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Wednesday, 31 July 2013

One of the Boys



So it’s been a while, clearly. I do apologise boys, but this gal has been ever so slightly engulfed with work. Not a bad thing, at all – though the side effects do include some minor neglect on my part. For this, I’m sorry.

*quick boob flash*
There. Can we be friends again?
Great!
So this month I’ve been doing my utmost best to budget properly – which as you know, for all woman, is a tough task. I don’t know that you’ll ever understand why it is that when we are sad/busy/stressed/celebrating/pms’ing/angry/confused we HAVE to swipe plastic at Zara, or nose dive into a strawberry milkshake, or book ourselves a 90 minute Dermalogica facial… but we do. The same way you need to drink beer and build shit and kick a ball.
As I was tallying up my expected expenses for the month and stealing penny’s here and there for an upcoming trip and a long awaited booze fest… I got to thinking a little bit about currency, and how you okes calculate things so differently to us mysterious creatures. Let me elaborate… and illuminate the possibilities.
*whizzing puff of smoke*
You’ve all heard or read somewhere or had some cousin tell you, that woman really appreciate the small things as well as the big. I have the sneakiest suspicion, that in your minds you’re all like: “Uh, no they don’t. If I open a car door, it’s not the same as if I’m like providing for someone?” Well, this is debatable. You see, woman appreciate acts of love on a kind of point system if you will. We’re as overwhelmed and excited about something as silly as you buying us a single rose as we are about a going on a holiday together. Any act of love that we get, is appreciated equally. And this is a tough one for you fellas because you work things quite differently – you appreciate things in “chunks” and sometimes this means the absence of an act, like when your lady doesn’t point out when you are wrong, force you to get directions or nag you to come home when you are out with the boys.  The accounting may look a little something like this:
A Woman’s Balance Sheet:Cooked me dinner – 1
Sent me a good morning msg – 1
Sorted out my expired car license – 1
Changed all my light bulbs – 1
Told me I was beautiful – 1
Bought me flowers – 1
A Man’s Balance Sheet:Made me lunch– 0
Watched my soccer game – 0
Congratulated me about a new deal at work – 0
Happy to see me, even though I came home 2 hours late - 6
Am I saying you should stop with the grand romantic gestures? NO!  We love that shit. Even if we say we don’t – we totally do. I’m saying that a woman’s primary requirement is to feel cherished in a relationship – we need lots of small bits of reassurance that you love us and that we are super special. What makes a dude feel appreciated and loved? Go on… admit it, you need to feel needed and you need to feel like we trust you to take care of us. And we could learn a thing or two about showing it – but it’s tough, as we clearly tally things up differently.
Go home tonight and fill your special miss’s account with lots of little tokens of appreciation! Run her a bath, clean up after dinner, tell her you love her, listen to how tough her day was and how no one gets her and how so and so is such a selfish bitch and then - wait for a return on your investment.  When a woman feels valued and special – she finds it a lot easier to let herself need and trust you.
That’s my 2 cents!

 

 

Wednesday, 24 July 2013

Somewhere Over The Rainbow


 
 
There are times when a girl is running around so fast that her heels barely cluck at the floor as she whizzes by, conquering the universe. Is this girl I speak of, me? Well, yes. Yes it is.
I’m talking crazy busy. Crazy, I-don’t-even-remember-what-my-friends-look-like-anymore busy. Crazy yes-I-am-writing-a-proposal-on-the-excercise-bike-don’t-look-at-me-like-that busy. Crazy I-think-my-hymen-might-have-grown-back busy. CRAZY! She says, ferociously typing a text in one hand, sipping merlot with the other and somehow typing up a storm to a readership that’s been horribly neglected of late, in between.
Multi-tasking – you are my bitch. And it sort of makes me feel like a rock star. Which is usually when life sweeps in and pulls the power cable on the opening night of your’ sold out concert. Sigh. And just before my big guitar solo.
The true story to this tale is long, involved and depressing. It feels like it dates back to when I still had an umbilical cord and I’m tired of reciting it in long monologues to myself when I’m in traffic. Thus, you shan’t be getting the long version. Unless you find yourself in the horrors of William Nicol, in which case – wind down your window and weep with me.
I am not perfect. Not on the outside, not on the inside. Know why? Because NO ONE is. It sucks, because you really WANT to be perfect until you grow up and realise that “perfect” is kind of uninteresting, that flaws are like those undiscovered gems in a vintage shop that everyone overlooks, but that are actually sort of spectacular. They make things real. They give life grit. They force you to break stereotypes, create poetry, abandon the same-old and above all they allow you to give the greatest gift you hold in your possession. Your vulnerability.
My inner dialogue has shifted in the last 10 years, quite dramatically. It has gone from a dark and empty grey landscape inhabited with crows that continuously cry out You’re not good enough’s, You’re underwhelming’s and You’ll never find someone who thinks any different‘s so something quite the opposite. Hard to imagine crows could cry out so eloquently but let me tell you, that place was unimaginably awful. And then something wonderful happened, quite out of the blue.
It started with the smallest quivering ray of light - sometimes I couldn’t be sure it was even there, breaching the thick black clouds of maddening put downs and bone chilling criticism. It started to feel warmer, softer and lighter and the echoing voices of a warped reality started dulling down. So much so, that one day I began to see a rainbow, beaming down onto my world and filling it with the most fuzziest and fantastical feelings.
I would stare at it, shy to even let it touch my skin or permeate my heart. I’d sit for hours, like a school kid staring out of a window at the perfect summer’s day, restless of being confined inside. I’d spend hours just imagining what it might be doing in my universe, what stories it could tell me, what it would feel like to slide down its multi-coloured glittery rays, frivolously, like foefie slide. Like it was nothing. Like it was supposed to be there all along.
I’d close my eyes and picture what it would be like on the other side of that rainbow. I’d picture a world where I was enough. Where I mattered. Where I was special, important and celebrated. I pictured hearing no one else’s voice but my own, telling me what I had always secretly wanted to believe – that I was worth a million bucks. That I was beautiful. That anyone who wanted to take a few steps next to me would leap at the chance. Just as I was, (remember the imperfect person I mentioned earlier), not a little skinnier, a little smarter, a little less reckless, a little more than. Just. As. I was.
I secretly hoped the rainbow had super powers and that anyone around me would see me as striking as my heart was. That my passion, valour, confidence, and loyalty would determine the beauty of the outward shell that it was all cased in. I spent enough hours believing it to be almost true, that it sort of was. I emigrated from this grotty hole, into an abundance of loveliness. And it was good. But that’s the thing about good things, they can be tough to hold on to… especially when the rest of the world wants you back in the dark, for a million reasons that I’ll never understand.
The other day I was braiding daisy headbands, singing folk songs, running barefoot through candyfloss forests (yes, I even multitask in my weird happy fantasies), when it happened. There it was. A shadow of doubt.
Now if you’ve come into contact with a shadow of doubt – you know what menacing little vermin they can be. Subtle. Sneaky. Stupendously Sly Bastards. They slip out of the mouths of people we love and trust. People we want so desperately to see the greatness that we hold cautiously close to us. And out it slipped, as if in slow motion… like a haunting black smoke that suddenly filled the room and suffocated all the confidence I’d worked so hard to collect. It engulfed me, and when I looked around for a hero, I was alone. That’s the tricky thing about doubt, you’re the only one who can save yourself from it.
They say a rainbow is an arch of colours formed in the sky, caused by a refraction and dispersion of the suns light by rain. Well, that’s what Google says. I think there may be something to this theory. Maybe our greatest and strongest colours, shine the brightest when there’s stormy weather and raindrops to challenge the sun and the light in our hearts. Maybe there really is a pot of gold – but it doesn’t present itself the way I thought it would – held in the hands of someone or something else. Yes, yes, you can all take a moment to picture a deliciously handsome scantily clothed leprechaun showering you in gold coins and endless cunnilingus. We all have our things. Actually every woman has THAT thing. *wink* *I know right?*.  
My pot of gold is simple and I sure hope it’s in my reach. When I get to the end of my rainbow, I will be surrounded by people who only believe the best in me – who look at me and can’t picture me any different. Who love that I’m filled with flaws, but innately see through them to my true colours. But that won’t matter, because I’ll see that too and I’ll really believe it… in every shade of magenta, indigo and emerald.
Somewhere, somehow. Once in a Lullaby.