In a drastic leap of “rebranding of the self” I have moved homes, so to speak.
You can now find my tales and musings at:
In a drastic leap of “rebranding of the self” I have moved homes, so to speak.
You can now find my tales and musings at:
It’s nice to know that some of the things that were true at 23, are still true at 29. Although at 29 I have become so used to hearing the phrases listed below, they no longer agitate me. What agitates me these days is when the the man across from me asks …
“Anne, how is it you’re still single?”
What follows is my stand out blog post from 2006. I remember the events that inspired it well.
The place was at the Pizza Cafe at the Schonell Theatre, and the people were a group of newly found friends and fellow social work students. Over pizza and beers I bonded with an amazing woman who would later become the flatmate that famously proclaimed – “Annie, you know I never liked him. His shoes were much too pointy. You just can’t trust a man with shoes that pointy”.
(I have also snuck in a second post that amused me greatly, never a truer word was spoken)
Posted on by Anne
Recently I have been coming to grips with the fact that it is ok to be long term single. And that the reason I feel bad about it sometimes is the result of a cultural expectation that we should be experiencing a multitude of intimate, sexual relationships in our late teens and early twenties. Because I don’t experience this, I am made to feel that I have ‘missed out’ on something and therefore there must be something wrong with me.
There is nothing wrong with me.
These days instead of feeling sad about being single, I feel angry that I feel sad about being single. It has been an interesting personal development.
I have been discussing these issues with fellow ‘true blue’ singletons (1) and many of them agree with me on some level. But what I have found most amusing in discussions with my ‘peeps’ is what people say to console us about being single.
I present this list on behalf of single people everywhere, it is a list of the incredibly useless and patronising things people say to us. This list is by no means definitive, so please, feel free to add more in the comments section.
To those who are part of the supportive friendship networks of single people everywhere – when single people bitch and moan about being single, and we do do this when under the influence of alcohol, please don’t say these things. They don’t make us feel any better. What we really want is validation. We want to bitch about the total utter lack of prospectives or, as my mother would argue, that all the people we’re interested in must have some kind of mental defect because they are not interested in us.
We do not want suggestions that indicate that being single is our fault, that there is something wrong with us, that we’re not trying or that we’re too stupid to ‘find someone’ by ourselves. No one can control attraction and the way others feel, and being single because you just want to be with someone you like and are attracted to, is not a bad thing. Most single people these days don’t need to ‘date’ someone for companionship. We have friends, and I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m flat out finding time for them, let alone finding time for some unknown entity of the opposite sex.
I will end this rant for now, but this is something that has been on my mind lately and I feel it needs to be said, even if it is just on a two-bit personal blog.
(1) ‘true blue’ singletons – individuals who have been single for one year or longer. This term excludes interlopers rebounding from previous relationships who fall straight into new ones.
Like most (female) children of the 80s and 90s, I got through adolescence on a steady diet of teen flicks, romantic comedies and the occasional Kevin Smith film. And before films with ‘adult themes’ and ‘coarse language’ were my staples, my diet was strictly Disney.
So like most people I know, I’ve been raised on stories that all have one thing in common – happy endings. And while I am loathed to admit this, these stories still float around in the back of my head trying to tell me the way things should be.
Disney taught me to expect Prince Charming, but only if I was pretty, had a nice singing voice, and wasn’t particularly challenging. Teen flicks taught me something much more insidious. Teen flicks taught me that even quirky, smart and unusual girls can expect Prince Charming.
I’m sorry. But quirky girls really aren’t in such high demand. At least not by all of these so-called perfect men. If we were, we wouldn’t need to see so many movies and read so many books where the quirky, neurotic girl finds a nice man who likes her – ‘just as she is’.
So what do I mean by the ‘quirky girl’? Well, if we take Molly Ringwald circa Sixteen Candles and Pretty in Pink as our archetype, quirky girls are different, smart, stand up for themselves and challenge or confuse men just enough to intrigue them. A bit like Drew Barrymore’s character in Ever After, or Bridget Jones. Although I’m not sure if the lovely Bridget could ever really be considered that smart.
If we look to the modern day quirky girls, like Nina Proudman from Offspring or Zooey Deschenel from New Girl (and every other role she’s ever played), quirky girls are also well-dressed, clumsy, have a suitably feminine profession, and have lots of good looking men floating around them. They also occasionally sing, do craft and freak out emotionally.
We love these characters because most of us can identify with some element of them. Hell, if this blog tells you anything about me it’s that I’m a clumsy, reasonably intelligent social worker with a penchant for making novelty cakes in the shape of penises. Oh. And I also have a Dinosaur Diorama in my sideboard. If anyone fits the ‘quirky girl’ mould, it’s me.
And at 29, no perfect man has suddenly appeared and loved me, ‘just as I am’. Nor do I expect one to.
I have been mulling over the issue of the quirky girl for some time and have consulted quite broadly. My conclusion is thus:
The myth of the quirky girl is that she can, and must, attract perfect, uncomplicated guys.
The reality is that the quirky girl attracts quirky guys. Who are just as crazy and complicated as she is. This is why she loves them.
Perfect guys are boring.
This also helps explain why dating and relationships can be so difficult for us quirky folk. Life is complicated, and despite our best efforts, we’re not always able to accept the quirk in others. And worse! We can gloss over signs and inconsistencies, or change ourselves in order to be with someone we think is perfect. But they never are.
I don’t know why we’re all holding out for someone perfect when they just have to be awesome.
But I do feel certain that Walt Disney and John Hughes are somehow to blame.
When I began this retrospective blogging activity I thought it would be a fun opportunity to look back on my twenties. But it has actually turned out to be quite confronting. Not only have I been reliving the fun moments, I have also been reliving the confusing and painful ones. And I’m beginning to notice some patterns.
It would seem that I have a compulsion for change and the drama it brings. And every year I manage to generate some. Even if they don’t seem that big and crazy to others, they’re always big and crazy for me.
2005 was no different. I got my first full-time job, had my first share house experience go pear-shaped and then I threw in the towel and moved back home to go back to uni. Seven years later I can say that this was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, but at the time I was in a total muddle. And from reading my blog entries, it all feels so eerily familiar.
07 October 2005
A lot can happen in a week.
It was indeed a crazee week. This week I became resolved to leave my job, then freaked out about what I was going to do w my life, felt like I had gone full circle back to how I felt in April and then I discovered the perfect uni course, then came to the realisation that if I got into this course I would have to move home, then I talked myself into believing that it wouldn’t be that bad. I also went shopping.
The Scary Stuff
The Good Stuff
So fingers crossed for Anney.
* This may be because she knows I will get depressed moving back home, and a kitten will cheer me up.
June 2012 started with a planetary alignment that bought much joy, excitement and astrological juju into the lives of those around me. For me, it just bought on my period.
This year June has me stumped. It’s only half over and somehow I’ve managed to experience the effects of two things that pretty much sum up my year thus far: heinous hook-ups and good dates that don’t really go anywhere.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that angst, I’ve had a faith restoring, 80s inspired, romantic moment. Complete with indie pop, dancefloor twirling and non-sleazy kissing. The experience was so ‘prom’, I can’t even begin to describe it.
While I may never see my dance partner again, he left me with an amazing memory and a very timely reminder of what chemistry without sleaze feels like. Turns out it’s pretty nice.
This year June has shown me exactly what I don’t want, and exactly what I do want, all in the space of a week. And now, I must begin the work of figuring out how one hammers that final nail into the coffin of casual sex. Metaphorically speaking.
Surely it can’t be that hard …
2004 was a year of firsts. I moved out of home, finished my first couple of Bachelor’s degrees, bought my first PDA, and went to my first (and only) Supernova. It was also the year I bought my first domain name and with the help of a particularly nerdy friend, self-hosted a blog. That domain name was, of course, boo-yah.net
Sadly, the once well loved domain is no longer mine and all of my not so wise words from that year sit nestled in a word document on my hard drive. And having just read them, I think that’s definitely a good thing. Here are two entries from ’04 that amused me. You will note their general lack of coherence, which was typical of my posts that year.
31 July 2004
Empty house, full of notes, stinky like beer. It wasn’t even a late night. In bed by 1. I am at a loss as to what it will be like tonight when god know’s how many people will be over for drinkie poos. I have no idea where they will sit. Yikes.
I think the house has developed an unnatural obsession with blu-tac. Myself included. It’s the greatest invention since the wheel and post-its. As there are no hooks in this house, I have to lean pictures up against walls and stabilise them with blu-tac, its not a perfect system but it works. Did you know that blu-tac can also be used to attach souvenier tea towels to walls? So versatile.
. . . . . I am so stealing my parents steam mop.
02 August 2004
Blu-tac, why have you forsaken me??
Posters are falling down all over the shop. I had forgotten how fickle a mistress blu-tac really is. woe.
[message truncated for humorous purposes]
I’ve been lamenting to a few people recently that every time I log onto Facebook someone in my network has gotten engaged, married or birthed a child. People think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. I reckon I’m seeing at least one birth and marriage per month. At least.
Don’t get me wrong, I am happy for everyone – I’m prone to bouts of jumping up and down and squealing in delight at work and everything. It’s just that the ‘life event’ news is coming so thick and fast these days it’s hard not to feel a bit left out.
I’ve always been a bit of an outlier, once drunkenly proclaiming “I barch to the meat of my own drum”. Generally, I am totally okay with this. I like who I am and I’m happy with my life. There’s always room for improvement, but for the most part, I do okay. And there are some amazing people in my life who make it a joy to go out there and do my thing. So it’s hard to reconcile the feeling I get every time I see another wedding or a baby photo pop up on Facebook. It feels like a kick in the guts.
I don’t think it’s a jealousy thing. I have no desire to have children anytime soon, and even the thought of a wedding makes me anxious. Perhaps I feel excluded? The whole getting married and having children thing is becoming such an obvious social norm that I am nowhere near. Hrm.
Also, I probably feel a bit guilty. Sometimes I don’t even know folk are in a relationship until I see pictures of their babies. Whoops!
Add to this my increasing concern that I am becoming cynical about the prospect of falling in love et cetera, and you get one confused little Anne. An Anne that seems to be throwing a lot of hate at romantic movies these days. So much so that I am worried she may have given up hope on some sub-conscious or totally conscious level.
But! Earlier this week I saw this and just about melted. So I think I still have some hope in me after all.
I never thought it was possible for something to be spectacularly bad and incredibly awesome all at the same time. That was until I saw NKOTBSB*.
I’m not even sure how to begin describing this concert experience…..
You know every boy band parody you’ve ever seen? Well, it was just like that. But for real.
Somewhere between the stage fireworks, leather pants, pelvic thrusting, and screaming fans the only thing that kept running through my head was this …
I mean, not only did they bafflingly open the concert with a Coldplay cover, this is what happened next (luckily for me, they have done the same show across the world, so it’s very easy for me to share this with you) …
Don’t get me wrong. I definitely had fun. I laughed, I danced, and I sang. But I also stood there self-righteously as they ruined all of my favourite songs by mixing in tracks by different artists.
I mean, at what point did someone think it was necessary to insert 30 seconds of Push It by Salt’n'Pepper at the climax of Step By Step? That was the first pop song I ever truly loved. Imagine, if you will, six year old Anne dancing around her living room to this on repeat 1 for an entire summer.
That song was the only reason I wanted to see NKOTB, and they bloody ruined it.
And while I’m having a gripe – what kind of sadistic stylist thinks it’s okay to put a man in his late thirties into pink fluro sneakers? Fluro sneakers only work for people under 22. Ageing pop stars are the last people who should be wearing them. Poor Brian, he seemed like one of the nicer, more talented BSBs – why would they humiliate him like that?
And oh my goodness. The ballads! How could I have forgotten about all of the boy band ballads? I guess I had always considered them filler before getting to the good stuff. Although – some of you may remember this BSB remix from back in the day. If you don’t, get ready to laugh. This is possibly one of the funniest things on the internet. And I used to have it on CD!
And I have to say, Kev was notably absent from the performance. BSB just weren’t the same without his deep dulcet tones and luscious eyebrows. Sigh.
If I hadn’t paid over $100 to see them (and another $100 for my NKOTB hoodie), I’d have felt very sorry for all those ageing pop stars. As it stands, I enjoyed singing and laughing along, and I live in hope that they were perhaps taking the piss out of themselves a little bit too.
* For the uninitiated NKOTBSB stands for New Kids On The Block and the Backstreet Boys. Or thereabouts. I think there is a B missing in there somewhere.
It would appear that 2012 is shaping up to be the year of first dates. It is a strange but not unpleasant phenomenon. While most of these first dates haven’t been that extraordinary, the latest one proved quite remarkable.
It was the kind of first date that could only be devised, scripted and filmed in a popular television series. In fact, if it hadn’t actually happened to me, I wouldn’t have believed these sort of things really happen. But they do. Let me paint you the picture…
It’s a Friday night. I’m rocking it with some new friends and we end up mucking around on some “dating” apps. I say “dating” because these apps are really just pieces of software designed to help you get your end away. You know the apps I’m talking about, right? You create a profile and “matches” are served up based on your location. I say “matches” because there is no real art or science of matchmaking involved. There’s no personality profiling and no specific searching. It’s just a picture of someone who is nearby and is more than likely “up for a good time”.
Gay folk have Grindr. Heteros have Blendr.
So I’m on Blendr. And it’s fun, it’s silly and it’s mostly harmless. Yes, I was sent a cock shot. Yes, I had multiple offers of sex. And yes, I exchanged numbers with a couple of guys. But! I was all talk and went home alone.
So it’s Saturday. I’m heading to a costume party and I’m in line at the Spotlight cutting counter. The phone rings and its an unknown number. I answer and it’s a Blendr boy. I blush, make some small talk, but hastily hang up as I need to get some Lycra cut. Eventually, I call him back and we arrange to catch up the following day.
So it’s Sunday. I’m drastically hungover from the previous nights shenanigans. Somehow, I manage to drag my sorry butt out of bed, into a cute frock and out of the apartment to a local pub. We meet, he’s cute, and we get on reasonably well. However, as we’re both exhausted the date ends early and he offers to drop me home. Instead, I ask for a ride to Coles so I can grab a few things. I expect him to drop me off, but he parks the car and comes into the shops with me. It’s a bit weird.
Afterwards, he drops me home. As I get out of the car a gust of wind blows my incredibly cute frock up over my head. I turn scarlet and drop all my groceries. He sees everything. As I scramble to keep my dress down and pick my shopping up, I gasp and exclaim “welcome to my life!”.
And before you ask – yes, I had terrible undies on.
During the date I had tried to explain to him my clumsy and ridiculous nature. Can you believe he doubted me?
A second date remains to be seen.
Somewhere between 2002 and 2003, I went from a Blogger powered Angelfire website to LiveJournal. Remember LiveJournal? It wasn’t quite a blogging platform, it pre-dated MySpace and in some bizarre twist of digital fate, it still exists. My favourite LiveJournal feature was choosing an animated icon depicting my current mood to sit alongside each post. None of this having to use words to describe how I felt crap. Those were the days.
2003 was another big year of drinking, studying and hanging out with newly found friends, which is pretty much all I wrote about. Mostly using bullet points. Somewhere amidst all of the rambling and recounting of drunken shenanigans long since forgotten, I found this entry. Even though it gets a bit pathetically melodramatic at the end, the truth is I still wonder these things sometimes. And I still listen to Frankie Goes to Hollywood.
. . . why is it she always seems to have a pen for random strangers to write down other peoples numbers
. . . how hard can it be to find four/five people at one o’clock in the morning around the deserted convention center.
. . . where the hell her low-key black bra went to, and why do 40+ yr old men have to lear so.
. . . why is it that there are boys which make more attractive women than her.
. . . how come the 8-ball told her that it was unlikely that she will ever find someone.
. . . how hard can it be to like her. even just for a little while. even she likes herself sometimes.
. . . why do people keep throwing packets of m+ms at her.
. . . how is it that she ate so much chocolate today.
. . . why can’t things be easier than they are.
. . . why should she even bother.
and now . . . to sleep.