Adore and Abhor

Adore:

1. When you're peeling an egg, and the whole shell comes off in one go. (Best feeling in the world, right?)
2. 'People watching' ON THE BEACH!!!
3. Biting the point off anything triangular. (That first bite of pizza or that first bit of cheese cake.)
4. The feeling AFTER you have done something you were shit-scared to do. (Even if it went badly, you still faced a fear.)


Abhor:

1. Full beards
2. Cancer
3. Stores that put strawberries on sale – AFTER they are ruined.
4. Public toilet seats

Beauty Routines

Ada and I engage in the following little ritual every morning, at least once:

“You are beautiful!” Ada will say. Then a worried look will come over her face, and she’ll extend an arthritic hand. “But your hair…” she continues, looking sadly disappointed, and shaking her head – “What can you do with the hair!”

I don’t really know what to say to this, but as it happens every day, I’ve gotten used to it. “I’m not sure.” I resign, “It’s just my hair I guess.”

She shakes her head again in disgust. I brace, and go in for some wet kisses, before leaving for the day.

Once outside the door, I pause by the hallway mirrors to wipe whatever was on Ada’s lips, from both my cheeks. (Usually a mixture of stagnant saliva, and small pieces of her breakfast.)

My hair looks as fine as it can, after accidently receiving a mullet from a hair dresser looking for hair models. There is nothing to do except "wait for it to grow," another hairdresser confirmed.

I enjoy our little ritual, but living with Ada has added a new step to my daily beauty routine. I now cleanse, tone, moisturize, apply make up, then run out the door and douse my cheeks with hand sanitizer!

New York Lines

In a city where seeing (for free): Anne Hathaway perform Shakespeare in the park, Amy Poehler improvise on stage, or Alec Baldwin introduce a concert, seems common place… it’s easy to forget why New York can do this. And that’s because it has a huge population in such a small place.


At Disneyland, they say you will need a whole week to try all the rides! But they don’t tell you, this is due to every ride having at least an hour long line to stand in before you get to go on it. (Surprise!)

Well, as it turns out, New York is like a giant Disneyland for adults.

As an Aussie, I’d forgotten what it really means to - line up. We wait more than five minutes, and it’s more that we can bare. But here… if you want tickets to a television taping, half price broad way tix, or just really great burgers, New Yorkers will line up and wait for it all.

Astonishing!...for us Aussies. Especially a slightly impatient one, who would rather pretend they don’t speak English, than make ‘line-up small talk’.

Arrive half an hour early, and it’s bound to be sold out. Think “bring a chair, a packed lunch and a book” kind of early. I’ve recently been in line for 7 hours to see a play, 3 hours to see good comedy and 4 hours, only to get rejected for tix for Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. It makes me wonder how on earth anyone with a real job in NY has time to experience anything worthwhile here? (Okay, maybe they just all pay full price.)

Regardless, it's a great way to realize why no one wears heels, and why temper's run so short. So if you're wondering where I am, that’s where you’ll find me. Waiting in line and practicing my small talk abilities.

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…….

This is Why I Write

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Parking Tigers, Hidden Dragons

(This post is continued from the previous post.)

Those skilled in the ancient art of Parking Tigers, know that discression is of great importance. A master always vomits alone, for they consider it a sacred ritual, and can hold their own hair back. That’s how skilled they are.

I had mastered the art of spewing in highschool, and was going for my knighthood in College. Chunder royalty indeed! I puked so often, I thought it would be fun to keep a tally. But after passing 20, before the first term was up, I stopped bothering.

After a decade of experience, I can now speak with authority on the topic. I’m an expert! Or a ‘spewspert’, if you will. For example… I’ll never be caught off-guard by an unexpected uprising. And the key is - to pay attention to the early warning signs: The growing twangs of nausea, the intense emotional denial where you think it’s not happening… then your breathing becomes more laboured, and eventually your saliva glands start to water.

Most people stay in denial right up until the moment they find themselves covered in barf, in the back seat of a taxi. Not me! You may deny your impending vomit all you want, but the minute those saliva glands start going off, it’s game over.

Most evenings after drinking, I return home and throw my fingers down my throat, just to save time… and spare myself the hours of nauseating corn hurling the following morning.

I’ve actually spewed from alcohol poisoning at every job I’ve ever had. From dish-pig, to television producer. The worst was when I was slicing ham in an industrial kitchen slicer. I’d have to excused myself to go to the bathroom and vomit, then return to the mesh glove and the ham. Mmmm. I remember when manning phones at an inbound call center, I’d have to hang up on callers so I could log out, and run to the ladies in time.

No friend or relative’s toilet has gone undecorated. Not even Ada’s.

Here’s a handy tip: Always drink lots of water between parking tigers. Because it’s much more enjoyable to spew water than to dry-heave.

On a couple of occasions, I spewed blood. This, coupled with the occasional intense liver pains, has ultimately led me to my current state. (Ordering mocktails and lapping milk from saucers if anyone calls me a pussy).

Currently, my alcohol tolerance is a joke. I can spew after two glasses of wine, or one…on an empty stomach. Last night I went for a cocktail with a friend, and felt nauseated all night.

I used to wish I’d been to rehab, so that I would have a legitimate excuse for being so straight edge. But luckily, with age comes confidence!!! Gaining a greater sense of knowing (and liking) who you are, means you can handle ‘not handling your alcohol’ with grace and charm.

Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love ME when I’m drunk. Who doesn’t. We are all fucking fabulous. But does anybody else think there’s something really wrong with that? Why does the brain waits until it’s had alcohol to feel this good?



Well in America (generally speaking) they don’t binge. If they do, it’s usually on a special occasion. Not just another Friday night. It’s a far cry from the Aussie blotto mentality. And I think I’ve figured out why. In Australia / Brittan, we drink to loose our inhibitions. In America… they don’t have any inhibitions! They already have all the confidence in the world, and are happy to make their intentions clear. Take it from me. Straight guys here approach women sober on the street.

And I say “Cheers to that!” After a decade of the complete opposite, I’m excited to be around people who don’t even notice I’m drinking coke instead of beer.

It does seem a shame to put my skills to waste though. A career’s councilor once said, look at what you’re good at. (Eating!!) and where you’re skills lie (spewing!!!) and that should give you the best indication of your future’s path. It’s good to know if my career in the arts turns to shit, then there’s always Bulemia.