Should I Erase You?

Here is a photo I took of my ex-boyfriend with the sun behind his head, on a trip to New York 4 years ago. It was meant to be beautifully backlit, like the one he took of me, but when it was my turn, I accidentally erased his head with natural flare. (no pun intended) 

I remember feeling guilty - like he might think I had done it on purpose, but he found it funny.

I'm having a hard time culling my photo library (and my music library.) It feels weird to have so many photos of an old life with him every time I open iphoto. Should I back them up, and delete them like he never existed? Like couples do on Facebook? Am I being a hoarder? What's the best thing to do here?

I suppose I can at least keep this one.

No Doubt

Years ago I took my parents out to dinner... no, actually it was the other way around,  and I asked them the question I ask all married couples I ever meet:
"How did you know each other was 'the one?'"

Abby smiled at me and said "You know, it's not necessarily thinking they are 'the one' - it's more about having no doubts." Then Dad said "Actually, we've both talked about it before. In our previous marriages, we both had doubts  from the very beginning."
"And this time round," continued Abby "there just wasn't any doubts."

Sixteen years - Abby and Dad have now been married. They live together, work together and play together - they don't seem to need time alone. Did I mention they live on a boat? I still catch the affectionate looks they bestow on each other and it makes me want to high five the universe. What fate and luck brought these two together!

(I snapped this last trip home)

This post goes out to you Ali! - and the joy that is spreading through the blog-sphere right now! And, as a reminder to myself, inspired by your post, here's to doubts and acknowledging their existence. It takes courage to listen to those tiny whispers in our mind. I look forward to the day that I meet someone, and they fall silent.

Single Lady- Surprisingly Unjaded

When I’m single, there’s nothing I enjoy more than being completely preoccupied with the thrill of the chase. Let me explain.

When you’re single, and you venture out of your home  - the air is always thick with possibility. (Especially when you haven’t had time to do your hair or makeup.) Even when you’re not thinking about it, it’s there in your subconscious. There’s a chance you might bump into a nice stranger on the street, be stalked by gorgeous customer in the supermarket, or drop a weight on a cute trainer at the gym.  And who doesn’t just love when you’re single, and boarding a plane - hoping (praying) you are seated next to a hot billionaire who accidentally sat in economy. It makes going out at night about ten times more exciting. You should try it!

The feeling is addictive. How ironic then is it that we single people are hunting the very thing that will inevitably end this thrill. Mmmm… perhaps that why I’m still single?

Or perhaps it’s because I don’t like the idea of having to close myself off from other ‘possibilities,’ or answer to someone, or compromise and worry about someone in my spare time. I love my selfish single life.

Or perhaps, and I highly suspect it is, I’m single because I just haven’t met the right person.

The one. Someone whom is even better than my selfish ways. (Not possible!) But I do want someone I can fall deeply and utterly in love with. Where the look of them, their smell or the sound of their voice all point to a button that tells me they are for me. Full Stop. Which means being wildly attracted to them. And I will want nothing more than to be in their presence; to bask in their ‘ness.’

Is it unrealistic to want a partner that is so right that I know I will NEVER look at a single lady and feel jealous? Nor will I EVER conceive or consider being with someone else, so long as I should live? (Is this even possible?)

Most importantly, I do want to see them fully - for who they truly are – warts and all, and I want them to see me – honestly, warts and all, and still be in love… perhaps even more so.

I’m worried I’ve watched one too many Nicolous Spark movie here. It’s hard to imagine this kind of love without loosing yourself completely – especially when you’re as fiercely independent as I am. And yet I don’t want to settle for anything less. I’d much rather be single. Am I setting myself up for failure? I don’t need Mr Perfect, just someone who is perfect for me. There’s a huge difference. And it doesn’t need to be now… just one day, preferably before…35? (Can I put a number on it?)

Somebody wise once told me “You don’t get to choose who you fall in love with.” (And it is possible to fall in love with the wrong person. Dangerous I’ve done it before!)

All I know is that I want my heart to flutter when I glimpse ‘the one.’ 

How do I know this kind of love exists? I don’t. But I do know something.  When I look at pictures of a certain beloved family members, they make my flutter. Not in a romantic way - obviously, but in a deep profound loving way, that means that I love them so much... it actually hurts, and the thought of losing them sends pin-pricking tears to my eyes in an instant. So I know that exists.

Plus scientists have proven that true romantic love exist… and lasts forever. They measured peoples physical reactions to looking at their spouse even after 50 years of marriage. Those in ‘true love’ still got flutters. Amazing, though surely very rare.

Twi-Like. I'd tap that.

Ali beat me to this post. We both must have had Edward Cullen on the brain! (Media is saturated with him in NY.)

And even thought I haven't seen the movie or red the books, I totally get it...

Yup. I get it. 

nom nom nom.

L.A. Highlights

Shared a hotel room with my new friend Bee and she found this note under her bed on our last day. It was weird – because we had both been drinking a lot of red bull.

***

There was nudity (male), throat singing and bbq wieners. Plus a bunch of skinny Norwegian actresses in bikinis, who kept showing me picture of them with Quentin Tarantino from the Screem Awards ceremony.

That’s what happens when you say 'yes' to a house pool-party with an old acquaintance. Despite how weird it was, the party was very quiet.

***

A cute boy I swapped details with on the first night, texted me flirty messages all weekend like: “you’re pretty cute” etc [which I found flattering, but rather primary school seeing as we hadn’t spoken. Weirdo!]

Then, back in Oz, with Sally!! We looked at his facebook – and WTF! Not only is he reading a bible in his profile pick, but HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND! Who has written loving posts – all over his wall. Fucking douchebag men! His real name is Brian Beer. A prime candidate for dontdatehimgirl.com

***

John Cleese, guest speaker at the Screenwriting Expo, imparted these words of wisdom, to the packed audience:

“Over all the years I’ve been alive and working, I’ve started to realize the truth and that is - Nobody really knows anything, about anything! And that’s all you really have to know.” ♥

I Want What They're Having

In the US Office, Jim and Pam have finally tied the knot, and I'm happier for them, than I have been for all the people I know, that have gotten married in real life. (What?!)

Together they are JAM.

Never have I seen such mutual respect between a couple portrayed on television.

Next time I order a man, I'll take him with a side of JAM, thanks.

New York’s “Fashion’s Night Out”

To kick off New York Fashion Week, retailers all over Manhattan hosted parties and red-carpet events with celebs, DJ’s, designers, models, champagne etc.

Being a fashion label ignoramus, I planned on avoiding this event… until I saw a snippet in the paper about my idol – Nora Ephron, doing a reading at the Armani store.

(When I grow up, I’d like to be Nora Ephron.)

I threw a crush proof dress in my bag, and did my hair and make up so it would last all day. Which is what I do every day. (Once you leave Ada’s, there’s no turning back.) I also decided to wear flats, which turned out to be the best and worst decision I made.

Contrary to popular belief, women of New York rarely wear heels. This is due to the vast amounts of walking they do on a daily basis. In fact, New Yorkers actually live a little longer than the average American, from all the extra walking.

At 7pm, I emerged from the subways onto Madison Avenue.

The streets were abuzz with models, paparazzi and publicists holding clip boards with lists of names. It was like someone had dropped a giant glitter bomb on New York, and it had exploded with all the glitz and glamour you always dreamed this City could have. (A far cry from the general day to day reality.)

I took a deep breath, as lanky women in couture and Christian Louboutin heels (or as I call them - shoes with red soles) emerged from cars in all directions. I came up to their hips. It was another world.

A feeling of extreme pleasure and guilt swirled inside me. I was painfully aware of how little I know about the fashion world, (and celebs for that matter), and I knew my fashionista friends would have killed to be here. Oh well, I was here anyway...

Shit! I thought. How am I going to get into Armarni? There’ll be a line, a list, and a height requirement… or not. I strode straight in. A handsome male model offered me a welcomed champagn, and I made my way upstairs.

There, I watched a room full of industry people talk shop. Everyone was in black or grey Armarni – it was dazzling! Tall, tanned models slinked by me in black gowns and heels. Of course, I was in white. I felt like an albino oompa loompa in comparison, and I stood between the ottomans and the wall, silently wishing to become invisible.


My wish must have come true, because a tray of hors d'oeuvres whizzed by, without so much as slowing in my direction.

On closer inspection, there were three trays, with no more than five hors d'oeuvres, each circling around the room, stopping only at men, and the elderly. Clearly, it was assumed that women didn’t eat at these things. It was hard not to eye the food, that was intentionally being paraded in front of me, but always just out of arm’s reach.

I sipped my champagne, and thought some self-affirming thoughts, to gain confidence. If I was going to pull off my contrasting look, I had better be bold, and pretend I felt a million dollars.

Suddenly the gay man on my right, turned and raised his glass to me “Well, I guess we should say cheers to fashion week!”

Cheers!! Then he got swooped by a publicists, who was twice my hight and half my weight.

Leather ottomans with reserved signs on them started to fill with important people. One lady, who’s face was so taught from plastic surgery, had a tall male personal assistant, in his 40’s glued to her side. He was a skinny white man, who resembled Bruce Wane’s butler, and it was his job to put his hands on her shoulders, guiding her with his eyes, as she sat down. I watched him stand off to the side, staring at her, anticipating her every breath. This woman was this grown man’s full-time job. I wonder how that made him feel.

To my left, a young woman held up a journalist’s tweet to another lady, which read “Nora looked stunning in Black Armarni.”

And she did. Elegant, and classy as always. She told a story about how important clothes are to women. Once, in her late 20's, her favorite red shirt got lost at the dry cleaner's. She was devastated. And to this day, that's all she can remember from her first marriage!

Rosie O'donnel then read from Nora's new play "Love, Loss and What I Wore," based on a book by Ilene Beckerman. (Apparently it's like the Vagina Mologues only about clothes instead of vaginas.)


Afterwards, a little old lady, in colourful jewellery and brilliant white hair came up to me and said “I love your dress!” Well, that and the champagne, was all I needed to feel truly fabulous. I considered going up to Nora and shaking her hand, and saying “Thanks for being such an amazing woman!” But there were so many people congratulating her. Plus I heard one lady talking about a project she was getting Nora to collaborate on.

I strongly believe, if you’re going to invite your self over for dinner, then you had better bring something to the table. And I had nothing, but a stupid grin and a handshake, so I played it cool, and left.

Out on Madison Ave it continued to rain models. A French Vogue reporter was doing a piece to camera, while familiar faces posed in front of store-fronts for photographers.

I slipped into Jimmy Choo, and came face to face with Cindy Crawford. Embarrassingly, she totally caught me checking out her phenomenal legs. So I took a photo, because everyone else was.


In DKNY, I asked a lady who the woman was in front of the TV camera. “Oh that’s Stacy London, from What Not To Wear.” She had barely finished the sentence, before I ran back out on the street. Just in case.

Passing more stores, I noticed what looked like food on a table in one. I quickly pretended, that - “Woops! I accidentally went past that store I’d been wanting to go in,” turned around, so that I could pretend to shop, before casually approaching the food table.

On the food table, glass vases were filled with all things raw and vertical. Carrots, celery, asparagus, cucumber, and thank god – some kind of extremely long cheese. I subtly pulled a cheese stick from the vase. I was the only one eating. I took a bite – and crunch! It was not cheese, it was some kind of strange root vegetable, that tasted and felt similar to chalk. Trying to pretend I was fine with that, I walked out on the street, taking a fake bite, before hoicking the rest.

Then, in a tragically clichéd moment, I stepped out from the curb, and nearly got hit by a bicycle. A total sugar daddy, in a killer suit held his elbow out and said “Here, you better take this.”
I smiled, and said I was fine, but he insisted. “At least let me get you across the street.”


He was being rather charming and I still had the word’s of my friend Chelsea “Never say no to an invitation!” in my head. So I took his arm, and crossed. As we strolled towards 5th Ave, we got to talking. He was from Persia (look out!) and heading to a party at an art gallery near by. He invited me to join, then after talking about Austrlia, he offered to cook me an Australian dinner some time in his apartment on the upper East Side. “You can bring your friends if you like. We can make it a party.”

This was all a bit too much. So I dropped him at the art gallery, we kissed on the cheek, and parted ways.

I needed to get back to my office, and put my feet on solid ground. And just as my finger’s hit the keyboard, I got a text from the black model/banker, confirming our date for Friday.

Craziness is happening!!!

Same Wavelength

Met a guy my age, stumbling into my building at the same time as me, (5am) this morning. This was our conversation:

Me “Hey.”
Him (slurred) “Hey. I just had some… Doritos.”
Me “Oh yeah? I’m about to go have some Dorito’s too.”
Him “Yeah. They’re so good”
Me “Yep.”

We both looked at each other, and felt a deep mutual understanding, of precisely where we were at in that moment. We were both the same level of wasted. We were both the same level of tired, and both had same post-booze snacking preference. We also knew that in a few hours we would both feel like absolute poo. Needless to say, there was no “Grey’s Anatomy” sexual tension as we shared the lift together.

In fact, I’m trying to remember if he was cute or not… ?

On One Night Stands

Let’s face it. Once you sleep with someone, no matter what, you want them to be damn besotted with you. You want them to have fallen under your strange and mysterious spell.

And that’s fucking scary, isn’t it? What if they don’t get that? And in the morning, instead of staring into your eyes and covering you with kisses, they roll over and give you the – “please leave already” vibe.

Luckily, I don’t know what that’s like. I’m far too scared of being rejected like that, to bother taking the risk! Hence, until recently, the last time I had sex… was with my ex. (A year and a half ago. What!?)

I’d had enough friends tell me that after a one night stand, the feeling of “Yes! I’ve still got it, I’m still sexy!” soon wears off to “oh dear… I’m a whore.”

And enough experience to know that sex makes you fall in love with anyone you find semi attractive. Well, initially anyway. Plus… what about those nasty STDs. (let’s not forget about eye-herpes!!)

So, as you see, I’ve been rather conflicted on the ‘getin-some’ front, and taken to embracing a life of fantasy… where I imagine being bold like Samantha (from SATC) and having the confidence and care free attitude of the author of “My Horizontal Life”.

These girls are what I call respectable sluts! Empowered, hot and unafraid of conforming to other people’s judgement. They also own their sexuality with the familiarity and comfort of an old pair of favourite jeans. And shouldn't we all?



While I’m grateful for not jumping into another relationship straight after my ex, and for being happily single for an extended time (woot!), part of me wonders weather being happily single, is just an excuse for being too afraid to jump back in the game. As for one night stands? Well, I'd love to know your thoughts.

First Kiss (part 2)

This is a continuation of the story of my First Kiss

The next morning, I awoke to a bright purple lump, the size of a golf ball protruding from my neck. It hurt to touch, and was so swollen, that I could barely turn my head. What the hell? A hickey?!!!
That Bastard!!

The previous night's thrill and excitement, from experiencing French-kissing for the first time, was suddenly replaced with a terrifying fear... If Dad sees this, I'm dead!

At the tender age of sixteen, this was the first all-schools dance he had ever let me go to. A hickey the size of everest on my neck, would be a complete breach of his trust, punishable only with death by firing squad.

I had to hide it. But how? I had a whole weekend at home with the family! Fuuuuck!!! I threw a scarf on, which looked completely ridiculous with my T-shirt and shorts. Then I remembered one of the few (medical tips) my Dad has ever passes on… “Ice is effective up to 48hrs after injury.” It reduces swelling and bruising, and the sooner you apply it, the better! With my scarf on, I bolted to the kitchen to get an ice pack.

I was leaning down into the open freezer door, when Dad walked in.

I froze, one hand in the freezer, and the other hand touching my scarf.

“How was the dance,” He said accusingly. (He says everything accusingly. Regardless of how much he loves his family, he will never trust any of them.) This was it. I was done for. I knew there was no way I would be able to hide my neck from him all weekend. I already looked incredibly suspicious wearing a scarf and raiding the freezer.

So I made a decision. I swallowed hard, and slowly stood up to face my Dad.
“I got this.” I said, unwrapping my scarf defiantly, to reveal the gruesome hickey.

Now it was Dad’s turn to freeze.

After what felt like a year of standing there in silence, he said to me “Well. We should talk about this.”
My stomach leapt into my mouth as he motioned for me to sit. We sat at our breakfast bench on bar stools, unable to look each other in the eyes. I was very silent. My dad, even more so. After another eternity, he said, “I’m not mad."

I exhaled. I couldn't believe he wasn't mad. Maybe he understood how much I just wanted to be like everyone else, and have finally kissed someone. Could he perhaps see that this experience was just one step away from me getting a boyfriend and finally being cool? Then he said the worst thing a parent can ever say to a child – especially one that has only ever wanted to please him. “I’m just very disappointed in you.”

The words hurt a thousand times more than my throbbing hickey. A second lump now formed in my throat, filling my eyes to the brim, before silently spilling over my newly exfoliated cheeks.

He then continued. “How far did you go?”
“What?” I managed through tears. “We just kissed,” I sobbed, feeling like I was admitting to first degree murder.
“Well, how far would you have let him go?”
“What?!” I said again. This was too much for my innocent mind. That there was anything more than just kissing at a school dance, was beyond me.

Dad, being a straight shooter, never beats around the bush.
“Would you have let him finger you?”
(!!!!) I now started crying in repulsion, that my dad had said the word “finger” in a sentence to me. I’d barely broached the topic with my friends, let alone my family. Plus… WTF? Had he even been to a school dance? Fingering would have been totally out of the question!

“No!” I screamed.
“Well,” he said, relieved that he had scared me. “It’s just something to think about. You have to know ahead of time, how far you are willing to go. Boys have a one track mind and will always try and persuade you to go further.”

This did nothing but fuel my distrust in guys. He was right. Boys were evil. I cried and told Dad I was sorry, over and over. I was deeply upset that my first real French-kiss had lead me into this agonizing conversation.

I spent the rest of the weekend cradling an ice-pack to my neck in shame. Come Monday morning, the hickey had gone down considerably, but I still needed two band-aids to cover it.

At school, I was convinced people would ask me what had happened. In English class, I hid from my teacher, Mrs Wheatley - A delightfully old fashioned soul who had accidentally stepped out of a Jane Austin novel and into our classroom. I feared and respected her so much, that I knew she could see straight through my bandaids to the little whore that I was.


It had dawned on me, that this first kiss was becoming deeply regrettable. When the school bell finally rang for lunch, I headed for the only two girls that could made sense of my world.

Suze and Connie laughed and laughed when I showed them the hickey, and recounted my tortured weekend at home. They were proud of my battle wound, and even nicknamed the boy I kissed “Vacuum Cleaner.” They decided to learn from my experience, and vowed never to let a guy suck on anything for prolonged periods of time, that could be seen outside of our uniforms. Then we spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find Vacuum Cleanter’s photo in a Toowoomba Grammar Year Book.

Thank god for friends. Right?

First Kiss

This is the story of my first real kiss.

Not until watching Baz Lurman’s Romeo and Juliette, did I imagine using my lips for anything more divine than eating ice-cream on a cone. (I always look like I’m trying to french my ice-cream cones… don’t you?) I’d built up kissing in my head the same way I would build up loosing my virginity. I just knew it was going to be mind-blowinglly amazing!!


Being a superstitious teen, I tried to believe my first kiss was never going to happen. That way, if it did, I would be surprised – and if it didn’t, then I would be right! But this pessimistic thinking became a self-fulfilling prophecy, and at “sweet sixteen”, I had still never been kissed. (Which made it more like sour sixteen if you ask me.)

School dances at Downlands College came and went, and no one asked me to dance. I figured it was because I was such an awesome dancer, and they were intimidated by my moves! (I really am an awesome dancer.) Over the years, I toned down my dancing to a mere two-step shuffle in the hopes of attracting the kind of boys that went to my school.

The Downlands College School Social dance floor was made up of three concentric circles of people. The outer perimeter contained mainly boys, stalking around, refusing to dance, but eager to look macho as they too, pined for a chance at a pash. The middle layer consisted of girls dancing in groups, mercilessly comparing them selves to one another - as it was rare to see each other out of uniform. And the inner core was made up of couples being watched like hawks by teachers, and sent outside the minute they stood too close, or went in for a pash.

Twice a year I would beg my Dad to let me go to an “All-Schools” Dance-social, where there was no 30cm rule, and french kissing was ramped!

“Absolutely not!” would be his answer. “That is completely out of the question.” This was coming from a dad who would throw a pen on the ground and make me pick it up if he thought my skirt looked too short. To say he was over protective was an understatement. He was convinced that all boys were out to get my virginity, which I wanted to believe, yet I knew was not the case. Otherwise they would have at least payed me some attention at school, surely!! Even still, he managed to instil in me, a fear of trusting men, that has lasted to this day.

At sixteen and a half, I told Dad that it was VITAL I get to attend at least one all-schools dance before I die from being a loser. I must have caught him at a good time, because he said yes! On the proviso of a curfew, and making sure I had a buddy (like when you go skuba diving) to look out for you.

The budy-diver system on a dance floor is actually not such a bad idea. What better situation to use your hand signals “I’m OK” or “go back to the boat, I’m going to use someone’s face as a breathing apparatus!”

The evening arrived, and I was getting ready with my two best friends, Suze and Connie. Suze was gangly tall, with braces and crazy bangs. She was a constant ray of energy and the sole reason I could bare high school. Connie was more stocky and from Dalas, Texis in the USA. This made her an instant celebrity to me. I would constantly ask her to tell me a stories, just so I could hear her accent.

We were interested in one thing only. Toowoomba Gramma Boys. They were rumoured to be much more gentlemanly that the oxygen deprived foot-ball jerks that plagued Downlands. I kept thinking “Oh My God. What if it happens tonight!” then I would quickly force myself to think the opposite to un-jinx it. Suze and Connie tried to ease my anxiety, but what would they know about anxiety! They had already had the pleasure of feeling someone else’s tongue in their mouths. I was still waiting for my chace!

We arrived and went straight to the dance floor. I cracked open my subdued two-step shuffle to woe the boys. It wasn’t long before a bunch of cute Toowoomba Grammer guys joined our circle with their versions of the two-step shuffle. I had my eye on a short, cute, dark haired, energetic guy with braces. But he never made eye contact with me.

…Then suddenly a tall, ruggedly handsome looking guy, with dreamy dimples walked right up to me and said “Would you like to dance with me?”

I stared at him in utter shock and disbelief. I even stopped my left-right shuffle. Then I realised what was happening. He was asking the girl behind me to dance, and I was interrupting his eye line. How embarrassing! But when I turned to see who the lucky girl was, there was no one there. Still unable to comprehend this, I pointed to myself and said “Me?”, then “You (pointing to him), want to dance with me? (pointing back at me).”

I rolled my eyes to let him know I was in on the joke, and I knew he’d been dared to ask me. But he just stood there and nodded. Then he took my shaky, pathetic, disbelieving hands and led me to the smooching section of the dance floor.

Immediately my diving buddies started giving me the hand signals for ‘good one!’ and ‘pash him!’ We danced for a couple of seconds, knocking knees awkwardly, then he pulled me closer, and suddenly we were breaking the 30 cm rule, by 30cms.

We were dirty dancing. I was Baby, and he was Patrick Swayze. My inner monologue was screaming “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! I don’t know how to do this!” I had watched Baily kiss Jennifer Love Hewitt on Party of Five that week, and figured we’d have to start staring into each others eyes before we entered into a perfect camera-ready kiss.

But before I could get a look at him, he moved in, putting his mouth over mine, and proceeded to rape the back of my throat with his tongue.

My inner monologue went from “OMG! I’m going to have my first kiss!!” to “WTF.!? Is this kissing? Is this what kissing is?... Wow… it’s kind of over rated… it looked so much better on tv... it must just look good, but feel like this. Well there you go! I’m sure sex will be as good as it looks in the movies, surely they wouldn’t lie about that.”

Having resigned to the fact that this was indeed, kissing, I decided to rape his throat, back.

Our tongues were ferocious anacondas, twisting in saliva, attacking tonsils and darting up sinus cavities by mistake. This continued for three hours. The whole time, I was thinking “So this is kissing. Well. I hope I’m doing a good job of it.”

Sometime during the last hour, he made his way over my raw pash-rash, and down my neck, where he proceeded to behave like a vampire, sucking for a good ten minutes. It felt good, so I let him do it.

The last song played, and ended. We both came up for breath and said “See ya.” I went back to my friends, who gave me the female equivalent of a high five... which is grabbing each other’s arms and saying stuff like “you did it girl!” and “He was sooo cute!” and “How was your first kiss!”

I floated out of there with Suze and Connie on cloud 9! I was a legend! And I’d finally done it! Even if kissing was totally gross. I could now officially cross if off the list and move onto trying Escargot. Surely that was less disgusting.

As the three of us strolled out arm in arm, sharing details of the dance, The burn of my pash rash became apparent. My face had been sandpapered within an inch of it’s life, and I was vaguely aware of a pulsing pain growing on the side of my neck.

TBC…….

Hotness Hypnosis

Defined by Urban Dictionary as: The act of finding someone so physically attractive that you overlook serious flaws in their personality.

We’ve all been there.

I’m currently taking a sketch writing class, taught by possibly the hottest guy I’ve seen… in NY… so far. He’s so hot, I can’t see any flaws in his personality. (That’s when you know you’ve got it crazy bad. That, and also when you cannot conceive that he might have knowledge you are capable of farting. That's when you know you have a crush that is harmful to your self esteem.)

Every time he makes eye contact with me, I go into a trance. He’s moving his mouth like he’s talking, perhaps imparting valuable knowledge, and all I hear is “Ally, I could push you up against a wall, and kiss you.”

I don’t think I’ve heard a word he’s said all class. I am petrified of showing him my work. I’m scared to even write, knowing he’ll read it. I’ll spend a week on a pathetic sketch (yes pathetic, but we’re learning), only for him to tear it apart (and rightly so). Only I can’t hear what he’s saying because I'm too busy looking at his jawline. I am definitely not getting my money’s worth here. I need to transfer to another class, but like a moth to bug zapper, I keep doing my hair nice, and going back for more.

So I guess the biggest lesson he has taught me is… when your teacher is hot, listen to your brains, not your box. Transfer to a class with a teacher that you don't imagine taking barefoot strolls on a beach with. One that doesn’t emit pheromones that are so intoxicating, you get tipsy just being in the same room as him. One that you don’t wonder – “what might his left shoulder taste like?”.

Then you will be ready to learn. And if you are looking for eye candy… then there’s always Saki Rauva.
Voted the most beautiful man in the world.

Spanish Emergency

Last Thursday at midnight, I was returning home from an improv comedy performance (my usual pastime) and the night nurse, Tia greeted me, alarmed -- “Ally! Where have you been! I’ve been trying to call you!”

I peered into the bedroom, and was met with a scene from CSI Miami. Ada lay on her bed, huge pools of clotted blood covering her pillow and soaked her nightie.

She’d had a nose bleed, the fourth big one in the last two days. She seemed unfazed, despite her white hair now a cherry red colour down one side. We decided to take her to the emergency room at the hospital, save her bleeding to death in her sleep. Tia insisted we call an ambulance for ease of getting her there. I was freaked out by calling 911, because I’d only ever heard of people calling in major emergencies, and I didn’t want my recorded voice to be played back on the news in the event of some controversial mishap, so Tia did it for me.

The ambulance officers were two young Latino males, in navy colored uniforms, with long black hair tied back in pony tails. Aunt-Ada commented loudly ‘I don’t know if they are a man or a woman!’ An insult that mortified me, but showed she still had a sense of humor. They strapped poor Ada to a stretcher and transported her against her will.

In the hospital her blood-pressure went through the roof, and suddenly one of the Ambulance officers hit on me so weirdly I was left speechless.

Grabbing a chair for me to sit next to Ada, he moved his head very close to mine and stared into my eyes with a gentle intensity that only men who are very confident in bed can pull off. Then he whispered in a deep Spanish accent “She’s got pink-eye." (dramatic pause) "Be careful, I wouldn’t want you to get it in your beautiful, brown, eyes.”

I felt like Antonio Banderez had just told me “You’re hot, but be wary of the growing threat of rabies in the area.”

Then the other ambulance officer came up and said – "He likes you."

Surely this is against the rules? I had no idea how to react, so I turned red and they left. We were in the emergency until 6.30am the next morning. Ada stayed awake the whole time, asking us how we could do this to her. Tia and I sat sleepily telling her to relax, and eavesdropping on the other more interesting medical emergencies happening around us.

I could hear slow dripping from behind a curtain, and later found out that it was coming from a guy whose arm would not stop bleeding. Another guy woke up and threw a fit because he was hungry and the emergency department apparently has no food, even though they charge him thousands of dollars to sleep there.

Half way through the night Ada needed to pee, and when I went to get someone to help take the bars off the bed and lower her to the ground, they simply handed me a bed-pan and some gauze as toilet paper. That was the low point of the night, until I found myself walking around with the said bedpan post-pee, with no where to put it but under my seat.

The next day we had to take Ada back so they could stuff a camera that behaved like an earth worm up her nose. Then they stuffed the left nostril with dissolvable packing, that leaked brown ooze.

But the oddest thing was, I couldn't seem to get those ambulance officer eyes out of my head. I wonder how he hits on girls with Swine flu.

Easy Targets are Fun!

When nice guys flirt with you, and you’re ‘not that into them,’ it can be hard to give signals that you’re not interested, without coming off as a total bitch. (Especially when they work in you’re building and you have to pass them every day.)

But when nice guys turn out to be fundamental Christians it’s so fucking easy to deter them, and you end up coming off cool and intelligent, although destined to burn in hell.


Just to clarify, I am no atheist. I believe in God/Universe, prayer, Oprah, the secret, jewish people, and I’ve had a weird experience that was either a freak co-incidence or a sign that God listens. But I’ll save that for another time. Where I love to get fundamentalist Christians, is on the gays! Which is exactly what I did the other night. I love explaining how natural it is and that we’re all on a scale. That it has been scientifically proven that women are more commonly swinging towards gay, and that if I haven’t found a guy that after a certain time, I would happily settle down with a woman (especially if it’s Ellen).

Needless to say, I’m excited about the huge difference in opinion that I now have with the man in my building. This 30 minute argument at 1am last Friday has paid dividends. Now when we pass, there is no need to stop and be polite, while he tells me how he works out seven days a week. Instead he gives me a smug half smile that he reserves for people who are eternally damned, and I give him a sweet flirty smile that says, ‘If we ever dated, I would leave you for a woman.’

Sucker!