JustAnne.

Worst. Massage. Ever.

While spending last week in Cairns with the Divine Miss M I was treated to a number of new and interesting experiences. Beaches, gorges, markets, women wearing live snakes and oh, the eye candy. There was, however one blight on my time there, the $15 Chinese Massage at the Cairns Night Markets. I do not know what was worse - the fact that this was the only time I was touched by a man all week, or that I paid for it.

I have never, ever, been touched by someone so wholly disconnected from what the human body enjoys. It was worse than the worst kiss and the worst shag I have ever had. 

He was all fingers. Poking into my back, shoulders, neck and head with no sense of rhythm and confusing levels of intensity. And his were pointy, pointy fingers. He poked his way down my spine and I rose sharply off the table with a yelp of pain. I told him not to do that and 15 seconds later, like an inconsiderate lover, he did it again. I lay on the table feeling a mixture of horror and hysteria. I was terrified at having to spend another minute subjected to him.

You see, if this sort of thing happens with a lover you can at least anticipate and contribute towards their swift orgasm, hastily bringing the whole shambles to a halt. It is a little different when it is a young man from China you have a contract with and he calls you "lady" in a highly irritated fashion. 

When he was done with all of his poking and prodding, he smacked me up.

The whole thing was like having someone try and pleasure you whilst referring to an anatomy textbook and paying no attention to your verbal and non-verbal cues. Absolutely. Awful.

Cairns on the other hand, is glorious.

Boy Days.

Me and my single ladies have recently been discussing the phenomenon of "Boy Days". Those days when two or more men of your past, present or future manage to make an impact on your life, much to your own joy/confusion/dismay. I feel absolutely certain that Boy Days are intrinsically linked to Boy Radar, although I have yet to determine exactly how.

Preliminary observations indicate that a Boy Day can go either way. They can take you to a place of blissful excitement with increased feelings of sexiness, awesomeness and hope. Or they can take you down a spiral of hopelessness, shame and desperation.

For example, in a single day you can go on an uneventful date, receive a booty call from an ex-lover and hear that the love of your life has just gotten engaged to someone else. These kinds of Boy Days are the ones that ultimately lead to long and complicated phone calls with your girlfriends and often, but not always, ends with wine, retail therapy or inappropriate sex. Alternatively, you can have fantastic sex, meet someone new and exciting and get text messages of adoration from a former partner all in a 24 hour period. These are the kinds of Boy Days that restore your faith in the world of dating and believe that things might just work out in your favour. Although you can also get a mix of positive and negative boy moments all in one go. These Boy Days are particularly baffling.

I suspect that this phenomenon is not gender specific and that men experience something similar, "Girl Days" if you will. At least, I hope they do. Because I would hate to think that the Universe is the kind of thing that only f--ks with women.

Print Media and Me.

I have a confession to make. Two weeks ago I bought a newspaper. I finally got around to opening it on Monday, played around with it for about five minutes, felt overwhelmed, and put it promptly in the recycle bin. I think it was the first newspaper I had bought since 2005 when I was moving house and needed to wrap my dishes. I think I missed the boat when it comes to the Romanticism of newspapers.

Newspapers are something I associate with my grandfather, along with bus tickets and peppermint lifesavers. The only purpose I clearly remember them serving me was telling me what was on television, and delivering me cartoons. By the time I was old enough to be interested in the news, I had the Internet. Online I can pick and choose what I want to read, and it doesn't take up unnecessary space in my recycle bin (I need this space for all of the empty sparkling mineral water bottles, cans of Pepsi Max and frozen meal cartons I seem to accumulate at an alarming pace). Needless to say, when the following comment popped up on Twitter, I nodded along knowingly.

Although I should point out that I do know plenty of people my age who love reading the paper. But is is something they luxuriate in, a treat. A weekend or a holiday activity. Occasionally a lunch break activity, when they have the time to leave their desk. Newspapers just cannot compete with the convenience of online content delivered straight into our workstations. 

And while I just cannot seem to grasp Newspapers, I retain an unbridled passion towards books. Although I do not prioritise them as much as I should. Demands on my time are many and my habit of losing myself entirely to books holds me back all too often. A point that was certainly highlighted by the sentiment of this rather lengthy article on the lost art of reading. Books and Newspapers are good tools to try and steal some time back for yourself. But with the convenience of the Internet on my iPhone, giving me access to emails, news, blogs, Facebook and Twitter, the idea of carrying a book around in my handbag seems silly. All of that excess weight to carry around! No wonder I feel a bit lost when my Internet connection goes down.

Still, I think it is worth attempting to read more off-screen content, if only to reclaim some space for my mind to escape into fantasies and worlds that do not revolve around inappropriate people in my life. Goodness knows when it comes to that, I need all the help in the world!!

A Fantastic Saturday.

Saturday was one of those utterly delightful Brisbane days. Great weather, free seminars, fabulous company and reasonably good quality wine. How can you go wrong? Clearly being called "Anne" helps, but on these sorts of days you just have to take the bad with the good. At least it was a funny, sort of slapstick bad.

I was off to a good start as I walked out of my house thinking to myself "Gosh, you know I really am a rather attractive and strong young woman". As soon as the thought flittered through my head, I slipped on my roman sandals and fell over in the middle of the street. In front of my house. Make that one attractive and strong young woman with a grazed knee and blood in her stocking. If I had a list of moments in my life that were definitively 'me', that would be right near the top. All I could do was roll my eyes and laugh at myself whilst dabbing my knee with a tissue as I drove hastily to my local bus depot. Naturally, I was running late.

I inevitably missed the first session of the Brisbane Writer's Festival I had wanted to see, which was a bit of a bugger because it was about the use of self in fiction writing. While I have never written an ounce of fiction, I suspect that if I did it would involve characters not-so-subtly based upon myself. It's how I write. Fortunately I had the company of Cara, and her long-lost man friend who she had happened to bump into to ease my irritation with myself. 

Two glasses of red wine, a cupcake and half a cookie later we got up to amble over to our first session of the day - "Girls Talk Erotica". Upon rising from the table and walking approximately two metres, I once again slipped on my roman sandals and fell over in the middle of the cafe at Queensland's delightful State Library. I laughed loudly to myself as Cara helped me up, assuring me that I had fallen in an incredibly graceful fashion. To which I am sure I replied something along the lines of "well I should, I have had lots of practice". In fact, only the other day I was talking to a co-worker of my well-honed skill of falling over in public places.

The "Girls Talk Erotica" session was not well-received by Cara and myself, and we had a very enjoyable time dissecting it over more red wine by the Brisbane River. The essential issue? Conflicting notions of feminism between Baby Boomers and Gen Y. But I shan't bore you with the ranty details. Shortly after this, I fell over a third time outside the State Library cafe. This one hurt. It hurt a lot. It was the third fall on the same knee and things were not looking too good. The lovely Cara went in search of a band aid. She returned explaining that I had to be attended to and possibly fill out an incident form. So, I had my knee bandaged at the Queensland State Library Info Desk as people were filing in for more Writers Festival seminars. The ladies who attended me were lovely, and I was thoroughly amused by the situation. Red wine has that effect on embarrassment. Needless to say, I declined to complete an incident report.

It was my final fall for the day, although at another point my handbag broke and I had to return to the State Library Info Desk to borrow a stapler to repair it. After some more drinking and pontificating, I bade Cara farewell and attended another couple of seminars, that I actually paid for (!!), and watched Riverfire boozily with my iPhone blaring cheesy pop music at me. It was glorious. Following my solo boozed lecture attendance, I am ambled across the bridge to the city. I am fairly certain that about halfway across the bridge I stopped to sigh poignantly at my city, oh how I love it. My next step? Well, I figured I had a few hours till my last bus, why not go to a trashy pub for a final beer, a dance, and maybe a pash? At one point, I tweeted the following. Then I missed my bus.

Sometimes I feel alone when i'm at Tacky pubs w tacky tracks. Whoa. I'm livin on A prayer!! I need someone to be scathing w. Stat!

Yes, my Saturday was a thoroughly delightful way to kick off my post-insane-work-times week off. All of the elements were there, the city, the friends, the adventures. And my only injuries are an epically bruised and pus-ridden knee, a broken handbag and neck so bruised that I was too embarrassed to go to the gym today. Yes, sometimes you do have to take the bad with the good.

On the Subject of Men.

As much as I hate to admit it, it is rare for a day to go by without my thinking of or discussing my ongoing feelings of impatience and frustration with the opposite sex. Impatient because I am rather fed up of waiting to meet someone I could fall for, and frustrated because besides the obvious lack of 'sex on tap', my optimism is tired from fighting my pessimism. 

Recently my mother has taken to telling me that my biggest problem with men is that I give them too much credit. Now it is not often that I rally to the side of the opposite sex, but there is something about this statement that I find deeply offensive to men. I don't want to believe they're all simple, hormone driven creatures who sleep with as many women as possible, all the while being patted on the backs by their mates, drinking themselves silly, watching football/cricket and buying absurd utes/televisions. It's like saying all women are hysterical neurotics who are good for nothing but homemaking and blowjobs. 

I know that wonderful, intelligent and witty men exist. I've met them, their amazing girlfriends, and even occasionally, their children. I am finding that at the tender age of 26 an already small pool of men is getting even smaller, prompting me to think that maybe it is time to leave Brisbane. What a cliche!

I am not sure I believe in 'the one', a concept that remains so tantalising courtesy of Disney, Jane Austen and western culture in general. But I hold faith in the ideals of love and intimacy, recognising that these things do not come without hard work. So who or what do I want in a man?

Selection Criteria aside, if I am completely and brutally honest with myself I have to say that I want someone like me, or someone who is like what I wish I was. Someone who also takes delight in the world, but is capable of stepping back every now and then as asking "what the?", be it in a funny or serious way. I want a partner, an equal. I don't want a man who needs mothering, a role I too easily fall into and too quickly become resentful of. Someone confident, independent and interesting. Someone who has their shit together. I have also recently taken to referring to any potential partner as being a 'co-conspirator'. I think this is what my mother is referring to when she says I give men too much credit.

And this is where my optimism continues to battle my pessimism. Because the longer I play this game called Love, Lust and Dating the more I wonder if she's right. Goodness knows I'd rather be single than settle. However, as the engagements, weddings and baptisms roll by I cannot help but have that little, niggiling thought - "what about me? when will I get to be in love?". These thoughts always make me cranky and inspire all sorts of single-lady rants, which are always well received  by my 'posse'. There is nothing worse than being reminded that a certain element of your life somehow doesn't fit a cultural norm. So I continue to whole heartedly provide my friends with single-lady solidarity, and decry the relationship-centred notions of womanhood. 

Does this make the greatest hypocrite in all the land? Possibly, but I do not think that I am the first woman to feel and think these things. Our world is a confusing one of varying ideals, values and discourses. When you combine a personal habit of thinking too much and a general lustiness the whole subject of men becomes incredibly exhausting. Still, I would rather give them too much credit than embrace disdain, cynicism and hopelessness when it comes to the world of Love, Lust and Dating.  

Beautiful Brisbane Times

My Mum Read My Blog, and Thinks I Need Therapy.

It may sound like a clever way of grabbing your attention, but no, it is true. Based on the content of my blog my mother is convinced I need therapy. She thinks I have issues with men. She also thinks, and this is a direct quote, I have "daddy issues".

I suppose it is my own fault really. You see I was getting into the swing of this blog, I was having fun telling my tales and I was receiving positive feedback. I was excited. So I gave my mother permission to read it, with the strong disclaimer that there may be a few things that she may not want to know about. Well, she read it. I think she may have read at least a years worth of entries. And her feedback? That I sound unhappy. 

Ouch.

This prompted a rather lengthy conversation wherein I sat feeling shocked and dismayed whilst trying to reassure her that I was generally quite happy with my life. The thing is, when a veteran psychiatrist offers to find you (and pay for) a counsellor, a certain amount of self-reflection is required. Thanks mum. 

And that is why it has taken about a month for me to write this up. It was a little bit raw. I thought mental health wise I was doing pretty good. I generally feel happy, and I have a great bunch of co-workers and friends in my life who I absolutely adore. Sure, I have an overwhelming craving for dramatic change in my life, but I think that is a factor of my life-stage and not a general sense of unhappiness. And yes, okay, I have my crap days, but they are usually hormonal and they usually pass. But am I just living in denial? Is there a 'black dog' with 'daddy issues' lurking underneath this veil of happiness and confidence?? I didn't think there was.

I sought the support and feedback of my friends, co-workrs and Tweeps. They have been very lovely in assuring me that I am generally okay. And I believe them, seeing as I talk to them more regularly than I talk to my mother. It was also pointed out to me that my blog is already therapy, which is a very good point seeing as I often use it to process out some of confusion and angst in my head. Albeit in a vaguely amusing way fit for general consumption.

My mother did eventually confess that when she read my blog she read it specifically looking for pathology. She also commented that it was quite well written in comparison to the english pieces she used to proof read for me in year 8. So I guess that's something, but frankly she needs to do a bit of work reassuring me after this whole 'therapy thing'. It's a good thing she gave birth to me and is extremely lovely, otherwise she would be in big trouble.

And as for the "daddy issues", well, what woman doesn't have some kind of strange and somewhat complicated relationship with her father? Especially seeing as we always seem to end up with men just like them. 

*shudders*

Arrrghhh. Argh. Argh.

The seeds of my discontent have been sewn. It is day three of my at-home Internet black out and I'm not happy. There is only so far your iPhone can take you. Add to that the fact that my life is currently on hold untill I wrap up a mammoth work event on Friday and you get one sleepy and nonsensical Anne.

I don't know what it is about being incredibly busy, but things always seem to happen that serve only to waste your very precious time. You know, like specialist appointments.

As I chipped away at minutes of my life that I'll never get back in the dermatologist's waiting room, I thought I'd try and be clever. I thought it would be a good idea to make a list of all the bits and pieces of 'life stuff' that I needed or wanted to do. This ended up being a rather harrowing process as the list was quite long. It contained things from the simple to the complex. From laundry, to blog-redesign, to complicated sewing projects.

All this list writing did was remind me, once again, that I need to rethink some major elements of my lifestyle. And as I sit here, blogging on my freakin' iPhone, w elevated stress levels amid the filth and chaos that is my life right now I feel, well, anne-c.

Not only am I impatient for change, I have also realised that I have yet another thing to add to my to-do list: "take a lover, who will consent to be my Summer Boy".

Cycles.

If I ever conceive a child it will be just before a full-moon. Seriously. Every sodding month I find myself pining/lusting/yearning/lamenting/obsessing over some guy (or any guy) with my libido soaring through the roof. I feel crazy. "What's wrong with me this week?" I ponder to myself, and then out of the car window I spy a nearly full moon and it all makes sense.

This week has been particularly harsh. Every night, every single male encounter (or would-be encounter) over the past year has been flitting into my consciousness and subconsciousness - that's right people, I've been dreaming of former shags. Pathetic. And like always, I felt confused by these strange happenings in my head. Is the universe trying to tell me I need a man to plug some kind of hole in my soul? Or do I just need one to plug another hole, not even remotely connected to my soul? (Sorry, that was crass, even for me). And then, as I drove back to the office this afternoon I saw a large pale disk in the still blue sky and thought "Oh. Okay, totally making sense now."

Now, I get that nature is full of cycles, the moon, the seasons, the centralisaiton and de-centralisation of Centrelink. But I do find it frustrating being a slave to them. And it is not just a 'monthly' thing. Every Thursday night, without fail, I become some kind of lusty beast. Maybe it's the anticipation of the weekend, or a build-up of tension from the work week, or maybe it's a post-pilates thing. I don't know. But one thing is certain, and that's if I were in a relationship, Thursday nights would be Business Time. 

But I am not in a relationship. So Thursday nights simply become Taking Care of Business Time. And it's just not the same. I'll say one thing though, my Sunday morning will be spent one of two ways - 1) frustrated and alone, or 2) satisfied but mildly awkward. I'd like to be more optimistic, you know, I may find my one true love blah, blah, blah. But previous cycles, lessons learned and gut instinct tell me otherwise. Still, I suspect I'll have a bloody good Saturday either way. 

Bridge to Brisbane 2009

Yesterday was a historic moment in the life of Anne. Yesterday, I became one of those crazy fit freaks that goes out and exercises on a Sunday morning. In fun runs. Talk about turning points, goodness knows what will be next, learning to ride a bicycle? That would just be crazee! 

I would have tweeted the race, but unfortunately I am just not skilled enough to jog and tweet at the same time. But if I had been able to 'live tweet' it, it would've looked a little something like this . . . 

0.3kms - Fitter and more competitive friends stride ahead while I plod along trying desperately to turn off iPhone's shake and shuffle function.

1.1kms - Top of the bridge - hurrah!! Man. I can't believe there are people running this thing with prams. They should have their own lane.

1.7kms - I suppose the upside of being slow is that you get to see a whole lot of people's behinds. Sure, not all of them are good, but many of them are.

3.0kms - Whoop! Jogged the whole bridge. Phew. Time for walking. Thirsty.

3.5kms - So. Where is the first Hydration Station?

3.8kms - Seriously. Where the eff is my effin' Hydration Station. 

4.0kms - Ahhhh. So refreshed. Now. Back to jogging. 

4.7kms - Okay, I totally have bumbag envy. 

5.0kms - Halfway already? Go me! I can totally do this!!

5.1kms - Hmm, a strange place to wave placards promoting vegetarianism. I'm sure all the vegetarians I know have better things to be doing on a Sunday morning.

6.0kms - Am so glad I added some novelty songs to my playlist. This song was very apt.

6.5kms - Ooooh. The wind feels so nice blowing through my leg hairs.

7.0kms - Okay, I am starting to feel this.

8.0kms - Really? Already??

8.5kms - Oofh. My ass.

9.0kms - Ass really burning now. On the bright side, it feels tight like steel. Buns of steel!

9.5kms - Okay bitch. You can run this. Do it!!!

10.0kms - Whoop! Made it!! Okay. Well. Hrm. Guess I should find my friends. Oh goodie, a large queue. I shall join it.

Ten to fifteen minutes later I found my posse and partook of victory watermelon. It tasted so sweet. And even though I find myself experiencing significant stiffness and pain today, it was totally worth it. I'm so proud of me. I have no idea how long it took me to finish, as all I cared about at the time was making it to the end. Although now I find myself quite irritated at the prospect of waiting until Sunday to get my time. Poo poo to you Sunday Mail, poo poo to you.

But I wouldn't worry too much about this crazy state of affairs. I am sure I will be back to arriving home at 5am on a Sunday and posting gossip-worthy content on Mondays in no time. I feel that this was evidenced by the stream of live-tweeting from my post-10k-run jaunt to the pub last night. You'll be pleased to know however that I was home by 9pm and was even early for work today. And for those of you that don't 'do' Twitter, here is that evidence . . . 

1. I'm clearly too cynical for pubs like the Normanby. Where is my cynical male co-conspirator? I'll never meet him at a place like this.8:44 PM Aug 30th from Tweetie

2. Anne=uber nerd. Cute boy walks past and I think "ew. He smells. Clearly our MHCs are too similar".7:40 PM Aug 30th from Tweetie

3. Peter Andre. He makese smile.7:13 PM Aug 30th from Tweetie

4. Boozed at 7pm on a Sunday. Atrocious.7:01 PM Aug 30th from Tweetie

5. There are a lot of maxi dresses here. And I know, they must be comfortable. But they're not always flattering.6:54 PM Aug 30th from Tweetie

6. I really do love people watching in pubs. Hilarious.6:37 PM Aug 30th from Tweetie

7. I was prepared to see many things tonight. But a man wearing a denhim vest w cargo pants and thongs. I wasn't ready for that.6:31 PM Aug 30th from Tweetie

8. Man. There are some passive aggressive biatches in this toilet queue. Harsh. But fair.6:15 PM Aug 30th from Tweetie

9. Oh and!! How comforting is this? http://yfrog.com/9dt2aj5:55 PM Aug 30th from Tweetie

10. I ran 10kms today. I totally deserve cocktails.http://yfrog.com/24f5dj5:51 PM Aug 30th from Tweetie