Keep your thoughts, and your Facebook posts, to yourself

I don't begrudge those who are in love. It must be a wonderful time. A time for existing in your own couply bubble. A time for getting comfortable with all the things you despise about yourself. A time for getting comfortable with all the things you despise about someone else. A time for feeling all gooey and mushy inside. I don't begrudge any of this. I just don't appreciate it when someone else's romantic goo and mush gets all over my life.

You know what I'm talking about - PDAing. Public Displays of Affection. Not being able to turn a street corner without seeing two people practically jumping each other or playing a spot of tonsil hockey or rubbing noses or cooching and cooing each other. Train platforms, bus stations, Myers cosmetic counters, the park bench, McDonalds. Like pigeons, PDAers are everywhere.

And now, they're on Facebook too.

PFAs - Public Facebooks of Affection.

Example -

Sarah Needy is missing her man. He ducked out to get some milk and it feels like eternity!

Jenny Overshare is sooo lucky to have a boyfriend who'll massage her bunions after a long day at the office.

Sally Obsessed is deciding whether to polish her engagement ring or try on her wedding dress again. Hope my hubby-to-be doesn't come home with a surprise bunch of flowers and catch me out!

Um...bucket anyone? Or maybe a spew bag?

It doesn't stop there though. It gets better...or worse. PFAing is not limited to profile updates alone. There are those PFAers who like to take it one step further and post their viciously vomitous PFAs on each other's walls, subjecting the rest of their Facebook community to the ins-and-outs of every romantic thought, notion or activity which might occur in the day-to-day happenings of their relationship.

Molly Mad-Hatter > Peter Pumkin-Eater: just in case u forgot, your da man of my dreamz. xoxoxox

Peter Pumpkin-Eater > Molly Mad-Hatter: ditto. except your not a man. 

Molly Mad-Hatter > Peter Pumpkin-Eater: i can't wait until i becum Mrs. Molly Mad-Hatter-Pumpkin-Eater. xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Peter Pumpkin-Eater > Molly Mad-Hatter: I can't wait 2.

Molly Mad-Hatter > Peter Pumpkin-Eater: I love you pumpy-wumple-kins. xoxxoxox

Peter Pumpkin-Eater > Molly Mad-Hatter: me 2 molly-jolly-wobbles.

(NB. All stupid spellings and TXT-references included in this example are not a representation of the grammatical abilities of this writer. They are merely a representation of the idiocy of Generation Y and what this writer believes to be further proof that 70 percent of those highschoolers who graduated between 2003 and the present must have flunked English.)

So maybe a slight over-exaggeration but you get the point.

The thing is that PFAers don't really see the sticky line of goo and mush they trail across their Facebook pages. They post these things completely unawares to the hacking-and-gagging happening on their friends' computer screens all over the planet. Why? Because they are happily bobbing about in their little Bubble Of Coupledom. And when you live in the little Bubble Of Coupledom, who gives a flying fart what's going on outside? You've got each other and the Bubble's thin film of smugness to surround you and keep you warm at night.

I'm not jealous, of course. In fact, if someone posted something so romantically wretch-worthy and with so many damn spelling mistakes on my Facebook wall, the relationship would fast meet a gooey, mushy end.

So take that, Molly Mad-Hatter.

Ciao for now. xo

P.S. I just re-read this to check for spelling mistakes before posting and decided that maybe I'm becoming a little too cynical in my twenty-something age. Then I checked my Facebook and spotted a PFAer operating without a license and almost gagged all over my freshly purchased sunflowers. So whatever. Cynicsm rules. We might just get married. Isn't that right, cynny-winni-cisms. xoxoxoxoxo

(Image Credit: Le Love)

Dressed to (Un)Impress

When you're looking absolutely atrocious and you're hair is so oily you're not allowed anywhere near the ocean for fear of oil slick and you're wearing your favourite tracky pants with that t-shirt you got playing netball back in 1984 and you're wearing no make-up and no perfume, and occassionally, no deoderant and you're about to walk out the front door to run an errand or get some milk, there's always a moment. A pause. A consideration. Should I get changed? Should I put something else on just in case I run into someone I know or like or used to like or got down and dirty on the dancefloor with that time?

And sometimes, vanity gets the best of us and we have a power shower before leaving the house and of course, based on this alone, don't end up seeing anybody we know.

But then there's those times, that against all better judgement, we think, "Oh, it'll be fine! I'm only running to the shops for five minutes." And in doing so, tempt the Gods to embarrass us by any means possible. And that usually involves inevitably running into the last person on earth you want to see looking the way you do.

On Monday, the Gods made a fool of me in exactly this fashion.

With the winter weather being as chilly as it is, I was kicking around the house in my favourite pair of 10-year-old tracky dacks with my greasy hair slicked back into a pony tail - I was looking about as dapper as a drug addict. When Sister Dearest suggested we should do a load of groceries, I thought perhaps I should change. But the trackies were just too comfortable to replace with a pair of arse/thigh/calve-contriscting jeans, so on went a pair of pluggers and out the door we skipped.

It took about 60 seconds from the time I parked the car and walked into Coles before the inevitable happened. There, standing in the middle of the fruit and vege buying a Perssimon, was the Hot Dish Pig.

Who is the Hot Dish Pig I hear you ask?

Hot Dish Pig is the glass collector (also known as, a glassie) who works at my local pub and without fail, is there collecting glasses like his life depends on it EVERY TIME I pay the pub a visit. And he looks looks like a sex god.

Because I don't know his name, nor anything else about him, he has been christened the Hot Dish Pig (I realise that a dish pig and a glassie aren't the same thing, but it was the first thing I came up with when I saw him and it's sort of stuck since then). Anyway, I think he is nothing short of gorgeous. I also like to think that working as a glassie isn't his only vocation - that really he's a struggling muso/artist/writer that is looking for a muse who looks exactly like I do. But for now, the fact that he can carry 20 glasses at a time is the only thing I know about him.

I probably don't need to point this out, but we've never spoken. Ever.

Anyway, so there in the fruit and vege buying a Persimmon was the Hot Dish Pig. (I don't know if it was actually a Pesimmon he was buying. I'd like to think it was a Pesimmon. I'd like to think that an interest in exotic fruits from Japan is one of Hot Dish Pig's special traits. It's what I love most about him). And there standing across from him with her jaw dragging along the ground and her cheeks burning an attractive shade of red, wearing tracky dacks and a hair slick, was me - looking like a true Surry Hills local.

So what did I do? I made an emergency phone call to Bestie to tell her what had happened and spent the next 10 minutes trying to stalk him in Coles without him seeing me or recognising me as 'that girl' from the pub who makes shameless sex eyes in his direction when I've had a few too many beers on a Friday Night.

Unfortunately and not surprisingly, this story doesn't tie up nice and neatly like some some kind of sickening rom-com. We didn't reach for the same tin of creamed corn and he didn't offer me the last loaf of bread which went on to be the beginning of a beautiful happy ever after. Why? Because I looked positively feral? Afraid not. I'm guessing that it has something to do with the fact that I was so embarrassed at being caught looking like myself that I made a conscious effort not to make so much as a breach of eye contact with him.

When I berated about it later to Bestie, arguing that this could have been THE moment had I not looked like ass, she brought up a good point. If you only ever run into people you're interested in when you're looking like you crawled out of a drain, isn't that a good enough reason to look terrible all the time? Because if you spent hours primping and preening and ensuring you're not one stray eyebrow hair away from perfection, it practically insures you'll never accidently run into anybody you like. I could have changed into a pair of jeans when I was going to, but then Murphy's Law would have made sure Hot Dish Pig didn't decide to do his shopping at the same time as me and I wouldn't have seen him at all. And been reminded how divine I think he is. And how much I should just pluck up the courage and ask him his name.

Murphy, the Gods or The God - whoever you think is behind the controls of our romantic destiny - sure has one sick sense of humour.

Ciao for now. xo

A Hole Lot of Effort

The time came a few weeks ago when I had to undertake that task which befalls us all some stage. I tried to shimmy out of it. I kept putting it off and putting it off and putting it off. I tried to convince myself there was nothing wrong. But eventually, I knew I was living in denial. I knew the time had come. So I called up the dentist and I made an appointment.

That was three weeks ago. Today I went back for the second time to have two fillings done. Oh delight.

I've had a fair amount of fillings in my time. There's a few reasons for this - I sucked my thumb as a kid, I have acidic saliva, whatever. Getting a filling is pretty standard when I make a trip to the dentist. Another hole? Fill 'er up.

It's kind of crazy that a cavity, something the size of a pin prick, takes so much effort to fix. There's a whole dentist tool belt required just to fill one up. There's squeally drills and vibrating drills and drills which feel like they're digging a trench right down to your gums. There's the sucky tube and tweezers and pliers and God knows what else, poking and prodding around. You'd think they were filling in a pot hole, let alone a cavity.

It would be so much easier just to let it go, wouldn't it? Just to let the cavity exist and even despite the pain, go along existing with it. I mean, that's what we do with every other aspect of our lives. We know there are holes in our relationships, holes in our confidence, holes in our self-esteem, holes in our happiness. We've got all the tools to fill them up, to smooth them off and to move on in a state of completeness, but we don't.

Because after awhile, we start to like the shape of them. They become familiar to us. They become a part of our identity and filling in the hole would make us feel different. Complete, yes. But not necessarily any better. The holes claim things and cause things and make us angry and frustrated and sad, but despite all the pain they inflict, filling them in would be more painful. Filling them in means change.

I write this with a fat lip. A lip so fat I feel like a walrus. I caught the train home with a hundred hot men and I wasn't able to smile at any of them because my cheeks were too numb to show any emotion. I have a sore back from the dentist chair and am not allowed to eat for another hour. And, while I may no longer have a cavity in my tooth, I now have a huge cavity in my credit card. Everything about this situation sucks and is proof that there's nothing worse than filling in holes.

Alice in Wonderland sure would have turned out differently had they filled that rabbit hole in with cement.

Ciao for now. xo

Life vs. Art or Art vs. Life?

When the time comes when you can remember particular quotes, story lines and outfits from Sex and the City, right down to the very episode name, it's definitely time to a). consider why that's the only thing you have to offer on your resume. b). look at yourself for a long time in the mirror or c.) stage an intervention.

So in order to cure myself of my Sex in the City addiction, I'm going cold turkey. But while I realise most rehabilitation centres probably wouldn't recommend replacing one addication with another, I am replacing Sex in the City with a new television series with which to see the world.

The Secret Life of Us.

Having not watched it on TV the first time around, I am finding sweet sweet satisfaction in The Secret Life of Us. It's almost...ALMOST...on par with Sex in the City. Not in terms of fashion (as the 90s truly was a hideous time for men and women alike) and not in terms of New York (I'm afraid Melbourne's St. Kilda plays a sad second fiddle) but in terms of everything that is heart-renchingly, rip-your-guts-out realistic about relationships.

Here you have eight normal people, living normal lives and doing normal things - like eating dry Corn Flakes out of the packet on the way home from the shops - and it's this uncontrived realism that makes The Secret Life of Us so addictive. It's their thought processes, the way they behave, the messes they get themselves in and out of - it's so relative that it feels like you're watching your own life on television.

Which is what got me thinking - are 'we' the stimulus for these kinds of shows or are these kinds of shows the stimulus for the way we behave? Do we see ourselves in the characters created in The Secret Life of Us and Sex in the City because they're based on us or because we're based on them?

We watch these kinds of television shows because we want to escape the daily life, the daily grind of duty and responsibility and reality, but is it reality (or a version therefore) that we're actually escaping to? While there are certainly elements of unbelievability about Sex and the City - I mean what kind of writer can afford Jimmy Choos and Prada when their only source of income in a weekily column - what about The Secret Life of Us? There is certainly nothing contrived about their lives. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn't. There are no loose ends tied up into pretty bows for the sake of a happy ending. Sometimes those loose ends are just left to blow in the breeze. They don't live outside their means. They live realistic lives and have realistic relationships and the more I watch, the more I get caught up in their 'reality'.

Or should that be 'our' reality? If the lives of the characters I am watching are so relative to my own, perhaps it works the other way too. Perhaps I am in fact flaking out in front of the television set watching myself and marvelling at my own human abilities and ineptness?

Maybe that's what makes it such thrilling television. It has all the thrills and spills of life's little rollecoaster and all you have to do is buckle yourself into the couch. It's like watching your life without actually having to live it. And when the times get tough, when you're caught in a love triangle or when you think you might be gay or you're dumped by the love of your life, you can switch off and escape back to reality.

I can't work out if that's a sad revelation or not.

Ciao for now. xo