Author Archives: Anne

So Ronery

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It is truly a testament to our age that I had the following thought today:

"Thank God I have two or three social media accounts that I can whinge about study on. Otherwise I would totally start burning people out."

What I'm realising this week is probably a confirmation of what I already knew – not being around people makes me a little bit loopy.

Since moving into my lovely new abode I have been living alone. It was nice at first, a good break from having lived with people my entire life. That feeling lasted about two months, until one particular evening when sitting in front of some TV, doing some crochet and drinking some cidea thought came to me with a sudden clarity – this is a little bit lame. I need a flatmate.

Add to this the realisation that quite a number of my more positive personal habits are greatly enhanced by social imperatives, the urgency of acquiring a flatmate becomes apparent. Of course, this is just a fancy way of saying that I am much better at looking after myself when other people are around to prompt me to do things. Things like getting into my pajamas and turning all the lights off before falling asleep. Or cleaning the stovetop. 

Needing to be around people to enhance my sanity has become particularly noticeable this week, as I have taken time off work to plug through assignments. The theory behind this is sound – I get more work done when I don't have people around to talk to. But, it turns out not having a variety of people to blab on to everyday is really, really sucky. Hence my old friend social media stepping up to fill the void.

It could also be procrastination. Whatevz.

But! The end is in sight. I'm one assignment away from freedom and one bathroom rennovation away from a flatmate. But until then, I will just have to continue communing with the world via social media and potter around my house singing the following song …

 

The Men of My Dreams

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I'm not sure if it's the hot-cold-hot-hot-cold spring air, or the heady scent of jasmine floating about the suburb, but I just can't seem to get a small collection of men out of my head. I'm used to having one or two cute men floating around my head in the background while I go about the daily grind. But right now? Right now I have five. And frankly, they're getting a little bit hard to juggle.

As is to be expected, each of the five carries with him a certain dorkish charm, although they're a reasonably diverse bunch. The men of my dreams range from the 'awww cute' (the postman) to the 'wildly inappropriate' (my university lecturer). Yet all of them have something wonderful in common – all of them are completely unattainable.

Normally this sort of thing would drive me crazy, but in the spring of 2011 the absolute last thing I am ready to deal with is the prospect of getting serious with someone. There are a few pretty solid reasons for this – but suffice it to say I am just not ready. Maybe next year.

Maybe.

In the meantime having five safe, harmless crushes rushing wildly through my head is more than I need. And I have to admit, it is rather delightful.

The most recent addition to 'the list' is the Man from the Bathroom Supply Store. While not technically dorky, he has a certain charm. I'm not sure if it was his bright blue eyes with the cheeky crinkles, or his strong looking hands, but my 'fantasy bathroom' suddenly has some new dimensions. If only I hadn't lost his number … :)

The ‘P’ Bomb

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When you're single and you meet someone of the appropriate age and gender there's a kind of dance you do.

You smile, you flirt, you ask questions and listen patiently in a friendly, non-committal/unneedy sort of way. You let the conversation develop, sometimes helping it along. You laugh at the right jokes, you fire back witty (but not to witty) remarks, your eyes take on a extra little sparkle and then, it happens. The 'P' Bomb.

"Oh yes, my Partner is doing something similar for their PhD"

"My Partner's brother is really into motorcycles"

"My Partner and I recently went to Europe"

Or as it sounds in your head "My partner" followed by sound of static. You smile politely, maintain the friendly facade, make your excuses and quietly and quickly wander off – never to be seen from again.

It may seem callous and unfair, but when you're single you really do have better things to do than spend an excessive amount of time barking up the wrong tree. And as irritating as the 'P' Bomb is, I would argue that it is a social responsibility for all those in relationships to drop it. Because there is nothing more inpolite than a delayed or ill-timed 'P' Bomb.

Truth be told that in the absence of a wedding ring, it is fairly easy for single folk to go from an enjoyable conversation to a number swap or even a bed hop. We move swiftly. So in this rather crazy world of ours an early, yet delicate 'P' Bomb is absolutely vital. No one likes spending an hour or two flirting with someone only to be introduced to their fiancé as they arrive to pick them up. Nor does one like to being told of a spouse after having slept with someone.

And worse than those, are the overly agressive 'P' Bombs. You know the ones – they're of the accusatory "I have a girlfriend, I'm not going to f*** you" variety. These statemeants are at once overly presumptious and overly paranoid. But in many ways, these particular 'P' Bombs are the most useful – there is nothing quite so unattractive as being sworn at by someone you've just met and were just being polite to. These are the sorts of encounters that leave you both baffled that someone is actually dating this person, but also relieved – as you will never have to.

Ultimately, while both annoying to hear and annoying to drop – the 'P' Bomb is a fundamental necesity in the modern world. Although at this stage, I'd like to think that us single folk still reserve the right to complain dramatically and publically via social media whenever it is dropped. There's gotta be some perks to being on the receiving end, right?

My So Called Love Life.

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This is one of a small collection of 'unpublished' blog posts I have half written this year. This one particularly amuses me because I recall writing it in a Alanis-inspired, wine fuelled, at-home dancing rampage. The original date on it was Tuesday (!!), 29 March 2011 11:22:16 pm, however I'm fairly certain that the bulk of it was written in late June.

I suspect the only reason it wasn't published at the time was because I did not have the access to the relevant YouTube clips. Also, I was drunk and not emotionally distant enough to hit publish (see, I told you I had a filter).

I have added links and uploaded a song so seemingly obscure that I had to rip it from the CD. Old school.

I have left the typos in for your own amusement. Enjoy!

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To date my love life has been little more than a series of false starts and a string of disappointments. Frankly, if I broke down each and every one of my would be romances for you individually, we'd be here for hours. Suffice it to say that enough time seems to pass between each instance of so called love that I seem to feel it's after effects most acutely and yet seemingly constantly.

But I'm trying something new. I'm trying to be what some would term "glass half full". I'm not always entirely successful at this, but one must do ones best.

Like, do you remember that time I was in love with that boy and I discovered that band called speedstar*? Or that time I was in love with that other boy and discovered a band called Elbow?

And then there was that time that after bein rejected by a boy that I delighted in new friends and bought tickets to see Eddie Perfect (boozily on my iPhone). And there was that time when I was disgruntled in men in general (there're buttheads you know) and I fell in love with Dan Sultan. And then there was that time I was lusting after a boy to the max and I discovered Magic Dirt. Those were they days.

I guess what I'm saying is that despite ongoing heartbreak and a seemingly endless void of cranky angst, I've gotten a few good tunes out of it. So that's pretty rad.

At last, a bicycle.

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Overall, I’d say that the biggest, most intimidating item sitting on my 2011 New Years Resolution list is not getting out of credit debt, taking more risks in love or even getting a mortgage. No, it’s safe to say that the biggest most intimidating resolution on this list is learning how to ride a bike.

The psychological enormity of this task is not at all helped by my parents constant and furious insistence that if I were to ride a bike on the road, I would most certainly die.

And people wonder why I’m so risk averse.

Yet despite these dire warnings, I think I’m about 50 per cent closer to my goal. I now have a bicycle. Although she needs a bit of love. She has two flat tyres, stiff breaks and an owner renowned for falling over when she’s walking down the street and thinking about boys. And while I have yet to really bond with my bike (because I am so wholly terrified by it), I’m thinking of calling her Merryl.

The pressure to learn how to ride a bike is steadily mounting as my new walk to work hits the thirty minute mark and my post-mortgage sensitivities revile from having to pay $2.65 to catch a bus just down the road. However, my fears of learning how to ride a bike are not helped by the fact that I now live on top of a hill described by one veteran West End cyclist as “relentless”. It was not until he mentioned this that I started paying attention to the cyclists riding up my street. They look pretty struggletown. At least, the non-Lycra clad ones do. And rest assured I will not be wearing Lycra, especially if it costs more than my couch.

I had all these grand visions of riding about the place looking impossibly glamorous, but I suspect this will not be the case. I suspect what residents and commuters in the West End/Highgate Hill area will be treated to is a paranoid, terrified and clumsy red head, sweating profusely and falling over awkwardly.

Let’s hope they’re ready.

My Life In Boxes

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After signing a contract in April, getting a mortgage in May and being an landlord in June I am finally, finally getting ready to be an owner-occupier. My tennants moved out today and tomorrow I commence “The Big Move”. And despite my anxiety about having decidedly less money to spend on clothes, cocktails and rockstar haircuts, I am ridiculously excited.

This has been the most epic move of my life to date, and I have the broken nails, cuts and bruises to prove it. The packing process, which has occurred across  three different sites in Brisbane has uncovered many, many strange and forgotten things from my past. Like this ….

I feel fairly confident that I stole it from the art rooms in year 10. And yes, I’m keeping it. I like that there’s a staple in his chest.

I have to confess I’m a bit nervous about the potential injuries that lay before me. That’s why I’ve invested in some professionals. Turns out $149 p/h on a Thursday will buy you two men and a truck. And some boxes. Hopefully they will perform adequately.

So for now my life is in boxes. All of it. And there are so, so many of them none of which are particularly organised. There’s this one box that contains two fry pans, a clock and all of my accessories. How does that even make sense??

Transitions are strange.

Still – moving into my first home that I own. Very. Exciting.

Dear June, You suck. Love, Anne.

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**I wasn't going to publish this, but since drafting it I've had to clean cat poo out of a kitchen sink, deal with a rat said cat slaughtered and presented to me, and slept in, missing a plane for the first time in my life. June. You're a total, utter troll.**

Recently, while wallowing in an all encompasing pool of inconsable sorrow at the injustice of life, I reflected on just how much this month has sucked. There have of course been moments of fabulousness – visiting friends, career awesomeness, study radness, shopping for my new unit, buying a onesie – but there have also been a couple of things that have really kicked me in the guts.

Then I realised – this happens every, flippin' June. Last year there were certain revelations that lead me to a counsellor's couch for the first time in my life – the benefits of which I'm still undecided about.  Although, there's something to be said for paying someone to be your personal cheerleader and tell you that despite what you think – you're actually pretty awesome and you should just CTFO.

The June before that I was on a shopping detox because my spending habits had gotten out of control and the June before that I was the fattest I'd ever been and was quite miserable.

Basically, June sucks.

I think it must definitely be something cosmic. Certainly the statistics show that many people's moods drop during the winter, which makes sense. The days become shorter, the sun seems to shine less and the exhaustion of the first half of the year starts to set in. But! It's not all doom and gloom. From July things always start to pick up. And this year doesn't look to be any different.

The end of July/start of August will see me move into my very own, ready to rennovate and decorate apartment. Complete with 1960s kitchen, balconies, vast storage spaces and blank walls for me to paint and fill. July will also see me on holidays from uni after my first semester as a Masters student, and making the most of my assignment free weekends in antique stores hunting down 1950s and 60s furniture and decor.

June, as always you have been a stuck-up little cow who's been making my life hell. I'm glad you're nearly over. Bring on July, which will absolutely not be dry.

Love

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I just stumbled upon the following words in the depths of my hard drive. The date stamp reads "1/10/2009 10:43pm" and the title "Typology of Love".

It's pretty dated, but they were exactly the right words I needed to stumble into tonight. So I thought I best publish them unedited for posterity. 

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Sometimes, it feels like the whole love thing is just a party someone threw that I wasn’t invited to.

Love is so fundamental to the human experience that we are bombarded by it every day.

When you’ve never experienced a particular ‘type’ of love you always seem to feel like you’re missing out on something.

I suspect there are many different types of love, so many in fact that I wish the English language had a few more words to describe it.

There is that comforting and occasionally stifling love you receive from a parent. And the somewhat conflicted, duty-bound and adoring love you give back to them. Then of course there is that strange love between siblings, a mix of jealously, competition, irritation and unwavering loyalty.

There is love you feel towards your pets, full of caring, nurturing and occasional rage as you scrub their urine out of the carpet. There is the love for the Aunts, Uncles and Grandparents who are always ready to spend time with you, or give you lollies and chocolate. We love them in a way we could never love our parents, because they never discipline us.

The love you feel for your friends, without whom the world we be a much scarier place. A love born out of choice and constructed with a fierce loyalty and an ease of communication that provides a safe haven from a strange and confusing world.

The love you feel towards your vocation, your passion in life. This is the love that drives you. There is the love you feel towards places, cities, countries. A reflection of the complex interplay of sights, sounds, smells and memories of your time there.

Unrequited love is an old friend of mine. The words agony and ecstasy both come to mind when remembering my not too distant past experiences of this.

I have experienced all of the above at one point or another. That’s pretty impressive really, that’s a whole lotta love. But there a couple that are still missing. The love you feel for a child, and the shared love with a partner.

The former I am more than happy to wait for, but the latter. The latter is what keeps me up at night.

I wrote this to remind myself of all the other love I have in my life. To remember the sheer ridiculousness of my angst.

But it occurs to me that all of us pine for the love we do not have. Because we are missing something, maybe a parent, a sibling, a partner, a child, a friend, or a really rockin’ wardrobe. This perceived absence of love seems to really stuff us around. So maybe it is good to take a moment to think about all of the love we already have. Remember the strengths and anchors in our lives, rather than what we’re desperately trying to reach out for. It’s a fairly solid bet that most of us already have some pretty fabulous loves in our life, if we ever happen to glance at them. 

 

The Anneguine.

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Have you ever been at a dinner party, or a team building day and for some reason, someone pipes up and asks you the question – “if you were an animal, what would you be?” This is not a question I’ve ever been able to answer. At least not properly. My response is usually something along the lines of “Well, I like elephants. They’re pretty cool. I guess I could be one of those”. But this week, everything changed. I have met my animal, and felt a solidarity I never expected. The animal? A penguin. A fairy penguin to be exact.

While holidaying in Melbourne with one of the most fabulous women around, we squeezed in a bit of time to head south to Phillip Island and see the penguin parade. We were more than a little bit excited. Indeed, I believe the phrase “Penguins, Bitches!!” was thrown around rather excessively. Mostly by me.

As we sat at dusk in the freezing cold on the southern coast of Australia, little penguins began to emerge from the ocean. And they were pretty bloody cute. As we watched the penguins emerge in groups, we began to notice a pattern. In each group there was always one penguin who was a little bit slower to clamber out of the ocean. They’d stumble, they’d stagger, they’d keep getting nailed by the waves and get dragged back out into the ocean. But the other penguins would wait patiently for them before moving into their nests, which according to our Finish guide, is where the party really begins.

While watching all of this the startling truth suddenly dawned on me – I am that penguin. I am an unco fairy penguin.

Efficient and skilled in some contexts, even prone to occasional grace. But not in all. Especially not when it comes to handling hot liquids, walking on wet surfaces or confronting feelings about boys. But fortunately for the Anneguine, her posse always waits patiently for her and love her anyway. And hopefully, from time to time, outsiders may even think of her as being at least half as cute as a fairy penguin.


The Anneguine. 

I should probably also confess that I may have bought a stuffed penguin, crocheted it a frock and bandaged its flipper. A bit weird? Yes. But she is my buxom penguin mascot, and I love her.

Anne versus The Universe

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Every so often I feel like breaking up with The Universe. And I know this is a dangerous thing to say with a property contract due to settle on Friday, but this week is shaping up to be one of those weeks.

When I talk about 'The Universe' I mean that cosmic force which seems to swim around our lives, putting us in in the right place at the right time. At least when it's not busy smacking us around when we get to big for our boots or we're not doing what's best for ourselves and others. Maybe it's God, maybe it's the fundamental interconnectedness of all things. I don't know. But it's usually what I blame whenever I fall over awkwardly in public. 

I have fallen over awkwardly in public twice in the last three weeks, each time with significant injury. I've glimpsed my future, and feel certain it will involve a hip replacement. And while I am willing to concede that the most recent fall is probably due to a combination of liquor, frustration and wet weather, that first fall? Clearly the unmistakeable work of The Universe. 

A couple of weeks ago I had an unplanned, but not unwelcome encounter with a gentlemanly stranger. This particular chap did not have plans to remain in the city (or the country) and one thing lead to another. It was a very pleasant encounter and he scored 3 out of 5 on the Graeme Scale. I gave him my number hoping he might call again and saw him off. Shortly afterwards I discovered his passport on my bedroom floor. "Thank goodness I gave him my number" I smiled at myself, all while thinking – yes! I might get another shag out of this one!! (repeat shags continue to remain elusive to me, despite my best efforts). 

He called, popped by to get his passport, and it was awkward. Really awkward. I'm not sure I've ever had a more awkward encounter. After this disappointment, I told myself never to think of him again. Out of sight, out of mind. Ha. As if that ever works.

A couple of nights later I popped into my local Coles to grab some quick dinner-type things. As I wandered into the shop I indulged in a brief fantasy wherein I bumped into the gentlemanly stranger, we got to talking, and stole off into the evening together. Well. Who do you suppose I spied in one of the checkout queues almost immediately? 

I turned bright red at the sight of him, spun on my heel and ran off to bury myself in the fruit section. The Universe threw me a bone, and I freaked out and hid among the fresh produce. 

Somewhere amidst my total tizz, I managed to buy some groceries and wander back down to the car park, where in my distraction I promptly fell over and twisted my ankle. I had to spend the next day working from home, straped and iced. Fortunately, I still had plenty of injury management apparatus left over from last year. 

But wait, it gets better.

There were a few car tears on the way home, mostly from pain and embarrassment, but also from a little bit of hopelessness. So who do you think walked passed my apartment block just as I pulled up the car? And who do you suppose froze and stared down at her bloodied knee until he walked past her?

When people ask me why I'm still single and in my more honest moments I try and explain that I'm just not very good at the whole relationship thing, this is the sort of thing I'm talking about.

I'm the girl, who after months of complaining about never meeting eligible men, one is finally thrown in her path and she freaks out so badly she falls over and sprains her ankle. 

And don't even get me started on the recently sprained elbow rendering me unable to use a computer, crochet or make obscene hand gestures. 

The problem with fighting The Universe is that The Universe always wins, and you just get stuck with an ice pack.