually not making a political statement about mad cow disease at all, it is simply a joke.
I do not mean to imply that I understand the challenges of a cows life.
I do not consider myself an authority on cows, diseases, diseases of cows, or cows with diseases.
Try not to take this joke too seriously.
Try not to take yourself so seriously. Just try.
Cows around the world, do not need to feel minimised or marginalised just because I have mentioned them in my blog. in fact, cows don't need to have any feelings because I mention them in my blog. I am not The Leader of Everyone and Everything in The Whole World.
If you don't like my jokes, just ignore me.
Cows who read my blog should not read into this joke any hateful, negative, or judgemental sentiments that are in fact, not there.
If cows should do this, then it is said cows who are responsible for their own silly misery, and I would hereby like to officially state that I Don't Create Your Feelings. You do. With your mind. So be careful what you beleive.
And if anyone like to know my REAL opinion, instead of thrusting one upon me... the truth is...
I like cows.
Happy, crazy, silly old cows.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
mad men is infiltrating my brain
Sometimes, when i feel sad that I am not married with children, i go out for dinner, which i don't need to arrange for with anyone, drink alot of wine and come home late, sleep in, maybe til 12, and do what i want all the next day. in the quiet. catering for only my own wants. then i feel better.
A client of mine (personal training) called me today in tears, telling me that she couldn't see me today because she was falling apart. she just found out her lying, cheating, abusive husband, who she recently left, is having an affair with a woman in sydney, amongst many.
why does he get to have all the fun. while i'm stuck here in the family home.
Marriage. It's a doozy.
I'm obsessed with mad men, it's set in the 1960s. when men were hard working hard drinking womanisers. and women were either mothers and housewives, of sexually inviting servants of some sort. or help. the black people were help. it's hard to belive this was only my mothers generation ago.
the impeccable hair, hats and tight wasted dresses, the dinner etiquette and the accepting way people put up with the chain smoking of lucky strikes. the cadillacs. it's also amazing how this particular type of trapped existence can seem so appealing.
but then if you are going to be in a trap, why not a well presented one, that smells like lemon washing up liquid and chanel no. 5, cigarettes and brill cream.
I 'belong' to several feminist organisations on facebook. girls rule the world. that sort of thing. whilst it strikes one chord with me, it twangs another. why does it seem that women are still just reacting to thier circumstances. it's all still so reactionary. i know i am. 'they can't tell me this' 'they can't do that'... it's just like a child reacting to bad parenting. women, reacting to a 'bad world'.
sure things aint so bad for me. what can i say. i'm not going to get stoned to death for being raped.
i think i'll go out for a walk, i won't have to check with anyone, nor will the neighbours ask hushed questions. I think i'll drink wine at three. wear pants. work overtime.
these are the liberties of a modern girl, in a modern world. that i am.
I have a growing feeling that there should be a new movement, not patriarchy, but not feminism.
A movement that acknowledges that women need men. and men need women.
Because we do. We need them to take care of us. And they need us to be tender towards them.
If only we could stop making it a game of battleship. Stop trying to infiltrate each other. Stop identifying ourselves as separated by enemy lines. I think that would be really shocking. Who's with me?
A client of mine (personal training) called me today in tears, telling me that she couldn't see me today because she was falling apart. she just found out her lying, cheating, abusive husband, who she recently left, is having an affair with a woman in sydney, amongst many.
why does he get to have all the fun. while i'm stuck here in the family home.
Marriage. It's a doozy.
I'm obsessed with mad men, it's set in the 1960s. when men were hard working hard drinking womanisers. and women were either mothers and housewives, of sexually inviting servants of some sort. or help. the black people were help. it's hard to belive this was only my mothers generation ago.
the impeccable hair, hats and tight wasted dresses, the dinner etiquette and the accepting way people put up with the chain smoking of lucky strikes. the cadillacs. it's also amazing how this particular type of trapped existence can seem so appealing.
but then if you are going to be in a trap, why not a well presented one, that smells like lemon washing up liquid and chanel no. 5, cigarettes and brill cream.
I 'belong' to several feminist organisations on facebook. girls rule the world. that sort of thing. whilst it strikes one chord with me, it twangs another. why does it seem that women are still just reacting to thier circumstances. it's all still so reactionary. i know i am. 'they can't tell me this' 'they can't do that'... it's just like a child reacting to bad parenting. women, reacting to a 'bad world'.
sure things aint so bad for me. what can i say. i'm not going to get stoned to death for being raped.
i think i'll go out for a walk, i won't have to check with anyone, nor will the neighbours ask hushed questions. I think i'll drink wine at three. wear pants. work overtime.
these are the liberties of a modern girl, in a modern world. that i am.
I have a growing feeling that there should be a new movement, not patriarchy, but not feminism.
A movement that acknowledges that women need men. and men need women.
Because we do. We need them to take care of us. And they need us to be tender towards them.
If only we could stop making it a game of battleship. Stop trying to infiltrate each other. Stop identifying ourselves as separated by enemy lines. I think that would be really shocking. Who's with me?
Monday, June 11, 2012
boy or girl?
I recently came accross the story of Jenna Talackova, a 23 year old woman who was born a boy, who forced a rule change to let transgender women contend in Miss Universe Canada.
(FYI Donald Trump owns the franchise and it was he who acquiesed. You just know behind that comb over and rubbery face that guy is a real good c*nt ahy?)
So yeah she was born a boy and says that by the age of 4 she felt like a girl living in a boys body.
Age of four!
This is when I started to think... do I feel like a girl inside?
What does a girl feel like anyway?
*closes eyes and tries to feel internal feelings of femaleness*
I can't feel if I feel like a girl or not. I'm not even sure what i'm looking for here.
I try the same thing with 'feeling like a male'
*closes eyes, forages around in the dark for feelings of maleness*
Nup. I don't have any of those either.
The truth is, I have no feelings of gender inside me at all. In fact, I'd go so far as to say, I feel quite genderless inside. Inside I feel like a person, kinda, although even that's a bit of a leap.
Mostly I just feel my emotions whizzing around like electrons in an atom, combusting and colliding and disappearing from existence only to reappear again without warning and seemingly without meaning....
But even those, I can stand back from, they're not really me.
What the HELL are these people feeling, that make them feel like, or not like, one gender or the other?!?
This has really got me puzzled.
And it surprises me that this question has only just arisen for me because I lived with a transgender person, originally male turned female, for a year, and I never thought about it then.
And actually, that adds another puzzling level to the whole question, I'll tell you why.
Even though she said she whole heartedly felt female, and wanted to live in a females body, you know, enough to have her wanger surgically transformed into a gash for $10,000 in thailand, enough to put up with weekly laser sessions on her face to remove facial hair (and you know that shit hurts ladies), enough to take synthetic hormones that made her all sorts of fucked up and depressed (oestrogen - who'd have it!) and EVEN To deal with all the bullshit and prejudice and hatred she must have encountered regularly... Even though all of that, she just really acted like a boy.
She had such a boy nature, just like, not that emotional i guess, and seriously, girls are moody! And she was really good with tools and cars and she loved motorbikes, I mean she could really fix shit, like anything, and had heaps of tools... she was just, boysy. She couldn't see dirt, that was another boy thing, she had that 'broad stroke of the brush' approach to cleaning, and the other three girls who lived there were, you know, a bit more anal. That's a girl thing. There were lots of little ways she seemed like a boy. She even liked girls. Even though she was a girl. So she was gay too. Nuts ahy. I think that's why I never really thought about it, because I was too busy trying to be accepting for her sake, because man, what a hard road to hoe....
And once we had this really funny, telling moment. I think it was me who said that women have 72 bathroom items, and men have about 5, and everyone, boy and girl, in the group nodded that it was true, except her and she said, i'm somewhere in the middle.
So that's what I've been wondering about that. What are these people FEELING inside?!?! How does it FEeeeel? Why don't I have a feeling?!?! Should I be feeling something? Should I be worried? What do you feel inside? Does this make me non-gender!?? Aarrgh.
I mean, I definitely like boys, but that is a separate issue.
What if I'm a gay man in a womans body and i don't know yet?!?!?
Wonder if I can get ACC for that...?
That's all really.
(FYI Donald Trump owns the franchise and it was he who acquiesed. You just know behind that comb over and rubbery face that guy is a real good c*nt ahy?)
So yeah she was born a boy and says that by the age of 4 she felt like a girl living in a boys body.
Age of four!
This is when I started to think... do I feel like a girl inside?
What does a girl feel like anyway?
*closes eyes and tries to feel internal feelings of femaleness*
I can't feel if I feel like a girl or not. I'm not even sure what i'm looking for here.
I try the same thing with 'feeling like a male'
*closes eyes, forages around in the dark for feelings of maleness*
Nup. I don't have any of those either.
The truth is, I have no feelings of gender inside me at all. In fact, I'd go so far as to say, I feel quite genderless inside. Inside I feel like a person, kinda, although even that's a bit of a leap.
Mostly I just feel my emotions whizzing around like electrons in an atom, combusting and colliding and disappearing from existence only to reappear again without warning and seemingly without meaning....
But even those, I can stand back from, they're not really me.
What the HELL are these people feeling, that make them feel like, or not like, one gender or the other?!?
This has really got me puzzled.
And it surprises me that this question has only just arisen for me because I lived with a transgender person, originally male turned female, for a year, and I never thought about it then.
And actually, that adds another puzzling level to the whole question, I'll tell you why.
Even though she said she whole heartedly felt female, and wanted to live in a females body, you know, enough to have her wanger surgically transformed into a gash for $10,000 in thailand, enough to put up with weekly laser sessions on her face to remove facial hair (and you know that shit hurts ladies), enough to take synthetic hormones that made her all sorts of fucked up and depressed (oestrogen - who'd have it!) and EVEN To deal with all the bullshit and prejudice and hatred she must have encountered regularly... Even though all of that, she just really acted like a boy.
She had such a boy nature, just like, not that emotional i guess, and seriously, girls are moody! And she was really good with tools and cars and she loved motorbikes, I mean she could really fix shit, like anything, and had heaps of tools... she was just, boysy. She couldn't see dirt, that was another boy thing, she had that 'broad stroke of the brush' approach to cleaning, and the other three girls who lived there were, you know, a bit more anal. That's a girl thing. There were lots of little ways she seemed like a boy. She even liked girls. Even though she was a girl. So she was gay too. Nuts ahy. I think that's why I never really thought about it, because I was too busy trying to be accepting for her sake, because man, what a hard road to hoe....
And once we had this really funny, telling moment. I think it was me who said that women have 72 bathroom items, and men have about 5, and everyone, boy and girl, in the group nodded that it was true, except her and she said, i'm somewhere in the middle.
So that's what I've been wondering about that. What are these people FEELING inside?!?! How does it FEeeeel? Why don't I have a feeling?!?! Should I be feeling something? Should I be worried? What do you feel inside? Does this make me non-gender!?? Aarrgh.
I mean, I definitely like boys, but that is a separate issue.
What if I'm a gay man in a womans body and i don't know yet?!?!?
Wonder if I can get ACC for that...?
That's all really.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Another Audition
So I look down at my phone and it is flashing and his name is on the screen. I don't know if I'm calling him, or he's calling me, or how this happened. Then I realise if he's calling me he might be listening to me heavy breath into the phone while I try to work out what's going on, and quickly press end call.
I think about it for one minute and realise I don't want him to think I called him. Oh so, he's a guy from findsomeone I messaged with once right before I got on-line-dating-fatigue (OLDF) and closed my account. It's been ages, months since then. So I don't want him to think all this time I was clinging to the possibility of us, worked up the guts to call him, and then lost my mettle and hung up mid call! Tragic.
So I text him him "hey (guy), my phone just pocket called you, sorry about that, hope you're well".
Sorted.
Don't hear back for a few days, nothing unusual there.
Then I get a text from him saying he's had his phone off because he's been trekking in the himalaya's and how am I?
So we text back and forth, turns out he's travelling in south america, and after a few texts asks me if we should have coffee then?
If you don't know, I am a believer in just about everything. From vampires to fairies to there being no actual time, to mayan predictions, to witches, to lot's of types of gods (non-exlusively), to telepathy, aliens, ghosts.. yeah you name it I pretty much believe in it, so being this type of all-believing person, I think that it might have been Fate slash Destiny that my phone rang him all by itself. And what a great story this will make to tell our grandkids.... of course I'll go for coffee.
We text during the week, actually, he texts me alot, and I have a good feeling about him from the things he says and does. He asks questions, seems to have a full and interesting life, and thinks I'm funny. Which of course I am, but you know, it's good that he can tell.
So I turn up at the Piha cafe, he lives at piha and i'm happy for the opportunity to get out there because it's been months. And I see him through the window and he has a nice sort of look about him - blonde, blue eyed, tan skinned surfer type look. I pull the heavy glass door open and step inside and he has risen to greet me and I am 100% sure that his first thoughts are 'oh my god she's so tall/big!' while mine simultaneously are: 'oh god, so small/short!' Here we go again.
In the week I'd had to log back onto my findsomeone account to preview his profile JUST to be sure. And I read on there that he is 5'10. You know I call myself 5'11, but i have no idea really, i don't even know what that means, five what's? badgers? eleven what? eggs? five shoes and eleven cigarettes. I dont' even know. And I could possibly be 5'10. So from looking at his height on his profile I think, okay, about my height I can deal with that.
Everyone knows I date short guys. Dated one for 2 and a half years. It was pretty miserable but not because of his height. I thought he was very attractive. So for years I've been saying 'i don't really mind short guys' and you know what? I'm not going to say it anymore because CLEARLY the universe has been listening, and is sending every vertically challenged midget into my life like it's a Charlie And The Chocolate Factory wrap party.
Anyway, I put that aside. And we get coffee's and he asks me what i would like and pays and that's nice and we sit outside and there's his dog and it's about the nicest dog i think i've ever met, a collie huntaway cross, and so polite and gentle and nice lookingand doesn't smell and well behaved and that really endears me to him.
And we're talking and he's eating eggs bene and i'm saying to myself just be yourself and he's telling me all these things, how he's invented stuff and had it patented and sells it (pretty impressive) and has had four major careers, and while he is giving me a short history of just about everything i notice that his hands are really small.
Quite aside from the old, I think fairly accurate adage, that mens hand and foot size is directly proportionate to their appendage size, his small hands just look a little bit ridiculous.
I know, I know, i'm going to hell. ALONE. I get it. But i'm just being honest. I move on from the small hands thing and then he puts this massive big woollen jumper on, the kind that looks like it just came off the sheep, real thick thing, maybe an inch thick, and it has rolled up cuffs and a kind of turtle neck, i like the jumper, but unfortunately the sleeves end shy of his wrists. and in this too short sleeved, over-sized, massive jumper he looks a little bit like .... a little-person. You know? with normal head size but short limbs and small hands? I mean. Come on. I'm really not that shallow. But a little person?
And also, it's starting to become apparent, that he is for talking, and i am for listening. And that's probably the crux of it.
So we go for a walk down the beach and i ask if he feels like a big 'stonking' walk because i haven't had enough exercise this week and we're at piha and the air is all fresh and misty and the beach so long and ideal for it, and he says we could walk up to the look out bit and I say cool and can we walk FAST?
Reason 1 - my back hurts, all the time, and i shit you not it hurts more when i dawdle.
Reason 2 - i have long legs and my walking pace is fast. walking slowly is like waiting for a toddler. Or watching a toddler try to find it's mouth with a spoon, but all the slimy porridge ending up on it's top, hands and chair.
Reason 3 - i need the exercise.
And i begin to stride off at my normal beach walking pace and he falls behind and says, but you have long legs and i have little stumpy ones.
And now the word stumpy has been said, laid on the table, out there for all to see.
Up we go, me and jack the dog up front and piha-man twelve paces behind. And all the way up and around and down and through, he continues his telling me all the things he's ever done, or thought, or been to. And the worst of it is, he punctuates his sentences with the word 'mate'.
He actually refers to me as 'mate'. Like: and then this thing happened and MATE you wouldn't believe it... and i mean MATE have you ever seen.... It's not a general reference, he's actually referring to me as mate. and sometimes dude. which is vaguely better but not much.
I have a thing about being called mate, no, women have a thing about being called mate.
Mate is what you call ugly chicks. I am not your mate, I am not on your buliding site in gumboots with a fag hanging out the corner of my mouth, nodding my head in condelence to your big night out shagged a fat chick story.
Mate.
And it just kind of adds to the me bing three stories taller than him thing, with him calling me mate, i'm feeling more and more like a checkered shirt wearing, short haired, tractor driving, lesbian.
This is not how I want to be feeling today.
We reach the look out bit and i'm soaking in the big endless grey atlantic sea, six foot swell and tiny black bodies of surfers'; the wet air on my face and emansive black rocks pushing up into the slate sky, and his phone rings and he talks on it for five minutes. and when i want to keep moving he says 'gee you don't sit still and take it all in do you?!' but i did. while he was talking on the phone.
So i don't know, is it the height, the hands, the always talking and telling me the same story three times (yeah i get it, i already got it), the calling me mate, the stumpy legs? Is it all those things, none of them? I don't know. I just know there's no spark. And when there's no spark, there's never going to be. Sparks do not grow. We are not two bits of tindery wood, who if we just rub together long enough will create an inferno. If i've learnt anything about dating it's that sparks don't grow. In fact the lack of sparking almost always escalates into full blown revulsion if you let it go on, hoping for a fire. In a way, it's like mother nature saying, next! And quite aside from whether it means anything or not, I just want to feel something. It's a bad feeling, not feeling anything.
And you see this, this is part of the reason I don't want to go on dates. Prior to meeting him i was feeling intreptidation, more than half the reason was because i don't want to meet a nice person, have them put in all this vain and noble effort to impress me, and then have to tell them i don't like them. Because I don't NOT like them, I just don't want their sweaty body writhing on mine. But that's not how it sounds. It sounds like 'i think you're shit'. And then this perfectly nice person you have nothing aginst, immediately feels like shit and hates you. It's rough.
I am good and polite and go back to his house for tea and listen to more stories and then finally the light is changing and it's a decent time to say i have to go. And we have an awkward hug goodbye where he goes to kiss my cheek but i leer to one side and his lips go flying past my cheek, completely missing it so he is making a big MWA sound into the air over my shoulder. I hadn't planned for that to happen. Oh well. And off I'm driving with him on the driveway waving. If the date had have been with his dog, I would have damn well adopted that dog. I've never liked a dog more in my life. I'm going to miss that dog. Might have been the only dog I'll ever meet that I really liked. The Fates are laughing at me. I swear they're laughing.
Oh P.S! I had to add this, when i told my mum about him she said, well i'm 5'10. And my mum is a tall lady. And you're 5/11. She says. Which makes him no taller than 5/8, and probably 5/7. So he lied. And when we sat down to coffee, the first or second thing he said to me was, i happen to remember in your proflie picture you were a blonde (i've died my hair reddy brown) in a vaguely accusory manner. Can you believe it!??!
I think about it for one minute and realise I don't want him to think I called him. Oh so, he's a guy from findsomeone I messaged with once right before I got on-line-dating-fatigue (OLDF) and closed my account. It's been ages, months since then. So I don't want him to think all this time I was clinging to the possibility of us, worked up the guts to call him, and then lost my mettle and hung up mid call! Tragic.
So I text him him "hey (guy), my phone just pocket called you, sorry about that, hope you're well".
Sorted.
Don't hear back for a few days, nothing unusual there.
Then I get a text from him saying he's had his phone off because he's been trekking in the himalaya's and how am I?
So we text back and forth, turns out he's travelling in south america, and after a few texts asks me if we should have coffee then?
If you don't know, I am a believer in just about everything. From vampires to fairies to there being no actual time, to mayan predictions, to witches, to lot's of types of gods (non-exlusively), to telepathy, aliens, ghosts.. yeah you name it I pretty much believe in it, so being this type of all-believing person, I think that it might have been Fate slash Destiny that my phone rang him all by itself. And what a great story this will make to tell our grandkids.... of course I'll go for coffee.
We text during the week, actually, he texts me alot, and I have a good feeling about him from the things he says and does. He asks questions, seems to have a full and interesting life, and thinks I'm funny. Which of course I am, but you know, it's good that he can tell.
So I turn up at the Piha cafe, he lives at piha and i'm happy for the opportunity to get out there because it's been months. And I see him through the window and he has a nice sort of look about him - blonde, blue eyed, tan skinned surfer type look. I pull the heavy glass door open and step inside and he has risen to greet me and I am 100% sure that his first thoughts are 'oh my god she's so tall/big!' while mine simultaneously are: 'oh god, so small/short!' Here we go again.
In the week I'd had to log back onto my findsomeone account to preview his profile JUST to be sure. And I read on there that he is 5'10. You know I call myself 5'11, but i have no idea really, i don't even know what that means, five what's? badgers? eleven what? eggs? five shoes and eleven cigarettes. I dont' even know. And I could possibly be 5'10. So from looking at his height on his profile I think, okay, about my height I can deal with that.
Everyone knows I date short guys. Dated one for 2 and a half years. It was pretty miserable but not because of his height. I thought he was very attractive. So for years I've been saying 'i don't really mind short guys' and you know what? I'm not going to say it anymore because CLEARLY the universe has been listening, and is sending every vertically challenged midget into my life like it's a Charlie And The Chocolate Factory wrap party.
Anyway, I put that aside. And we get coffee's and he asks me what i would like and pays and that's nice and we sit outside and there's his dog and it's about the nicest dog i think i've ever met, a collie huntaway cross, and so polite and gentle and nice lookingand doesn't smell and well behaved and that really endears me to him.
And we're talking and he's eating eggs bene and i'm saying to myself just be yourself and he's telling me all these things, how he's invented stuff and had it patented and sells it (pretty impressive) and has had four major careers, and while he is giving me a short history of just about everything i notice that his hands are really small.
Quite aside from the old, I think fairly accurate adage, that mens hand and foot size is directly proportionate to their appendage size, his small hands just look a little bit ridiculous.
I know, I know, i'm going to hell. ALONE. I get it. But i'm just being honest. I move on from the small hands thing and then he puts this massive big woollen jumper on, the kind that looks like it just came off the sheep, real thick thing, maybe an inch thick, and it has rolled up cuffs and a kind of turtle neck, i like the jumper, but unfortunately the sleeves end shy of his wrists. and in this too short sleeved, over-sized, massive jumper he looks a little bit like .... a little-person. You know? with normal head size but short limbs and small hands? I mean. Come on. I'm really not that shallow. But a little person?
And also, it's starting to become apparent, that he is for talking, and i am for listening. And that's probably the crux of it.
So we go for a walk down the beach and i ask if he feels like a big 'stonking' walk because i haven't had enough exercise this week and we're at piha and the air is all fresh and misty and the beach so long and ideal for it, and he says we could walk up to the look out bit and I say cool and can we walk FAST?
Reason 1 - my back hurts, all the time, and i shit you not it hurts more when i dawdle.
Reason 2 - i have long legs and my walking pace is fast. walking slowly is like waiting for a toddler. Or watching a toddler try to find it's mouth with a spoon, but all the slimy porridge ending up on it's top, hands and chair.
Reason 3 - i need the exercise.
And i begin to stride off at my normal beach walking pace and he falls behind and says, but you have long legs and i have little stumpy ones.
And now the word stumpy has been said, laid on the table, out there for all to see.
Up we go, me and jack the dog up front and piha-man twelve paces behind. And all the way up and around and down and through, he continues his telling me all the things he's ever done, or thought, or been to. And the worst of it is, he punctuates his sentences with the word 'mate'.
He actually refers to me as 'mate'. Like: and then this thing happened and MATE you wouldn't believe it... and i mean MATE have you ever seen.... It's not a general reference, he's actually referring to me as mate. and sometimes dude. which is vaguely better but not much.
I have a thing about being called mate, no, women have a thing about being called mate.
Mate is what you call ugly chicks. I am not your mate, I am not on your buliding site in gumboots with a fag hanging out the corner of my mouth, nodding my head in condelence to your big night out shagged a fat chick story.
Mate.
And it just kind of adds to the me bing three stories taller than him thing, with him calling me mate, i'm feeling more and more like a checkered shirt wearing, short haired, tractor driving, lesbian.
This is not how I want to be feeling today.
We reach the look out bit and i'm soaking in the big endless grey atlantic sea, six foot swell and tiny black bodies of surfers'; the wet air on my face and emansive black rocks pushing up into the slate sky, and his phone rings and he talks on it for five minutes. and when i want to keep moving he says 'gee you don't sit still and take it all in do you?!' but i did. while he was talking on the phone.
So i don't know, is it the height, the hands, the always talking and telling me the same story three times (yeah i get it, i already got it), the calling me mate, the stumpy legs? Is it all those things, none of them? I don't know. I just know there's no spark. And when there's no spark, there's never going to be. Sparks do not grow. We are not two bits of tindery wood, who if we just rub together long enough will create an inferno. If i've learnt anything about dating it's that sparks don't grow. In fact the lack of sparking almost always escalates into full blown revulsion if you let it go on, hoping for a fire. In a way, it's like mother nature saying, next! And quite aside from whether it means anything or not, I just want to feel something. It's a bad feeling, not feeling anything.
And you see this, this is part of the reason I don't want to go on dates. Prior to meeting him i was feeling intreptidation, more than half the reason was because i don't want to meet a nice person, have them put in all this vain and noble effort to impress me, and then have to tell them i don't like them. Because I don't NOT like them, I just don't want their sweaty body writhing on mine. But that's not how it sounds. It sounds like 'i think you're shit'. And then this perfectly nice person you have nothing aginst, immediately feels like shit and hates you. It's rough.
I am good and polite and go back to his house for tea and listen to more stories and then finally the light is changing and it's a decent time to say i have to go. And we have an awkward hug goodbye where he goes to kiss my cheek but i leer to one side and his lips go flying past my cheek, completely missing it so he is making a big MWA sound into the air over my shoulder. I hadn't planned for that to happen. Oh well. And off I'm driving with him on the driveway waving. If the date had have been with his dog, I would have damn well adopted that dog. I've never liked a dog more in my life. I'm going to miss that dog. Might have been the only dog I'll ever meet that I really liked. The Fates are laughing at me. I swear they're laughing.
Oh P.S! I had to add this, when i told my mum about him she said, well i'm 5'10. And my mum is a tall lady. And you're 5/11. She says. Which makes him no taller than 5/8, and probably 5/7. So he lied. And when we sat down to coffee, the first or second thing he said to me was, i happen to remember in your proflie picture you were a blonde (i've died my hair reddy brown) in a vaguely accusory manner. Can you believe it!??!
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Why get married
Why.
So that you don't spend sunday afternoons alone. If there are going to be lonely hours, that is when they will find their way in. Even the sun slowly sinks away in a way that says 'goodbye'. On Sundays.
So that you can go to your friends house for dinner, friends plural, who are a couple. Because they will invite you as you will be the right number for wine glass sets, games and four sided tables. Two.
So that you can say 'we' and 'oh yes my husband has one of those' and 'i better get home, hubby will be wondering where i am'. And someone will be at home, kindly wondering.
So you can relinquish a job or two that you hate, forever. Such as the rubbish. or the lawns. Even though he doesn't like them either, he does them for you. Til death do you part.
So that you can be sick. Because being sick, when no one cares, is not really sick, you might just be pretending. You cough a little 'achaa' ...and sniff a little 'sffft'... just to check if you are really sick, because unless there's someone to tell who says 'oh dear' and frowns and really means it, what's the point.
So you can go on walks. To walk as one you need alpipne sticks or an umbrella or to hurry slightly your step. One is going somewhere. One is exercising. One is on an errand. Two is just out for a walk.
So you can share all the burdens of your world with another person.
So you know you will always be loved after the fight.
Loved after the fight has gone out of you.
Loved after the light has gone out.
So you can make tea for someone. And have them say, this tea is perfect.
So you can watch movies you wouldn't otherwise watch. Like 3D action films. Or old westerns. It's good for you, to see these films. Saves you from banality of rom coms and tear jerkers.
So you can say 'lets' followed by anything, to someone, out loud.
So you can say 'have you seen my glasses? I'm losing my marbles!' and then say it again the next day, and the next, because they are losing their marbles too.
And when alls said and done. Rocking chair porch and sun setting looks faded weathered faces, calloused crippled hands and rings stuck forever on fingers swollen with age, stirring bright purple stewed plums in a bowl and drop them on the floor SWOOSH red everywhere and shed a tear as you kneel to clean up all the lost sweetness. Kneels next to you and says, I love you.
So that you don't spend sunday afternoons alone. If there are going to be lonely hours, that is when they will find their way in. Even the sun slowly sinks away in a way that says 'goodbye'. On Sundays.
So that you can go to your friends house for dinner, friends plural, who are a couple. Because they will invite you as you will be the right number for wine glass sets, games and four sided tables. Two.
So that you can say 'we' and 'oh yes my husband has one of those' and 'i better get home, hubby will be wondering where i am'. And someone will be at home, kindly wondering.
So you can relinquish a job or two that you hate, forever. Such as the rubbish. or the lawns. Even though he doesn't like them either, he does them for you. Til death do you part.
So that you can be sick. Because being sick, when no one cares, is not really sick, you might just be pretending. You cough a little 'achaa' ...and sniff a little 'sffft'... just to check if you are really sick, because unless there's someone to tell who says 'oh dear' and frowns and really means it, what's the point.
So you can go on walks. To walk as one you need alpipne sticks or an umbrella or to hurry slightly your step. One is going somewhere. One is exercising. One is on an errand. Two is just out for a walk.
So you can share all the burdens of your world with another person.
So you know you will always be loved after the fight.
Loved after the fight has gone out of you.
Loved after the light has gone out.
So you can make tea for someone. And have them say, this tea is perfect.
So you can watch movies you wouldn't otherwise watch. Like 3D action films. Or old westerns. It's good for you, to see these films. Saves you from banality of rom coms and tear jerkers.
So you can say 'lets' followed by anything, to someone, out loud.
So you can say 'have you seen my glasses? I'm losing my marbles!' and then say it again the next day, and the next, because they are losing their marbles too.
And when alls said and done. Rocking chair porch and sun setting looks faded weathered faces, calloused crippled hands and rings stuck forever on fingers swollen with age, stirring bright purple stewed plums in a bowl and drop them on the floor SWOOSH red everywhere and shed a tear as you kneel to clean up all the lost sweetness. Kneels next to you and says, I love you.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Cheap Therapy and Hot Tips from Beauty Salons and Dentists
I went to the beauty salon the other day. Don't get the wrong impression, by salon, i don't mean five floored luxury spa with wings that each have their own temperate pool where buff tan men in short white shorts offer you lemonades off trays..
i'm sorry what?
oh yeah, the salon, or whatever they're called. And don't get another wrong idea, i almost NEVER go to beauty places (you're like: no shit), this was only my third or fourth time my whole life. And no i wont' disclose why... just trust me it was worth it.
So the lady who runs the one woman show that is said salon, is Iranian. She's gorgeous. She's kind of half physically gorgeous, and half just so warm and amusing you can't help but want to hear her thick Iranian accent believing everything she tells you about the new mineral make up...
Everything about her makes me think of the word honey. She has honey coloured skin, and honey brown eyes, her perfectly coiffed, short 'bob' is streaks of golden honey blonde, very natural, for a dye job. She is perfectly made up, of course, in a nice way, not over the top. And she is fairly small, but a big presence, with spectacles sitting on the bridge of her nose.
She is warm and welcoming and immediately feels like your no-nonsense aunt that you love even though she tells things you how things are and what is what.
Well, Roya, her name is, has me on the fake leopard skin 'fur' covered salon bed.. and she says to me amid the 'getting to know you' banter 'You have boyfriend!?' She sort of jabs the words at me, not unkindly, matter of factly: 'you have boyfriend!?' she says. 'No' I reply (wait for it..) WHY YOU NO HAVE BOYFRIEND!? she says 'tall, beautiful...? (it's clearly as puzzling to her as anyone)... let me look at your eyebrowz' she says, and lifts her spectacles and peeeeers deep into my occular region. I'm apologizing and saying yes they probably need plucking (you're always cowering with embarrassment around beautiful beauty salon people as you know they are taking you apart and lamenting your complete lack of decorum).. and I'm wondering what ancient iranian astrology can tell about me from my eyebrows.. perhaps the name of my future lover...
'Ah yes' She says, as if it is plain for all to see. 'yes, we shape you eyebrowzz we tint your eyelashes, you get boyfriend'.
If only I'd known it was so simple at an earlier date. All I needed was an eyebrow shape and eyelash tint. Shit, for twenty five bucks it seems more than reasonable...
Well I left there and went to the dentist.
I know. No i do work. just not on thursdays.
I saw a deal on group on, and bought it. HIghly risky and i had been imagining all week all the kind of horrific dental atrocities the dentist was probably going to perform on me to try and make money out of me like some backstreet abortion clinic... I really got my defenses up.
Turns out the dentist is a pretty nice (for a sadist) Eastern Block lady, maybe russian, called lily. Lily is perfunct and matter of fact and a charactature of herself, with far too long dyed blonde hair, dark roots showing, half a pot of turqouise eye shadow on each eye lide, quirky rectangular spectacles, and a white apron over intersting, but not fashionable, worn out looking dresses, with puffy sleeves that continually drape in my face and smell sweet and of dust.
I lie down on lily's blue leather dentist chairs (god i love these chairs!! the ones that go back and up and down and forward like each of their 8 parts moves in complete independance to get you just so underneath the biiiig white light, with a pleasant little humming motor gently whirring against your skin....) there i am saying 'no i haven't been here before' and lily GASPS as she says 'YOU HAVE VERY GOOD TEETH!'.
THis is mostly why i came, i've decided. IT's like a kind of all round feel good day for me this day. She says 'you have very good teeth' and i say 'oh really (in that funny way you talk when you're trying not to show your teeth because as soon as someone mentions teeth yours go all shy) and she's saying 'yes, you do, let me look' and thumbing back your lips so she can get a good look at your pearlies and she says: 'do you drink fizzy drink'.. and i get to say 'no, no i NEVER do' (proud as punch) and to add to my own self inflation i say 'i don't really like sweet food'. This makes me feel holier than thou, and lily gives me a, what i think for her is warm, little nod of approval. IT's not true of course. I like russian fudge, and apple crumble, actually any crumble, and very dark chocolate occasoinally, i like anything that tastes like sour apple, like zombie chews or apple lollies, and sour coke bottles, and frozen coke, but only at the movies. But what i mean is, i haven't spent any part of my life consistently gorging on sugary food, and in doing so, i've saved myself aLOT of pain and dental bills.
I think that's why i went to the dentist. THen she sands my teeth with a pointed ended electrical saw, or at least that's what it sounds and feels like, that she'd first frozen, and then sharpened to razor sharp point. and then she polishes (is this the same word as polish, as in, from poland, or can i not spell?) them with that chalky, sweet, slightly orange flavoured tooth paste.
And i am good to go.
Clean pearlies, and only one shape and tint away from true love.
Happy days.
Monday, April 9, 2012
holy matrimony batman
Three conversations have coincided this week to make me have a slightly major epiphany. About marriage.
One conversation occurred on a semi-date, making this a legitimate entry onto my blog. (phewphs, i'm trying here people!)
I met a really interesting guy at a friends house, and in this case, I'm not using the words really interesting lightly. Smart, quick witted, easy to talk to, and an artist, oh and a greeny. Tick tick tick. Through our mutual friend he asked me if I would like to go for coffee the next day perhaps? Sounded swell to me. Then after facebook and web stalking him and viewing his art online and genuinely liking it a whole lot, I asked if as well as coffee, I could see his studio. I know what you dirty little monkeys are all thinking, but you can just forget about it. I genuinely wanted to see his art and workspace. You: *smirk*. Me: *rolls eyes* pfft!
So the next day we set off on a perfect, crisp, sunny long weekend day on foot towards town to see his studio (Ak uni, elam). And all the way we talked. Interesting talk. Actually, so interesting and easy that it made me realise how utterly boring most men are. yes you. you are so boring. We, i, women, bend over backwards making conversation puzzle shapes so you can put your conversation puzzle pieces in them. We bring up topics for you to talk about, and do all the right nodding and question asking. God it is all so tedious. But in this case, it was not at all so. I think it is fair to say I might never have met someone so worldly, in the truest sense of the word: so well travelled and broadly knowledged. This AND a great artist. I'm quite taken. I called it a semi-date because it wasn't one of those god-aweful, awkward, contrived, pressurised drink-at-a-bar scenario's. It was more like a really cool hang out. SO ANWYAY god before i lose the point entirely.
Said man, I'll call him the artist, he's got pretty good general knowledge, knows pretty much enough to talk about politics, history, geography, shit.. you name it. And you know, me, well, i'm smart, but i don't KNOW alot of stuff. i know alot about some stuff, but i really missed alot in school. i smoked weed and drew funny pictures of my teachers and wagged and got drunk right when things were getting, what i in hindsight now realise, were fairly critical. like history. ouch i just got a pain in my body even thinking about history class. but now i see, one should really know a little about the major events that occurred in the last few hundred years for example. because they shaped our culture, and our world, they shaped lanuage and art and philosphy and through that, shape today, and me. And besides, you just look dumb when you don't know things. And no body likes dumb people.
So i came home from this enlightening and educational, as well as truly enjoable day, with a bit of a mental list of things i wanted to read up about, you know, homework so to speak, and one of them was marxism.
So i'm reading away about karl marx, thinking shit, i'm kind of marxist! and i follow the wikipedia link about 'marxist feminism' because that sounds interesting. And here i read that marxist feminism is the theory that: the root of the oppression of women is capitalism, as it deprives women of property, economic equality and independence, and breeds unhealthy relationships between men and women. In this capitalist society, the family structure (i.e. marriage) serves to subordinate women, putting them at the service of men.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Bells go off in my head.
(This is why you should stay at school and learn, kids, so you know when someone is oppressing you).
Bells went off, and the ringing that they made sounded distinctly like the words 'fuck me, it's true'.
Just the night before, i had been talking with one of my best friends who is newly married and about to have her first baby. We talk about this and that and of course we talk about men, my complete absence of, or whomever i currently squeezing if i am squeezing (which i am not!), and her husband. And I can tell she really needs a vent you know, she tells me how he drops the cleanly washed towels on his poisonously toxic shoes and leaves them there, how he can't see the butter on the bench or anything else that needs putting away after he's made a sandwich... and on it goes. It's not particularly inspid, just home truths... and at the end of it she huffs and says crossly:
"I just feel like i'm his slave".
And this is one of the relationships i consider in the 'good' category. Well suited people who are in love. CRIPES.
And it's not just this friend, it's all my married friends. All the women feel this way, not just like slaves, but trapped. Trapped is a word I hear these days. They are totally dependent on men for financial support and their identity is suffocated out of existence by the all encompassing role of mother, the overwhelm, the expectations, the isolation.
Like the guy at the end of the bar, marriage looks less attractive the closer you get, I am finding.
Now now, I hear what you are thinking, what about the men? Exactly, what about those poor bastards, as emeshed in this dysfunctional system, shackled to their jobs, bearing the sum and total responsibility of bread winning. How horrible for them too. And I don't have even the vaguest idea of what an alternative solution to pairing and reproducing might be. But I have to say marriage seems a fundamentally oppressive institution, in light of these points. But MAINLY oppressive to women.
And this is not all. I had another conversation, via email, within days of these conversations, with a friend of mine who has been married several years. This friend said to me how they had wanted to discuss a particular sensitive theme with their spouse and it had created a huge explosion, which supported their growing belief that marriage was not a relationship in which you could be completely honest, or completely yourself. They went on to add, that marriage is so loaded with unconscious projections and expectations and that people subconsciously think that by getting married they have the right to be outraged if their spouse does not comply with their unvoiced assumptions, and that only non-married couples still had, at least, a sense that they didn't actually possess the other person.
And I thought, you know, it's really true. I see it all the time. In relationships, we negotiate, compromise, barter, because we KNOW that person can leave us and is opting to stay, essentially. And then the knot gets tied and people starting treating their 'loved one' like property, like a pet they need to perform well so their lives can remain on course.
It reminded me of another friend of mine who's husband wants sex all the time, and she'd quite happily live without it. She gestured to her wedding and engagement rings with the thumb of the same hand and waving them at me says: but this says i have to do it. I was slightly shocked, but only slightly. Which is shocking.
Hmmm swapping sex for gold and security... doesn't it sound a bit like... slavery?
So here I am, reading for the first time about Marxist feminism, with these conversations rattling round in the recesses of my brain, coagulating and attempting to form cut and paste messages for me, and I think a funny thing: marriage, is not, really.... feminist.
I'm struck that that is funny, mainly because i've never thought of it that way before. How come, in a world that was broken in two by our feminist mothers, (MY feminist mother!) and patched back together with women in the work force, equal pay (ha HA!), women in the army etc. well HOW COME we are still reading 'princess gets married to prince and lives happily every after' to our daughters, and how come our grown up daugthers, aka me and my UNmarried friends, are even still considering marriage an option, much less treating it as a GREAT TRIUMPH?!?!?
Someone's put something in the koolaid, becuase if the world was ever truly burnished by feminisms branding, the scar it left has all but faded to white.
Ahhh, look what the women have done, a little foot stomping, isn't that cute! Now send out the magazines to show them what to buy, how to look and how to act so they can use up all that silly energy covetting prams and cooking lamb roasts.
Shudder.
Now, being the daughter of a feminist mother, with an entirely feminist family, and feminist type expectations of me like, be everything, succeed all the time, have it all, feel fabulous being stretched within an inch of your inner resources... I thought i had been doing a fairly adequate job of feigning feminism. But here's the thing. THere are two ways you make decisions that support feminist ideals. One, is because you ought to, kind of the way you ought to finish dinner because african children are starving; and the other way, is because you're outraged.
And all these conversations and events and unveilings have culminated in me a feeling of, yes, a little outrage! And this outrage, lead me to all in one moment realise that I don't have to, need to, and in fact I think I may not want to, get married.
Ta da! That's the end of the show folks. Final bow, curtains fall. I mean, i never thought of myself as a ring-chasing big fat gypsy wedding type anyway, especially compared to many of my peers. But in a way I held this loose etheral idea of me getting married, the way you see yourself sitting on a porch when you're old. It's just how it looks. I may have watched too many movies.
And I tell you something else, boy does that take the HEAT OFF!
I didn't think I was dating in order to get married (and I feel like i'm going to be sick a little just writing that out loud to you) but the idea that i will never get married, by choice, well that just feels like a big fat gust of wind just blew into my life, peeling the curtains apart and the view it reveals is across a wide sea of freedom and possibilities, as far as the eye can see.
I've also downloaded lectures from oxford university explaining capitalism... next thing you know i'll be up and quitting my oppressive office job....
Yeah so that's all I got and it aint really funny so look at this fucking hilarious cat gif.
Oh, i don't know how to put it in... i'll try something else.
Oh and yes. I will be seeing extraordinarily interesting artist man again. This time armed with some prior reading! There you go. Nice call back at the end there! you see what i did. :)
One conversation occurred on a semi-date, making this a legitimate entry onto my blog. (phewphs, i'm trying here people!)
I met a really interesting guy at a friends house, and in this case, I'm not using the words really interesting lightly. Smart, quick witted, easy to talk to, and an artist, oh and a greeny. Tick tick tick. Through our mutual friend he asked me if I would like to go for coffee the next day perhaps? Sounded swell to me. Then after facebook and web stalking him and viewing his art online and genuinely liking it a whole lot, I asked if as well as coffee, I could see his studio. I know what you dirty little monkeys are all thinking, but you can just forget about it. I genuinely wanted to see his art and workspace. You: *smirk*. Me: *rolls eyes* pfft!
So the next day we set off on a perfect, crisp, sunny long weekend day on foot towards town to see his studio (Ak uni, elam). And all the way we talked. Interesting talk. Actually, so interesting and easy that it made me realise how utterly boring most men are. yes you. you are so boring. We, i, women, bend over backwards making conversation puzzle shapes so you can put your conversation puzzle pieces in them. We bring up topics for you to talk about, and do all the right nodding and question asking. God it is all so tedious. But in this case, it was not at all so. I think it is fair to say I might never have met someone so worldly, in the truest sense of the word: so well travelled and broadly knowledged. This AND a great artist. I'm quite taken. I called it a semi-date because it wasn't one of those god-aweful, awkward, contrived, pressurised drink-at-a-bar scenario's. It was more like a really cool hang out. SO ANWYAY god before i lose the point entirely.
Said man, I'll call him the artist, he's got pretty good general knowledge, knows pretty much enough to talk about politics, history, geography, shit.. you name it. And you know, me, well, i'm smart, but i don't KNOW alot of stuff. i know alot about some stuff, but i really missed alot in school. i smoked weed and drew funny pictures of my teachers and wagged and got drunk right when things were getting, what i in hindsight now realise, were fairly critical. like history. ouch i just got a pain in my body even thinking about history class. but now i see, one should really know a little about the major events that occurred in the last few hundred years for example. because they shaped our culture, and our world, they shaped lanuage and art and philosphy and through that, shape today, and me. And besides, you just look dumb when you don't know things. And no body likes dumb people.
So i came home from this enlightening and educational, as well as truly enjoable day, with a bit of a mental list of things i wanted to read up about, you know, homework so to speak, and one of them was marxism.
So i'm reading away about karl marx, thinking shit, i'm kind of marxist! and i follow the wikipedia link about 'marxist feminism' because that sounds interesting. And here i read that marxist feminism is the theory that: the root of the oppression of women is capitalism, as it deprives women of property, economic equality and independence, and breeds unhealthy relationships between men and women. In this capitalist society, the family structure (i.e. marriage) serves to subordinate women, putting them at the service of men.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Bells go off in my head.
(This is why you should stay at school and learn, kids, so you know when someone is oppressing you).
Bells went off, and the ringing that they made sounded distinctly like the words 'fuck me, it's true'.
Just the night before, i had been talking with one of my best friends who is newly married and about to have her first baby. We talk about this and that and of course we talk about men, my complete absence of, or whomever i currently squeezing if i am squeezing (which i am not!), and her husband. And I can tell she really needs a vent you know, she tells me how he drops the cleanly washed towels on his poisonously toxic shoes and leaves them there, how he can't see the butter on the bench or anything else that needs putting away after he's made a sandwich... and on it goes. It's not particularly inspid, just home truths... and at the end of it she huffs and says crossly:
"I just feel like i'm his slave".
And this is one of the relationships i consider in the 'good' category. Well suited people who are in love. CRIPES.
And it's not just this friend, it's all my married friends. All the women feel this way, not just like slaves, but trapped. Trapped is a word I hear these days. They are totally dependent on men for financial support and their identity is suffocated out of existence by the all encompassing role of mother, the overwhelm, the expectations, the isolation.
Like the guy at the end of the bar, marriage looks less attractive the closer you get, I am finding.
Now now, I hear what you are thinking, what about the men? Exactly, what about those poor bastards, as emeshed in this dysfunctional system, shackled to their jobs, bearing the sum and total responsibility of bread winning. How horrible for them too. And I don't have even the vaguest idea of what an alternative solution to pairing and reproducing might be. But I have to say marriage seems a fundamentally oppressive institution, in light of these points. But MAINLY oppressive to women.
And this is not all. I had another conversation, via email, within days of these conversations, with a friend of mine who has been married several years. This friend said to me how they had wanted to discuss a particular sensitive theme with their spouse and it had created a huge explosion, which supported their growing belief that marriage was not a relationship in which you could be completely honest, or completely yourself. They went on to add, that marriage is so loaded with unconscious projections and expectations and that people subconsciously think that by getting married they have the right to be outraged if their spouse does not comply with their unvoiced assumptions, and that only non-married couples still had, at least, a sense that they didn't actually possess the other person.
And I thought, you know, it's really true. I see it all the time. In relationships, we negotiate, compromise, barter, because we KNOW that person can leave us and is opting to stay, essentially. And then the knot gets tied and people starting treating their 'loved one' like property, like a pet they need to perform well so their lives can remain on course.
It reminded me of another friend of mine who's husband wants sex all the time, and she'd quite happily live without it. She gestured to her wedding and engagement rings with the thumb of the same hand and waving them at me says: but this says i have to do it. I was slightly shocked, but only slightly. Which is shocking.
Hmmm swapping sex for gold and security... doesn't it sound a bit like... slavery?
So here I am, reading for the first time about Marxist feminism, with these conversations rattling round in the recesses of my brain, coagulating and attempting to form cut and paste messages for me, and I think a funny thing: marriage, is not, really.... feminist.
I'm struck that that is funny, mainly because i've never thought of it that way before. How come, in a world that was broken in two by our feminist mothers, (MY feminist mother!) and patched back together with women in the work force, equal pay (ha HA!), women in the army etc. well HOW COME we are still reading 'princess gets married to prince and lives happily every after' to our daughters, and how come our grown up daugthers, aka me and my UNmarried friends, are even still considering marriage an option, much less treating it as a GREAT TRIUMPH?!?!?
Someone's put something in the koolaid, becuase if the world was ever truly burnished by feminisms branding, the scar it left has all but faded to white.
Ahhh, look what the women have done, a little foot stomping, isn't that cute! Now send out the magazines to show them what to buy, how to look and how to act so they can use up all that silly energy covetting prams and cooking lamb roasts.
Shudder.
Now, being the daughter of a feminist mother, with an entirely feminist family, and feminist type expectations of me like, be everything, succeed all the time, have it all, feel fabulous being stretched within an inch of your inner resources... I thought i had been doing a fairly adequate job of feigning feminism. But here's the thing. THere are two ways you make decisions that support feminist ideals. One, is because you ought to, kind of the way you ought to finish dinner because african children are starving; and the other way, is because you're outraged.
And all these conversations and events and unveilings have culminated in me a feeling of, yes, a little outrage! And this outrage, lead me to all in one moment realise that I don't have to, need to, and in fact I think I may not want to, get married.
Ta da! That's the end of the show folks. Final bow, curtains fall. I mean, i never thought of myself as a ring-chasing big fat gypsy wedding type anyway, especially compared to many of my peers. But in a way I held this loose etheral idea of me getting married, the way you see yourself sitting on a porch when you're old. It's just how it looks. I may have watched too many movies.
And I tell you something else, boy does that take the HEAT OFF!
I didn't think I was dating in order to get married (and I feel like i'm going to be sick a little just writing that out loud to you) but the idea that i will never get married, by choice, well that just feels like a big fat gust of wind just blew into my life, peeling the curtains apart and the view it reveals is across a wide sea of freedom and possibilities, as far as the eye can see.
I've also downloaded lectures from oxford university explaining capitalism... next thing you know i'll be up and quitting my oppressive office job....
Yeah so that's all I got and it aint really funny so look at this fucking hilarious cat gif.
Oh, i don't know how to put it in... i'll try something else.
Oh and yes. I will be seeing extraordinarily interesting artist man again. This time armed with some prior reading! There you go. Nice call back at the end there! you see what i did. :)
Sunday, March 18, 2012
A bunch of paintings
Just in case any of you are aucklanders, and were thinking of going to 'Degas to Dali' at the new revamped auckland art gallery, AND wanted my appraisal, here it is:
The collection comes from the National Gallery of Scotland. While they claim to have some of the 'best art in the world' i think it would be more accurate say they have some of the works of some of the great masters, but generally, the kind of pieces I imagine the painters would give to their favourite baker, or dying aunt, or bequeath to a, dare i say it, scottish gallery.
There are Dali paintings yes, and there are Degas paintings, there are freud, bacon, bonnard, magrite, nicholson, von jawlensky (a personal favourite), manet and monet... it's a veritable swingers party of great painters.. however, this pick and mix collection seems to encompass mainly works that were achieved prior to the artist really getting on a roll with their personal style, and before they became famous.
Picture Francis Bacon in his painting room slapping a hat and coat still life together, then when looking for canvases to paint over, to save money, this one just BARELY escapes a paint-over job. Bacon to me is a rich array of larger than life colours forming harrowed and haunting faces alongside sinister and morbidly sexual motifs like skulls. Francis Bacon is madness. Francis bacon is not: Hat and Coat Study.
To badger this point, there is one monet. It is of boats in a harbour. When I was seven I saw all of Monet's collection of watercolour lilly ponds and bridges and the lilac hued beauty of it burnt into my brain. Boats are nice too though.
As well, 'Degas to Dali' is somewhat of a liberal interpretation. The collection is not a sequential view of artworks, transitioning from movement to movement. Rather, it is a slap together of some expressionist, some impressionist, some surrealist, and sprinkle of pop art, oh and some landscapes. Because who doesn't love a landscape. Where, ever, have you viewed Picasso, alongside Warhol? Is it just too nouveau? Am I just too antiquated?
There are EVEN some 18th Centurey Japanese prints, welllll before Degas' time. I guess the curator thought: why take them down, when you'll only have to dust behind them. A sentiment I can strongly empathise with. But then, I'm not the curator of The Auckland Art Gallery.
While he/she was at it, he/she thought fit not to change the light bulbs. Probably the two most rewarding paintings, in terms of familiarity, as well as sheer brilliance, are Degas' two paintings from his most famous 'ballerina series'.
They are truly beautiful, emotive, you can smell the wooden dance room floors, hear the young ballerina's whispering girlish secrets as they practise plie's... but one of the two paintings is so poorly lit, that it is hard to see. It is genuinely hard to see. Like reading a book by an eco-lamp, waiting for it to take hold of it's identity and brighten the fuck up, but the brightening... it never comes. Not to go on, but to go on, further in the 'exhibition' is a single Morandi painting - he is known for painting bottles and jars in a monochrome of beige and bluey creams, that while just bottles and jars, manage to speak of silence and humility - and here is this single Morandi, being lit by a blue fluorescent light. I never liked those blue fluorescent lights in 5th form painting, and I certainly don't like them any more in the AAG.
I went to the Dali exhibition in Melbourne, it was mammoth and unhestitatingly astounding. And I don't even like surrealism. Surrealism is at the best of times like somebody telling you about their dreams. If i'm not in it, why would I care? It's abstract and often looks like somebody spilt their coffee on the rug. These particular pieces, ever the more. But this exhibition had me at hello. It took half a day to absorb it all. I came out at least having some appreciation of the great life and contribution of Salvidor Dali. The piec on show at the AAG, looked like a doodle Dali had made whilst talking on the wireless combobulator.
Highlights are: 'Maurice' - Pop King Andy Warhols fluorescent pink and blue screen print of a friends daschund. Eminently charming, farcical and at once noble. Andy Warhol famously said everyone would have their fifteen minutes of fame, what he not so famously also said was 'even pets'.
Of my favourites: The Lustre Bowl by Sir William Nicholson, exhibits a single lustre bowl (copper oxide and glass veneer over wood creating a lusturous sheen) and a dozen green peas on a plain white table cloth in a black room. Has to be seen to be felt, this painting, is probably worth the $20 admission fee. You can feel the temperature of the room. Feel the mood of the owner of the bowl. Someone who does seem to know a little of how to do their job at the gallery points out on the plaque how the bowl looks so hard and shiny you can hear it ping, whilst the peas soft and malleable and each displaying their own character. It's quite a fete. Lest I wank on.
I truly love Picasso, and there is one simple painting of his from the blue period showing the back of a woman holding a baby. The weight of her body, heavier on one foot, the curve of her back and crook of her neck are all perfectly executed. Barring the cubist period, Picasso never put a foot wrong.
To conclude, The Auckland Art Gallery has had a surgical facelift, it looks great. It's gone from Anna Paquin to Cate Blanchet. I think it could hold it's head up alongside, not the Louvre, but let's say the National Portrait Gallery of London. They have left the skeleton with some flesh on it, of the old building to be seen in places, such as alcoves that end abruptly at glass, waist-height walls, which meet spiralling staircases that dwindle symmetrically to smaller and smaller staircases. I had the greatest of expectations for this new gallery and their first international exhibition. I rather enjoyed closing my right eye and looking with my left, and then closing my left eye and looking only with my right, to see what each hemisphere of my brain would notice more.
I think go, it's only twenty bucks right, you get to wander around with the middle and upper middle class feeling cul-cha'd and like a better person, whispering in hushed tones your 'informed' (touche) opinion of great works.
I just think instead of calling it 'Degas to Dali' they should have more honestly entitled it 'a bunch of paintings from Scotland, not the best, not the worst, to be fair, the B team'; bring a torch.
The collection comes from the National Gallery of Scotland. While they claim to have some of the 'best art in the world' i think it would be more accurate say they have some of the works of some of the great masters, but generally, the kind of pieces I imagine the painters would give to their favourite baker, or dying aunt, or bequeath to a, dare i say it, scottish gallery.
There are Dali paintings yes, and there are Degas paintings, there are freud, bacon, bonnard, magrite, nicholson, von jawlensky (a personal favourite), manet and monet... it's a veritable swingers party of great painters.. however, this pick and mix collection seems to encompass mainly works that were achieved prior to the artist really getting on a roll with their personal style, and before they became famous.
Picture Francis Bacon in his painting room slapping a hat and coat still life together, then when looking for canvases to paint over, to save money, this one just BARELY escapes a paint-over job. Bacon to me is a rich array of larger than life colours forming harrowed and haunting faces alongside sinister and morbidly sexual motifs like skulls. Francis Bacon is madness. Francis bacon is not: Hat and Coat Study.
To badger this point, there is one monet. It is of boats in a harbour. When I was seven I saw all of Monet's collection of watercolour lilly ponds and bridges and the lilac hued beauty of it burnt into my brain. Boats are nice too though.
As well, 'Degas to Dali' is somewhat of a liberal interpretation. The collection is not a sequential view of artworks, transitioning from movement to movement. Rather, it is a slap together of some expressionist, some impressionist, some surrealist, and sprinkle of pop art, oh and some landscapes. Because who doesn't love a landscape. Where, ever, have you viewed Picasso, alongside Warhol? Is it just too nouveau? Am I just too antiquated?
There are EVEN some 18th Centurey Japanese prints, welllll before Degas' time. I guess the curator thought: why take them down, when you'll only have to dust behind them. A sentiment I can strongly empathise with. But then, I'm not the curator of The Auckland Art Gallery.
While he/she was at it, he/she thought fit not to change the light bulbs. Probably the two most rewarding paintings, in terms of familiarity, as well as sheer brilliance, are Degas' two paintings from his most famous 'ballerina series'.
They are truly beautiful, emotive, you can smell the wooden dance room floors, hear the young ballerina's whispering girlish secrets as they practise plie's... but one of the two paintings is so poorly lit, that it is hard to see. It is genuinely hard to see. Like reading a book by an eco-lamp, waiting for it to take hold of it's identity and brighten the fuck up, but the brightening... it never comes. Not to go on, but to go on, further in the 'exhibition' is a single Morandi painting - he is known for painting bottles and jars in a monochrome of beige and bluey creams, that while just bottles and jars, manage to speak of silence and humility - and here is this single Morandi, being lit by a blue fluorescent light. I never liked those blue fluorescent lights in 5th form painting, and I certainly don't like them any more in the AAG.
I went to the Dali exhibition in Melbourne, it was mammoth and unhestitatingly astounding. And I don't even like surrealism. Surrealism is at the best of times like somebody telling you about their dreams. If i'm not in it, why would I care? It's abstract and often looks like somebody spilt their coffee on the rug. These particular pieces, ever the more. But this exhibition had me at hello. It took half a day to absorb it all. I came out at least having some appreciation of the great life and contribution of Salvidor Dali. The piec on show at the AAG, looked like a doodle Dali had made whilst talking on the wireless combobulator.
Highlights are: 'Maurice' - Pop King Andy Warhols fluorescent pink and blue screen print of a friends daschund. Eminently charming, farcical and at once noble. Andy Warhol famously said everyone would have their fifteen minutes of fame, what he not so famously also said was 'even pets'.
Of my favourites: The Lustre Bowl by Sir William Nicholson, exhibits a single lustre bowl (copper oxide and glass veneer over wood creating a lusturous sheen) and a dozen green peas on a plain white table cloth in a black room. Has to be seen to be felt, this painting, is probably worth the $20 admission fee. You can feel the temperature of the room. Feel the mood of the owner of the bowl. Someone who does seem to know a little of how to do their job at the gallery points out on the plaque how the bowl looks so hard and shiny you can hear it ping, whilst the peas soft and malleable and each displaying their own character. It's quite a fete. Lest I wank on.
I truly love Picasso, and there is one simple painting of his from the blue period showing the back of a woman holding a baby. The weight of her body, heavier on one foot, the curve of her back and crook of her neck are all perfectly executed. Barring the cubist period, Picasso never put a foot wrong.
To conclude, The Auckland Art Gallery has had a surgical facelift, it looks great. It's gone from Anna Paquin to Cate Blanchet. I think it could hold it's head up alongside, not the Louvre, but let's say the National Portrait Gallery of London. They have left the skeleton with some flesh on it, of the old building to be seen in places, such as alcoves that end abruptly at glass, waist-height walls, which meet spiralling staircases that dwindle symmetrically to smaller and smaller staircases. I had the greatest of expectations for this new gallery and their first international exhibition. I rather enjoyed closing my right eye and looking with my left, and then closing my left eye and looking only with my right, to see what each hemisphere of my brain would notice more.
I think go, it's only twenty bucks right, you get to wander around with the middle and upper middle class feeling cul-cha'd and like a better person, whispering in hushed tones your 'informed' (touche) opinion of great works.
I just think instead of calling it 'Degas to Dali' they should have more honestly entitled it 'a bunch of paintings from Scotland, not the best, not the worst, to be fair, the B team'; bring a torch.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Just a little about me
That isn't really me by the way. In breaksupsville. It HAS been me and that is a true story... but not right now. I was just thinking about it... how tragically the same it always is.
Today, a completely different post. I want to tell you about something awesome I did. Seeing as this blog is drenched in woe.
Today I did a crossfit competition. I am sitting here icing my thumb and shoulder with pea's. Thumb taking breaks from peas to type.
My crossfit gym (quattro) and another one (rapid) met up at their gym in eden park, got put into teams, and competed against each other.
Crossfit, for anyone who doesn't know, is awesome. It is a the new style of fitness training, everyone who does it, gets obsessed with it, because it's that good. It's that good and getting you fitter, stronger, faster, more flexible, more agile, more able, more functionally fitter, and to levels of fitness you never even imagined for yourself.
Part of the ethos of crossfit is that the working out centres around camrardarie. It is the furthest cry from dudes working out in gyms, doing completely non-functional movements that don't translate into life, calling each other a pussy and hurting their bodies by compromising technique to look like a hard man.
It is everyone together, learning, being challenged, overcoming the scariest fucking shit, encouraging each other. Little tiny women come in, scared, we all are. And in three weeks they're over head snatching half their body weight. It changes you. It's the best thing that ever happened to me, crossfit.
Every time you go to crossfit, you do something you have never done before.
What ever you deadlifted last time, you aim to do more. If your technique on snatch was lacking, you practise and practise. Every day, you acheive something. And i'll tell you something about that. Anyone with even an iota of depression in their mind, should do crossfit. Doing something better everyday, while people who love you, yes, love you, stand around and get psyched for you and share your success, ask for your times, pat you on the back, egg you on, cheer, run with you to the finish etc. jolts you out of a bad mood so fast and furiously you can't remember what the fucking problem was.
yada yada. Everyone's obsessed with it because it's THAT good.
We turn up, there's about 40 athletes. We get teamed into fours. Two Rx'd and two scaled. What this means is that Rx'd do the workout as prescribed, and scaled people get a lighter weight or shorter set. EVERYONE works their guts out, it just allows for the different levels of ability. I'm Rx'd. There's alot of pride in that for me. I am naturally athletic, but i have to work FREAKIN hard to get there, and stay there. There aint no shortcuts and no faking. You work til you cannot work even one milimetre harder. You collapse on the floor when you're done.
First workout:
300m row on machine, no probs.
Then what is called a hang clean. You take a loaded up barbell from the floor and 'jerk' it/pull it up to chest height, flick your arms under neath and 'catch' it, elbows pointing forward. sorry if that makes no sense. essentially, you get the weight off the floor, slide and jump it up the body, to a position where you are standing with the barbell 'racked' on your chest. They're hard.
I have to do it at 40kg. 40kg is ALOT. I weigh 68kg. It's more than half my own body weight. All your shopping, the day you do the big epic supermarket shop and spend $200, probably weighs about 15kg. 40kg is alot.
I'm first too, and i start, and i go to jerk it and that mother fucking bar does not go up. I put it back down, reset, lift, jerk. And that goddamn scary fuck shit bar is not going up. I look up like a lost lamb, and i'm saying 'dave (my trainer) it's too heavy' in disbelief. Because what are my fucking options at this point? the workout has started, I"m Rx, nothing can be done, this IS my weight.
And Dave comes rushing over like a protective papa bear, bends down, puts his hands on his knee's and says JUMP AND SHRUG as hard as you can. An order. It's now. Can you do it or not? I lift the bar, I JUMP AND SHRUG as hard as i can and the fucking thing goes up. catch. stand. JESUS CHRIST. I have to do 15, then 12, then 9, 36 in total, with barbell jumping to tire you out in between.
This is the part of the workout where I start feeling emotional. You feel fucking emotional, because it is SO hard, and there's no backing out. You didn't come here to wuss out and not do what you are capable of doing. You came here to see what you were made of. There is no not doing it. Your mind says two things to you, IT's So HARD I DON"T THINK I CAN??!! and it says, NOW WAY OUT, JUST DO IT.
And that's upsetting. I won't lie.
I've done alot of sports, and trained other people, so i know about the mind.
It is all in the mind. Everything. Everything you do, you are what you believe you are, if you believe it, then it is. We get brought up/socialised/nurtured to beleive certain things. I am fat, thin, I am slow, I am fast, i learn quickly, i'm funny, i fail often, if i try i can do anything etc. etc.
Do you know about people with split personalities where one personality has ALLERGIES the others don't have?
The mind people, the mind.
The difference between doing, and not doing, is believing you can do it.
So crazy scared mind feels the heavy weight, feels the lungs on fire, unable to get breath, feels dizzy, feels pain and says HOLY FUCKING SHIT I'M SCARED, I CAN"T DO THIS.
And experienced, well trained mind says: Keep going. You ARE going to do this. That's all there is to it. IT is going to get done, and by you. There is an end to this, and you're going to be there soon in 20, 19, 18, 17...
you just keep telling yourself all the thigns you need to hear. And you keep going.
Crazy scared brain is crazy and scared, and upset goddamit. And smart brain has to drown it out. It helps when your friends are there being smart brain all around you. Yelling KEEP GOING, you can do this.
The workout is insanely hard. After the clean and jerks, you jump laterally across the bar. you're gassed. you're spent. the very last rep i do is a contorted mess and the judge is looking at me egging me up to standing position so he can call REP! and i'm done.
I'm done. I literally, have never done anything that felt SO beyond my ability before.
We complete. We're last. I doesn't matter. Everyone has pushed themselves to within an inch of their lives, everyone is psyched and proud for each other, just for doing it.
after a short rest the second work out looks like this:
30 40cm box jumps (jump up, jump down, etc.)
30 Kettlebell high pulls - 16kg kettle bell from ground to chest.
30 burpee's (pure evil)
30 kettle bell swings - 16kg kettle bell from between legs to over head.
nd then 20 of each, then 10.
And a 400m run to finish. fast as you can.
Suffice to say, very hard. The kind of hard I really love though. It's when you're lifting tricky, heavy weights, unsure if each rep is going to make it, that's scary. Lungs, well i'm used to them screaming at me, you just think, fuck it, keep going, you can't DIE right? You can't DIE doing this...?
Again last. And on the final run on the way home (to end the work out) amanda yells I LOVE OUR TEAM, and i say ME TOO, and we do. Everyone had there strength, their failing, their weakness, everyone worked til they couldn't work anymore, and then worked a litle bit more.
It does something GOOD to the insides of you, it does something good to the people all around you.
That's all I have to write about today. Not funny, or embarrsing, or entertaining, or about any sad dating foible, or singleness, love, break ups, or anything of the sort.
Just wanted to tell you how awesome I was today.
:)
Today, a completely different post. I want to tell you about something awesome I did. Seeing as this blog is drenched in woe.
Today I did a crossfit competition. I am sitting here icing my thumb and shoulder with pea's. Thumb taking breaks from peas to type.
My crossfit gym (quattro) and another one (rapid) met up at their gym in eden park, got put into teams, and competed against each other.
Crossfit, for anyone who doesn't know, is awesome. It is a the new style of fitness training, everyone who does it, gets obsessed with it, because it's that good. It's that good and getting you fitter, stronger, faster, more flexible, more agile, more able, more functionally fitter, and to levels of fitness you never even imagined for yourself.
Part of the ethos of crossfit is that the working out centres around camrardarie. It is the furthest cry from dudes working out in gyms, doing completely non-functional movements that don't translate into life, calling each other a pussy and hurting their bodies by compromising technique to look like a hard man.
It is everyone together, learning, being challenged, overcoming the scariest fucking shit, encouraging each other. Little tiny women come in, scared, we all are. And in three weeks they're over head snatching half their body weight. It changes you. It's the best thing that ever happened to me, crossfit.
Every time you go to crossfit, you do something you have never done before.
What ever you deadlifted last time, you aim to do more. If your technique on snatch was lacking, you practise and practise. Every day, you acheive something. And i'll tell you something about that. Anyone with even an iota of depression in their mind, should do crossfit. Doing something better everyday, while people who love you, yes, love you, stand around and get psyched for you and share your success, ask for your times, pat you on the back, egg you on, cheer, run with you to the finish etc. jolts you out of a bad mood so fast and furiously you can't remember what the fucking problem was.
yada yada. Everyone's obsessed with it because it's THAT good.
We turn up, there's about 40 athletes. We get teamed into fours. Two Rx'd and two scaled. What this means is that Rx'd do the workout as prescribed, and scaled people get a lighter weight or shorter set. EVERYONE works their guts out, it just allows for the different levels of ability. I'm Rx'd. There's alot of pride in that for me. I am naturally athletic, but i have to work FREAKIN hard to get there, and stay there. There aint no shortcuts and no faking. You work til you cannot work even one milimetre harder. You collapse on the floor when you're done.
First workout:
300m row on machine, no probs.
Then what is called a hang clean. You take a loaded up barbell from the floor and 'jerk' it/pull it up to chest height, flick your arms under neath and 'catch' it, elbows pointing forward. sorry if that makes no sense. essentially, you get the weight off the floor, slide and jump it up the body, to a position where you are standing with the barbell 'racked' on your chest. They're hard.
I have to do it at 40kg. 40kg is ALOT. I weigh 68kg. It's more than half my own body weight. All your shopping, the day you do the big epic supermarket shop and spend $200, probably weighs about 15kg. 40kg is alot.
I'm first too, and i start, and i go to jerk it and that mother fucking bar does not go up. I put it back down, reset, lift, jerk. And that goddamn scary fuck shit bar is not going up. I look up like a lost lamb, and i'm saying 'dave (my trainer) it's too heavy' in disbelief. Because what are my fucking options at this point? the workout has started, I"m Rx, nothing can be done, this IS my weight.
And Dave comes rushing over like a protective papa bear, bends down, puts his hands on his knee's and says JUMP AND SHRUG as hard as you can. An order. It's now. Can you do it or not? I lift the bar, I JUMP AND SHRUG as hard as i can and the fucking thing goes up. catch. stand. JESUS CHRIST. I have to do 15, then 12, then 9, 36 in total, with barbell jumping to tire you out in between.
This is the part of the workout where I start feeling emotional. You feel fucking emotional, because it is SO hard, and there's no backing out. You didn't come here to wuss out and not do what you are capable of doing. You came here to see what you were made of. There is no not doing it. Your mind says two things to you, IT's So HARD I DON"T THINK I CAN??!! and it says, NOW WAY OUT, JUST DO IT.
And that's upsetting. I won't lie.
I've done alot of sports, and trained other people, so i know about the mind.
It is all in the mind. Everything. Everything you do, you are what you believe you are, if you believe it, then it is. We get brought up/socialised/nurtured to beleive certain things. I am fat, thin, I am slow, I am fast, i learn quickly, i'm funny, i fail often, if i try i can do anything etc. etc.
Do you know about people with split personalities where one personality has ALLERGIES the others don't have?
The mind people, the mind.
The difference between doing, and not doing, is believing you can do it.
So crazy scared mind feels the heavy weight, feels the lungs on fire, unable to get breath, feels dizzy, feels pain and says HOLY FUCKING SHIT I'M SCARED, I CAN"T DO THIS.
And experienced, well trained mind says: Keep going. You ARE going to do this. That's all there is to it. IT is going to get done, and by you. There is an end to this, and you're going to be there soon in 20, 19, 18, 17...
you just keep telling yourself all the thigns you need to hear. And you keep going.
Crazy scared brain is crazy and scared, and upset goddamit. And smart brain has to drown it out. It helps when your friends are there being smart brain all around you. Yelling KEEP GOING, you can do this.
The workout is insanely hard. After the clean and jerks, you jump laterally across the bar. you're gassed. you're spent. the very last rep i do is a contorted mess and the judge is looking at me egging me up to standing position so he can call REP! and i'm done.
I'm done. I literally, have never done anything that felt SO beyond my ability before.
We complete. We're last. I doesn't matter. Everyone has pushed themselves to within an inch of their lives, everyone is psyched and proud for each other, just for doing it.
after a short rest the second work out looks like this:
30 40cm box jumps (jump up, jump down, etc.)
30 Kettlebell high pulls - 16kg kettle bell from ground to chest.
30 burpee's (pure evil)
30 kettle bell swings - 16kg kettle bell from between legs to over head.
nd then 20 of each, then 10.
And a 400m run to finish. fast as you can.
Suffice to say, very hard. The kind of hard I really love though. It's when you're lifting tricky, heavy weights, unsure if each rep is going to make it, that's scary. Lungs, well i'm used to them screaming at me, you just think, fuck it, keep going, you can't DIE right? You can't DIE doing this...?
Again last. And on the final run on the way home (to end the work out) amanda yells I LOVE OUR TEAM, and i say ME TOO, and we do. Everyone had there strength, their failing, their weakness, everyone worked til they couldn't work anymore, and then worked a litle bit more.
It does something GOOD to the insides of you, it does something good to the people all around you.
That's all I have to write about today. Not funny, or embarrsing, or entertaining, or about any sad dating foible, or singleness, love, break ups, or anything of the sort.
Just wanted to tell you how awesome I was today.
:)
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Resuscitation
Things you do when you have just been broken up with:
Not eat. Drink alot of tea. Smoke alot.
Look at their face book page. Imagine everything they say is an encoded message to you. Cheer up. Or to someone else. Back to wanting to die.
Check your phone.
Do sudoku. Alot. At night. When your bed is a hot enemy and sleep is a rumour.
Plot your new, successful, perfect life. How happy you will be. How achieved those goals will get. How good you'll look. How in love you'll be. How better the next relationship will be. How self sufficient you'll feel. Good hair. Great clothes. Tiny waist. How beautiful your blue and white china sitting on the wooden bench with sunlight filtering over it in your perfect kitchen. Feel wind in your sails. Lie on your bed and cry.
Feel a jolt of painful electricity in your chest when your friend tells you she just got engaged.
Run. Run. Run. Believe that the pain in your legs is the pain ebbing out of your heart.
Not clean the bathroom.
Check your phone.
Not change the sheets for too long. Then change the sheets. Sniff your pillow case on it's way to the washing pile. Sob once as the smell of their greasy head and the knowledge of their goneness wrenches at your soul. Toss the sheets into a pile with the sharp angry flick of resolve. See the sheets drying and wish you could hadn't washed them away.
Cut your hair. Love your new hair. Hate your new hair. Cry.
Over dress in too sexy clothes, go out, get too drunk, kiss someone ugly, fall into a bush.
Tear up when you see animals show affection.
Watch sex and the city. Every season, every episode. Laugh and cry. Think you will be alright.
Write a sad, epic song about them on your guitar. Know that if you could just sing them this song they would understand everything, the burnt bridge between you would be resurrected, they would flood into your life again, touched by your depth of feeling and deep insight. Think about sending them an MP3 file of this song. Restrain yourself.
Write a list of reasons you didn't like them and you're glad you're broken up.
Tell yourself you are over them.
Imagine the list they'd write about you.
Wish you'd been nicer, shared more, less jealous.
Write them an angry, furious, vehemnous, raging email of hatred, blaming them for everything. Send it.
Write them an apologetic, jokey email. Begging them between the lines to take you back. Send it. Promise yourself never to email them again.
Have a moment of happiness. Know that things will be alright.
Sing along loudly to love songs that come on in the car and supermarket. Wonder if God put the songs there to fuck with you.
Check your phone.
Get heart palpitations.
Spend four hundred dollars at the mall. Wear your new expensive mohair cardigan for 24 hours straight. See it in the corner a week later. Regret two things.
Go on a health kick. Start with a green smoothie and lemon water. Have a coffee at lunch. Then a bacon sandwich cuz you're so hungry. Then twelve cigarettes. Start health kick tomorrow.
Call a friend you haven't spoken to for ages.
Tell them everythings great. Hang up and wish you hadn't called them.
Call an ex-flame you think never got over you. Find out they're married. Hang up and cry.
Get thinner. Put on pants you haven't been able to fit for awhile. Tell yourself it will be alright.
Check your phone.
Throw out your ugly underwear. Wish you hadn't worn it around them.
Plot your own suicide, the fictitious imagining of which centres around how sad your ex will be that you are gone. Picture him at the funeral, realise he will get sympathy that he doesn't deserve, and that you had to die to get him to shed a single fucking tear. Decide not to kill yourself.
Check your phone.
Have another tea.
Not eat. Drink alot of tea. Smoke alot.
Look at their face book page. Imagine everything they say is an encoded message to you. Cheer up. Or to someone else. Back to wanting to die.
Check your phone.
Do sudoku. Alot. At night. When your bed is a hot enemy and sleep is a rumour.
Plot your new, successful, perfect life. How happy you will be. How achieved those goals will get. How good you'll look. How in love you'll be. How better the next relationship will be. How self sufficient you'll feel. Good hair. Great clothes. Tiny waist. How beautiful your blue and white china sitting on the wooden bench with sunlight filtering over it in your perfect kitchen. Feel wind in your sails. Lie on your bed and cry.
Feel a jolt of painful electricity in your chest when your friend tells you she just got engaged.
Run. Run. Run. Believe that the pain in your legs is the pain ebbing out of your heart.
Not clean the bathroom.
Check your phone.
Not change the sheets for too long. Then change the sheets. Sniff your pillow case on it's way to the washing pile. Sob once as the smell of their greasy head and the knowledge of their goneness wrenches at your soul. Toss the sheets into a pile with the sharp angry flick of resolve. See the sheets drying and wish you could hadn't washed them away.
Cut your hair. Love your new hair. Hate your new hair. Cry.
Over dress in too sexy clothes, go out, get too drunk, kiss someone ugly, fall into a bush.
Tear up when you see animals show affection.
Watch sex and the city. Every season, every episode. Laugh and cry. Think you will be alright.
Write a sad, epic song about them on your guitar. Know that if you could just sing them this song they would understand everything, the burnt bridge between you would be resurrected, they would flood into your life again, touched by your depth of feeling and deep insight. Think about sending them an MP3 file of this song. Restrain yourself.
Write a list of reasons you didn't like them and you're glad you're broken up.
Tell yourself you are over them.
Imagine the list they'd write about you.
Wish you'd been nicer, shared more, less jealous.
Write them an angry, furious, vehemnous, raging email of hatred, blaming them for everything. Send it.
Write them an apologetic, jokey email. Begging them between the lines to take you back. Send it. Promise yourself never to email them again.
Have a moment of happiness. Know that things will be alright.
Sing along loudly to love songs that come on in the car and supermarket. Wonder if God put the songs there to fuck with you.
Check your phone.
Get heart palpitations.
Spend four hundred dollars at the mall. Wear your new expensive mohair cardigan for 24 hours straight. See it in the corner a week later. Regret two things.
Go on a health kick. Start with a green smoothie and lemon water. Have a coffee at lunch. Then a bacon sandwich cuz you're so hungry. Then twelve cigarettes. Start health kick tomorrow.
Call a friend you haven't spoken to for ages.
Tell them everythings great. Hang up and wish you hadn't called them.
Call an ex-flame you think never got over you. Find out they're married. Hang up and cry.
Get thinner. Put on pants you haven't been able to fit for awhile. Tell yourself it will be alright.
Check your phone.
Throw out your ugly underwear. Wish you hadn't worn it around them.
Plot your own suicide, the fictitious imagining of which centres around how sad your ex will be that you are gone. Picture him at the funeral, realise he will get sympathy that he doesn't deserve, and that you had to die to get him to shed a single fucking tear. Decide not to kill yourself.
Check your phone.
Have another tea.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Black and Brown is Frown
We need a new flat mate again. Actually we found one. But of course the usual flat mate interviewing preceded this. After meeting a dozen potential flat mates, my existing flatties and I sat around the table together and Mike - if you read my blog you'll remember him, he's the death metaller, six foot tall, shaved head, vegan and serious - said that one of the applicants, cherie, with her heart bracelet and rainbow t-shirt, and her insanely high pitched effervesence, seemed like the opposite of him.
Following this comment, a discussion ensued about what would be our opposites (great theme for a party). I tried to pick mine and said, maybe a really thin, mousy, quiet little librarian type girl with glasses and dyed black hair, but really why and depressed and introverted and emo?
And my flatmate pipes up and says, no, yours would be Malibu Barbie.
And everyone including myself erupts into laughter.
She carries on: with bleached boofy perfect hair, tan-o-rexic, fake boobs, six inch pink heels, heaps of bling and a handbag dog, and just really Done Up.
This reveleation at first brings me pride.. I yam what I yam... and then when it sinks in a little further I realise, I really AM NOT ... a done up girl. All that wearing of grey sweatshirt material, singlets with built in bra's and sneakers, the absence of makeup, the long tangly hair.. and the appearance of not having looked in the mirror (somedays it's true) has obviously not been lost on anyone. Huh. Sometimes you realise how the world see's you, and it's strange.
So I have been thinking that perhaps I would give being a girl more of a nudge. Maybe. Although it does look like a lot of hard work and time.
So the guy from the party... who tracked me down and was very interested in me.
Well he was nice, I saw him a few times, we hung out and it was fun.
But one problem was, he was a bit smaller than me. Okay quite a bit.
This is not hard to achieve... I have an athletic figure that has also been described as 'amazonian': tall, broad shoulders, kinda strong looking. I love it and am happy in my body, but being around a smallER guy... sometimes the words 'big mama jumbo' would go through my head. No girl wants to feel like big mama jumbo. Ever.
I mentioned this hitch to a male friend of mine, he's the kind of guy who likes his women skinny, in make up and with breast implants, so I thought he'd understand.
He said 'no problem, just wear more dresses and some make up and do your hair'.
Like possibly he'd been trying to find a time to say that to me for awhile.
Well, I thought this was potentially good advice, so out I went, and dresses I bought.
The problem then, for someone such as myself who is not exactly The House of Style, is that I don't have all the things that go WITH dresses: belts...handbags and other things I don't even know about, no doubt.
So here I was last night rummaging through my unfailingly stylish cousins wardrobe and admiring her new buys, she is deliciously stylish, always, and has impeccable taste, her outfits are art, I am in constant admiration of her. And there amongst her new things was a brown stretch belt. I said, hey i might borrow this to go over my new dress? It's black and like this and like this with some white flecks.
And she screws up her lips and goes mmm Black and Brown is Frown.
I crack up. did you just say Frown?? I ask. Yeah, she says, black and brown is ... frown.
Oh. She's serious!
In mock horror I ask her 'is there anything ELSE i should know?'
and she immediately says 'blue and green should never be seen... unles it's blue jeans and a green top' she says succintly.
Wow. The things you didn't know you didn't know. I mean, there are SLOGANS?
I suddenly felt a sharp feeling in my chest, that picked last left out feeling, like somewhere along the line every female had been taken into a girls only club and taught how to accessorise, what necklines suited them, dressing for your season, and how to remember fashion rules using rhymes leaving me playing outside in a muddy puddle with a wooden sword and pulling the legs off crabs.
There are so many things about being a woman that I clearly don't understand, but the thing is, it isn't my fault!
Growing up I had exactly two types of clothes (barring nickers), the ones my brothers had grown out of, and the ones my mum made at home.
Skivvy's featured heavily in my wardrobe, faded from years of use, in red, navy blue and forest green. As did track pants. Good, hard wearing, comfortable, practical clothes. I can remember tracking items of clothing as the passed from the folded pile in the hot water cupboard that belonged to my oldest brother, and then to the pile that belonged to my second oldest brother, and then finally! to my pile. Because I of course, wanted nothing more than to be my brothers.
Mum kept my hair short, boy short, once I had a rats tail. So short dad accused her of trying to make me a lesbian (multiple issues revealed by that little interaction). And then, when my parents divorced, I lived mostly with my dad. I was eleven. I lived with my dad, and two older brothers. I can't tell you how little they knew about being a girl, let alone dressing like one.
MY dad, was the man INFAMOUS for his choice of practicality over style.. no, not even style, over APPEARANCE. Dad is the man in the funny fluffy hat. Dad was the man who wore sandals and socks (it is an awesome combination, one must admit they deeply know this) but not just ANY socks, knee high, ribbed, folded down at the top, white or light pink or mint green 'business' socks and not just ANY sandals, brown Roman sandals. Dad is the man who now wears every day seeing glasses that are large round ovals that nearly join in the middle, they are somewhere between an owl, an old lady, the 80's and a made scientist. They are truly laughable. When he got these I actually had to intervene and tell him that they looked ridiculous (but in softer terms) because I didn't want people judging my dad as a crazy old bat!!
After considering this for several days my dad said to me: i listened to what you said, and you may well be right, but i have given you lots of good advice in your life that you haven't taken, and I am going to keep wearing the glasses. And so it was. is. People looked at my dad, for many of the wrong reasons.
Where was I?
Oh so yes. A girl. I think I ought to be more like a girl. Only, it seems like such a lot of hard work and frankly.. time wasted. Is it really worth it? Perhaps I would be married now if i had just put in a bit more effort. That's what aunts would say about me behind their hands if it were the 1900's and I had lifted my skirts to chase after a croquet ball.
Are black and brown really... frown?
Blue and green? never be seen?
I squatted 80kgs today. That's my max squat so far. Wearing leggins with a hole in them and a Y back single. Sweat ran off my nose and through my unwashed hair. The guys at crossfit were stoked and cheered for me.
Maybe I just need to find.. my own kind :) start looking outside of Malibu.
:D
Following this comment, a discussion ensued about what would be our opposites (great theme for a party). I tried to pick mine and said, maybe a really thin, mousy, quiet little librarian type girl with glasses and dyed black hair, but really why and depressed and introverted and emo?
And my flatmate pipes up and says, no, yours would be Malibu Barbie.
And everyone including myself erupts into laughter.
She carries on: with bleached boofy perfect hair, tan-o-rexic, fake boobs, six inch pink heels, heaps of bling and a handbag dog, and just really Done Up.
This reveleation at first brings me pride.. I yam what I yam... and then when it sinks in a little further I realise, I really AM NOT ... a done up girl. All that wearing of grey sweatshirt material, singlets with built in bra's and sneakers, the absence of makeup, the long tangly hair.. and the appearance of not having looked in the mirror (somedays it's true) has obviously not been lost on anyone. Huh. Sometimes you realise how the world see's you, and it's strange.
So I have been thinking that perhaps I would give being a girl more of a nudge. Maybe. Although it does look like a lot of hard work and time.
So the guy from the party... who tracked me down and was very interested in me.
Well he was nice, I saw him a few times, we hung out and it was fun.
But one problem was, he was a bit smaller than me. Okay quite a bit.
This is not hard to achieve... I have an athletic figure that has also been described as 'amazonian': tall, broad shoulders, kinda strong looking. I love it and am happy in my body, but being around a smallER guy... sometimes the words 'big mama jumbo' would go through my head. No girl wants to feel like big mama jumbo. Ever.
I mentioned this hitch to a male friend of mine, he's the kind of guy who likes his women skinny, in make up and with breast implants, so I thought he'd understand.
He said 'no problem, just wear more dresses and some make up and do your hair'.
Like possibly he'd been trying to find a time to say that to me for awhile.
Well, I thought this was potentially good advice, so out I went, and dresses I bought.
The problem then, for someone such as myself who is not exactly The House of Style, is that I don't have all the things that go WITH dresses: belts...handbags and other things I don't even know about, no doubt.
So here I was last night rummaging through my unfailingly stylish cousins wardrobe and admiring her new buys, she is deliciously stylish, always, and has impeccable taste, her outfits are art, I am in constant admiration of her. And there amongst her new things was a brown stretch belt. I said, hey i might borrow this to go over my new dress? It's black and like this and like this with some white flecks.
And she screws up her lips and goes mmm Black and Brown is Frown.
I crack up. did you just say Frown?? I ask. Yeah, she says, black and brown is ... frown.
Oh. She's serious!
In mock horror I ask her 'is there anything ELSE i should know?'
and she immediately says 'blue and green should never be seen... unles it's blue jeans and a green top' she says succintly.
Wow. The things you didn't know you didn't know. I mean, there are SLOGANS?
I suddenly felt a sharp feeling in my chest, that picked last left out feeling, like somewhere along the line every female had been taken into a girls only club and taught how to accessorise, what necklines suited them, dressing for your season, and how to remember fashion rules using rhymes leaving me playing outside in a muddy puddle with a wooden sword and pulling the legs off crabs.
There are so many things about being a woman that I clearly don't understand, but the thing is, it isn't my fault!
Growing up I had exactly two types of clothes (barring nickers), the ones my brothers had grown out of, and the ones my mum made at home.
Skivvy's featured heavily in my wardrobe, faded from years of use, in red, navy blue and forest green. As did track pants. Good, hard wearing, comfortable, practical clothes. I can remember tracking items of clothing as the passed from the folded pile in the hot water cupboard that belonged to my oldest brother, and then to the pile that belonged to my second oldest brother, and then finally! to my pile. Because I of course, wanted nothing more than to be my brothers.
Mum kept my hair short, boy short, once I had a rats tail. So short dad accused her of trying to make me a lesbian (multiple issues revealed by that little interaction). And then, when my parents divorced, I lived mostly with my dad. I was eleven. I lived with my dad, and two older brothers. I can't tell you how little they knew about being a girl, let alone dressing like one.
MY dad, was the man INFAMOUS for his choice of practicality over style.. no, not even style, over APPEARANCE. Dad is the man in the funny fluffy hat. Dad was the man who wore sandals and socks (it is an awesome combination, one must admit they deeply know this) but not just ANY socks, knee high, ribbed, folded down at the top, white or light pink or mint green 'business' socks and not just ANY sandals, brown Roman sandals. Dad is the man who now wears every day seeing glasses that are large round ovals that nearly join in the middle, they are somewhere between an owl, an old lady, the 80's and a made scientist. They are truly laughable. When he got these I actually had to intervene and tell him that they looked ridiculous (but in softer terms) because I didn't want people judging my dad as a crazy old bat!!
After considering this for several days my dad said to me: i listened to what you said, and you may well be right, but i have given you lots of good advice in your life that you haven't taken, and I am going to keep wearing the glasses. And so it was. is. People looked at my dad, for many of the wrong reasons.
Where was I?
Oh so yes. A girl. I think I ought to be more like a girl. Only, it seems like such a lot of hard work and frankly.. time wasted. Is it really worth it? Perhaps I would be married now if i had just put in a bit more effort. That's what aunts would say about me behind their hands if it were the 1900's and I had lifted my skirts to chase after a croquet ball.
Are black and brown really... frown?
Blue and green? never be seen?
I squatted 80kgs today. That's my max squat so far. Wearing leggins with a hole in them and a Y back single. Sweat ran off my nose and through my unwashed hair. The guys at crossfit were stoked and cheered for me.
Maybe I just need to find.. my own kind :) start looking outside of Malibu.
:D
I wish i wrote this...
You know the sound tracks to your life?
This is one of mine right now...
I just smudge my 'hot coral' nail polish posting this...
Swinging in the backyard
Pull up in your fast car
Whistling my name
Open up a beer
And you say get over here
And play a video game
I'm in his favorite sun dress
Watching me get undressed
Take that body downtown
I say you the bestest
Lean in for a big kiss
Put his favorite perfume on
Go play a video game
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
Singing in the old bars
Swinging with the old stars
Living for the fame
Kissing in the blue dark
Playing pool and wild darts
And video games
He holds me in his big arms
Drunk and I am seeing stars
This is all I think of
Watching all our friends fall
In and out of Old Paul's
This is my idea of fun
Playing video games
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yu9V3Phfsf8&ob=av2n
This is one of mine right now...
I just smudge my 'hot coral' nail polish posting this...
Swinging in the backyard
Pull up in your fast car
Whistling my name
Open up a beer
And you say get over here
And play a video game
I'm in his favorite sun dress
Watching me get undressed
Take that body downtown
I say you the bestest
Lean in for a big kiss
Put his favorite perfume on
Go play a video game
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
Singing in the old bars
Swinging with the old stars
Living for the fame
Kissing in the blue dark
Playing pool and wild darts
And video games
He holds me in his big arms
Drunk and I am seeing stars
This is all I think of
Watching all our friends fall
In and out of Old Paul's
This is my idea of fun
Playing video games
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yu9V3Phfsf8&ob=av2n
Thursday, February 16, 2012
No more dating.
Well, I have decided officially (small panel consisting of three teddy bears, 1 cat and my workmate) to extricate myself from the 'dating game' and have removed my profile from findsomeone.
There i was last night, dredging my way through profiles, looking unenthusiastically into the same set of faces, lined with age, drawn by heart break and dulled by disappointment and the words: Grave yard, popped into my head.
Findsomeone is a grave yard.
A cemetry of dashed hopes and broken dreams, a cache of damaged, unloveable people.
And I heard my inner cynic, that had been muttering away the whole time, suddenly raise his voice to a shout.
I'm speaking from experience, i've met with say.. 6 guys from findsomeone? and they were all slightly... askew. That's not to say that weird, askew people can't be loved too. I just.. am not feeling that charitable these days I guess.
And the idea that any minute now... with just one eager finger click I will simply fall on ... not even the 'love of my life' which is an idea i matured into considering too unrealistic to put stock in years ago ... but even just someone GREAT.. it's just not holding water anymore.
Drip, drip, WOOSH. All the water has fallen out.
There's this aweful, underlying tone to dating and especially on line dating, that is that we are all judging and critquing each other SO HARSHLY. No one is given a fair chance, and we are all so incompatible because the only thing we have in common for sure is that we're single, and desperate enough to do online dating! Not a good start.
I'm sorry i shouldn't say desperate. The word that shouldn't be mentioned. But there it is.
Yeah yeah, i know this means me to. Dead as a doornail. Roll me over and inject me full of embalming fluid. I know, i know.
Maybe it's my menstrual cycle. But i'm just sick of the whole damn thing.
I'm sick of having the 'what single friends have you got' conversation with all of my various groups of friends.
I'm sick of pimping myself. I'm sick of being pimped.
Not that I've had any really terrible dates lately, but even the 'nice' average and good dates feel like a waste of time.
I'd rather be surfing.
I'd rather be sleeping.
I'd rather be reading, I should be playing guitar. I'd rather be with friends.
I'm sick of being defined by not being in a couple, what about: female, musical, naturopath, blonde, generous, good friend, fit, good cook.. what about all the other labels? I'm sick of them all getting usurped for that one. single. one.
I have one invite to jam and one invite to coffee and another invite to ice creams at devonport this weekend, and i don't want any of them. the dates or the guys.
I want to go away camping and surfing with friends, or by myself, with a book and a coffee plunger and a little gas stove, now THAT sounds like bliss.
I'm sick of having desire for something I don't have.
I just want to have what i do have. It's good here. Things are good.
If you know me, you know i'm as tempestuous as the seven sea's, changeable as aucklands weather and as contrary as mary and i'll probably be back on the pimp me out wagon waving the single and keen flag in no time.
But for now, shutting down my account has made me feel very calm.
There i was last night, dredging my way through profiles, looking unenthusiastically into the same set of faces, lined with age, drawn by heart break and dulled by disappointment and the words: Grave yard, popped into my head.
Findsomeone is a grave yard.
A cemetry of dashed hopes and broken dreams, a cache of damaged, unloveable people.
And I heard my inner cynic, that had been muttering away the whole time, suddenly raise his voice to a shout.
I'm speaking from experience, i've met with say.. 6 guys from findsomeone? and they were all slightly... askew. That's not to say that weird, askew people can't be loved too. I just.. am not feeling that charitable these days I guess.
And the idea that any minute now... with just one eager finger click I will simply fall on ... not even the 'love of my life' which is an idea i matured into considering too unrealistic to put stock in years ago ... but even just someone GREAT.. it's just not holding water anymore.
Drip, drip, WOOSH. All the water has fallen out.
There's this aweful, underlying tone to dating and especially on line dating, that is that we are all judging and critquing each other SO HARSHLY. No one is given a fair chance, and we are all so incompatible because the only thing we have in common for sure is that we're single, and desperate enough to do online dating! Not a good start.
I'm sorry i shouldn't say desperate. The word that shouldn't be mentioned. But there it is.
Yeah yeah, i know this means me to. Dead as a doornail. Roll me over and inject me full of embalming fluid. I know, i know.
Maybe it's my menstrual cycle. But i'm just sick of the whole damn thing.
I'm sick of having the 'what single friends have you got' conversation with all of my various groups of friends.
I'm sick of pimping myself. I'm sick of being pimped.
Not that I've had any really terrible dates lately, but even the 'nice' average and good dates feel like a waste of time.
I'd rather be surfing.
I'd rather be sleeping.
I'd rather be reading, I should be playing guitar. I'd rather be with friends.
I'm sick of being defined by not being in a couple, what about: female, musical, naturopath, blonde, generous, good friend, fit, good cook.. what about all the other labels? I'm sick of them all getting usurped for that one. single. one.
I have one invite to jam and one invite to coffee and another invite to ice creams at devonport this weekend, and i don't want any of them. the dates or the guys.
I want to go away camping and surfing with friends, or by myself, with a book and a coffee plunger and a little gas stove, now THAT sounds like bliss.
I'm sick of having desire for something I don't have.
I just want to have what i do have. It's good here. Things are good.
If you know me, you know i'm as tempestuous as the seven sea's, changeable as aucklands weather and as contrary as mary and i'll probably be back on the pimp me out wagon waving the single and keen flag in no time.
But for now, shutting down my account has made me feel very calm.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Listening Tree
I recently saw a cartoon strip entitled 'phone sex for women'.
It was a picture of a man in a business suit, holding a phone to his mouth, with a speech bubble above his head that said: "Ooo yeah baby, I'm going to listen to you... I'm going to listen to you reeeal good, I'm going to listen to you allll night long'.
Yup, women love to talk. Some love JUST to talk. But most women actually love to express, communicate, share, connect, care, be cared about. Be listened to. Be heard. Be understood. Be seen. Every woman I know is the same. It's neolithic, it's biblical, it's simian. It probably served some function evolutionarily, and now it serves to keep us whole.
We have our girlfriends to talk to, and they are incredible, a few hours chatting to a girlfriend can rid you of nearly any plague. But still, we SO want this quality in our mate, in our men.
We KNOW it's not natural for them, we KNOW they are expressing their love in different, sometimes imperceptible ways... but just to be listened to, heard, understood, to recieve a simple 'a huh, i know', is better than the flowers and dinners rolled into one. Somehow through the labrynth of neurofibrillarly tangles in our brains, listening translates to love. Simple as that.
For all I know, 'the men' are listening and do understand. But if they are and do, they can do a bloody good job of hiding it.
I am the third and youngest child and so as my family vote always held the least stock, I became a louder child, more demanding, more opinionated. To add to which, I was just born noisy. My very first report card from school when i was five, described me simply as 'chirpy'. I will never forget my dad erupting into laughter when he read that line (yes i do remember that far back).
At the time I didn't know why. I thought maybe 'chirpy' in itself was a funny thing to be, like a bird. At some point of maturity I realised dad was laughing, because I'd been so goddamn 'chirpy' .. noisy, bubbly, singy, chatty and basically all forms of loud, that it frequently drove dad to his attic to eat his tea. And he was laughing in camraderie with my teacher, knowing that now, it was his turn.
Needless to say, my natural setting is to chirp.
And I want to be chirped back at. Chirrup. Chirrup. Chirrup. Tell me things, what did you read, who did you see, how was your tea? Talk to me, what's on t.v.? Did you read about x, y and z? Did I tell you about me? Can you see, what i see?
I know a man, socially, who every women who knows him has a small crush on. He's handsome and talented and dresses well and is likeable in all sorts of ways, but then there is this. When he see's you, no matter how removed or tenuous our relationship, no matter how long it's been since we last chatted, he comes over and stands close but not too close, he smiles with his eyes and looks right into your eyes and says 'hello clare! how are you, it's been ages (as if he's even potentially missed your company), and the he will say 'how is the...' and hark back to something you spoke about last time. Something you had forgotten even mentioning. Because he was LISTENING to you. Then, he ducks his chin slightly, and tilts his head slightly so his ear is closer to you, and looks up at you from under slighly furrowed brows, and LISTENS to you intently. Looking right into your very soul...
Where was I.
I always, always, feel like the biggest blundering luddite when talking to him, like a child in a dance recital pushed out onto centre stage suddenly wondering what they are doing in the spotlight, because NOTHING i have to say can be worthy of such intent. It's quite delightful. His mother should be very proud.
Last night I was out having a fucking awesome time at a friends gig, great crowd, happy party vibe, and I see a guy who is smiling and hugging his friends and chatty and dancing and having a really unabashed good time. He seemed so light and fun and I thought absently how i wished i was his friend. Everyone who came over to him, his face lit up and he threw his arms around them and they danced and talked and grinned. We left the bar to go to another great party and i am sitting there around the bonfire, singing along to the guitar that's being played, and he, the guy from the bar walks in, and over to where i'm sitting, and asks my friend on guitar (turns out they know each other) for cash to pay the taxi because it doesn't have eftpos. Well, my friend doesn't have cash, but i do, and i offer it to him, for which he is suprised and greatful. When he returns with my change he sits down next to me and says, i noticed you at the bar. I saw you going to leave and i wanted to stop you. So i asked around where everyone was going to and thought you would be here. So I came here to find you. And there he was, come to find me.
I like to think in a way, when i thought that i'd like to know him, he had listened to my thoughts across the sea of heads and din of chinking glasses and laughter, heard my silent wish, and so come to tell me that he, too, would like to know me back.
It was a picture of a man in a business suit, holding a phone to his mouth, with a speech bubble above his head that said: "Ooo yeah baby, I'm going to listen to you... I'm going to listen to you reeeal good, I'm going to listen to you allll night long'.
Yup, women love to talk. Some love JUST to talk. But most women actually love to express, communicate, share, connect, care, be cared about. Be listened to. Be heard. Be understood. Be seen. Every woman I know is the same. It's neolithic, it's biblical, it's simian. It probably served some function evolutionarily, and now it serves to keep us whole.
We have our girlfriends to talk to, and they are incredible, a few hours chatting to a girlfriend can rid you of nearly any plague. But still, we SO want this quality in our mate, in our men.
We KNOW it's not natural for them, we KNOW they are expressing their love in different, sometimes imperceptible ways... but just to be listened to, heard, understood, to recieve a simple 'a huh, i know', is better than the flowers and dinners rolled into one. Somehow through the labrynth of neurofibrillarly tangles in our brains, listening translates to love. Simple as that.
For all I know, 'the men' are listening and do understand. But if they are and do, they can do a bloody good job of hiding it.
I am the third and youngest child and so as my family vote always held the least stock, I became a louder child, more demanding, more opinionated. To add to which, I was just born noisy. My very first report card from school when i was five, described me simply as 'chirpy'. I will never forget my dad erupting into laughter when he read that line (yes i do remember that far back).
At the time I didn't know why. I thought maybe 'chirpy' in itself was a funny thing to be, like a bird. At some point of maturity I realised dad was laughing, because I'd been so goddamn 'chirpy' .. noisy, bubbly, singy, chatty and basically all forms of loud, that it frequently drove dad to his attic to eat his tea. And he was laughing in camraderie with my teacher, knowing that now, it was his turn.
Needless to say, my natural setting is to chirp.
And I want to be chirped back at. Chirrup. Chirrup. Chirrup. Tell me things, what did you read, who did you see, how was your tea? Talk to me, what's on t.v.? Did you read about x, y and z? Did I tell you about me? Can you see, what i see?
I know a man, socially, who every women who knows him has a small crush on. He's handsome and talented and dresses well and is likeable in all sorts of ways, but then there is this. When he see's you, no matter how removed or tenuous our relationship, no matter how long it's been since we last chatted, he comes over and stands close but not too close, he smiles with his eyes and looks right into your eyes and says 'hello clare! how are you, it's been ages (as if he's even potentially missed your company), and the he will say 'how is the...' and hark back to something you spoke about last time. Something you had forgotten even mentioning. Because he was LISTENING to you. Then, he ducks his chin slightly, and tilts his head slightly so his ear is closer to you, and looks up at you from under slighly furrowed brows, and LISTENS to you intently. Looking right into your very soul...
Where was I.
I always, always, feel like the biggest blundering luddite when talking to him, like a child in a dance recital pushed out onto centre stage suddenly wondering what they are doing in the spotlight, because NOTHING i have to say can be worthy of such intent. It's quite delightful. His mother should be very proud.
Last night I was out having a fucking awesome time at a friends gig, great crowd, happy party vibe, and I see a guy who is smiling and hugging his friends and chatty and dancing and having a really unabashed good time. He seemed so light and fun and I thought absently how i wished i was his friend. Everyone who came over to him, his face lit up and he threw his arms around them and they danced and talked and grinned. We left the bar to go to another great party and i am sitting there around the bonfire, singing along to the guitar that's being played, and he, the guy from the bar walks in, and over to where i'm sitting, and asks my friend on guitar (turns out they know each other) for cash to pay the taxi because it doesn't have eftpos. Well, my friend doesn't have cash, but i do, and i offer it to him, for which he is suprised and greatful. When he returns with my change he sits down next to me and says, i noticed you at the bar. I saw you going to leave and i wanted to stop you. So i asked around where everyone was going to and thought you would be here. So I came here to find you. And there he was, come to find me.
I like to think in a way, when i thought that i'd like to know him, he had listened to my thoughts across the sea of heads and din of chinking glasses and laughter, heard my silent wish, and so come to tell me that he, too, would like to know me back.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
the slimy end of the dating pool
Hi. So I was with friends last night and one Frank Friend was like:
"So, Clare, we got married and had a baby; samantha* and brad* (names changed to protect identity) got together and have been to x, y and z exotic travel ... what have you been doing?
And I am like AARRRRGGGH.
First of all, you should have emailed me that question a week ago so I could formulate an answer that would make everybody happy.
Second of all AaARRRGGGH!
One of my best friends actually will not go to things: parties, dinners, birthdays etc. because she hates being asked 'so what are you doing now?'
"Oh, you know, working in a really dissatisfying office with the culture of a toilet bowl earning just enough to subsit on because it turned out i didn't really have the talent/guts to become what i dreamed of becoming since i was five"
So i'm like AAARGH, i've been doing stuff!
Fortunately i have my 'band' to talk about, it makes people comfortable when you have hobbies to talk about, that's mainly why i have hobbies actually.
And then seriously, Frank Friend says: WHY are you stil SINGLE!?
It's the eighth wonder of the world, isn't it?!
But inside i'm like:
ARE YOU KIDDING ME SERIOUS FOR REAL??
What does he expect me to say: Oh! my god! (like i just remembered i left rice on the stove), gosh you're right, gee i just got swept away watching survivor samoa on tv on demand and playing internet checkers and COMPLETELY forgot to get around to finding my SOUL MATE!
But hey, never too late! let me get right on that!
But what I say instead is the truth: the dating pool is full of slime.
And my Frank Friend says, so write about that in your blog!
So here I am trying to get the guts up to tell you about what it's like out there.
But it's a bit like telling you about my really ugly, contagious rash: interesting to others to view, but not touch, embarrasing and shameful to me. Ah.. sigh.
After my last date. I am thinking seriously about writing a 'how to' dating book for men. I am not going to go into detail about the date, except to say he was Too Old for me. In a way that made me cringe the second I saw him. Not that I didn't give him a chance, but ... well, he talked too much, okay maybe he was nervous i'll give him that, but he stole every story out of my mouth, you know i'd start talking and he'd launch right in and go YEAH YEAH ME ME ME THIS ONE TIME I I I
but he was probably trying to impress me and i'll forgive that.
he was just too old, i'll be honest.
But not old enough to pay apparently!
Because when we go to leave, and are standing at the counter, he says 'go ya halves'?
And i imagine i'm visibly shocked, and go, oh, yeah sure.
And he goes 'yeah, don't know what the deal is with paying these days'
And i'm thinking: BUDDY.
same as it's always been: You pay.
Nothings changed since the first time you were dating in the 60's (lol).
You asked me out for drinks and you're the dude and it's just bad manners not to pay!
Man.
Am I right here though people?
You know, women, we'll work, have the babies and just keep right on working, be in the army, fix cars, lift our own heavy shit (mostly), do all the cooking and cleaning and other women's stuff, keep our vijayjays waxed and pour cream on our faces so they'll be nice for you to look at, and all we ask is a little bit of manners and romance from our boyfriends and dates, and i think they should just f*cking well MAN UP.
Right where was I.
Oh well long story short cuz i'm not really giving any juice goss, there was no touching, i established a nice, wide personal boundary around me that i imagined had blinking lights saying 'NO We WILL NOT BE HAVING AN END OF DATE KISS'.
And it was all very 'nice' and i stifled yawns and he walked me to my car and as he walked away i saw for the first time that his really ugle Auckland Man shirt was clinging like a clingy two year old to his old man love handle fat back and his really ill fitting jeans were escaping up his wedgie and he kind of had a limp and while i wish him nothing but happiness, I just am not going to get toe up under a man like that. And tha's final. (i mean, you know, not on the first date, i mean like, EVER).
And then i started thinking about giving up dating.
it's like if you walked for hours and hours up a steep track in the summer sun imagining there was a cool, fresh water pool at the top of it and you were parched and exhausted when you got there and the pool was actually a very shallow puddle of warm water in a rock pool of slime with grit at the bottom and maybe oysters to scratch your ass.
wouldn't that be your last jungle trek?
But then Brad* and Samantha* gave me a twinkle of hope, Brad* has a few lovely single guy friends for me to meet and Samantha* and Brad* are going to have a barbecue that will actually be a covert operation to get all their single male friends in one room, and me, and no other hot girls (how is this for personlised dating programme) so i can meet them all, and it will be like the show the bachalorette, but i won't give them a rose each and tell them they can stay in the house.
Please let there be one guy who is at least simultaneously nice looking, interesting, and nice. It seems like the impossible triphector for some reason.
I seriously am about to give up and become a cat lady.
"So, Clare, we got married and had a baby; samantha* and brad* (names changed to protect identity) got together and have been to x, y and z exotic travel ... what have you been doing?
And I am like AARRRRGGGH.
First of all, you should have emailed me that question a week ago so I could formulate an answer that would make everybody happy.
Second of all AaARRRGGGH!
One of my best friends actually will not go to things: parties, dinners, birthdays etc. because she hates being asked 'so what are you doing now?'
"Oh, you know, working in a really dissatisfying office with the culture of a toilet bowl earning just enough to subsit on because it turned out i didn't really have the talent/guts to become what i dreamed of becoming since i was five"
So i'm like AAARGH, i've been doing stuff!
Fortunately i have my 'band' to talk about, it makes people comfortable when you have hobbies to talk about, that's mainly why i have hobbies actually.
And then seriously, Frank Friend says: WHY are you stil SINGLE!?
It's the eighth wonder of the world, isn't it?!
But inside i'm like:
ARE YOU KIDDING ME SERIOUS FOR REAL??
What does he expect me to say: Oh! my god! (like i just remembered i left rice on the stove), gosh you're right, gee i just got swept away watching survivor samoa on tv on demand and playing internet checkers and COMPLETELY forgot to get around to finding my SOUL MATE!
But hey, never too late! let me get right on that!
But what I say instead is the truth: the dating pool is full of slime.
And my Frank Friend says, so write about that in your blog!
So here I am trying to get the guts up to tell you about what it's like out there.
But it's a bit like telling you about my really ugly, contagious rash: interesting to others to view, but not touch, embarrasing and shameful to me. Ah.. sigh.
After my last date. I am thinking seriously about writing a 'how to' dating book for men. I am not going to go into detail about the date, except to say he was Too Old for me. In a way that made me cringe the second I saw him. Not that I didn't give him a chance, but ... well, he talked too much, okay maybe he was nervous i'll give him that, but he stole every story out of my mouth, you know i'd start talking and he'd launch right in and go YEAH YEAH ME ME ME THIS ONE TIME I I I
but he was probably trying to impress me and i'll forgive that.
he was just too old, i'll be honest.
But not old enough to pay apparently!
Because when we go to leave, and are standing at the counter, he says 'go ya halves'?
And i imagine i'm visibly shocked, and go, oh, yeah sure.
And he goes 'yeah, don't know what the deal is with paying these days'
And i'm thinking: BUDDY.
same as it's always been: You pay.
Nothings changed since the first time you were dating in the 60's (lol).
You asked me out for drinks and you're the dude and it's just bad manners not to pay!
Man.
Am I right here though people?
You know, women, we'll work, have the babies and just keep right on working, be in the army, fix cars, lift our own heavy shit (mostly), do all the cooking and cleaning and other women's stuff, keep our vijayjays waxed and pour cream on our faces so they'll be nice for you to look at, and all we ask is a little bit of manners and romance from our boyfriends and dates, and i think they should just f*cking well MAN UP.
Right where was I.
Oh well long story short cuz i'm not really giving any juice goss, there was no touching, i established a nice, wide personal boundary around me that i imagined had blinking lights saying 'NO We WILL NOT BE HAVING AN END OF DATE KISS'.
And it was all very 'nice' and i stifled yawns and he walked me to my car and as he walked away i saw for the first time that his really ugle Auckland Man shirt was clinging like a clingy two year old to his old man love handle fat back and his really ill fitting jeans were escaping up his wedgie and he kind of had a limp and while i wish him nothing but happiness, I just am not going to get toe up under a man like that. And tha's final. (i mean, you know, not on the first date, i mean like, EVER).
And then i started thinking about giving up dating.
it's like if you walked for hours and hours up a steep track in the summer sun imagining there was a cool, fresh water pool at the top of it and you were parched and exhausted when you got there and the pool was actually a very shallow puddle of warm water in a rock pool of slime with grit at the bottom and maybe oysters to scratch your ass.
wouldn't that be your last jungle trek?
But then Brad* and Samantha* gave me a twinkle of hope, Brad* has a few lovely single guy friends for me to meet and Samantha* and Brad* are going to have a barbecue that will actually be a covert operation to get all their single male friends in one room, and me, and no other hot girls (how is this for personlised dating programme) so i can meet them all, and it will be like the show the bachalorette, but i won't give them a rose each and tell them they can stay in the house.
Please let there be one guy who is at least simultaneously nice looking, interesting, and nice. It seems like the impossible triphector for some reason.
I seriously am about to give up and become a cat lady.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Doctor Who?
I just googled 'highest paying jobs in nz' and the answer came back 1) doctor.
So i thought fuck it, I love medicine! maybe I COULD train to be a doctor...
and googled 'train to be a doctor'
All that search pulled up was websites about train doctors (who knew there was such a thing as train doctors?!?)
So I went to type in something else to hone down my search..
and couldn't think of what words i needed to use to pull up information about studying to become a doctor.
I typed 'doctor' into the search bar
and sat there staring at google thinking
I'm not smart enough to be a doctor.
Maybe dating later, for now, inane musings :D
So i thought fuck it, I love medicine! maybe I COULD train to be a doctor...
and googled 'train to be a doctor'
All that search pulled up was websites about train doctors (who knew there was such a thing as train doctors?!?)
So I went to type in something else to hone down my search..
and couldn't think of what words i needed to use to pull up information about studying to become a doctor.
I typed 'doctor' into the search bar
and sat there staring at google thinking
I'm not smart enough to be a doctor.
Maybe dating later, for now, inane musings :D
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)