Clutching at straws

Navigating relationships can be one of the most confusing and consuming endeavours a single girl sets out on. Seven months out of my seven year relationship and not only do I still not know the rules of the game, I’m still stumbling on the playing field. Shaky as I hold my bat and weak in my stance, I’m striking more than hitting and a homerun is unimaginable as I touch first base in slow motion.

Whilst I’m still getting acquainted with the single domain, recently I got to thinking about the things that single girls will settle for to relieve their loneliness. I’m a 23-year-old girl, still learning how to be alone, be myself and establish my own place in the world and I’m aware I’ve still got years to figure all that out. So when did women in their 20s with years ahead of them start settling for second best and clutching at straws?

I think the issue is we get ourselves so tied up in the attention of boys and the excitement of new flings and romances, we forget to live our own lives. We forget to fill in our own time with our own things and then we’re lonely when we’re by ourselves. Understandably when you’ve been in a relationship for a significant amount of time and you’re so used to having someone living with you and being by your side, all of a sudden when that person isn’t there anymore, and no-one is there to fill the gap, you start to feel lonely. But when did we start convincing ourselves and convincing men that it’s ok to be treated like dirt if it makes you feel less lonely?

Sometimes when we feel lonely we just take what we can get to fill the void. Whether that be messaging someone you don’t really like that much just to feel some kind of attention, sleeping with someone to validate your position as a hot, young, single girl or putting yourself in a ‘relationship’ with someone who clearly doesn’t give a shit just to feel like you’ve got someone.

My friend Cate* had been seeing this guy for the past 9 months. He was dynamite in bed, cocky & confident, blond, tanned and built, little too shiny for my liking but none-the-less, I saw the appeal. However, he was infact a complete asshole but Cat kept finding ways to justify his behaviour. Although they had an exclusive arrangement, the term ‘seeing each other’ was too strong for him. He refused to make any kind of miniscule commitment to her that was more than ‘see you at my place in 10?’ and when she’d go to his house on a Saturday night after a night out with the girls, on Sunday morning not only would he not drive her home, he’d make her take a cab back to her house to get changed and then meet him in town for dim sum!

Now I didn’t like him from the start but I tried because Cate liked him and she’s my best friend so that means something to me. But my efforts stopped when I tried to make conversation with him back in July and he said ‘You know what, I can hear you speaking but I just don’t give a fuck!’ – possibly the worst thing anyone had ever said to me, at the worst time anyone could ever say it to me. After that and after watching her self-esteem drop lower than my knee caps (and those who know me know that’s low) I was on the ‘get-rid-of-him’ bandwagon for about 5 months!

She finally broke it off with him last night – FINALLY! And I think it’s over for real this time which I couldn’t be happier about. But I still couldn’t help but wonder; why are we clutching at straws? All Cate truly wants is someone who is going to treat her with respect, consideration and kindness. Now, you know what, I really don’t think that’s asking too much! Those are the basic foundations of any relationship – friendly or romantic. So when did we start settling for less? And when will we realise it’s not ok to settle for someone who doesn’t offer those basic requirements? Surely no man can be too hot or too good in bed to outweigh basic consideration and respect. Too often we say ‘well the sex is great so until something better comes along, I’d be silly to say no’ – you know what, something better has come along: YOU!

We seem to be doing this to ourselves; putting ourselves in these positions to try and make ourselves feel better (via a man’s attention) and then we find that we’re even more unhappy because what we’ve got is really not what we wanted or needed. I recently slept with a guy I barely new, who lived in QLD, who I knew I was never going to see again. I did it because he was hot as hell and because I wanted something to make me feel better about the fact that my ex-boyfriend, with whom I still share a significant connection, has a new girlfriend with perfect legs. But it didn’t make me feel better, it made me feel even more alone and pathetic that that’s what I thought I needed to validate my existence. I don’t regret it though, after all he was hot as hell and he was sweet, and if I hadn’t slept with him I would never have had the realisation that it’s not going to be a man that makes me feel better, it’s going to be me. 

As a girl with only a fraction of a clue and experience in the single world, with only a fraction of a clue about who she really is and what she really wants, I expect to stumble. I expect to make mistakes, to learn new things and to sometimes do things I’ll regret later. But I’ve realised that for too long I’ve willingly lived my life around someone else and I’ve planned my time around someone else, but a spark has been ignited within me in the last few months. No more clutching at straws; I’m ready to start living my life for me, to fill my time up with myself and my plans and if a guy comes along, well he will fit wherever he fits. I’ll try to get Cate on board – wish us luck – we single girls need it! x

Creative!

Silver heart-shaped stud

(November 2009)

I found your earring in his bed.

Lost from your earlobe whilst he gently kissed your neck. While he ran his left hand through your hair and gyrated his right against your crotch. In that moment when you gasped with pleasure and pressed him harder against you, wanting, longing, ready for the teasing to be over and the ecstasy to begin.  

That’s when the back of your silver heart-shaped stud unknowingly came unstuck and the earring wriggled beneath the pillows as he slid gently inside of you.

In the early hours of the morning, once the game was over, moonlight illuminating your shadows through his uncurtained window, your head was clearer. He kissed you goodbye at the gate, bringing you close into him, making you want to go back to his bed, if not tonight then another time soon. You shut your car door quietly, aware of the echo in the silent street. As you drove home down the dark, empty streets you combed your fingers through your hair; a wasted attempt to neaten out the mess of tangled strands; a tell-tale sign of the methodical rocking of pleasure, of your head rubbing back and forth against his pillow. Only then did you realise the bareness of your earlobe. You spent a moment wondering when you lost it, where you lost it, but you were too blissful to really care.

I was there the next night. I had a feeling you’d been there. A feeling deep within my belly. We drank beer in his bed and reminisced over old photos. We smiled, we joked, we laughed, we kissed. He had a feeling of de ja vu as we slid between his sheets; the memory of you from the night before.

As his lips lingered soft and seductive on mine, I placed my hand around the hard, wanting shaft between his thighs. A breathy moan escapes his lips, pleased with my touch and he softly sucked my neck beneath my ear. Tingles down my spine and my nerve endings are electrified. The touch of his lips against my neck and the roaming of his hands around my body. Skimming over breast and waist and ass and thigh. The tickle as his finger brushed behind my knee.

Something sharp pressed against my elbow, propped up and hard against him as we play. I see the heart-shaped stud. Your heart-shaped stud. A dainty, loving symbol of the truth; cold, sharp, intrusive.

My gut was right, you had been there. I saw it in his eyes. His hesitation when I arrived. He could still smell you on his sheets.

‘Oh gees,’ I say with a sigh, instantly wishing my mouth had never opened. Wishing I could just brushed it out of the bed without another thought. He looks at me with wonder.

‘I’m not going to make a big deal out of this,’ I say, my hand now resting motionless and empty on his leg, his eyes now alert but willing my hand back to it’s former position as he lightly licks his top lip.

‘I’m not gonna be stupid about it…but I hope she’s not sad about loosing her earring.’ I flash the little heart past his face and put it on the floor beside the bed. In some way I feel that I put mine down with it.

He’s slightly shocked but not worried; he has no need to be. ‘Maybe it’s yours…?,’ he says taking a light hearted stab in the dark, knowing that it’s not.

‘No such luck, honey.’ I end the conversation as if the moment never occurred kissing him hard and pulling him against me. Resuming what we’d started prior to your interruption.

It’s just a casual thing; he & I. I’m aware of his others, he’s aware of mine.

But the evidence of you, having been in his bed is something I never wished to find.

I cannot help but wonder if you are a frequenter between his sheets.

If you know of me as I of you.

If you leave him as satisfied as I do.

We have common ground, you and I.

I have made your mistake before; I left my earrings on his bedside table the first time I was there.

I wonder, did you see them?

Or are you blissfully unaware?

Naïve to the others, oblivious of me.

Am I the other woman or are we both just fish amongst the sea?

Creative!

Luck o' the Irish

So I wrote this piece back in September 2009. It was based on something that happened at my housewarming party with my new housemates just a few months after I broke up with my long-term love. Tom Connolly* was the first guy who showed an interest in me after my break up and the first guy I found myself significantly attracted to. I must admit my insecurities shone throughout the whole anti-climactic experience. Turned out he was a bit of a jerk and I actually haven't seen him again since that party, despite several advances and despite what I initially hoped this would be. I learnt alot of valuable lessons about men, the 'games' of the single world and myself from this experience, even though we only ever messaged. But you've got to start somewhere and it made for a good story! I guess I never really gave it an ending but I felt I'd written enough about it so left it as is.

As she opened her laptop for the final time that evening, she started to feel a bit stupid.

‘You’re insane,’ she was thinking, ‘this is absolutely ridiculous.’

But of course the realisation of her day-long obsession still didn’t stop her from signing into Facebook and email for the 100th time that day to see if he’d taken that first step into her mailbox.

‘I can’t believe I’m letting a guy I don’t even know have this kind of affect on me,’ she thought.
To be honest, she’d barely even spoken to him that night at her housewarming, apart from the brief drunken exchange of a giggle over nothing in particular in the kitchen. Of course she’d drooled over this extremely tall, built, beautiful man and his sexy Irish accent most of the evening. Her heart had dropped though when her tall, thin, beautiful, friend with her perfectly-positioned breasts and gorgeously long legs had gone over to talk to him.

‘But I wasn’t flirting with him, I was talking to him about you,’ Cate* had pleaded later, after being alerted to your annoyance.

Cate not flirting was a social impossibility, it was unfortunately just in her nature to flirt and Elle had known that since they were 16-years-old. She didn’t; however, doubt that her friend was talking to him about her. She’d done this before when drunk, thinking it would be perfect if she walked up to a hot guy, bouncing her beautiful breasts and battering her elongated, pussy-cat eyelashes and then tried to point out her ‘beautiful friend Elle’, the one who was only about half a foot taller than being an actual midget. Yes, the curvy giggle-pot with 12D breasts and a size 12 ass. Yes, grand idea Size 8; he’s really going to want the short dumpy one after he’s spent 10 minutes looking down the shirt of a naturally athletically built 5’10 goddess. Another bombshell with good intentions, but Elle couldn’t help but love her all the same.

When Cate had gotten upset later in the evening over the ‘C-word’ of a boy she’d recently been seeing, Elle, as a good friend does, sucked up her own issues and realised the beautiful Irish man, who’s name she hadn’t even established and who, by the way, did not seem the slightest bit interested in anyone let alone her, was not worth worrying about, let alone worth coming between girlfriends. She pulled Size 8 out of her blubbering mess and onto the dance floor to shake off the tears, kissed her on the forehead and said ‘he’s just another boy,’ like a good friend should. They’d all had a great night and not another word was spoken, nor another thought given to the beautiful Irish man. After all, he was just another nameless boy at a party and she was just another heart-broken girl not ready to move on from her last love.

So when Tom Connolly, friend of housemate Frank, added her on Facebook two weeks later she was a little dumbfounded. She couldn’t quite tell from the tiny thumbnail of his profile picture; a photo of a group of four people, who this Tom O’Rafferty was or why he was requesting her Facebook friendship, but figured she must have met him at the housewarming.

‘Frank, who’s Tom?’ She asked. ‘He just added me on Facebook.’

‘Tom who?’ Frank replied.

‘Connolly,’ She said.

‘Oh, he’s the big Irish guy,’ Frank said, a small grin escaped his lips. ‘Weren’t you guys trying to chat him up all night?’

Her cheeks immediately flushed a bright tomato red, a wonderfully obvious sign of her embarrassment.

‘Well, there wasn’t much chatting on my behalf, but I think a few of the other girls might have been.’

It wasn’t a lie, she had hardly spoken to him, never mind ‘chatting him up’, unless of course wandering around asking people who the beautiful Irish man belongs to counts as chatting one up?

‘I don’t know if he has a girlfriend though,’ Frank added.

It was about the second she clicked ‘add friend’ Tom Connolly into her Facebook friend list that the giddy little school girl who’d laid dormant for the past 6 or so years, erupted in a volcano of random thoughts, emotions and ‘what-ifs’ within her and she’d been checking her mail every hour since then waiting for his first contact.

She still hadn’t let go of the idea though that maybe he had only ‘added’ her by default so that he could then ‘add’ Cate into his friendship list, and his bedroom no doubt, which also meant the frequent checking of his profile to see if they had any more friends in common. But each time under ‘Common friends’, only 1 friend appeared, Frank. So far it was all good news for Elle.

Elle wondered if Tom Connolly had spoken to Frank about her. If maybe at rugby on Saturday he’d mentioned her and Frank had suggested he add her on Facebook. After all, how did he even know her name? She hadn’t known his until he’d added her. But for some reason she couldn’t quite understand what it was that he’d seen in her. And why, if he had seen something in her, had it taken him two weeks to add her on Facebook? Maybe it was that wonderful photo of her enormous round ass someone had taken when she’d bent over to get a tray of wedges out of the oven. She hadn’t been aware at the time that such a photo was being taken. It wasn’t until much, much later in the evening that another drunken Irish man had come up to her with a camera, slurring ‘Is this you?’ and flashed a photo of a rather pronounced derriere beneath a grey skirt and below a green cardigan that she’d realised, just about everyone had appreciated her ass that evening. ‘You’re famous,’ he’d shouted and taken another skull from his beer. Maybe Tom Connolly was an ass man? Although Elle couldn’t imagine hers was anything to rave about. The truth was, she knew nothing about this Tom Connolly, and so far (we’re talking less than 24 hours) he’d not made any other contact with her. So she resorted to what any normal giddy little school girl of this day and age would do, Facebook stalking.

Illusive Little Bird Returns to her Blog!

Ok so, no posts since August, well I'll never be a writer with that kind of commitment now will I!

The truth is I have been writing, experiencing and discovering - I've just felt that all of the experiences and discoveries I've been writing about needed a little time and I needed a little more time to figure out how I felt about them before I braved them on the blog.

However, it's a new year and in many ways a new me, so it's time to put up a few of my pieces (creative & personal) from the last 5 months, to write new things and make a commitment for 2010: to blog more! Here's to writing, here's to being me and here's to new experiences, new ideas, new outlooks and new identities. For me 2010 is quite a monumental year. It's the year of travel and the beginning of a significant journey of self-discovery - hope you enjoy!

Quirky Little Bird back on track for what is sure to be an awesome year! x

What's in a Man

As a newly inducted member of the Perth Single Scene, I've had a fair deal of time on my hands to do some thinking. You know, about who I really am as a 'single' after all those years as a pair, about who I am as a woman (I'm not the high school girl I remember and that's probably a good thing) and about what I really want in and for my life. My life as I knew it has certainly changed and, although it's tinged with a touch of sadness, I'm enjoying all the new and exciting possibilities of having more space to just be me.

Although I'm not looking to fill my 'man vacancy' any time soon, the other day i got to thinking about what I would look for or want in a man, or what my potential criteria might be in any case. I thought about what I had learnt from my previous relationship about compatibility and common ground, and I thought about what I would and wouldn't be willing to compromise the next time. Strangely enough all I could come up with was a list of things he must like in the culinary department! That's right, never mind about his endearing qualities, what he does for a living or where he sees himself in five years, I just want to know that we're 'cuisine-compatible'. I can hear you laughing, my girlfriends did the same when I told them. But in all seriousness, I've come to believe that commonalities in culinary preference are quite important in a relationship - after all, food is what brings people together. Or maybe it's just that me and food are such great friends, I wouldn't want anyone to come between us. What can I say - I love to cook (maybe that's the little Greek in me coming out to wave her magical wooden spoon wand) and I hate being limited in my cooking repertoire.

So here's what I came up with:

• Must like seafood (fish & prawns are essentials - it would be better if you also liked mussels and oysters but if you've got the first two, I can compromise on the others).
• Must like Japanese cuisine (those who know me well, know how much I love Japanese food).
• No vegetarians - I appreciate the good deed your doing for society at large, but if you don't eat any meat at all it's a deal breaker (I come with a little Greek in me and you'll need to keep him happy with a lamb roast once in a while).
• However, that said, meat and potatoes every night does not a meal make. Must appreciate the option of a non-meat meal and not be afraid to put a little salad on the side of that steak dinner. (My vegetarian lasagne is absolutely bloody awesome!)
• Must not be afraid of a little spice (chilli is your friend, remember that).
• Must like some fruits (you don't have to eat an apple a day but fruit and dessert are synonymous - and baby, I love dessert).

So those are the must-haves! I don't think that's really too much to ask, do you? ;)
Coupled with that are a few other small things I thought of (once I managed to pull my hungry little brain away from my stomach).

• Must be gay friendly (I'm not asking him to get down and boogie in a gay bar, but appreciation for everyone's choices without criticism is basic human courtesy).
• Can't be addicted to computer games (nothing wrong with a little x-box here and there but everyday is not an option and neither is all day Saturday).
• You car is not more important than your girlfriend (nothing wrong with car appreciation but if you'd turn me down to watch the V8 Supercars you fail).
• You must be able to remember my birthday (and not just because it's the same date as one of your mate's) as well as those of your family - I'm not a weekly reminder system, that's what the calender in your phone is for.
• Taking me out for dinner is not just for special occasions, sometimes you should just do something nice because it's a nice thing to do (and trust me - it'll score you some brownie points).
• And if you don't like Fremantle, I don't like you.

So there you have it, a no-fuss, no-nonsense, straight forward list for a man. Summed up and in no uncertain terms, basically the way to my heart is through my stomach!

Toxic friends

It's come to my attention that every woman seems to have one 'toxic friend'. You know the one; she's the 'friend' who always tells you your bum does, in fact, look big in those jeans, even if you haven't asked. She's the one who always criticises your opinions, lifestyle choices and decisions and as such you make every excuse under the sun not to have to see her on a Saturday night. The one who you breathe a sigh of relief over when she leaves & bitch to your family and friends about pretty much every word she said while she was there. She's the one who can never be happy for you or anything good that happens in your life. That's right it's all about her, Her, HER, and you just about can't stand the sight of her, let alone her voice!

.... And yet, you seemingly refuse to de-friend 'The Toxic One', regardless of the big yellow 'POISON' sticker flashing on her forehead and the steaming green-tinged cartoon fumes pluming from her ears. The fact is that every time you're within 100 metres of her you feel your fingers start to tingle in a desperate attempt to reach for a protective plastic jumpsuit, full face mask and all, to avert the danger of her oozing radioactive filth and turning everything to shit!

I've got to say, I'm fairly blessed with my group of girlfriends. Somehow I seem to have managed to escape the fumes of the toxic women I've misguidedly befriended throughout the years, which has left me with a quaint but quality group of girls. However, I know among the lives of my family and friends these hideous women seem to be lurking, and not so much in their shadows. It wasn't until my Mum changed states that she managed to detach herself from one such woman, granted that wasn't her initial reason for moving but it was certainly an added bonus! So why do women continue to do this to themselves? What purpose do these toxic friends actually serve and why would you continue to be 'friends' with someone who consistently shits all over your every parade and makes you feel like a lost, inferior little girl?

Is it because you get yourself in too deep with the friendship and all of a sudden your husbands or partners are friends and you alternate years for who's house Boxing Day is at and there's just no easy way out?
Is it because women get to a certain age in their lives and the inevitable confrontation is just too hard?
Or is it because Nelly-no-friends figures shit friends are better than none?

Maybe it's just because every Superwoman must have her Kryptonite. Does every woman secretly have a part of her that needs someone to make her feel shit. Are we all just tall poppies in need of a dirty great big pair of scissors to come along and cut us up and leave us crippled on the cold, hard, barren, dusty earth? Or is it because women are just so damn self-sabotaging? As a species I really do find us to be the sadists of the world, intent on hurting ourselves and making our own lives shit. Nobody is forcing us to befriend toxic people, we gulp hungrily from their cans of poisonous scum all of our own accord. Are women really that bored and deranged that they remain friends with these hideous people simply so they have something to bitch about? Or are they just so determined to seek the approval of someone it seems so impossible to please?

If more women actually took the time to enjoy their own company, rather than seeking the gratification or company of others, if they stopped trying to fill the 'void' with toxic people and found joy in their own self-appreciation through focusing on the people who really do care about them then, in my humble opinion, the world would be a much less sadistic place, if not a better one.

Australia says no to domestic violence and Little Bird says no to shitty friends! That's one small step for me - one giant leap for all womankind!

*Snippets*

Strawberry Suprise

I must say the prospect of having fundraiser chocolates at work always causes a stir amongst my work colleages - and myself really. When my mental functioning starts to deteriorate somewhere between lunch and home-time, I'm a sucker chocolate fix. Although, I remember my philosophy lecturer from uni giving us advice on brain food to eat before our exam. I distinctly remember him saying 'eat brown rice and salmon... under no circumstances should you eat chocolate'. This ofcourse is because chocolate provides you with energy for all of about 30 minutes before slamming you back into your lethargic reality. However, if the choice at 3:30 in the afternoon is chocolate or brown rice and salmon, I'm probably gonna pick the chocolate (I hate brown rice lol).

This particular afternoon, the 12 boxes of fundraiser chocolates arrive. Rochelle and I spend some time sorting them all out so there is a mixed variety in each box and within about 30 minutes, little Scotty (aka Sir Eat Alot) wanders over to be the first to sample the wares. I'm rife with anticipation thinking about what he'll choose; 'Will it be the Boost bar? A Crunchie? No, maybe he's a Cherry Ripe fan?' I think to myself. It's an unspoken rule that everyone leaves the Freddos and Caramellos till last in mixed boxes of fundraiser chocolates - I mean, there's just so much more to choose from.

So when Sir Eat Alot comes wandering back flashing the red wrapper of a Strawberry Twin Freddo at me you can imagine my reaction.

'Scott, are you serious? Who over the age of seven willingly chooses a Straberry Freddo?' I say.

'Strawberry and lemonade,' he retorts correcting me.

May I remind you that this is a 27-year-old guy we're talking about, not a 7-year-old girl. Okay so he's slight, but no he's by no means gay and with all of the other choices in the box he goes for a Strawberry and lemonade Freddo! I question his manhood and about now he goes as red as the Strawberry wrapper as we have a bit of a giggle.

So it will be of no suprise to you, his new office nickname is Strawberry Shortcake!

Creative

Packed bags

'I think I might pack some things,' he said.

Usually she'd be excited to see packed bags. Packed bags meant holidays and seeing family. Discovering, exploring and new cultural experiences with the hope of gifts from a loved one. Packed bags meant moving house. New adventures and new beginnings. A new town or suburb to explore, new neighbours to meet, a new house to decorate. But this time, packed bags meant the possibility of the end of an era and of a relationship. Packed bags meant cold nights in an empty bed and meals for one. Loneliness and longing. A world of security and comfort lost. She wasn't so excited about these packed bags at all.

'I'm going to go into the lounge room and watch TV,' she said, 'and you're going to go into the bedroom and close the door.'

'Why?' he asked.

Because she couldn't watch him remove the clothes she'd folded for him and placed in his drawers and take his toothbrush and shaving gel she'd arranged for him in the bathroom and put them in the packed bag to loneliness. She couldn't watch him prepare to leave her.

Not long after, he emerged from the bedroom, packed bag in hand. She looked up at him from her spot rugged up on the couch, the light from the TV illuminating her face, eyes glistening with impatient tears.

'I'm gonna go,' he said.

'There's some leftovers in the fridge if you want to take them with you for lunch tomorrow,' she replied, forcing down the lump constricting her throat.

'You're so sweet,' he said, reaching down to stroke her cheek.

It felt strange, as if there were more love and respect between them now than ever before, in the moments before the end.

Creative

When the rain comes








I love it when the rain comes.

When the rain comes so do the blackouts. Grown-ups turn into giddy little school children and watch the rain fall outside office buildings.
When the rain comes so does candlelight. Soft flickering in silent powerless rooms. Sensual shadows cast on walls.
Cuddles are in plenty when the rain comes.

When the rain comes so does the wind. Blowing branches tap on windows. Destruction in its mighty force.
When the rain comes the sky illuminates with lightening flashes; currents reaching out to touch the earth.
Children cry at cracks of thunder when the rain comes.

When the rain comes so do memories of warmth. Up north as a little girl, hot rain falls, quelling the humidity. Dancing in the street and swimming on the road.
When the rain comes farmers rejoice. Dry earth is replenished. Fields rejuvenated with new growth.
Home-cooked hearty meals stew on the stove when the rain comes.

I love it when the rain comes.

*Snippets*

Out of the frying pan

My office car park comes off a laneway backing onto people's garages, you know the type - where, from the street it looks like no one who lives there owns a car - aha but they do, hidden in a secret laneway behind the houses. Yes well, all secrets aside, this particular laneway is the access to our car park and this morning whilst turning slowly into said laneway, attempting to drive as slow as possible to stick to the 8 km/h speed limit (I swear 8 km/h is drivably impossible!) a little old Japanese lady wanders out of her garage looking in the opposite direction, completely unaware of the crunching of gravel under my tires, and that even at 10 km/h a little green Getz is about to hit her. However, as if a little old Japanese lady with a car park death wish wasn't strange enough for my morning, she was carrying with her, of all things, a frying pan into our staff car park. Realising she's not going to stop on her mission to cross the road, I slam on my breaks and she finally turns and sees me. Less than a foot away from my car, she gives me the sweetest 'oops' smile I've ever seen, to which I start miming my apology to her through the windscreen (because of course I was in the wrong - why do we always do that, apologise even when it's not our fault - politeness?). She signals for me to go past and I wave as I continue my endeavour to find a car space, free to go on living my life knowing tomorrow's headlines won't read 'heartless bitch runs down innocent Japanese frypan-carrying woman in car park'. But I'm still intrigued by the frying pan. So I watch her in my rear-view mirror as she continues across the laneway and into the car park, finds a small patch of dirt and fallen leaves next to a brick dividing wall and proceeds to tip out the remnants of this morning's tasty Japanese breakfast onto the patch. She then nonchalantly wanders on back to her pretty house off the laneway, free to live her life making many a tasty breakfast and wandering through car parks with kitchen items. I can't believe I've worked there for 3 years and was never aware our parking lot doubled as a pig trough. Might have to start bringing in my frying pans!

Gripe Vine

Blame your son - I'm just the girlfriend!

I generally make a point of refusing to take responsibility for buying gifts and cards for my boyfriends family, not because I don't like them but because it's not my job. It's bad enough that I am the general household calendar for all events, birthdays and special occasions, it is not my job to faff around trying to find presents and cards for his family when I've already got 7 family members of my own to track down gifts for every year. However, while I'd like to believe that if he doesn't get them a gift or a good enough gift or a card or forgets their special day, then it's not my problem; that the blame will be placed on him as a bad son. But the truth is that, to a mother of boys, it is expected that the girlfriend will ensure her stupid son comes up with something and comes up with something good! If a son makes a present faux pa, such as those mentioned above, it's almost as if his mother is more disappointed in the girlfriend than in him, and although I'm griping about it, I kind of understand why! You see she knows that you remember everyone's birthdays and still you allowed her son to forget/get them a present from the $2 shop/refuse to get a card because he 'doesn't do cards'. Why do we take on these responsibilities? If you didn't teach your son to be thoughtful, that is your own fault as a parent - don't put that on me! And besides, you can always tell when the girlfriend has influenced the present buying decision - don't you want something that your son bought you because he thought of you and thought about the things you liked and put all of that information together to find you a very thoughtful gift?

The other part of this is guys who do it to themselves. I know guys who are perfectly self-sufficient, who always remember birthdays and always buy thoughtful gifts. But it seems that along with the addition of a girlfriend into their lives, a 'don't think for yourself' switch is also installed in their brains and they unload all of that wonderful information onto her, and she's often more than willing to accept (actually sometimes she's the force behind the unloading). All of a sudden they're asking their partners when their mother's birthday is, what they've got planned for the weekend and where they left their shoes! It's like when you go out somewhere together and he asks you to carry his phone, his sunglasses and his wallet in your handbag. Why carry it himself or make unsightly bulges in his pockets, when you have a much bigger and more effective handbag in which you can carry it for him. That makes sense doesn't it, and you're usually more than happy to carry them in your wonderful bag until such time as he needs them back again. Are women just handbags for men's personal information? Hanging on their shoulders everywhere they go just always at the ready for him to dip his hands in and find whatever he needs? Are we a substitute for the male memory? Or are we the martyrs? Are we just control freaks feeding our controlling desires by being the driving force behind every decision he ever makes?

*Snippets*

Look good in leather
Last night my loving boyfriend coaxed me into going with him to look for a new motorbike jacket. Now as thrilling as it might sound, it wasn't my ideal Thursday night plan, however, he was really excited about it and I had noticed his current jacket appeared to be a little tattered; not exactly conducive to a safe riding experience. Walking into the store, I'd never felt so much like 'a skirt' as I looked around at the multitude of Power Ranger-esque outfits, molded with interior protection plates, simulating human body casts hanging from big metal racks. Matt was weak at the knees at the sight of a wall of leather jackets; I was worried I might have to get him a mop and a bucket if he reached out and touched one! I don't think I've seen more leather in a cow paddock than I did in that store and we're not talking rough tough, Harley-mounting-bikie leather, we're talking Speed racer.

Matt fought back his urge and worked his way around the more breathable fabric jackets first. He found a couple around the $250 mark, tried them on and made comments about how they were too small for his 'masculine frame' before finally tiptoeing over to the wall of mounted leather. He was instantly inlove with one particular jacket not unlike that worn by the white Power Ranger. I've got to admit, it was a pretty nice jacket, as far as motorbike jackets go - and for $650 it would want to be, although when you're braving the road on an SV1000 you probably want to be wearing the best of the best (if not for posing then for protection). As he puts it on he 'ooo's about how good it feels. 'So does it look good?' He asks rhetorically. 'Yeah, I suppose, If you like that kind of thing,' I say in jest. 'You wouldn't be able to keep your hands off me if I bought this jacket,' he says big-noting himself (for a change). 'Honey if you bought that jacket, you wouldn't be able to keep your hands off yourself,' I joke. He goes back and forth between the $250 jacket and the $650 'piece de resistance'. Eventually, his rationality gets the better of him; $650 is a lot to spend on a jacket and there is no point paying $250 for a jacket he didn't really want. He carefully, yet reluctantly, put the much coveted jacket back on the rack and slowly did up the zip as if he were preparing his first-born for his first day at school. As we walked out of the shop, I swear I saw a tear in his eye and it was then I knew, he'd be coming home a white Power Ranger before the week was out!

*Snippets*

Book in the dirt
Having recently had kerb-side collection, it's not unusual to see discarded scraps of rubbish still loitering around various front yards, but whilst walking the dog last night I came across something truly humorous; a book - spread out, page down, cover up and half buried in the dirt.

Being the book lover/hoarder that I am, I was quite taken aback by what seemed to be someone's desperate attempt to rid themselves of that particular book. The rational part of my brain tells me that there are several great and dignified options non-book-hoarders could employ in the effort to get rid of an old, unwanted book; one might trade it in at a second-hand book shop, give it to a charity/school book drive or maybe you might donate it to the Salvos in the hope it could enrich the soul of someone less fortunate. Of course if you really must just 'get rid' of a book you could always throw it into your recycle bin where it may be turned into another far more useful book, or last (but definitely not recommended) you could simply just put it into the rubbish bin to become landfill. However, the state of this discarded book, suggested that its owner had deemed it to be so useless it was not even worthy of the bin and had been thrown from the house to the side of the road, maybe alongside an old broken 30cm television and a 'never-been-used' ab-rocker irrationally purchased late one night from Danoz Direct! On rubbish collection day it had been overlooked by the kerb-side collectors, who would have considered it unworthy of their rubbish truck and by the scavengers creeping by with their wheelbarrows the weekend before, looking for treasure in other peoples' trash.

As we got closer I became more and more intrigued as to just what this worthless excuse for a book could possibly be and for a split second I pondered whether maybe it might like to come and live on my bookcase... and then I saw the title: 'How to solve your child's sleeping problems'... enough said!

I'm finally here!

Well it's taken a while for my technologically-challenged self to get a blog started but with the help of some fabulously motivating colleagues, I'm finally here and ready and raring to 'blog for my life'! Yes, I know, I can hear you all saying 'but starting a blog is easy' - and I agree! My laggard approach to starting a blog was more ingrained in SPS 'Severe Procrastination Syndrome' - a dilapidating disease passed down through the generations that inhibits your ability to ever getting anything done. Well not anymore - I'm here now and look at me; I'm blogging!