It’s the age old question asked by women all around the world; ‘Do you think he likes me?’ A woman will always ask her friends this question with such an excited look on her face. Never mind that the total amount of time that said female has actually spent with the male in question amounts to little more than saying ‘hi’ in the elevator, it is still the responsibility of said woman’s friends to agree wholeheartedly that ‘Yes, he is totally into you!’ and begin to plan the wedding.
Women are hilarious creatures at the best of times, myself included. My dating history is about as sporadic and irregular as Homer Simpson’s heartbeat, and to put it into perspective, my longest relationship to date has sadly, been with my dentist.
Still, after a series of completely unsuitable and just down right bad choices in men, which include a long list of being emotionally immature; on drugs; conveniently forgot-to-tell-you-I-was-in-a-relationship; leaving the country; getting married; unreliable; mentally depressed; don’t date friends sisters; I just don’t do relationships and the piece-de-la resistance, my boss; I have not yet given up hope.
In this new age of technology, there are so many more ways than before of getting out there and meeting with the other single people of the world. Granted, more avenues also means more chances to be rejected, but that aside, even the guy who sits on his couch on a Saturday night with his finger up his nose has at least half a chance of meeting someone. Ever heard of e-harmony buddy?
Now to be fair, I may not be putting myself out there on the market as much these days, but that is because I kinda got over spending three hours getting ready to go out to a club/bar/party, where I was always dressed far to practically for the weather and not for the dating scene. And where my gal pals and I would then proceed to spend too much money on drinks that were all the colours of the rainbow and tasted like ass, and end up either too drunk to realise we were flashing our knickers on the dance floor, or too sober to have any fun.
As well, the whole idea of meeting someone when you are drunk is the worst idea in the world. What decent guy goes to a club and looks at the girl bumping and grinding away on the dance floor and thinks to himself, ‘yes, that is the women who I want to be the mother of my children’. And by the same token, what women goes to a club thinking that the guy who is buying her multiple rounds of tequila shots really wants anything more than just a one night stand?
Best case scenario, even if some guy does get the courage to come over and talk to you, and you do happen to be sober enough to realise that yes, he is talking to you, awkward conversations are always bound to follow. In between the thumping of the music and occasional grope from another guy walking past, the conversation will usually go something along the lines of the guy asking you questions; what you do, did you grow up here, and will eventually (if lucky) try and bridge that last gap of silence with;
“So do you have Facebook?” To which you will reply with a series of hand gestures signalling that you have no idea what he just said. He will then repeat the questions with a nervous laugh, and you, still not hearing all of what he said, but just enough to make out the word ‘face’, to then reply “Thanks, I like your face too” while putting on your best smile to a guy walking away from the crazy chick.
I think the fault of this over-zealous approach to relationships comes entirely down to the fact that we have a particular part of female anatomy that is our worst enemy when it comes to rational thinking. Used properly, our womanly charms can make a man literally do anything, and yet at the same time, that same part of our anatomy can make even the most sensible and sane women over analyse why a guy whom she has been on no more than one date with, wonder why he hasn’t got in contact with her for over a week. This can then lead to said women stalking said gentleman and confronting him at the most inappropriate of times, ready to throw daggers, demanding to know why he hasn’t called her. No wonder women get such a bad rap.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I have played my own part in adding to the reputation of women being so crazy. On multiple occasions I have acted the part of the crazy chick quite convincingly. However, more recently and now on prior recollection of events, I have come to resolve that it would not matter how primped and preened you are for an occasion, if love is going to happen, a bad hair is the last thing that’s going to stop it.
My advice, in every possible situation, work or play, act the way that you are, and try and keep the crazy to a minimum. And if you ever run out of things to say while you are conversing with a particularly attractive member of the opposite sex, you can always sweetly smile and ask the question,
‘Do you like my dress?’
Monday, November 1, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
Take it away
One of the brilliant things about living in the same place for such a long time is having the advantage of knowing where to get the best take-out from. I moved house and subsequently suburb nearly 12 months ago now, and it has only just been recently that I think I have it just about down pat the best places to go for those take out cravings. The problem however, is not the act of getting take-out, it’s what it represents; the stigma that still surrounds single/divorced/too-busy-to-be-bothered-to-cook-people.
Personally, I think it’s great. After spending all week coming home from work and eating left overs, or making a huge mess with not always satisfying results, you can, for a certain price, get someone else to make a mess in their kitchen, and yet you still end up with delicious food! And while this is all good and great and my Peking dry chilli beef is always amazing, it’s that stigma that gets me every time.
Whenever I get that take-out craving, I venture from within my house, usually clad in track pants, blue ugg boots and no bra, I personally like to forget my appearance and shake my head in silence at the other patrons waiting for their order. I know I shouldn’t judge, but the guy with the balding head, side burns and reading a book must be some kind of IT guy living alone, possibly with or without cats. I can’t help it. I know I am a terrible person, but you, yes you lady with the kid who is licking the inside of the restaurant door, preventing people from coming inside, should really think about all the preservatives and MSG they put in this food. There is nothing more important than your child’s health, right?
And I know, in all honesty that people probably look at my in the same kind of way. The staff from the restaurant were probably the ones judging me that one week where everything really wasn’t going my way, and I may or may not have been twice in the space of two days. Peking dry chilli beef really is that amazing, trust me on that one. And I know people probably look and me, with my blue ugg boots and track pants and think, ‘hey, that chick must not own a mirror cause she needs to sort some shit out.’ But you know what, at the end of the day, I don’t really care. For all they know, I could be on my way to the hairdresser to get my hair done for a fancy do. Or have just got back from an amazing trip overseas and these were the only clean clothes I have. Or, that I am recovering from some disease and have been in bed for the last six months. Who knows? And I guess that’s the brilliant thing about people’s perception, majority of the time they are wrong. And so maybe, just maybe next time I see the guy with the balding head, sideburns and reading his book, I might just smile and say hi, ‘cause you just never know.
Personally, I think it’s great. After spending all week coming home from work and eating left overs, or making a huge mess with not always satisfying results, you can, for a certain price, get someone else to make a mess in their kitchen, and yet you still end up with delicious food! And while this is all good and great and my Peking dry chilli beef is always amazing, it’s that stigma that gets me every time.
Whenever I get that take-out craving, I venture from within my house, usually clad in track pants, blue ugg boots and no bra, I personally like to forget my appearance and shake my head in silence at the other patrons waiting for their order. I know I shouldn’t judge, but the guy with the balding head, side burns and reading a book must be some kind of IT guy living alone, possibly with or without cats. I can’t help it. I know I am a terrible person, but you, yes you lady with the kid who is licking the inside of the restaurant door, preventing people from coming inside, should really think about all the preservatives and MSG they put in this food. There is nothing more important than your child’s health, right?
And I know, in all honesty that people probably look at my in the same kind of way. The staff from the restaurant were probably the ones judging me that one week where everything really wasn’t going my way, and I may or may not have been twice in the space of two days. Peking dry chilli beef really is that amazing, trust me on that one. And I know people probably look and me, with my blue ugg boots and track pants and think, ‘hey, that chick must not own a mirror cause she needs to sort some shit out.’ But you know what, at the end of the day, I don’t really care. For all they know, I could be on my way to the hairdresser to get my hair done for a fancy do. Or have just got back from an amazing trip overseas and these were the only clean clothes I have. Or, that I am recovering from some disease and have been in bed for the last six months. Who knows? And I guess that’s the brilliant thing about people’s perception, majority of the time they are wrong. And so maybe, just maybe next time I see the guy with the balding head, sideburns and reading his book, I might just smile and say hi, ‘cause you just never know.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
My Life, Thus Far...
I am Bridget Jones. No, I am Bridget Jones’ underpants. And not the sexy pair that she whips out of her draw at the very end of the movie, just before she goes off chasing Mr. Darcy in the snow. You all know the pair I am talking about, but that’s not me. I am the pair of granny panties, worn with such displeasure, but such a need on certain occasions. Yes, I am a pair of flab constricting, all the way up to your boobs, granny underpants.
Upon this acknowledgment of my sorry state of being granny all-the-way-up-to-your-boobs underpants, I decided that just in case on the off chance I get hit by a bus tomorrow and have forgotten to change my underpants (of the non-granny variety of course – it is only Tuesday) maybe, just maybe there will be someone who can say something more at my funeral than, ‘she always just had such great hair’.
To sum up my life, thus far, after four years of university, the thought of putting my talents to use seemed like a silly idea. That and the fact that I didn’t want to be just another starving writer, instead, I decided to prolong repayment for my university degree and become a starving retail salesperson instead.
Now working in retail has many benefits and affords you all the pleasures of having a chance to talk to just about every single representation of society there is, while getting paid for it. And even though ‘paid’ is used here in the loosest sense when talking about working in retail, it is still important all the same.
Just how important it is that you are getting paid to work in retail, becomes apparent when there is a women/customer (I think she was just lonely) who walks into your store and then proceeds to break down into tears and tell you her life story, including the part where her sister ran over her cat. And so while this unknown women who is clearly not interested in shopping, breaks down, and as much as your humanly instincts are telling you that you should grab the nearest/sharpest object and stab yourself in the eye, you don’t. Why? Because you are being paid for it.
It also helps that you are being paid to be there, when you calmly explain to an irate customer, for possibly the tenth time in the last five minutes, that the reason you don’t currently have his/her size in stock, is because he/she falls into the same generic size as just about everyone else on the planet, and no, no matter how much you shout, I can’t just nip out the back, jump on a plane to China, wiz up the item in question on a sewing machine and jet back in time before the shop closes today. Sorry.
And so while I live my happy little life in the Nations Capital, sometimes, only sometimes on a particularly annoying day, where nothing ever goes right, it is then and only then, that my thoughts turn to plans for the future. Where will I go? What will I see? What will I do? But in the meantime, this is my life, thus far.
Upon this acknowledgment of my sorry state of being granny all-the-way-up-to-your-boobs underpants, I decided that just in case on the off chance I get hit by a bus tomorrow and have forgotten to change my underpants (of the non-granny variety of course – it is only Tuesday) maybe, just maybe there will be someone who can say something more at my funeral than, ‘she always just had such great hair’.
To sum up my life, thus far, after four years of university, the thought of putting my talents to use seemed like a silly idea. That and the fact that I didn’t want to be just another starving writer, instead, I decided to prolong repayment for my university degree and become a starving retail salesperson instead.
Now working in retail has many benefits and affords you all the pleasures of having a chance to talk to just about every single representation of society there is, while getting paid for it. And even though ‘paid’ is used here in the loosest sense when talking about working in retail, it is still important all the same.
Just how important it is that you are getting paid to work in retail, becomes apparent when there is a women/customer (I think she was just lonely) who walks into your store and then proceeds to break down into tears and tell you her life story, including the part where her sister ran over her cat. And so while this unknown women who is clearly not interested in shopping, breaks down, and as much as your humanly instincts are telling you that you should grab the nearest/sharpest object and stab yourself in the eye, you don’t. Why? Because you are being paid for it.
It also helps that you are being paid to be there, when you calmly explain to an irate customer, for possibly the tenth time in the last five minutes, that the reason you don’t currently have his/her size in stock, is because he/she falls into the same generic size as just about everyone else on the planet, and no, no matter how much you shout, I can’t just nip out the back, jump on a plane to China, wiz up the item in question on a sewing machine and jet back in time before the shop closes today. Sorry.
And so while I live my happy little life in the Nations Capital, sometimes, only sometimes on a particularly annoying day, where nothing ever goes right, it is then and only then, that my thoughts turn to plans for the future. Where will I go? What will I see? What will I do? But in the meantime, this is my life, thus far.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Things I know
When attempting to cook poached eggs, rice wine vinegar is not a suitable substitute for vinegar unless you like poached egg yolks.
Shopping at a 24 hour K-mart at 3am in the morning is just as boring as the infomercials playing on TV.
Women lie. All the time. Never trust what we say. Even if we say we are OK with it just being sex, it's a lie. Get out while you can!
Men have two things on their mind at all times. What am I going to do in the next five minutes, and when am I next going to have sex. And possibly not in that order.
Cats are evil creatures.
Nudie runs from the shower to your room are not OK in a share house.
Dancing around in your underpants with the music on full blast is not OK in a share house.
Making any kind of baked goods to apologise for any of above said occurrences is definitely OK in a share house.
To make any baked goods, rolled oats, flour and honey do not make Anzac cookies - no matter how much honey you add to stick the mixture together.
Anchorman is the greatest movie in the world. And yes, I am kind of a big deal and I have many leather bound books, and yes, my apartment does smell like rich mahogany.
Shopping at a 24 hour K-mart at 3am in the morning is just as boring as the infomercials playing on TV.
Women lie. All the time. Never trust what we say. Even if we say we are OK with it just being sex, it's a lie. Get out while you can!
Men have two things on their mind at all times. What am I going to do in the next five minutes, and when am I next going to have sex. And possibly not in that order.
Cats are evil creatures.
Nudie runs from the shower to your room are not OK in a share house.
Dancing around in your underpants with the music on full blast is not OK in a share house.
Making any kind of baked goods to apologise for any of above said occurrences is definitely OK in a share house.
To make any baked goods, rolled oats, flour and honey do not make Anzac cookies - no matter how much honey you add to stick the mixture together.
Anchorman is the greatest movie in the world. And yes, I am kind of a big deal and I have many leather bound books, and yes, my apartment does smell like rich mahogany.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The dreaded question...
So Miss Fielding, why don't you tell us a little about yourself?
A moment of pause follows while I shift in my seat. The suit I chose for the interview looks smoking hot, but is making me sweat like a fat man on sauna day. My new high heels are possibly one size too small, but there was no time yesterday to contemplate how they would feel today. To top it all off, am pretty sure I forgot to turn my mobile on silent and with my luck, is about to go off any second.
Well, I guess the best way to describe myself would be that I am a chronic workaholic, I think I have cancer, and I can't remember the last time I had really great sex.
I lock my car doors every time I pull up at the traffic lights, and I hate the guy in the safety vest who thinks it's OK to 'clean' my car windscreen by wiping his dirty squeegie over it. I buy things in double from the supermarket even though am not getting a better deal, and probably didn't even need the product in the first place.
I hate cold feet, chicken corn chowder and people who use the phrase '...so we should totally catch up soon...' to get out of an awkward conversation.
Sometimes, I avoid going to bed because I can't be bothered to clean my teeth, and yet no matter how big of a night it has been, won't get into bed without at least attempting to have good oral hygiene. Speaking of hygiene, I am convinced I am a cat and hate showering at the best of times. It's just something about having to get all wet that freaks me out.
My favourite condiments are cheese and BBQ sauce. I'll cheese with just about anything, especially rice. Am so deluded about how amazing my cooking is that I will talk to my imaginary audience when I cook; incredibly though, no one ever talks back.
I also have a misguided sense of romanticism which includes strong musclebound men from the wilderness, in particular, Alaska. On love, I never practise what I preach, and would say that I am as bigger fraud as Austen. I always choose friendships over relationships, as it's less likely to hurt when it ends, and take everything that is done and said to me personally.
Right now, I can only list four people in my phone who aren't in a serious relationship, and the phrase 'it's complicated' is used in relation to my life at least once a day.
I have also seen 'Fatal Attraction', and so that means am less crazy than you. Yes, you with the weird hair and what looks to be a nervous tick, but is just you checking your phone to see if he has called after your little Saturday night rendezvous. Sweetheart, it's Wednesday already - he's not going to call.
And as to your question as to what my five year plan is?
I have trouble deciding what colour underpants to wear in the morning, I don't even know what I am going to eat for lunch after this interview is over, and I sure as hell have no idea what I will be doing in 5 days time, let alone 5 years.
Thank you for your time today.
Oh, and to add to that list, I always cry at the end of the movie The Gladiator.
A moment of pause follows while I shift in my seat. The suit I chose for the interview looks smoking hot, but is making me sweat like a fat man on sauna day. My new high heels are possibly one size too small, but there was no time yesterday to contemplate how they would feel today. To top it all off, am pretty sure I forgot to turn my mobile on silent and with my luck, is about to go off any second.
Well, I guess the best way to describe myself would be that I am a chronic workaholic, I think I have cancer, and I can't remember the last time I had really great sex.
I lock my car doors every time I pull up at the traffic lights, and I hate the guy in the safety vest who thinks it's OK to 'clean' my car windscreen by wiping his dirty squeegie over it. I buy things in double from the supermarket even though am not getting a better deal, and probably didn't even need the product in the first place.
I hate cold feet, chicken corn chowder and people who use the phrase '...so we should totally catch up soon...' to get out of an awkward conversation.
Sometimes, I avoid going to bed because I can't be bothered to clean my teeth, and yet no matter how big of a night it has been, won't get into bed without at least attempting to have good oral hygiene. Speaking of hygiene, I am convinced I am a cat and hate showering at the best of times. It's just something about having to get all wet that freaks me out.
My favourite condiments are cheese and BBQ sauce. I'll cheese with just about anything, especially rice. Am so deluded about how amazing my cooking is that I will talk to my imaginary audience when I cook; incredibly though, no one ever talks back.
I also have a misguided sense of romanticism which includes strong musclebound men from the wilderness, in particular, Alaska. On love, I never practise what I preach, and would say that I am as bigger fraud as Austen. I always choose friendships over relationships, as it's less likely to hurt when it ends, and take everything that is done and said to me personally.
Right now, I can only list four people in my phone who aren't in a serious relationship, and the phrase 'it's complicated' is used in relation to my life at least once a day.
I have also seen 'Fatal Attraction', and so that means am less crazy than you. Yes, you with the weird hair and what looks to be a nervous tick, but is just you checking your phone to see if he has called after your little Saturday night rendezvous. Sweetheart, it's Wednesday already - he's not going to call.
And as to your question as to what my five year plan is?
I have trouble deciding what colour underpants to wear in the morning, I don't even know what I am going to eat for lunch after this interview is over, and I sure as hell have no idea what I will be doing in 5 days time, let alone 5 years.
Thank you for your time today.
Oh, and to add to that list, I always cry at the end of the movie The Gladiator.
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