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.
:)
Saturday, March 17, 2012
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.
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