homeward bound.

It has been a rough couple of weeks so I'm off to the homeland to get some sun.  After five law exams, being cooped up in the library squished between rows of dusty old books no-one will ever read and people who refuse to shower regularly, I need it.  I plan to use this time for reflection and detoxing.  To achieve this I'm going to commit to a much better diet: fish, fresh fruit, vegies and lots of water (all the things I aim to eat at home but always find better tasting, sugary and carb-loaded alternatives for).  I might even channel some 80's Olivia Newton John and get physical  by going for a run along the sea wall every morning, climbing the highest mountain a few times, or by  swimming every single day.
Failing that I might just lie on the beach and drink until life makes sense again.
Enjoy your week. 
xx

have no regrets; make no apologies.

Sometimes I feel like this life wasn't meant for me.  Granted, that thought usually strikes at about 4am when I've lost all my faith in humanity because I'm 1000 words short on my essay or I'm trying to teach myself legal principles because I didn't go to class but you get the point.

Sometimes it just makes me wonder - how powerful one single moment can be to move you from one path to the next.  What is it about my yesterday that brought me to this tomorrow?  And is there a way back?  A way to undo this reality and replace it with a different one?

I mean I get it.  After high school I made sensible choices; ones that some people aren't lucky enough to even consider.  I should be grateful.  And I am - really.  I just wonder where I would be - who I would be - if I'd done things differently.  If I'd been brave enough to say then what I feel now, I wonder what my forever would have been like.

Because in my daydreams I'm flatting in 1960s Soho with chain-smoking artists wearing my black beret and hippy scarf and jewellery I handmade out of bits of melted-down cutlery, staging protests against the man through art and poetry, oozing rebellion from my every pore.

I always wanted to be the tortured soul who wrote amazingly painful lyrics and painted deep emotional water colours kinda like Monet's "Water Lilies" except dark and broody.  Imagine my dismay when I found I completely lack any remote artistic or musical talent so thus ends that dream. Woe is me.

For now I guess I'm still figuring it all out but I hope when I get there I'll be satisfied I didn't move mountains only to sell myself short.


Lesson Thirteen: Be brave. Be bold. Be you.
xx

stupid cupid stop picking on me.

How do you get to contentment without having to go through the awkwardness of dating?  I'm not sure if I'm just missing the gene that makes you want to embark on that whole expedition or if I'm just lazy but quite frankly, it’s exhausting.  The little white lies and the mind-games that no-one ever wins and the unspoken codes that you're not supposed to violate and the invisible scorecard you're marking his qualities up against the minute he opens your door; memorising every detail, hoping he'll come across good enough in the compulsory post-date debrief with the girls.

It's kind of like a test you can't study for but worse because you never know how you did or if you're even on the right track. In fact, I'm tired just thinking about it. And to make it worse, the whole time you're having this inner monologue - about whether or not you should say the funny thing that just popped into your head in case he thinks you're weird coz you're talking to yourself - you're supposed to be effortlessly witty and charming and seductive all at once.

Am I the only one who obviously slept right through "Human Interactions: Romantic Relationships 101" at birth?   Because most other people seem to get through it with relative ease and some even manage to do it with enviable flair. But me? I'm still trying to figure out where the rules are written. The ones that say I'm supposed to be his everything without losing 'me' in the process. The unwritten code of conduct that tells you to smile at his jokes, flit effortlessly between intelligence and naivete and still toe the line of enthusiasm without falling into an abyss of desperation.

It's a complicated little dance that everyone else seems to know the steps to - the 'making less of things so you don’t seem petty'.  The 'making more of things so he seems impressive'.  Trying to reach that happy medium of cool and vulnerable.  So that it doesn’t look like you need a man.  Or even that you want  one.  Just that he should work hard if he wants to be yours.  All that seems to be inbuilt in the average person but mostly, it just grates on me.

I'm hoping some day I'll have this whole game figured out.
Otherwise, I had better get to liking cats.

Lesson Twelve: Play to win.

Have a lovely week. xx

i feel pretty. oh so pretty.

When I see people wearing clothes that don't fit on really important days - weddings, 21st birthdays, fridays - I always ask myself one question:   


don't you have anyone in your life who loves you?  

 My mother would never let me leave the house in half the atrocities I see violating the town strip at 3am on a Sunday morning and yet for some reason, you in your ten-sizes-too-small excuse for a town dress looking akin to 'champagne-strangled ham' and your similarly clad chronies are bumping and grinding on the dancefloor, sneering down your nose at me like I'm the weird one.

To be fair though, it's possible that in my judging, maybe I missed something.  Perhaps you are the only person in your family gifted with sight?  Or perhaps you belong to that culture that believes mirrors steal a part of your soul?  Or perhaps you wear a giant onesie over your ensemble and then change on the way to the nightclub?

Whatever it is I hope one day we find a cure for these avoidable crimes & stop allowing the ones we love to fool themselves into making fools of themselves.  Because it really isn't about being size zero with legs for days and a million dollar wardrobe.  I think it's just about realising not every trend is for everyone - that how you feel is not synonymous with what they think is cool - that it's okay to just be you.

My loved ones never hesitate to let me know when I'm making a real dick of myself and though it is sometimes hard to hear, I'm always thankful in hindsight. I hope you have someone who loves you just as much.

Lesson Eleven: Real love means telling the truth.
 

"up to?": unravelling centuries of courting tradition in two words or less.

I am not a fan of mass texts. Similarly, I am not a fan of email forwards.
In fact, I am not a fan of any type of communication that isn't personally addressed to me for a specific and succinct purpose.

I, for example, would never text someone - let alone my entire cellphone contacts list - "up to?" motivated by boredom, in a bid to start conversation. I would also never initiate this conversation at 3am (unless I'm drunk, then obviously all bets are off) and expect a reply that doesn't start with a swear word and end in 'off'.

It's not that I think I'm too cool - I do not suffer from delusions that I am above the basic social practices of wider society. I just don't get it. Why do you care what I'm doing when I never see you, we rarely talk and to be honest, I really don't care what you're doing? It's completely beyond me that this is how you would choose to spend your free time (as opposed to anonymously ranting to your imaginary fanbase via blogger - point taken).

So you can imagine how disgruntled I am at the prospect of text messages being used as invites for something less than innocent. Talk about eliminating all remnants of chivalry and common decency. Not too long ago, before cellphone use was socially mandatory, the humble 'up to' text could have a breadth of meanings: What are you doing? Wanna hang out? Wanna get some food? Let's do something.

Social evolution however has seen it translated in many cases into meaning "Let's do something I'm too lazy to make an effort to have a relationship with you for" or in plain English as the booty call of the 00's - "Let's have sex". But how did we get from there to here? How did something so completely innocent become something so completely...not?

I mean I realise that this new tech era has encouraged communication that is all about efficacy and minimum effort but quite frankly I'm offended by it. As any girl who's ever known a boy with a cellphone knows, "Up to?" does not just mean "Hi what are you doing?" Nor does it mean "This is a sign that I'm thinking about you" as so many girls like to tell themselves. It's not even really a conversation starter anymore. As we've found (through extensive research) this phrase has now become synonymous with "I'm bored and probably drunk, if you're alone want to come over?"

Even less flattering is the mass 'up to' commonly received in the early hours of Sunday morning in the dying embers of a boys drink up at so-and-so's house and directed to any and all female members of their cellular phone book.

I'm not sure what kind of girl is dumb enough to respond to these messages but I know for a fact there are those who do. And while I'm all for the power of free choice, you can't answer an 'up to?' and then act surprised that all he wants from you is exactly what you just gave him. I dunno, I guess I'm just more for boys showing at least a little effort when it comes to the romantic sector of my life. I know it's going a little far to expect you to send a letter to my father (by horse, naturally) asking permission to call on me but surely a phone call at a decent hour or a trip to the movies hasn't become completely obsolete yet?  
If it has I'm joining the convent tomorrow.

Lesson Ten:  Show some pride.

Happy Sunday x

femme fatale.

I watched the movie 'Obsessed' the other night. If you don't know it I wouldn't bother looking it up. It was pretty intense to say the very least. The basic storyline is that a slutty little office temp falls for a handsome married guy and because he's happily married (let's take note that it is in this case to Beyonce which I personally think makes a difference here) and when he's not having a bar of it she creates an affair in her head and goes all Fatal Attraction stalker on him, breaking into his home, wearing his clothes, sending herself flowers and casually cradling his young child while he's out etc.

Though I admired her unwavering commitment to the cause, she really started to annoy me after awhile. I hate to sound perverted but I got a sick kind of satisfaction when she ended up smooshed between the glass table and the chandelier.

It's all a little far fetched for everyday life but I did feel kinda sorry for the poor guy. Somehow I don't think it's because he has two gorgeous women throwing themselves at him. I think it might just be that he was too good looking to be in such a predicament. Between the crazy death threats and kidnappings and suicide attempts it got me thinking about relationships.

I enjoyed the fact that he remained completely faithful to his wife the entire time (because the temptress was mass pretty - played by actress Ali Larter) despite the obvious and somewhat aggressive temptation. These days, where 1 in 4 marriages ends in divorce and over 40% of these are due to infidelity, I liked the fact that his marriage vows still meant something to him - that he was willing to do whatever it took to protect them.

I think every girl wants a love like that. Maybe not to have it tested by a suicidal maniac with homicidal tendencies but the general idea of forever meaning forever with no lame excuses about temptation or mistakes.

It also made me wonder a little about the power of women. Now I am not, nor will I ever be a staunch bra-burning, man-hating feminist type but I really do believe being a woman is a very powerful thing Complicated? Yes. Heavy burdened? Yes.  But there is something - grace? power? humility? determination? pride? - bubbling under the surface of every woman that makes you think, her smile has a thousand meanings and that maybe this one means "If you keep doing that, I know where I'm going to hide your body".

Lesson Nine: Never assume.  Especially where women are concerned.

[Now go and say thank you to all the special women you love and hope never to get on the wrong side of. xx]

selling your soul to the book of face.

Sometimes I wish I'd never asked.

Sometimes knowing a little, is knowing too much.
And once you know something, there is no going back.

I think that's why I have such an antipathy to sites like Facebook - because they tell me all the things I never wanted to know before I even knew I didn't want to know them.

They tell me she had a baby - he's got a new girlfriend- they finally got married - things that don't necessarily impact my life anymore in any way whatsoever and yet here I am, clicking my way through your family holiday album learning all these things we'll never actually talk about in person - things I'll shelve away in the dark corners of my sub-conscious until I see you next when we'll both ask "how are you?" like we don't already know.

I must admit some of the things I learn are amusing. Some of the tidbits are often just day-makers and re-appear in text messages to my friends who I know will also appreciate the giggle. But mostly? I just want to click undo in my mind and go back to wondrous oblivion. It's much safer there; it's not filled with reminders that tell me to regret that I let you into my life, that I walked into yours, or that there are still even remnants of our paths colliding embedded forever in my conscience or alternatively, your facebook.

But as I've learnt, there are no erasers - no 'delete all' option - no way to get back the innocence that you offered up so freely for a taste of curiosity. Nothing to undo the new pain that comes with knowing too much.

I think the answer is simple. Maybe I should take five minutes before the next time to assess the consequences this decision might bring - big, bad or otherwise.

I should just say to myself - "Self, ten years - three months - hell; a week from now: Am I going to regret this?"

Lesson Eight: Make better choices.

Better living everyone. xx