Archive | July, 2013

I’m not a girl…not yet an old woman

29 Jul

Call her a mainstream puppet or a straight up hot mess with abs, but I think Britney might have been on to something in 2001…

 

britney

The abs know.

 

Here’s the story:  A couple of weeks ago I went to get a spray tan.  Yes, I got a spray tan in winter. Because Melbourne. And I am vain, kay?  But I had a wedding to go to and my skin had recently started resembling that furry, off-white corduroy you often find on old lounge chairs.

All proceeded as normal;  clothes had come off, paper g-string was on, dignity was out the door.  My technician was a friendly lady who I had not met before but seemed very nice.

At first.

As we got chatting I explained what I do for a living and how I had recently started choreographing a musical.  Gosh, she was very impressed!  From there, our conversation went a little like this:

Her:  All that dancing must keep you nice and fit, then?

Me:  Uh, yeah, most of the time.

Her:  How old are you?

Me:  (pause) Twenty-eight.

Her:  You’ve got a lovely figure…for your age.

Me: ……………….

 

shocked gif

 

For. Your. Age.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be suitably offended and indignant whilst naked and wearing a shower cap?

When I relayed this story to a man friend, he tried to reason with me that this poor woman was just trying to give me a compliment.  But I beg to differ.  “For your age” is a phrase used to refer to women (or men) over the age of fifty.  Some may even say its reserved for those you believe would normally be a bit past it.  E.g. “Jeez Grandad is looking spritely for his age!”  Or, “Gawd Helen Mirren rocked that swimsuit – she’s such a babe…for her age.” (Actually, Helen is just a babe. Period.)

Now, I am more than aware that I am not a teenager.  I am also aware that I often joke about my premature senility due to an unending love of staying indoors with a drum of red wine and a warm blanket.  But who doesn’t love those things?  So what’s the deal?  I’m twenty-eight!  Is it so unbelievable that I wouldn’t look like an old leather wallet without my clothes on?

Maybe I am overreacting, because it certainly wouldn’t be the first time, but it did get me thinking;  what IS my age? Am I young or am I old? And why does erryone want to categorize me into one or the other? At twenty-eight I am constantly (and I mean constantly) being told it is time to start pumping out those offspring or risk the landslide into menopause as a barren, cranky old maid.  That I’m old enough now to start settling down and being a responsible adult.  That I’m too old to go out every weekend on the booze and not have a mortgage or a husband. (Just kidding, I don’t really go out every weekend. Not in public, anyway.)

But at the same time, I’m ALSO being told that I’m still so young, that life is just starting and that I should have some fun and go out every weekend on the booze, forget about buying a house and who can be f*cked getting married.  This is all v overwhelming for a girl who can’t decide if Mountain Dew or Solo would be better for her hangover.

A pregnant girlfriend and I were talking recently and she mentioned how when you are visibly up the duff, every lady and her poodle think it perfectly OK to touch your belly and give you parenting advice.  This is a little like that.  Bloody everyone has an opinion on my age!  And apparently because I’m a woman and not a hyper-sensitive teenager, its perfectly okay to tell me all about it.

But, truth be told, I often end up feeling exactly like the aforementioned teenagers, just with slightly less hormones and a superannuation account (ah f*ck…need to remember to consolidate that shit).

I mean, when I think back to when I was an ACTUAL teenager, a lot of what I remember revolves around Vitamin C and S Club 7 assuring me that my bestie and I would be friends forever with the world at our feet, while my teachers were telling me to study for the QCS or risk lowering my score and missing out on my dream course at university and end up working at Baskin Robbins until I was 45. That is, if I could pick a funking university course in the first place, what with my parents up in my grill reminding me that it was time to grow up and make some decisions while I cried into my graphic calculator.* And to hurry up and do the dishes because one day, as a woman, I would have my own family to “look after.”

Well, jokes on them, because I still don’t do the dishes.

But I do feel like I’m that emotional kid again and my ‘parents’ are just everyone else in the funking world.

You know how there’s that 27 Club thing? Like how you get to 27 and your job is to stay alive for the next year?  Well you know what happens when you do survive and reach the 28 Club?  Everyone judges you!  CONGRATULATIONS!

Well not on my watch, suckers.

I am very happy with my bad attitude and arguably irresponsible existence.  Just because I’m not married and don’t have kids of my own doesn’t mean you will find me on the floor clutching my uterus longingly while listening to Love Song Dedications.**

And just because I’m under thirty doesn’t mean I want to spend every weekend drunk to the eyeballs in mini skirts and crop tops.

Why can’t I be both responsible AND irresponsible in the same day? Why can’t I like kids AND not have kids of my own? Why can’t I be both young AND old at the same time? Is it so very crucial that I have to pick a side and follow the rules? And why is it everybody’s business?

I think my young Mexican friend put it perfectly when she said, “Porque no los dos?”

 

porque-no-los-dos

 

Peace.

 

*Remember graphic calculators? And school forced everyone to buy one for, like, a million dollars and now they’re obsolete? Lolz.

**I actually did love Richard Mercer and Love Song Dedications and there’s rarely a day I don’t mourn that loss to the airwaves. Miss you, Richard.

A Royal Pain

23 Jul

Kate Middleton had a baby last night.

This was news I was anticipating and also dreading.  Why?  Because along with the expected hoopla and celebratory tea and scones from the Brits (which, once again, reinforces to me how much I wish I was British, but that’s another story), we also got the obligatory ‘who gives a crap about the royal baby?’ whingers.

And they were everywhere! Declaring their feelings of resentment and not-caring to anyone with ears or a functioning touch screen.  No-big-deal mums claiming that they went through childbirth along with every other woman on earth and why should we be so interested in it?  Political pains who decided to take personal offense to Australian fascination with anything to do with the monarchy. Gosh, it was dramatic.

Well, you know what Debbie Downers?  I AM interested in it and it IS kind of a big deal! So scoff all you like, but I unashamedly love the royal family and their hoity-toity accents and interesting choices in headwear.  I think Kate Middleton is a bloody fox and a half and she just gave birth to a future king.  AN ACTUAL KING!  Not like when regular babies are born and their doting, blinded-by-love parents call them their little ‘prince’ or ‘princess’.  No, no.  This kid is ACTUALLY A PRINCE who will one day sit on a freaking throne and have his face embossed on a two dollar coin.  Let’s just say, if I was living in Britain right now I would be all about the union jack face paint and a smart plastic crown.

The funny thing is, all the Negative Nancy’s publishing their disdain for the royal birth are the same people who like to clog my news feeds or water cooler discussions with football score updates or their kid’s latest bowl movement. (I could go on for days about this, but that’s another time, another blog). People in glass houses…

My fascination and affection for Queenie and her strange family has no political motivation or meaning.  I just really like her and her colour blocking outfits.  I always thought she looked a little like my nanna.  And she lives in a palace.

Speaking of my nanna, there are some people here in Australia who just die for the royals.  As well as other relatives of mine, my nanna kept and to this day still owns the souvenir edition of Woman’s Weekly from when Charles and Diana got married.  And Fergie and Prince Andrew.  (God, remember Fergie?  That was an epic ginger mop.  And she married a prince.  Now that’s the definition of inspiration.) These are the people who grew up with the royal family and tape Queenie giving her Christmas Day speech on VHS.  Don’t they deserve a moment?

And you know, it’s nice to still have the royals around, considering the usual media saturation given to things like Kim Kardashian’s butt.  And ladies don’t tell me the sight of Prince Harry in his military uniform doesn’t make you drop an egg.  But I digress…

Look, the point is, haters gonn hate.

But it’s one day.  Let us have our British fun, would you?  Tomorrow you can go back to talking about what you made for dinner last night.

Long live Prince-Whatever-His-Name-Is!

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The Five People You Hate on Facebook. Lesson One: Selfies

15 Jul

Inspired by the book ‘The 5 People You Meet in Heaven’ I have decided to put together my own little life-changing series based around social media.

Now, unlike aforementioned book, this particular blog series is not so uplifting and poignant, but rather a little more harsh and a little less heart-warming.  And I am aiming it at everyone who uses social media.  Because social media is pissing me off.  For realz. 

I chose Selfies as my first lesson of the day because this has been an issue that has long since troubled me.  Anyone who knows me in real life, regardless of capacity; workmate, close friend, beautician, relative, post man etc, should by now be well aware of my position on selfies. I do not enjoy.  Repeat:  DO. NOT. ENJOY.

(I should probs clarify here that I’m not referring to a random selfie once every six months when you get a haircut, so just stem your flow before you get all flustered and defensive.)  

No, I am specifically targeting the Excessive Selfie Taker.  The EST.  

We ALL know them.  We ALL see them.  Some are even likely to be really good friends of yours who you just cannot bring yourself to tell that their incessant selfie-taking is hurting your soul.  

With the invention of social media such as Facebook and Instagram, the popularity of the selfie skyrocketed like Amanda Bynes’ meds.  At first, we were all just loving ourselves sick online and really, just revelling in the newfound vanity of sharing self-portraits with people we’d never met.  But, a couple of years down the road, a number of EST’s noticed that people weren’t liking or commenting on their amazing selfies as much and realised that maybe it was just starting to get annoying……. Yuh huh.  

So, the new-age selfie started to emerge.  The new breed disguised as something less vain but still created for that very reason. And I believe I have narrowed it down to the top four categories:

1.  The Arty Selfie:  I blame Instagram for this.  Slapping on a Valencia filter and highlighting your lipstick colour with some fancy editing app I don’t know how to use and then hashtagging #red or #portrait does not make your photo any less selfie-like.  I can see straight through your bohemian, hipster facade, Van Gough.  That’s still your face.

2. The Weather Selfie:  For some unknown reason, people have started to become heavily influenced by the day’s forecast.  Like when it’s a really clear, bright day and, suddenly, all these selfies appear on your feed with the caption “Loving the sun today.”  Obviously not as much as your face.  Same goes for selfies taken on the first day of a new season i.e. ‘Autumn selfie.’  John Schluter would be ashamed.

3.  The Location Selfie:  This one’s been around a bit longer.  But it’s no less irritating.  Have you ever had a selfie appear in your feed with the caption, “OMG!  I’m in/at <insert exciting event/exotic location here>!” That’s a thinly disguised Location Selfie, my friend.  Look, I’m really happy you’ve made it to Yemen, but seriously, it’s still just your face.  You could be in your lounge room for all I know.  (I once had an Instagram friend post several selfies outside the Moulin Rouge.  The effing Moulin Rouge!  Maybe just…take a photo OF the Moulin Rouge?  Too outlandish?)

4.  The Gym Selfie:  Just like the hundreds of you who constantly complain about gym-related status updates, this is dedicated to the gym-related selfie.  I didn’t really care that you were at the gym to begin with, so a mid-session selfie isn’t really going to turn that boat around.  What’s really alarming is that, recently, gym selfies are morphing into half-naked gym selfies.  Men in their underwear at the gym are for Grindr only.  Word.

 

Please stop.  Just stop.  

 

Now, as any self-respecting vain bitch, I more than appreciate a smart selfie when you look in the mirror and everything is just working for you.  Like when it would be goddam criminal to deprive the world of your face today.  I’m picking up what you’re putting down, girlfriend.  And yes, I have taken them myself.

But daily selfies are just not OK.  Unless you’ve magically grown an extra head overnight.  Then I would probably pay to see that.

As a rule, I’ll allow one a month.  Maybe two.  That’s twenty-four a year.  That’s a lot.  Don’t worry EST’s, we won’t forget what you look like.  But we probably will like you a lot more than we did.

I’m sure you’re all v v attractive, but hang up those duck lips for the sake of humanity.

 

 

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Yeah I did…..

11 Jul

So here it is, my first blog entry.

Wow, what an inspirational opening.  But regardless, thats exactly what it is.  A friend of mine told me to simply get online and start writing about myself.  Now, the shamelessly vain, self-involved part of me (which you will come to know in time) was v impressed with this advice as she had been drinking copious amounts of cheap champagne at the time.  But after the hangover and the piecing together of the weekend’s conversation on Monday morning, the regular me opened her laptop to begin, and…nothing.  Why?  Because writing about yourself is bloody hard!  How on earth Jordan managed to write herself four (yes, FOUR) autobiographies is more than beyond me.  I guess showing your bits and planning the world’s most hideous wedding to Peter Andre make for unending reading.  (Note to self: must buy Jordan’s autobiography.)

Obvi, I believe my own opinions and thoughts are incredibly important.  In my mind, I am quite hilarious and entertaining.  So, the logical and sane thing to do would be to publish these said thoughts and opinions on the internet for the world to see and judge.  Yep, good decision.

So welcome.  I hope to make you laugh a bit or a lot.  Preferably a lot.  And if not, make you feel better about your clearly superior joke-telling skills at least. I also hope you can take some amusement from my life; like today, when I was grocery shopping but ended up getting a five-minute lecture from a random elderly gentlemen about the health benefits of yoghurt brands available at suburban Coles.  There were about six other women in the aisle (who were most likely wearing bras and make up, unlike yours truly.) But he picked me to share his unending wisdom of acidophilus with. Evidently, Dairy Farmers make a good quality, well-priced natural yoghurt that comes in a container that can be washed and used by the little kids as a drinking cup.

For realsies.  

Luckily he walked away before I brought out my knowledge of mega bitchadophilus.

Anyway, please come back and keep reading.

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