JustAnne.

Talking in Code.

2010-03-07T22:46:42+10:00

Some of you may have observed that from time to time, I can be a little bit loud and, well, uncouth. Particularly when a) drunk and b) talking about sex - and when a and b are combined? Friends become abashed, outsiders become judgemental and I, of course, think I am fabulous.

Yes, when it comes to debriefing my exploits I am not always known for my discretion. I like to think that this is partially due to growing up in a 'medical' household, where bodily functions were acceptable dinner table conversation. But I think the reality is probably that despite my parents spending thousands of dollars on a top notch private girls school and a couple of university degrees, I really am just a bit of a bogan. Perhaps it is the Irish in me? That would make sense - because I clearly think I am hilarious.

So when I had a much needed debrief on my Friday night in an extremely family friendly, ye olde cafe, I struggled. Turns out, there are some things I just cannot easily discuss in front of children.

So I discussed it in code.

It was a reasonably effective code, I struggled a bit but then I was hungover and operating on v limited sleep time. Also, I really am used to just putting this stuff out there - so the restriction was quite difficult. I do not think the process was entirely subtle, because my friends and I were alternating between hysterical laughter and outrage. But I promised I would recount the coded tale, and I feel that in some ways it should be recorded for posterity. The story goes a little something like this...

So the boy and I go to the restaurant. And he is not very polite. Indeed, he insists that I pay for half of the transport costs. Then, he repeatedly nags and whinges that he would like to enter through the rear of the building. I consistently point out that no, we will only enter through the front of the building. Entering via the rear is not on the menu. He whines and complains, but starts ordering. Then, he wants to prepare the food without a hairnet. This is unacceptable and is communicated thus. He wines and complains about the hairnet consistently between each course. I stand strong. He then complains about the decor of the restaurant, declaring that he would like to remove certain features. I refuse and he continues to whine and coax. He then proves himself to be very poor at taking direction, and while performing adequately the meals were nothing spectacular. Then, in the height of rudeness, he feigns exhaustion and forces me to arrange transport home at my own expense. Prick!

I should note that in reality, the above tale was significantly less articulate and involved hand gestures, but the key themes remain the same. I hope you can understand my need to debrief, and my need to attempt to do so with a PG rating. I like to think that this particular moment of story telling indicates that deep down I really must have some sense of proprietary. Although, I would also like to think that my need to blog about it kind of deletes that.

Confession Time.

2010-03-03T23:08:08+10:00

*tap tap tap*

Is thing on?

Right. Okay.

*cough*

Okay.... My name is Anne, and I like younger men.

There. I said it. And look, I know you already know this, but the truth is I have been living in denial. I've commented on the issue of younger men before, but I think it is time I admit to myself (and the world) that this is more than a partiality. It's a god damned proclivity (gosh doesn't that sound filthy!).

In the past I have made excuses, like "it's probably just the places I'm hanging out" or "they're the only ones with the balls to approach me", but the reality is, I just like them. If you were to line three fella's up in the street, odds are I would pick the younger of the lot. Provided they looked like a man of course. Indeed, it is my rather pervy habit of ogling men in the street as my bus drives through the city that has prompted me to confront this preference. The ones that get double takes are all so young. But so hot.

So how young is young? In recent discussions with fellow single ladies, the +/- 10 rule was mentioned. But I feel that at my current age this would be inappropriate as my lower limit would be 17. That's just wrong. So for now I'm working with a +/- 5 rule. But it's usually -'s. And occasionally, - 6's. Although the last - 6 was a particular incident that led to incredible outrage and sexual frustration, so I probably wouldn't do that again.

I am still trying to figure out exactly what it is about the young ones that I love so much. There's that well groomed, clean cut, wholesome look they seem to do so, so well. I like that. A lot. And throw in some dark hair and dark eyes - and an occasionally swept fringe . . . .

Then there's the earnestness, that hope and optimism for life that seems to float around them - all things are possible, including the bedding one Ms Anne. I suspect I like this because I need to be around people whose zest for life is similar to my own. This earnestness abounds among the younger kind, they haven't yet been made hard by too many broken hearts. My own psychological introspection whispers to me that this is probably a symptom of my own virginal heart, which has yet to experience proper love and as such has only been bruised and never fully broken.

Although I find myself in somewhat of a quandary because more often than not, the younger fellas are missing that level of self-assurance without arrogance, which I find extremely attractive. I guess that sort of thing comes with age, however my much less significant forays into the +'s seem to indicate that that type of confidence in oneself is reasonably rare, which is unsettling in itself.

And that's another thing! Sometimes I think I like younger men because it is okay for me to feel older than them. Why would I want to feel older? Probably because my experiences have made me realise that being with a man who is physically older than you, but always makes you feel like the grown up is utterly infuriating. If I'm going to feel old either way, it might as well be with someone younger than me who is a smokin' hottie and a snappy dresser.

So there. I've done it - confessed! I am not ashamed.

Okay, that's a lie, I am ashamed, but in a bemused "I cannot quite believe myself" sort of way. Like when I fall over in public or realise my discussions about my vagina were a lot louder than I thought.

I am not quite a Cougar yet. They definitely operate in +/- 10-15 range. I like to think of myself as more of a Snow Leopard - young(er), cute(er) and just as sassy.

In Transit, Part Two.

2010-02-21T22:55:57+10:00

(Okay, okay. I know this has taken awhile - Here is Part One for your reference)

Oh! Jerome!! He was everything an overpriced south-east asian taxi driver should be. Polite, friendly, neat and tidy in his uniform. His car was suitably covered with legitimate looking stickers, was air conditioned and a suitable size. He drove so safely that one could almost forget they were driving at 110km/hr with no seatbelts. Almost. When he had to go to the toilet, he would pull over at fancy looking service stations and would apologise for he "had to go to the restroom". And when he didn't know where he was going, he would politely ask for directions. Jerome set an impossibly high standard for every other transport professional on our journey. It was a standard that was not reached again.

So after the lovely Jerome drove us a measly four hours from Clark airport, through Manilla, to Batangas Pier we were in fairly high spirits. Unfortunately these spirits were dashed when we learnt that all of the ferries to our destination, Calapan, were full. We found out later that this was due to fact that in the last couple of days a couple of barges leaving from this port had sunk, and people had died. It was probably for the best that we didn't realise this at the time. So we braved the chaos and climbed onto a vaguely rickety boat with a large number of people and into the sunset and the following darkness, we went.

(frazzled. on a boat.)

For the first time in our long, long journey I began to feel like I was on holiday. I rested my head on the side of the boat, felt the spray on my face and looked up at the stars, realising in a sleepy fascination that they were probably a little bit different to the ones I see at home, what with being in the Northern Hemisphere and all. Well, closer to the equator at any rate.

Of course, the boat wasn't going to Calapan. It was going to Puerto Galera. A mere hour and a half drive from Calapan. By Jeepney. In this case the Jeepney was driven by a portly man in a dirtied singlet who drove a very hard bargain with my extreme whiteness attracting much higher prices. Although at this point we were quite concerned about being able to afford it, having already given the lovely Jerome a large portion of our cash (and he was worth every penny!).

This particular driver, who never told us his name, was no Jerome. He threw us and our bags unceremoniously into the back of his van and off we went. He stopped at one point, much to our exhausted concern and shouted out that he was taking a 'tinkle'. He then proceeded to take a rather lengthy slash nearby. All this would have been forgiven if he had just deposited us safely at our destination. But he didn't. He took us to Calapan's city centre, exclaimed he didn't know where he was going, and then unceremoniously dumped us in a tricycle (otherwise known as a reasonably rickety motorcycle with a side car).

Jerome would never have done this.

But! A mere 40 to 48 hours after leaving Brisbane, we arrived at the house of our dear friends family, and slept very heavily.

The next day we discovered the ocean and $7 jugs of cocktails. And so, the holiday began.

The Universe Keeping It Real.

2010-02-15T22:19:34+10:00

I would like to think that by now, my up and down relationship with The Universe has been well documented. I have often commented on how, in those rare moments of sheer contentment and self-satisfaction, I seem to have an uncanny ability to do something incredibly silly. You know, like fall over in public and bleed in my stockings.

One recent example of this was on a jaunt to a night club where, in the critical 'pull' moment, when the chosen young man was expressing his adoration in that shocked sort of way they sometimes do - a bit of glass got into my shoe and I bled all over the dance floor. I then had to drag the poor fellow along on a quest to retrieve a band aid from the bar staff. A quest, I might add, which was surprisingly difficult to fulfil. So much for grace, poise and feminine mystique. Sure I was a hottie, but I was a hottie who would not rest until she had received appropriate incident management from the publicans. Dammit.

Oh, and lets not forget my recent 'first day of work' moment, when striding towards my bus in my snazzy 'first day of work' outfit, I promptly fell over in the middle of Adelaide Street. I'd slipped in the wet. In my thongs. My mother later assured me that it was okay, because at least I had high heels in my handbag. She would've hated the idea of me falling over in public without high heels being involved. (How could I tell her about the time I fell down a flight of stairs at a pub and broke my wrist wearing Converses?)

Now, there are those who might say that I'm just clumsy, but I like to think of these moments as "The Universe Keeping It Real". Little reminders of my own humanity and general level of dorkiness. They're The Universe's little way of making sure I never get too big for my boots. Which is fine, I just wish it didn't leave quite so many bruises.

But imagine my surprise when discussing the 'first day of work' incident with my family, and they all piped up with their own little Universe Keeping It Real stories. There was my mother, who when walking towards her place of work feeling all sassy and fashionable had one of her stay-up stockings fall down. She then had to drop everything and pull it up in the middle of the carpark. In front of a school boy.

And then there was my little brother, who when attempting to be all 15 and oh-so-nonchalant on the bus, proceeds to get his bag stuck in the seats and then have his Go Card fly out of his wallet when he tried to swipe off. And then I remembered that that sort of thing used to happen to me on the bus all the time. In fact, it still does.

That's when I realised - it's a family thing.

We're all nerds with occasional shots at being cool, but never quite pulling it off thanks to some kind of innate (and possibly genetic) ability to always appear a bit silly. I guess at least we can comfort each other and laugh at ourselves. Because that's all you can do when you have foolish moments in public, pick yourself up, have a bit of a smile, and move on. Afterall, it's just the Universe Keeping It Real.

Valentine, who?

2010-02-14T23:26:27+10:00

Having never been in a relationship, Valentine's Day has historically meant just about nothing to me. I usually blink and miss it. Although I have noticed that there are always lots of very lovely flowers at very reasonable prices available for foxy young misses to buy themselves on February 15.

While I normally let the day pass by without much public comment, I couldn't quite stop myself this year. And okay, yes, writing about how much you 'don't care' about something does come across as a little bit 'lady-doth-protest-too-much'. But I can't help it. This year, I care.

I care that every time either myself or another single friend makes any kind of disparaging comment re: V Day, someone, somewhere, rolls their eyes and labels me/them 'bitter'.

I care that I have to watch footage of people romancing, kissing and proposing on the news. It's not news!

And I care that some of the most fabulous people I know have moments of utter despair because for some reason, just being themselves isn't enough.

I hate to say it, but not only do I think that this day is just an excuse for companies to sell us things in new and interesting ways, it also feels like it is an excuse for couples to be a bit smug.

So what's the antidote? Why a good solid dose of Smug Singleton, of course!

I had a great weekend.

Friday: Most spectacular birthday dinner party with friends. Food and Sangria was plentiful whilst I 'wowed' the table with the kind of conversation that only someone with a limited sense of propriety can bring.

Saturday: I slept in, cleaned the house (I can see my floor!!), went shopping (handbags!), got take away Mexican, a six pack of cider and watched 30 Rock.

Sunday: Spent the morning in bed, alternating between snoozing and reading a cheesy self-help book I bought at the Lifeline Bookfest. Picked up my new outdoor setting from Super A-Mart, met with the lovely LuLu and embarked on a delightful lady date to Ikea. It was here that I turned scarlet after making eye contact with one of the few, potentially single, good looking men around my age while I was bouncing up and down in an armchair trying to decide if it would stand up to a good shag. The lady date then moved onto grocery shopping, where I also turned scarlet when I found myself holding a cucumber amidst some very dirty thoughts. After groceries, we barbecued some heart shaped meat patties on my 'Lady Q'. What an amazing day! And!! She gave me a balloon flower.

So what have I got to be smug about? Well, my weekend was one of those delightful single lady weekends with a good balance of 'me time' and time with treasured friends. The beauty of it? I don't have to wait for one day a year to have these sorts of weekends. I have them all the time.

Snap.

(I should point out that I do really love people in relationships, some of my best friends are in relationships. But if I don't get cranky on behalf of my fellow singletons, who will?)

(One of the few e-cards it would've been appropriate to send me)

The Games We Play.

2010-02-08T22:30:29+10:00

It is a habit of mine to frequently lament things on Twitter and it is probably a habit I should consider breaking, particularly when the consumption of alcohol is involved. But hey, at least it's better than drunk dialling inappropriate people (yet another reason why I have developed a worse habit of deleting men from my phonebook as soon as they annoy me). Although Twitter is more public than a 3am Booty Call. But surely there is some level of privacy in the anonymity of the public, right? (Oh. God.)

In any case, one of my more recent laments was the following statement:

I hate playing games, so why is it that when it comes to men, I feel like I have to? Grumble.

This off the cuff expression of frustration turned out to be quite the conversation starter. Nothing too scary, but it gave me a moment's pause. Especially seeing as upon second glance, I realised I actually sounded like a bit of a bitch.

The context behind this particular Tweet was that I was trying to line up a booty call and it wasn't panning out for me. In short, I felt like I was being toyed with. And you know what that means - 'he's just not that into me'. Which is fine, I just wish he'd had the decency to let me know. Of course, I am able to recognise this behaviour immediately because I, like many others, have perpetrated it myself.

And no, I don't really like that I have. I actually really despise playing games with people. It's totally not how I roll, but what I hate even more is how easily I seem to fall into them. All of a sudden you have all of these feelings about someone (okay, in my case they're usually lusty feelings), and you want them to contact you, you want the fun, cute, witty banter, you want the rush. That buzz that zings through you when your phone beeps or you get a Facebook notification. But all too often this fun little courtship phase is warped by one, or both of you trying to get the upper hand. Or by someone stringing someone else on just to keep the buzz going. It's fun for awhile, and I suppose it gives us plenty to talk about, not too mention offering us a nice little distraction from the daily grind. But after a while, I dunno, it feels a little soul destroying.

It's scary to be honest with people. I get that. That's why I try and make myself do it as often as possible. Also I am a terrible liar. Just terrible. It's when I truly feel my very lapsed Irish Catholic roots - oh, the guilt! This is probably why I dislike playing games so much. I guess the best I can do is keep practicing my honesty. It's hard you know, opening up and making yourself vulnerable to another person. It's not something I have developed a particular knack for (Reason #12 as to Why I'm Still Single). I always figured that for the right person it would be easy. I guess the problem (or the joy, depending on your viewpoint) is that I am currently dealing with Mr Right Now(s), and not Mr Right. And when it comes to Mr Right Now(s), it's all about The Games.

Although, I should note that I have been told I am decidedly too subtle. That I should just name times and places for shags and be done with it. But I don't know, is it really such a bad thing to want to be taken out to the pub first? You know, to have the illusion of romance? I know it's not really romance...

Grah. Love, lust and dating - you vex me so! But give me so much to blog about ....

Remembering Why I Choose Australia

2010-01-26T10:14:28+10:00

I have had a lot of conversations lately about Australia Day, racism, 'boganism', flags, southern cross tattoos and the genocide of our Indigenous peoples. These conversations have all been incredibly interesting and often provide valid criticisms of our culture and history. They are also a bit of a downer and have the habit of making me feel a bit ashamed of my country.

Unlike a lot of people my age and generation, I have not chosen to live and work overseas for any extended period. I have fallen in love with other countries and cities, but I only holiday there. Australia is my home, and I love it here. So this Australia Day, I am going to take a couple of minutes to reflect on what I think makes Australia pretty fabulous. Not perfect!! Just pretty fabulous. These are the things that keep me here, and that keep me committed to changing the things I don't particularly like.

I was born into a country with 50,000 years of cultural heritage. 50,000 years!
This country granted my mother's family access when they were escaping famine and poverty in Ireland, and it still grants people access who are escaping war, oppression and genocide. (Okay, so they're pretty particular - but 13,500 per year is better than 0)**.
If I get sick, I can easily see a doctor and get medicine to treat my illness.
If I go to hospital, I do not have to provide my own linen, food and family members to attend to me.
I can find myself sitting in someone's backyard, having a beer, watching my friends and classmates perform dances from Bollywood films and eat delicious food we have all made to share.
That I can always find someone interesting to talk to. What makes people interesting is that their experiences and cultures are different to my own. Because there is so much diversity here, there will always be new stories to hear!
That our collective laid back Aussie attitude (as reported by many visitors and people who choose to live in here) is so complementary to my own personality.
That there are so many people committed to creating change for the most vulnerable and powerless in our society.
We have a welfare system!
That Australians are so generous. Not just with our money, but with our time. In the year 2006, one third of Australian adults volunteered their time for their community. The grand total of hours worked in the year was around 713 million!***
That I can sit and have open and frank discussions about why I disagree with many elements of my country's politics and culture and nobody punishes or ridicules me. Well, not to my face.

Our wit and our humour.

That I am free to choose how I would like to live my life (provided of course, it does not encroach upon the rights of others).

That there is still so much of this country I haven't seen.

So this Australia Day I am going to celebrate why I like living here in the way I normally do - listening to the Hottest 100, and chilling out. Although this year I will also be making Beetroot Hommus, which is pretty exciting.

Belatedly Resolved.

2010-01-13T09:25:07+10:00

I have a little problem. Because I haven't 'officially' blogged my new years resolutions, I keep adding to them when other people tell me theirs. The list is getting too long, and judging by my complete inability to complete last year's list, I thought I had better post them quick smart.

This year I have gone for a combination of achievable tasks and broader attitudinal/behavioural shifts (Geez, that sounds fancy doesn't it!). So here we are . . .

Up my Pilates regime to twice a week - this may require me to decrease spending on clothes or alcohol. *gulp*
Find a new and fabulous job - it has to be fabulous to lure me away from my current position.
Write something, anything, once a day.
Finally sew a friggin' dress.
Take back the reins on my 'healthy living'. I dropped them for a while there.
Rock the U. S. of A.
Make peace with my Lady Bits
Be more conscious of my waste - food, garbage, the lot.
Find an off switch for my brain.

The last item was particularly inspired by an affirmation card I encountered last year (yes, I know it's dorky, but that affirmation card set was the best $20 I spent last month). In fact, it was this card that prompted me to buy the set in the first place. This is definitely something I need to keep reminding myself to do this year . . .

So there you have it. My goals for 2010. I have a feeling it is going to be a very good year.

In Transit, Part One.

2010-01-12T08:03:46+10:00

To the casual observer I would have appeared rather blase and disorganised around my trip to the Philippines. And the casual observer would have been right. Although I am not convinced that any amount of proactive planning would have prepared me for the epicness of our journey to Calapan for the wedding of our good friends, Julz and Roxy.

The journey didn't start particularly well. It started with myself and my ever plucky travel companion waking up at 3.45am to drive to South Brisbane to catch a train and then two buses to get to Coolangatta airport by 7am to check in for our 9am flight. We flew AirAsia and at about 6am there was some discussion about whether or not it would've been worthwhile springing the extra $300 for tickets with an airline that left from Brisbane. Our answer to that is now an unequivocal YES! You see it happens that AirAsia only stops in smaller, out of the way airports where it is no doubt cheaper to lease terminal access. This is all well and good when a) you speak the language at your destination; and b) you have the good sense to look at a map and realise that where you land in 'Manilla' is actually 100km North of Manilla, which is a further 200km away from the boat terminal you need to get to.

Not too mention the EIGHT AND A HALF HOUR wait at Coolangatta airport due to bad weather and our plane not being able to land (apparently it is a short run way and the visibility was quite low). Once you've been through customs at this airport, you are stuck in a small section of the terminal with three shops, only one of them selling vaguely edible food. The most frustrating thing was that our plane was diverted back to Brisbane. Twice. The Cranky was in our collective pants that day. When the plane finally landed there was an almighty cheer from the crowd and a wave of euphoria that swept through us all. All of a sudden it felt like we were going somewhere. To sit on a plane for another eight hours.

(this is where we sat for eight and a half hours)

(as you can see, we're not that impressed)

When we finally landed in Kuala Lumpur, at their rural and remote terminal, we took in the scenic vista of a Malaysian car park and swamp as we hiked through to get to our motel room for four hours sleep. When we woke up and returned to the airport it was as if no time had passed at all. All we had was the loving memory of a bed with pillows and a sense that we had lost something very special. That, and damp luggage from sitting in the rain at the Coolangatta terminal for EIGHT AND A HALF HOURS. There was a tarp, but it was ineffective.

Upon arriving in "Manilla" we were greeted with the sights and sounds of South-East Asia, lots of men hassling us to catch their taxis. And seeing as we were unsure of where we were and had no real conception of where we were going, a taxi we did catch. My sassy travelling companion did a stellar job at bargaining with the taxi 'concierge', while I stood around like the naive white giant I am, no doubt adding thousands of Pesos to the price by my mere presence. But the exorbitant price tag was worth it, as we got to meet Jerome.

The Year That Was.

2009-12-23T22:59:04+10:00

If there was one song that could have been considered the theme tune for my year it was Single Ladies by Beyonce. Not because I was trying to get back at someone for not marrying me, but because I think that for the first time, I actually enjoyed being a single lady.

Yes, despite my current level of crotchety-ness I really have to admit that 2009 has been a very good year. Lots of fun, crazy things have happened and lots of lessons have been learnt amidst the ups and downs. So, in the spirit of annual reflections, I present you with my list of happenings and learnings:

My Mojo Explosion. It had to happen sooner or later, and this year saw the introduction of The Huntress into society. And I am slowly beginning to manage her.
I walk/jogged the flippin' Bridge to Brisbane! 10km!! Madness.
I didn't go shopping for a whole month. EPIC achievement!
I found my 'blog groove'. After eight years of recording cringeworthy thoughts and moments, I have finally found my voice and a deep enjoyment in the expression of it. I have even begun to think of myself as a person who writes.
I learnt that it is much, much easier to get laid than it is to get a date. This may sound depressing, but it's not that bad. Sometimes it is better to have one rather than neither.
I moved out into the rather delightful bachelorette pad, Lady M.
I learnt that sometimes, my head lets me down. Especially when it comes to would be relationships. In the future I need to practice a bit of calm.
I fell in love with Japan.
I thought I liked someone, but at least 85% of it was in my head.
I went speed dating and found it to be an amusing endeavour that I am keen to repeat in 2010.
2009 could also be known as The Year of the Hickey, which has resulted in a general ban from the neck area. I find this to be incredibly lame.
I bonded with my hairdresser when he tried to wipe a hickey off my neck, thinking it was hair dye. My mother was sitting in the chair next to me.
I shamefacedly bailed on spending time with my parents because I did not want them to see my dirty hickeys. On more than one occasion.
I got boozed and bought tickets to see Salt'n'Pepper at Good Vibrations in 2010. On my iPhone.
My relationship with my vagina has entered a new and not entirely positive sphere. We are slowly beginning to speak again, although I am not sure it will ever be the same . . .
I am slowly beginning to conceptualise what it is I would actually like to do with my life. Slowly.
I have become very adept at writing selection criteria.
I have been reminded, yet again, that I am by no means perfect and shall continue to try and hold myself accountable for my actions whilst not punishing myself too severely.
Getting to help my amazing employing organisation celebrate their 20th Anniversary in a way that honoured the work they have done and the sheer joy of the place that has kept me there for nearly four years. Flippin'. Awesome. Oh and! I got to be in a musical and wear bunny ears. For my job!
Turns out my skin is quite sensitive.
I Tweeted. Lots.

As you can see, it has been a rather fun and interesting year. Certainly there is plenty to inspire my forthcoming Resolutions for 2010. There are a couple of items I am tossing and turning over, so I may need a bit of help. You have been warned.