And I’m really loving the added richness ‘boy-perspective’ brings to my life. In some ways, it’s so much simpler than ‘girl-perspective’, albeit a bit blunter and more sexually explicit. Ultimately, I need both and I love that I now have them – I do like to consult widely on matters of the heart. Not too mention the loins.

One of my favourite boy flatmate moments thus far happened when I had a gentleman over for dinner recently. Now, there were many things about this particular evening that were a little bit odd. Indeed, Flatmate was able to list five deal breakers after spending ten minutes in the room with the gent. Top of the list? My date had very excitedly ordered butter chicken.

While many of us would not think anything of this, Flatmate was most adamant that it was a terrible sign of things to come. He maintained that butter chicken is the safest, dullest option on the menu. It’s fine, but it’s not terribly interesting. So you can imagine his delight when I later told him that my date’s approach to lovemaking was, well, a little butter chicken.

I read a column once about all of the average sex you have. That we always seem to remember the great sex, or the really, really terrible sex. But never the average, get’s the job done, satisfying sex. It’s a bit like butter chicken. We all remember the most amazing curry we’ve ever had (chicken with date and tamarind). And the worst (palak paneer through a blender). But has butter chicken ever been more than adequate? It’s satisfying, it gets the job done, but we don’t rave about it to our friends.

And while I may end up with some regular, everyday butter chicken eventually, you can bet I was pleased as punch when Flatmate told me, very seriously, “Annie, you can do better than butter chicken”.

It was a statement so wonderfully remarkable that it rivaled (but not quite topped) a former lady flatmate’s comment which was “Anne, you know I never liked him. His shoes were much too pointy. You just can’t trust a man with shoes that pointy.”

Flatmates. Are. Awesome.

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.

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.

—————————

anne (jasper_sun) wrote, 2003-04-18 17:19:00

• Current mood:  contemplative
• Current music: Frankie Goes To Hollywood – Relax

There Comes A Time In A Young *coughs* Girls Life When She Begins To Wonder . . .

My first unrequited love was Isaac Hanson. He was perhaps the least good looking and most decidedly dorky of the pop trio, and I knew, in that way only a 14 year old girl can know, that we were destined to be together.

Alas, he never returned my letters and ultimately married some other Hanson fan.

Since then my list of unrequited loves has grown longer, and still clearly reflects my taste for rather dorky men. Actually, when I look back, they all bear a eerie similarity to Isaac, in one way or another. And much like Isaac, they have all followed a pattern of falling for women slightly more conventional than myself. All of whom, have been brunettes.

For the most part though, this has been for the best. When the broken heart heals and you can finally relate to those former ‘loves’ as friends, you usually realise that you never would have suited each other anyway. It’s a strange feeling to spend time with someone you used to adore, and feel totally confident that you would have made them completely miserable. It’s a sense of closure that I have become quite accustomed to. That is until my latest, and perhaps most ridiculous unrequited love (apart from dear Isaac, of course) was revealed to be engaged. To my clone.

I can handle the inherent but intentionally ignored incompatibility that accompanies the vast majority of my Unrequiteds, but circumstance and timing? That is so much harder to deal with. While she is not physically my clone, by all accounts there are degrees of similarity in temper, humour and rampant inappropriateness that are difficult to ignore. Now I can only take solace in knowing that my instincts were right. Albeit ill-timed.

That, and having the knowledge that nice, dorkish men do fall for outspoken, vaguely inappropriate women such as myself. We just need to be really, really patient. Like, until our mid-thirties patient.

The trick remains not to get too distracted or put off by all the jerks along the way.

If any of you figure out that trick, please let me know. I need to share it with the world.

It also seemed to be the year I shunned appropriate capitalisation and using apostrophes to develop some kind of ‘writing style’. Retrospectively I can say that it just looks sloppy, but it’s hard to argue with a past version of yourself. I clearly hadn’t adopted any kind of style or structure for blogging and everything was a random collection of thoughts, usually written as I was having them.

The entry I have chosen to republish represents the closest I came to something that could be considered a proper blog post. It also rather amused me as I think I am slowly becoming the subject matter of this post. Except instead of glassware, I have Tupperware and instead of a Volvo, I am aspiring to a Mini.

——–

12 May 2002 – 2:42 pm

today i set new standards in the realm of clashing footwear! (blue w maroon)

i just caught my dog barking at her reflection… oh dear. she’s gone nuts.

just came back from mothers day picnic and am regretting not taking camera as i have devloped the following criterium for spotting western suburbian picnics….

HOW TO SPOT PICNIC GOERS FROM THE WESTERN SUBURBS

please not that this applies to brisbane, australian residents only – although these people are everywhere

1.

These people bring seating with them to picnics, usually in the form of an overpriced canvas seating, or camping sets of chairs w built in beverage holders.

2.

Note the cutlery and glass wear. If people bring objects made out of glass and metal, this can be an important indication of western suburban origin.

3.

The prescence of childrens toys such as scooters, wagons and colourful kites. Each of which is more expensive than you entire picnic basket, including the sponge cake you were so proud of.

4.

Note the alcohol consumption and chatter while children play around them. Alcohol must be beer for the men and champagne for the ladies. all consumed in expensive glassware.

5.

The afore mentioned chatter must consist of the three Rs (Rugby, Rules and/or Rowing), PTA goings on and plastic surgery (although this tends to be mentioned by the females).

6.

If you are still in doubt as to the origin of your fellow picnicers dont forget to sneak a peak at the car park. today i observed several 4WDs and a mercedes, a BMW and a Lexus all parked in a pretty little row. Also be on the look out for new (post 1995) volvos.

To celebrate my tenth year in the blogosphere, I will be republishing a blog post every month from each of my ten years. But I really must add the following disclaimer:

Many of my very early (and not so early) blog posts are ridiculously cringe worthy. This is due to both subject matter and spelling and grammar concerns. But to be fair, I was nineteen and impressively self-absorbed when I began writing them. They are also highly identifiable. All of my twenty-teen concerns about maintaining people’s privacy and not talking about work online were simply non existent in the early naughties. As such, when republishing particular posts I may edit some details so that they are a little less blatantly identifying. But I shall endeavour to stay true to their original tone.

So stay tuned for a journey through time and space, and please, try to be kind and non-judgemental. These were my formative years afterall.

So as soon as moving, weddings and university were dispensed with, I began the renovations in earnest. And when I say “I”, I really mean my builder and plumber. “I” mostly just went shopping, had ‘creative’ ‘visions’ and coordinated the delivery of toilets and tiles. Still, the whole process had the giddy effect of being remarkably fun and incredibly grown up at the same time.

So for the renovation nuts among you, and to record what consumed most of my energy in November and December last year, I present: The Nest (part one):

laundrybefore1

laundrybefore2

laundrybefore3

laundryduring6

laundryduring5

laundryduring1

laundryduring4

laundryduring3

laundryduring2

laundryafter

toiletbefore1

toiletduring1

toiletafter

hallwaybefore1

hallwayduring1

hallwayafter1

ceilingduring4

ceilingduring3

ceilingduring2

ceilingduring1

bathroombefore1

bathroombefore2

bathroombefore3

bathroombefore4

bathroomduring5

bathroomduring4

bathroomduring7

bathroomduring6

bathroomduring3

bathroomduring1

bathroomafter5

bathroomafter2

bathroomafter3

bathroomafter4

bathroomafter1

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not particularly worried about turning thirty (in 2013), but something about this year’s resolutions has me frozen in my sandals.

In an extreme state of exhaustion late last year I impulsively decided that the best resolution I could make for 2012 would be ‘no life-changing decisions’. None of this spontaneous ‘Hmmm, I might do a Masters degree’ or ‘Hmmmm, I might buy an apartment’ crap. All I really want is to just ‘be’ for a year.

However, if my itchy career feet are any indication, I suspect I will fail quite miserably at this. And also – what a pathetic resolution to have before turning thirty! Surely it should be something adventurous and crazy like bungee jumping, or sky diving, or learning how to do a cartwheel? And I’m sure I was supposed to learn how to play Mahjong by the time I was thirty.

Urgh. I am so not going to do any of those things. This is probably the best I can do:

• Learn how to ride a bike (NB: this is held over from last year, and I’m 40% of the way there. I have a bike).
• Sew a quilt for myself – I always sew for others. Now it’s my turn!
• Pace myself – no sense in rushing things, it’s too exhausting.
• Adjust to life with a mortgage and find a pastime other than shopping.
• Enjoy the moments.
• And as advised by a friend – learn how to walk and think about boys at the same time.

2012. Let’s do this thing.

2011 had it all, and as I sat down to bring together my inevitable round up of the year it became very clear that it was as chaotically organised and expressed as it was lived – across no less than 5 different social media platforms.

So I present a summary of 2011 in a series of ‘Top 5s’ and occasionally ‘Top 7s’. All of which share a little something of the year that was. Here’s hoping 2012 will prove to be slightly less chaotic.

Top 5 Photos

Top 5 Blog Posts

• Anne versus the Universe
• Finding Graeme
• The ‘P’ Bomb
• Huh?
• The Anneguine

Top 5 Badges Unlocked on FourSquare

Top 5 Songs

• Giant Sleeps – Tim Nelson and the Cub Scouts
  (NB: rather irritatingly this song has been taken down off YouTube. It’s quite beautiful and pulled me out of a significant funk. Click the link to preview it on iTunes. Track 6)

• Friday I’m in Love – The Cure
  

  Watch this video on YouTube.

• I Like You So Much Better When You’re Naked – Ida Maria
  

  Watch this video on YouTube.

• Contact High – Architecture and Hellsinki
  

  Watch this video on YouTube.

• Paper Bag – Fiona Apple
  

  Watch this video on YouTube.

Top 7 Tweets

]]> http://justanne.net/2012/01/2011/feed/ 0 http://justanne.net/2011/10/so-ronery/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=so-ronery http://justanne.net/2011/10/so-ronery/#comments Tue, 25 Oct 2011 02:58:46 +0000 Anne http://justanne.net/2011/10/so-ronery/ Continue reading →]]> 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 …