KH COMMENTARY: Who's Name Is It Anyway?

Meeting new people is always a verbal struggle for me. Not because I’m shy or socially inept or suffer from some kind of conversational phobia which causes me to turn bipolar. It’s because when it comes to introducing my self, the conversation always goes somewhat like this:

“So, what’s your name?”
“It’s Kristen.”
“Christeen?”
“No, Kristen.”
“Oh, I see. Kristy.”
“No, Kristen."
“Kirsten?
“No, KRISTEN!”
“Right. Sorry there, Courtney”

I’ve suffered through this same conversation so many times, I’ve come to hate the sound of my own name. Occasionally, I’ll throw a spanner in the works and say my name is Kate so I can save myself from banging my head against the wall when the inevitable dyslexic banter begins.

This whole issue could have been avoided had the responsibility of my naming been given to myself rather than my parents. But did I get a say? Did I even get a vote? No, my parents went right ahead and christened me Kristen, resigning me to a life spent constantly correcting people (a trait which, believe me, strangers do not find endearing).

It really doesn’t seem fair that the one thing we’re stuck with for the rest of our breathing lives is beyond our control and opinion. We’ve got no rights when it comes to the name we will be known as for the next 90 years. We’re completely at the disposal of the two people who bore us. We can only gurgle in hope that they’ll have more sense than Gwenyth Paltrow and Nicole Kidman put together. Imagine Apple and Sunday Roast when they’re old enough to wonder what in the nine circles of hell their parents were smoking, when they decided to name their offspring after a fruit and a weekend dinner dish. Luckily, celebrity spawn such as these have a large enough inheritance to fund the years of therapy they’ll need to survive eternal tabloid torture.

Indeed, there is nothing quite as dangerous as a celebrity in possession of two brain cells to rub together. Naming your child Fifi Trixibelle is proof in the baby pudding that while adults may be older, they are certainly no wiser than their newly born infant when it comes to generating a name that sticks. When you’re name is Moxie CrimeFighter, one can only wonder where some of these lightning bolts of inspiration stem from.

If this is the case, perhaps my parents were concerned that by handing over the naming rights, they would end up with a daughter known as Barbie or Big Ted or Gemima Puddleduck. I’d like to think they’d have greater faith in me than that, but apparently they thought Kristen was a safer bet than anything I could have come up with at the observant age of four.

However, what my parents failed to realise upon whacking my whacky name on a birth certificate is that what appears to be a simple, two-syllable name has about a trillion different variations thanks to its phonetic sounds – Kristian, Kristy, Kristeen, Kristina, Kirsten, Kirsty and Kirsteen. Trying to get my name out as clearly as possible generally involves firing so much spit at the other person, they require a bathing suit. Add a few alcoholic beverages and some dance music to that equation and they may as well drown in my saliva.

However, I can remain grateful to my parents for one thing. Being born a child to the Baby Boomers saved me from the type of over-indulgent spelling burdened upon The Millennial babies. Krystynn, not only looks like the result of a chemical imbalance, but just has way too many Ys for my liking.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex)

MAIL BOX: Dear Australians everywhere

Dear Australians everywhere,

RE: Your support of our Aussie Olympians battling it out for some limelight at the 2010 Olympic Winter Games in Vancouver.

Firstly, I get it. Each to their own. Some of us like to stay up to the wee hours of the morning watching the playbacks of the Winter Games until our eyes turn to squares and we start believing Eddie McGuire might be a normal human being, and some of us don't. I get it and usually I am all for enjoying what you like and liking what you enjoy but when it comes to the Olympics and to our homegrown heroes, a certain amount of interest is paramount.

It's been a little over a week since the Winter Games kicked off in Vancouver and I have been there to watch every thrill, spill and chill. I have sat on the couch, convulsing with excitement as the best in the business offer their all in hope of placing in the top three. Skiers, snowboarders, skaters and speed demons have kept me captivated by their activities in Vancouver. What these athletes (and they are athletes) sign up for is a dedication to the extreme. They achieve extreme things. They put their bodies on the line to achieve things you and I couldn't even deem to be possible.

This is what makes the Winter Olympics so bloody fantastic. That these people are achieving such terrifying and terrific feats on a world stage where the pressure of every eye is upon them. Well, almost every eye.

Which brings me to my point. While I understand the Winter Olympics doesn't capture everyone's attention quite like my own, it should not retract from the amazing things these athletes are accomplishing - ours in particular. On Friday, our very own Torah Bright became the fourth athlete EVER from Australia to win an Olympic gold medal. Placing first in the women's half pipe, she has now won every major snowboarding competition in the world. She is, to put it quite simply, the best.

And I was shocked, dear Australians, to see how little excitement reveberated around Australia when this blessed event happened. How little celebration, how little interest was shown by every day individuals at her taking top marks and putting Australia above every other country in the world in the snowboarding arena. Even if you have no interest in snowboarding at all - like I have no interest in fly fishing - for a single person to go out representing Australia and come home as the undefeated best, that is something that should be celebrated by every Aussie.

And it's the same regardless of whether we win or come in last. These people are athletes performing on a world stage, representing out country and we have so much that's worth representing. To show a little interest, a little pride, a little support for them as they take on the best in the world on behalf of you and I, well it would be unAustralian not to.

You've got one week left, Australia. Make it count and watch with pride as your athletes take on the world.

Ciao for now. xo
(Image Credit: Merced Sun-Star)

KH COMMENTARY: Speed Daters

A certain individual of some importance and closeness to me who will remain completely unidentified for the sake of her reputation (and for the sake of my pretty face which she will put her fist in if I let so much as her initials slip out) had an interesting experience the other night. Having recently been on three dates with a boy, all PG-rated, she became the recipient of a bit of Valentine's Day gift giving - a box of chocolates to mark the mighty hallmark holiday. 

This wouldn't have been a problem if it weren't for a few small, not necessarily life-threatening, but nevertheless important things:

1. She hates Valentine's Day. Not in that, "I hate Valentine's Day, but am keeping all fingers, toes and apendages crossed and am saying fifty Hail Mary's that somebody gives me a box of chocolates" way that some women 'hate' Valentine's Day. She really does, actually, hate Valentine's Day and couldn't care if her seven-year-long boyfriend or the boy she's been on three PG-rated dates with gave her a box of chocolates or not. 

2. Despite 'telling' or more so 'obviously hinting' to this boy that she didn't want to do or receive anything for Valentine's Day, she still ended up the recipient of a box of chocolates. And feeling like her words go through one ear and out the other, just don't sit well with her.

3. She doesn't like chocolates - not really. Come on, who doesn't like chocolates?

4. In the space of a fortnight, she'd been out with him three times and received at least one communication from him every day. For someone who is feeling mutually affectionate, this would be good news. For someone who is feeling smothered, this is like a blanket.

5. And this being the kicker so get ready for it - before the box of chocolate gift-giving, she was planning on ending it. But because of the chocolate gift-giving, she now has a box of chocolates, a boyfriend she's not quite sure how she got and a really awkward conversation coming her way.

But so it is with speed daters. I'm not talking about a bunch of single guys and gals sitting around a coffee shop rotating between five minute conversations in the hope that they become Mr or Mrs Right. 'Speed daters' are another thing entirely. They're the kind of boy or girl who launch into a relationship before it can officially be coined 'a relationship' and take things a little too fast and furious (and only if you're lucky, do they look like Vin Deisel or Paul Walker and if they do... then what the hell are you complaining about!?)

'Speed daters' are difficult to handle because they're usually really sweet, but the kind that perhaps don't see a relationship come around too often so when it does, want to grab onto it with both hands and never ever EVER let it go. They just want to do everything right by you and 'the relationship, that they consequently end up doing everything wrong - over-messaging, over-complimenting, over-everythinging to the point where 'the relationship' becomes so lop-sided it's limping.

But it's hard to hate speed daters because usually, they're not even aware they're doing it. What they think is a harmless Valentine's Day box of chocolates is a bright red ABORT button to the person they're dating. They're like a kid who thinks they're helping mum clean up the house but are actually making even more of a mess - totally oblivious to the fact that they might be doing something wrong.

Taking further action with a speed dater depends on the speed you'd prefer against the severity of his current speed (once again, if they look anything like Keanu Reeves well then... you're just being picky). Use these following examples as a guide:

60 in a 40 Zone: You're going a little faster than intended. He's a bit too eager to catch up and there's a spot of over-messaging. If you really like him and think he might just be a bit over-eager, then gently tapping on the breaks ought to do the job - a few friendly words should bring him back under the limit. But remember, 40 is a danger zone so the sooner you slow things down, the better.

80 in a 40 Zone:  It's been a fortnight and he's calling himself your boyfriend. He's put it into fourth gear and if he isn't stopped, there's going to be a fatality. Best to slam on the breaks and get out of the vehicle while you can. 

100 in a 40 Zone: He wants you to meet his parents - on the second date. Too fast, way way too fast. Call the police yourself. Somebody needs to pull him over.  

120 in a 40 Zone: For the first date, he invites you to his house for dinner where you see he's doodled your married name on a peice of scrap paper. GET OUT OF THE CAR!

140 in a 40 Zone: He proposes over 'casual drinks' and you end up in a head-on collision.

Needless to say, when it comes to speed daters, speed is no one's friend (or boyfriend).

But then again, you do end up with a hell of a lot of chocolate.

Ciao for now. xo 

KH COMMENTARY: What NOT to do when you meet one of your idols

Last week, whilst waitressing, I met one of my idols.

And I gushed.

Oh, did I ever. I gushed like an un-clogged fawcet. I gushed like a storm-water drain in the middle of a down pour. I gushed so much I may as well have drowned myself.

And who was this idol, I hear you ask? Who was this idol that caused me to gush like an over-enthusiastic stage mother?

The one and only - Jane Caro.

Now, I get that this name may not set off any bells for you and I get that you're probably reading this thinking, "Who the eff is Jane Caro, KH?" But the one and only Jane Caro is the epitome of fabulous. If you watch The Gruen Transfer, you would know of who I speak. She's a freelance copy-writer and author and she isn't afraid to speak her mind about all things feminism. For young girly guns starting out in the media industry, like myself, she is the kind of woman we want to be. Strong, successful and an independent thinker.

So when I was suddenly taking Jane Caro's order for a latte, I couldn't help myself. Before I knew it, there were words coming out of my mouth without my having any control over them. And of all the things, ALL THE THINGS, I could have said to her - about my appreciation of her feminist views and the strong independent role model I thought she was - these are the words that came out of my rotten mouth:

"Oh my gosh, I'm your biggest fan!"

No, "It's such a pleasure to meet you, Jane Caro." No, "I think what you've accomplished in the industry is motivating for young writers like myself." Nothing which reflected any kind of maturity, wit or class. I had to go and say "Oh my gosh, I'm your biggest fan" and consequently look like the biggest gushiest loser ever to speak words out loud.

Needless to say, she coped with my gushing with all the grace of a true mentor. She said she was really flattered and that I'd made her day and she'd never been recognised with such enthusiasm before (cringe). To which I lavished her with more gushing about my favourite Gruen Transfer episode where she reviewed the advertising surrounding pads and tampons (double, triple, cadrouple cringe).
When she left, she shook my hand and said it was a pleasure meeting me to which I responded by kneeling down and kissing her feet.

Just kidding.

God, just imagine if I met Barack Obama? Or worse, Britney Spears?

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: Life As A Musical

A friend of mine recently celebrated her 21st birthday and the theme she chose for her party was 'Life As A Musical.'

(NB. What a great theme, right? I am constantly impressed by people who have the brain cells to think outside the box. None of this 70s/Something beginning with 'P'/Favourite movie star nonsense. I do love a good party and I do love a good party-theme to go along with it.)

While I didn't actually attend the party (partly because I wasn't invited and partly because I live in a different state, but mostly because I wasn't invited), my Bestie and I got to talking about what musical character we would have dressed up as if we had indeed attended the party. This resulted in us singing our favourite musical numbers at the top of our lungs, which was slighly attention-seeking given that we were swimming at Sydney's Camp Cove at the time.

When it comes to musicals, you either love 'em or you hate 'em and if you hate 'em then you're a sad sad little person because who doesn't love musicals? The singing, the dancing, the facial expressions, the set design, the orchestra, the programs and the nerve-clinching moment when the lights go down and the curtain goes up and it all begins. It's enough to make you want to wet your pants.

Admitedly, musicals do have a tendency of being a bit sugary so it's really no wonder that when you combine that with a romantic story-line and Zac Efron's fringe, you'd get a house pleaser like High School Musical.

But it's not the sugar (or Zac Efron's hair cut) that I love about musicals. In a musical, everything the characters feel - whether it be anger or angst or affection - is all felt out loud, on stage. Nothing is secreted away and hidden because that would ruin the story or wouldn't make a story at all. The characters are bound by their emotions and in doing so, feel each one of them at their greatest capacity. No wonder they burst out in song and dance every few minutes. They are unable to suffocate it inside them. When what you feel is such an extreme and honest version of the reality, why would you even want to try and tame it?

So, what if life really was a musical? What if you could just bust out in song whenever you please - like my Bestie and I at Camp Cove - without anyone looking at you like you're an escapee from the Insane Asylum? What if everything you feel could be felt out loud and at the absolute brink of honesty? What if, instead of feeling our joy on simply a surface level, we could physically celebrate it in a crowd-raising, choreographed song and dance number?

Nothing can be small on stage. Everything is big and bright and loud and fuelled by a nerve-racking motivation to do justice to every emotion, activity and action being represented. There is no embarrasment. There is no shyness. Everything is magnified. Everything is felt.

Oh, if life were a musical.

KH COMMENTARY: You've Got (No) Mail

I'm being ignored by a technological device - my email to be exact. You know how there are some people who are rudimentally connected to their mobile phone? The type that must always have it on their person, or in their bag or on the bedside table and if it breaks or is lost or is simply left at home by accident, they become a nervous wreck and go to extreme lengths to have the situation rectified immediately?

That's what I'm like - but with my email account.

It's the first thing I check in the morning and it is systematically checked ever few minutes for the rest of the day. If something happens to my internet connection, I flip out like an addict unable to tap into their source. There's nothing I enjoy quite so much as seeing the Inbox link in bold, notifying me that I have emails waiting to be opened.  I feel important. I feel regarded. I feel busy. But when there's nothing, when the Inbox link remains in the same boring font, I become twitchy.

It's not like I'm sitting at home waiting for Viagra advertisements or newsletters from MyerOne. I'm sitting at home waiting for work. When you're a freelance writer and emailing is your one source of communication with the world beyond the four walls of your work space, having emails or not having emails is in direct relation to your work load and therefore, bank balance. Regular emails = busy and employed. No emails = bored and poor. And the longer you go without receiving any written communication, the more aware you become of all the money going out and the lack of money coming in.

But now my email obsession is contributing more anxiety to my life as it becomes the primary means of contact for more than just my freelancing work. As I am planning to travel overseas in June, I have been forced to look for temporary work in order to amp up the bank funds and email remains the primary means of contact for the agencies I have applied with. The less correspondance I receive, the less work I am being offered, the less money I am making and the less is being saved in my anorexic piggy bank.

Email has even invaded my overseas plans. As I have applied to work as a camp counsellor in the USA starting in June, the placement company I am using maintain all contact regarding my application through email correspondance. If they have any news to tell me, it will be via email. As I am currently waiting to hear from them about where in the USA I have been placed and at what camp, every day is like perching on the edge of your seat, waiting to find out whether you won the Academy Award. I can't speed up the process and I will only be notified once I have been accepted to a camp. I must simply sit and wait. In this circumstance, no news is not good news. No news means I haven't been placed. No news is bad. Very very bad.

So what do I do to feel more in control of these nauseating problems? I check my email like my life, and the lives of everybody else in the solar system, rely on it. I check it so often that if I had a dollar for every time I clicked the Inbox link, I could fund my overseas trip without ever having to work again.  

Essentially, I am in a destructive relationship with my email account, wherein, it takes as much as it likes and gives little back. And the more emails I send out in hope that I will reap responses in return, the greater my expectations become of my email and the more regularly I attempt to check it. It has become a love/hate existence. On good days, my email is a blessing. It bears good news or simply just news itself and I am left feeling satisfied by what it has offered. But on bad days, which can quickly slide into a bad week, it brings me nothing but disappointment. It doesn't bare anything and the inbox remains barren.

Technology sure makes for one selfish, illiterate boyfriend.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex)