JustAnne.

What Is It About Me?

For those of you who know me personally, and if my site statistics are anything to go by that accounts for the vast majority of my beautiful readers (snaps for Facebook!), you know that I am something of an attention whore. Be it the witty quips at the pub, the sheer volume of my voice after a couple of drinks, the often inappropriate dinner conversation or my love of 'the stage', there are many elements of my life (and my behaviours) geared to draw the spotlight to my darling self. Some would even say the mere presence of this blog is another fine example of this, which reminds me of the time a particularly young sprite uttered the following to me . . . 

"I have thought about blogging, but it just seems so self-indulgent" **

Tonight, as I watch and adore Glee and read some of the slightly more grown-up and socially acceptable magazines that I enjoy I find myself pondering - why? What is it about the spotlight that I love so, so much?

I am an extrovert to be sure. I love people, and as a social worker they are my business, my bread and butter if you will. And while I have never really considered myself to a social 'force', I am increasingly finding that is often how I am often perceived by others. Which is so strange to me - I know I love the spotlight, but the idea that people might actually enjoy watching me there? Talk about weird. 

It is certainly not something I have inherited from my parents. My mother, a wonderful and incredibly witty woman is also quite the introvert. When people I know have encountered her they are often taken aback - they expect another 'Anne', but my mother is an entity entirely distict from me. Well, except in the realm of home organisation, planning, humour and fastidious laundry. In those realms we are quite similar. She confessed to me earlier this year that when I was younger, all of the other mothers from the various activities I participated in used to call her 'Anne'. She was so quiet they could never remember her name. Poor mum, she really is a rockin' lady, you just need to get to know her.

Perhaps my lust for the spotlight is from being largely ignored for 9 out of my 12 years of schooling? And always, always being picked last for sporting teams? But then I think "hang on, my entire work life is about helping others" AND "I went through a substantial phase where my friends had to coach me to not be a doormat". So maybe, maybe, my current lust for the spotlight is not as pathological as I paranoidly feel. Maybe it is merely an expression of a young woman finally coming into her own. And maybe I should just enjoy this 'self-indulgence' while it lasts. Goodness knows it could all change at the drop of a hat.

Eeesh. Another rambling self-indulgent self-reflection bought to you by three or more alcoholic beverages and a girl with a laptop. Happy Saturday all!

**I should also note that this was the same young sprite who once branded me homophobic, much to the shock and awe of me and mine. Then, wrote me an apology note a week later. A note.

Do I Even Want A Boyfriend? Really??

A close friend of mine recently observed that in ten short months I have pulled a complete 360 (or is it a 180?) when it comes to the subject of one night stands. Ten months ago I felt that sleeping with a man I was not in a relationship with was unsatisfactory. I did not consider the idea morally questionable, I just did not think it was for me. Now? Well, let’s just say my opinion on the matter has changed quite dramatically. Ten months ago, all I wanted was to be in love. Now? Now I find myself wondering if I even want a boyfriend. Do I? Really??

Let's consider this logically and take a look at the facts.

• Sometimes, it is nice to be cuddled by a man whose agenda is not entirely about getting a root. (That, I suppose is one for the Boyfriends)
• Sometimes, it is really, really nice to be able to sprawl across my bed and have a good night's sleep without anybody else's snoring or farting to cause discomfort. (Definitely a big tick for Singledom)
• Sometimes, it would be really nice not to be the only single person at a dinner party. (Boyfriends)
• However, having dinner, wine and smutty conversation with my single lady friends is totally awesome. (Singledom)
• It would be really, really nice to have someone to shag on a regular basis. (Boyfriends - or is that too strong a word?)
• But, if I had a boyfriend, how would I find time for my friends, family and myself? Would I have to give up taking myself on little dates to the cinema? Because they're very important for my sanity. (Singledom - although in the brief time I thought I could date someone this year [I didn't, of course], I did find my ability to make time for someone was suitably able. Too bad is wasn't mutual)
• Avoiding the constant emotional turmoil that comes from playing the dating game. (Boyfriends)
• Avoiding the emotional turmoil that will come from not being single anymore, as it will require a significant shift in personal identity. I could do it. I think. (Singledom)
• Not being able to rock to Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It) with quite the same verve. (Singledom)
• The love bites (minus one point for both Singledom and Boyfriends)
• The birth control. That shit adds up and I always seem to be the one who pays for it. (minus one for both Boyfriends and Singledom - UNLESS a vasectomy and STI check are involved. Or a desire for a child. Then it is plus one for Boyfriends)

Based on this list, the math leans me slightly more towards Singledom. But I suspect this result is due to some biases considering that being single is all I have ever really known. The truth is my desire for a more permanent man in my life comes and goes, and appears to be loosely connected to the cycles of the moon and my artificially controlled hormones. I like to think that for the right person, I will easily 'fall' into a relationship.

But until then? Well. I shall just have to amuse myself.

Sex and Tupperware.

I recently commented via Tweet that the first piece of paper I have written my new address on was a Tupperware order form. It was quite fitting really, especially considering that I had just expressed to my housemate that the only thing I am really precious about is my Tupperware. 

Tupperware has been a hot topic of conversation in my office of late. And not in your typical 'versatile solution for modern living' kind of way. It all began when one of my adorable co-workers uttered the following piece of wisdom . . . 

"Tupperware is what you have when you're not having sex".

Myself and a fellow single lady and Tupperware admirer took a deep breath, made eye contact across the room, and with our heads in our hands replied "it's true, it's true". 

I have to confess that this comment has fundamentally altered my perception of my relationship with Tupperware. All of those gasps and squeals I emit when browsing through the latest catalogues. The loving satisfaction I feel as I portion up my lunches for the week. The sense of power I feel when crushing garlic. These are all disturbingly comparable to emotions and reactions I would be experiencing if I were having sex.

When I mentioned this theory to another single lady friend she paused and then commented "I have a shitload of Tupperware". Another friend has commented that unlike men, Tupperware has a lifetime guarantee and will not warp, break or discolour the way a man may. I should point out that this was the same friend who when perusing the latest Tupperware catalogue together I was reminded of being eleven years old and sneaking a peak the Joy of Sex with friends. 

Now I am sure there must be plenty of women out there who have regular sex as well as an impressive collection of Tupperware, but I have to ask - was it bought when you were in the passionate throes of a new relationship, or when you were single or had settled into a sexual routine?

All of this discussion of sex and Tupperware has prompted the following question - when will Tupperware branch out into the adult market? The consensus has been that it is only a matter of time, they do toiletries now. Now that will be one piece of Tupperware I will be very precious about.

The Post-Coital Bombshell.

We've all been there. You wake up with someone, small talk is had, and all of a sudden there is a moment. The penny drops. "You're married?" "You live with your parents??" "You're Irish??" "You've got a child?" "You're HOW old???"

I suppose I can be comforted by the fact that these post-coital bombshells are not particular to certain genders. Or sexualities for that matter. I do not think I know anyone who has indulged in casual sex who does not have at least one of these harrowing tales to tell. Well, I say harrowing, but what I really mean is hilarious.

For myself I can say that nothing quite beats the time I realised I was in a boy's family home, couldn't find my bra, then found it on the family sofa. I wish I could say that it was a really fancy bra. But alas, it was of the greying t-shirt variety. Then of course, how could we forget the Ranga. 

But like I say, it's not just me. On more than one occasion I have been naked with a man who 'casually' told the  story of a 'friend' who went home with a woman only to find out she was married. To which I am duty bound to reply 'Well, you can rest assured that I'm not married - as if!'.

So tell me my shy, shy readers, what has been you're biggest bombshell? 

Moving Up.

For the past three or four months I have been playing a game of “wait and see”. It is a game that has left me feeling low spirited and stagnate. So when three weeks ago my friend Cara rented a house and mentioned she was looking for a ‘Lady Lodger’, I raised my hand.

And here I sit, amidst unpacking chaos in the front room of the lovely post-war abode affectionately referred to as ‘Lady M’. When I first met Lady M I was slightly overwhelmed by her scruffy appearance, but after 20 minutes and some imaginative visioning, I fell in love. Lady M has many exciting features like her ample storage space and her proximity to my childhood (AND adolescent AND early adulthood) shopping mall. But what really won me over was sitting in the living room and being transported back to childhood visits to my grandparents place in Maroochydore. Complete with the scenic vista of a shopping mall.

My sudden decision to move out has left my mother somewhat bereft. Consequently, I was extremely worried that she would hate Lady M, unable to see past her shabbiness to the soul within. I am her Princess you see, and should only have the best. For example, when proudly telling my mother that we had proudly obtained a washing machine at Lifeline for $149 (along with a $17 piano and an impulse sofa set), she immediately panicked and offered to buy me a brand new one. Her reasoning? The death of a woman by electrocution from a second hand washing machine in the 70s.

I needn’t have worried. My mother loves Lady M. For the exact same reasons I do, her ample storage, proximity to the shops and her likeness to my grandmother’s house. I forget that we are quite similar sometimes.

To be completely honest I think one of the most exciting things about my move to Lady M is the prospect of bringing a man home and not having to sneak him out shamefacedly the next day. And I must say I am already impressed by the higher proportion of young men around me. Instead of DILFs, my local supermarket is now filled with reasonably attractive, slightly nerdy young men – shopping for one! AND there is a share house of semi-attractive young men across the road. Okay, they have a band. And okay, some the singing is so awful I cannot help but laugh. But the point is that for the first time in years I feel like there are prospects about the place, which is good.

Lady M, I am looking forward to spending the summer with you. 

On Men and Ikea.

Not too long ago I spent the evening with a man who lived in Springwood. I spent the night in Springwood as the gentleman was young, of Irish extraction, had limited insight into the distances involved, and was therefore agreeable to driving me home. A courtesy I was not willing to extend to him.

For those of you not familiar with the greater Brisbane area, Springwood is South. So far South that in my snobbier moods I have referred to it as the 'Deep South'. It is so far South that it is not actually a part of Brisbane at all. For many years the only redeeming feature of Springwood was that it hosted Brisbane's one and only Ikea**. And for many years I have had a habit of going to Ikea whenever I happen to be hungover on the Southside.

As we began the long journey home, I commented to the gent that I felt like going to Ikea. He looked at me askance and dared to ask why. I explained to him my partiality towards Solutions for Modern Living, Sweedish Meatballs and their siren call to my hungover psyche. He looked at me blankly. He didn't understand.

I remember watching an episode of Love My Way, where a couple were shopping at Ikea and the female was incredibly hungover. I remember her sentiments being something along the lines of "If I can just sort out my storage, then everything will be okay". I could identify with that. 

Easing your pain with meatballs only to be left feeling vaguely nauseous, sitting on 'Display Only' couches for ten minutes before being able to rise again, and buying more novelty ice cube trays than any one person needs. This is what Ikea is all about. That and three pairs of scissors for $3 and an impressive range of psychadellic prints. 

However, Ikea is not about meeting men. Despite ones ability to amuse them with witty, albeit hungover, repartee, it is generally not okay to flirt with them as they are usually accompanied by a heavily pregnant partner. Or, as I sadly discovered on my latest Ikea trip, their incredibly cute male partner. I cannot begin to tell you how devastating it was to see the best looking men in Ikea measuring up a bed together.

On a recent Ikea trip the lovely Lulu imparted the following wisdom:

Anne, never let a man near your Tupperware. They don't understand.

I think the same may apply to Ikea itself. Perhaps men are useful when discussing dimensions and construction and when removing large flat-packs from the self-service area. But can they ever really share the passion for nesting and home organisation that seems to grip the female of the species? And still want to have sex with the female of the species??

**Ikea has recently left Springwood, leaving a gaping whole in their vibrant home-making district.

Gyms. They're Weird.

I have said it before and I will say it again, gyms are fundamentally weird places. I shudder to think what Goffman or Foucalt would have to say about them. There are many things that make the gym weird, the Personal Trainers, the Body Beautifuls, the strange slogans and incessant advertising, a room full of people running on the spot staring at television screens. The list goes on and on. But today I will talk about some of the gym’s weirder inhabitants: the Body Beautifuls. You know the ones.

The women are young with make up, free flowing ponytails and very short shorts. I am willing to concede the makeup, because if I actually wore makeup to work it is unlikely I would think to take it off before working out. But it would get messy once I started. This is not a problem for the female BBs as they do not seem prone to sweating. Nor are they prone to love handles, cellulite or unmanageable hair. I am becoming increasingly convinced they are a bread of aliens trying to bring down humanity by contributing to fellow gym-goers feelings of discomfort and dismay at their own flabby(er) bodies. The men don’t seem to sweat much either. The just look all hot and muscly and unattainable. Except for the really bulky ones who just look like aliens, lending further support to my Theory. (Although, another theory suggests that they exist purely for our amusement, but that feels unkind).

For the BBs working out isn’t so much about fitness but about putting yourself on display. It’s like a courtship ritual gone wrong. Wrong because the normal people (i.e. me) can only watch, occasionally drool and keep their arousal respectfully to themselves (the gym is one place where I am glad I am not a man, perhaps that’s why so many of them wear loose fitting shorts?). Courtship certainly takes place, and it is a strange thing to watch. It’s a bit like watching man peacocks try to impress lady peacocks. Except at the gym, everyone behaves like the man peacock.

‘Jealous?’ I hear you mumble with a raised eyebrow. Not really. The BBs are far removed from anyone I have experienced in real life, and it is hard to be jealous of something so completely unrelatable. And when I check out men in the gym (and believe me, I do) the ones I usually like the look of are a little bit scruffier, or a bit skinnier, or have glasses. You know, they look like real people (or are just really, really dirty hot). I would like to think the real people extend the same courtesy to me, but I’m not so sure. I look pretty whacked when I work out. 

Jane Austen: Dating Go-To Gal.

A few years ago I accidentally bought a self-help book titled Jane Austen's Guide to Dating. It was $15 and I thought it was satirical. It wasn't. At the time I rolled my eyes, read through the basic rules, the character analyses, did the Which Jane Austen Character Are You? quizz at the end (Elizabeth - snap!) and filed the book away on an overcrowded shelf. And there it sat collecting dust until last weekend when I grabbed it in a packing frenzy. My destination? An emergency single-lady night in. 

The night was spent eating lamb chops, drinking beer, watching television and sitting in shock of the general rudeness of men. As we retired for the evening I pulled out The Guide and began what I thought would be an amusing foray into the world of self-help literature. But no, something had changed, The Guide seemed relevant, almost vital. When I had first read it I had thought "well duh, it's all just common sense really", but now it can help me reflect on my conduct with men and think about where I may have gone wrong and what I can do differently. And I have to say, as far as common sense, dignity-preserving courtship tips go, Jane Austen had it goin' on.

The author has developed ten principles from her academic study of Jane Austen novels, which are:

1. If you like someone, make it clear that you do.
2. Don't put your feelings on public display, unless they're fully reciprocated.
3. Don't play games or lead people on.
4. Have faith in your own instincts.
5. Don't fall for superficial qualities.
6. Look for someone who can bring out your best qualities.
7. Don't settle - don't marry for money or convenience or out of loneliness.
8. Be witty if you can,  but not cynical, indiscreet or cruel.
9. Be prepared to wait for the right person to come along.
10. If your lover needs a reprimand, let him have it.

(I must confess I cringe the most at No.8, lines get blurred after the third wine and my volume increases)

Perhaps the reason why this book has suddenly struck a chord is because it does not buy into that whole 'act like a lady, think like a man' crap that lurks around the dating advice market. I am willing to concede that thanks to social conditioning men and women process things differently, however the more I see, hear and read the more I suspect that deep down, we're really not all that different. 

Men and women both ditch partners based on a seemingly abstract set of standards they rigidly cling to. They both get hurt when relationships go bad, and they both take a while to let someone in again. We both freak out and fuss over emails/text messages/facebook statuses/tweets/inane conversation. And let's be honest, we all play the game and make snap judgements based on physical appearance. Oh, and we all quite like sex.

As I discover more and more of our similarities this culture of difference becomes increasingly frustrating. I understand that when we've been rejected putting people into negative gender-based stereotypes takes the edge off the hurt. I've done it, hell, I do it alllll the time. So I guess what appeals to me about The Guide is that while it is clearly targeting women, these principles look like the kind of thing we could all identify with. No one is being alienated and that is kind of cool.

Also, I should fess up and mention that in three years I have dramatically changed as a person. I have gone from being an Elizabeth to a Mary (eeek!) - "bitchy, clever and cynical. You're a tough proposition! You need someone stable, not flashy, to balance you, someone who will be capable of dressing you down when you need it, but who will love your dry wit and confidence". Oh God, it's true!! I can only take solace in the fact that I was two points away from being Lydia - the ho. 

Most upsettingly, it occurs to me that as my years increase I may be growing more susceptible to the self-help genre. Fortunately, for now, I have Sarah Haskins to help me stay true to my cynical roots.

Oh, I am Toasted.

You know, it has been too, too long since I have offered the world a blog post fueled primarily by my propensity for binge drinking. So. Here it is. Tiddly Anne.

Whoop!!

I should apologise for my week long lapse of posting. It has been a heinous week in the personal life of Anne. I wish it was the kind of week in which I had just been too busy shagging to think of writing a darn thing, but alas it was not. Fortunately for you my lovely, lovely 10-20 blog readers, I am getting my game back. Slowly, slowly.

Soon you will again be chortling at my observations of this silly thing called life, particularly the realm of dating. But for now, all I can safely offer you is a link to a song that has been floating my boat this week. Yes. Okay, it is a little bit one-night-stand centric. But it is a fabulous tune nonetheless.

Simplify.

This is not a word a young, product-obessed woman ever wants to hear from her dermatologist. But alas, it is true. I waged war upon my skin, and my skin won. It would seem that my skin has become 'sensitive', why? Probably just a reaction to long-term use of a variety of skin products with, and I quote, "too many 'natural' ingredients" (I am not sure the use of single quotation marks accurately describes the disdain with which my dermatologist uttered the word 'natural', but you get the idea). Apparently the more whiz bang ingredients a skin cream offers, the more likely I am to react.

The answer? Keep taking antibiotics for at least a month, use a prescription ointment as a cleanser for a month then switch to Cetaphil, and use sorbolene cream as a moisturiser, but only if I absolutely have to. When I desperately asked what kind of sunscreen I could use, the dermatologist sighed, gave me the name of one and kindly drew a diagram showing which areas of the face are most commonly prone to skin cancers and advised me to only apply there. On the diagram he also drew a hat indicating that those same areas could also be protected by a broad brim.

What I did not tell him but will tell you Internet as you are significantly less judgemental, is that while he may take away my products he will never take away my awesome haircut by condemning me to hats. That, I will not stand for.

The good news? At this stage I am able to wear any eye make-up and lip colour I want. Thank. God. I am not sure I could go on living if I had to give up my OTT eye make-up on weekends. Foundation wise I have been recommended to use a particular Clinque range, but I am not, under any circumstances, allowed to let them 'diagnose' my skin as a 'combination type' and sell me a '3 step' product routine.

So here I am, practically skin product free and to the delight of my friends and collegues, in the throes of the Great Product Giveaway. Perhaps the most embarrassing thing about this process is that everytime I give away a large quantity of products, I keep finding more I need to get rid of. I shudder to think just how much it is all worth.

BUT! At least I do not have to give away any of my make-up. Phew!

As a result of the whole Skin Saga I have decided to go back on the Pill. I suspect this will mean I'll never have sex again as the minute I stopped taking it things, er, picked up. So I would just like to take a moment to curse the Universe for making me choose between sex and acne free skin. Bastard that it is.

The world had better get ready for even more sexually frustrated blogging from one Ms Anne. Yes siree.