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)

SIDE NOTE: Thought Process behind 'The 10 Second Rule'

I found this picture on Audrey Hepburn Complex and it felt like someone had crept inside my head, stollen the thoughts I hide away because they make me sound ridiculous, written them on a black board and published them for the world to see.

Enjoy. xo

KH COMMENTARY: Who's Serving Your Coffee?

The last six months have been pretty life-changing for yours truly. I went from being employed full-time in my much beloved industry to becoming a casualty of the economic crisis. I went from a fortnightly payslip to no pay slip at all. For five long months, I lived off my savings and redundancy while I desperately tried to get my foot back in the door, but it seemed all the doors, windows and cat flaps back into the industry were shut and padlocked.

So I went freelance but while I wrote pitches and waited on commissions, I was still struggling to pay the bills so I was forced to fall back on the only redeemable skill I seem to have - waitressing.

For me, this was a huge kick in my ego pants. I had gone from being the pressed and dressed white-colour worker to the waitress dishing our flat whites and bacon and eggs. It seemed like while I had taken one step forward, I had not turned around and fifteen backwards. I felt like a huge failure and I was very unhappy.

It's been four months since I started working at my cafe and it's taken me four months to realise what a s-n-o-b I had become. I have always seen waitressing as a last resort, a train fast making it's way to the town of Unambition. But since turning in my laptop for a few hours each day in exchange for a docket book and a pen, it's started to give me a new lease on life.

I no longer consider myself second-class. In fact, I consider myself extremely lucky. For five hours every day, I get to be a part of peoples' lives. Whether they're escaping their bosses, offices or responsibilities. Whether they're meeting up with family or old friends or simply taking an hour out of their hectic day to breathe and read the paper. I am not trapped behind a desk and a deadline. I am constantly interacting and learning - not about budgets or business plans or how to make more money. Simply about people. I know their names and how they like their coffee, what their plans are for the weekend and when their babies or grandchildren are due. I notice when I haven't seen the regulars in awhile and the regulars notice when they haven't seen me. I know my customer's preferences and habits and I never tire of seeing that look on their face when I remember something that is particular to them alone. It's a look of appreciation and relief that here, they are valued and remembered.

I am not a waitress. I am witness. And I may not be finding a cure for cancer or driving the economy. I may not be meeting deadlines or designing buildings, fighting for justice or climbing a career ladder. But at the end of the day, I know that I play a part in the lives of the people who are doing all those things and that part is just as important.

So next time you stop by your favourite local coffee distributor (who knows, it might be my cafe!) make sure you say 'Hi' to your waitres. Ask her name, find out what she likes and what she does on the weekend. Because, like you, she's more than just her job.

Ciao for now. xo

Image Credit: Cesca from Girl With A Satchel

MAIL BOX: Dear Prince William

Dear Prince William,

RE: The attention you are receiving upon your current tour Down Under. Don't get too excited (Heaven forbid, should you show show more than an eye-twitch of emotion).

I don't mean for this letter to be cutting or offensive or to hurt your royal feelings. I know you've had a really tough life. Being second in line for the throne must be a huge weight on your mind. I mean, how you manage to pull yourself out of your 1,000,000 thread Egyptian cotten sheets each day is truly commendable. And then you have your crazy family - a father with the personality of wet mop, a step-mother who has the face of a thoroughbred gold-digger, a brother who is a ranga (but a sexy one at that) and a grandmother with a truly spectacular taste in hats. Don't worry, I understand. Life's a bitch.

But as you tour our fine country, I feel there's been a few misunderstandings on your behalf and therefore, was compelled to write this letter in order to set the record straight. If you're going to be our Future King, I want us all to be on the same page, so listen closely and try not get side-tracked by the high-pitched squeals of your dedicated followers.

The first issue I want to address is our relationship. I know everytime you look into the crowd, there's one face in particular you're looking for but I'm sorry to say, I just haven't been there. I know you came to Redfern in particular because you know I live close by and you were keeping your royal fingers crossed that I might rock up to see you, but I'm sorry, I chose to stay home that day and clean out my kitchen drain. I just think our relationship hasn't got the kind of future I can invest in. You need the kind of girl who'll treat every day like it's a trip to the races and wear stupid hats which match her plaid pin skirt. That's just not me. Maybe someone more like that Kate Middleton lass everyone says you've been seeing back in London. If you think you're having trouble getting the family to approve of her, there's no way you want to bring me home to meet Grandma.

The second issue I feel compelled to speak to you about is all this female attention you've been receiving while in Australia. I know it must be a huge boost to your ego and hard not to let your head swell while in the presence of our snap-happy paparazzi, but it seems you're handling it pretty well. That being said, don't get too carried away. While I know you're a top guy, the reason all those women stood out in the January sun hoping you might so much as accidently flick them with your sweat was 20 percent due to your boyish good-looks and about 80 pecent due to the fact that the title that preceeds your name is 'Prince'.

I know it's a hard pill to swallow, but the truth often hurts I'm afraid. And when you break it down, it really has nothing to do with you. It's to do with females in general and our Cinderella Complex. No matter who you are or where you hail from, every woman is hoping that one day a Prince (and we're talking a literal Prince like yourself, not figuratively) will come along and save her from her pathetic life scrubbing the floors. And guaranteed, every woman who flailed her arms in front of you like she was drowning in your very presence was hoping you might see her and immediately know that 'she was the one'.

Blame Princess bloody Mary of Denmark. Until she came along, the Cinderella Complex was metaphorical. We all hoped it might one day happen, but knew that the chances were about 0.000001 to fifty bazillion. But then Frederick spied her in a bar, put a ring on her finger and a crown on her head and turned the Cinderella Complex tangible.

So as you wing your way to Melbourne, where another city of screaming women await your regal presence, try and remember that all this attention is purely a result of thousands of years of fairy tales. That to these women, you are a beautiful idea. A proverbial white night come to potentially save them from having to scrub the floors any longer.

And if one of them loses a slipper, best leave it to the security guards to handle. That's just a little advice from me to you.

All the best on your return to Buckingham Palace. Give Grandma a kiss for me (and your brother as well. I'd ask to pass on more than a kiss, but that would be incestuous and your family have had enough scandal as it is.)

Ciao for now

KH.

KH COMMENTARY: The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

So as I continue my journey through Textbook Romance, I continue to learn more and more about the male species and the art of seducing them with all but a few batted eyelashes and a lip-glossed pout. You could say this book has taken over my life - you could say that, but we won't because that would mean I really am pathetic and I want to live in the Land of Denial for as long as denyingly possible.

But while Zoe Foster has brought up many things which have caused me to stop and consider my current habits, she did make one comment which has lodged itself in my brain like a splinter in your thumb and has forced me to reflect on those things which aren't too pleasant to reflect on

"Every guy comes into your life for a reason, so learn and grow from them blah blah blah..." - or something or other like that.

Hmm...what an interesting and vomitous thought. It was hard enough moving on from those relationships and not-quite-relationships and didn't-even-know-I-existed-one-sided-kinda relationships that I've had (or haven't had, for that matter) that the idea of reflecting on them is as about as pleasant as ripping stitches out of a wound. But if I'm going to do this and going to do it right, I feel it's important to work out what I should have supposedly 'learnt' from my Ghosts of Boyfriends Past.

(This is a work of non-fiction. All men described are in fact real, breathing males, but in order to keep their identities disclosed they will remain un-named and any particularly revealing features undescribed...but you know who you are...)

1. Mr. Caromello Koala - I was in Year Seven, was twelve years old, had finally got rid of my braces and was starting to feel like I had something to offer the male species other than a mouth full of metal - which is never a pretty sight. Mr Caromello Koala (and you'll find out why he was christened with such a name in a minute) thought I was a bit of something/something and asked me if I wanted to 'go out' (which is what you do when your twelve - 'go out' - not really go anywhere or do anything, just 'go out'). I didn't really think all that much of him, but my stomach was thinking a whole lot about the Fundraising Caromello Koalas that were currently on sale at the Canteen. So I told him that I would 'go out' with him if he bought me a Caromello Koala. He didnt:
What I learnt: Black-mailing is not an efficient way of starting a relationship.

2. Mr. First Ever (Rebounding) Boyfriend - I was in Year Eight and Mr First Ever (Rebounding) Boyfriend had just broken up with one of my best friends. This time, I thought he was a bit of something/something so two days after they broke up (after asking her permission, of course, what kind of friend do you think I am?) Mr First Ever (Rebounding) Boyfriend and I started 'going out'. For two glorious weeks, I spent hours infront of the mirror primping my perfect self before skipping off to school, sat next to him at lunch time, doodled our marriend name on my pencil case until one day his best friend came and abruptly told me, "You're dumped".
What I learnt: It's never nice to be 'the rebound' and one shouldn't doodle potential married names on one's pencil case with permanent marker.

3. Mr. Second Ever (Boooooring) Boyfriend - I was in Year Nine and was about as in love with Mr Second Ever (Boooring) Boyfriend as a dog is in love with its ball. And just like a dog with its ball, I was prepared to play as much fetch as he was willing to offer. I chased that boy all day and night until finally he succumbed, we started 'going out' and I had what I wanted. But the one thing worse than not having what you want, is finally getting what you want. After about an hour, I was bored, missed being single, dumped his sorry ass and started looking for a new ball to chase.
What I learnt: When it comes to relationships, sometimes women behave more like men then we'd care to admit to.

4. Mr. Friend of Sister Dearest- Like all true younger siblings, there has come a point in my life where I have longed for the affection of one of my sister's friends. It's just one of those Rights of Passage that all younger siblings must go through and learn from.Unfortunately, my affection was purely one-sided which didn't bode well for my poor sixteen-year-old self and I was left nursing a slightly fractured heart.
What I learnt: There comes a point where you must cover every inch of everything you own with little, yellow post-it notes saying He's Just Not That In To You until you get the picture. But just because it doesn't work out like your poor sixteen-year-old self hopes, doesn't mean you can't go on to become good friends.

5. Mr. He Knows I Like Him But Isn't Going To Do Anything About It Other Than Continue To Flirt With Me So That I Continue To Boost His Ego With My One-Sided Affection - So I've moved on from silly teenager-flings and have entered the bold new world of adult-dating. And I couldn't have chosen a worse boy to fall head over heels for. Think of me like an innocent little moth, flapping my way around in the dark until suddenly I spy a big bright light. I become hypnotised by how wonderful I think the light is and consequently bob around it hoping that it will notice me right back. But as much as I love the light and as much as the light loves having me bob around it like he's the Light of the World, the light doesn't really give two tosses about me and has no problem switching himself off and suddenly becoming unavailable without any prior notice.
What I learnt: Not to be sucked in by boys with pretty smiles and flirtacious natures, because 999 times about of a thousand, they tend to be nothing but playaas who aren't so much interested in you personally as they are in the personal attention you bestow on them in copius, ego-stroking amounts.

6. Mr. Knows My Name But Doesn't Know I Exist (He does know my name though, right?) - Ahh, yet another one-sided affection to add to my shamelessly growing list. This is a story of a girl who fell hard and fast for a boy who spoke to her once and then proceeded to forget she existed while she pined for him in private. Desperately hoping that Mr. Knows My Name But Doesn't Know I Exist would finally realise I existed resulted in a few too many drunk and crying nights on a few too many occassions.
What I learnt: Don't say "Let's do a bazillion tequila shots" hoping that it might rectify the problem.

7. Mr. Kenmore-Eye Candy Man - I'm going to use this as an example just to really reinforce my pathetic and sorry existence. I have never found out the true name of Mr. Kenmore Eye-Candy Man, nor have I every in fact spoken to Mr. Kenmore Eye-Candy Man, but I promise he is not a figment of my imagination. He was this incredibly attactive boy I saw at church each week and then a few times at University and convinced myself that we would make the perfect couple. We in fact, never so much as passed polite introductions.
What I Learnt: If you don't know his name and he doesn't know yours, a prospective relationship that does not make.

I think that will do for now. I could go on, believe me, I could go on. The list is as long as it is stomach-twistingly cringe-worthy, involving a few bad but love-struck choices and even a swimming pool. But I think reflecting on those sinful seven is enough to reinforce in my mind that perhaps a little self help in the romance department wouldn't go astray....

Ciao for now. xo

TOP SHELF: Love that self help

I am slightly embarrased, nay, ashamed to admit the following information.

I am reading a self-help book.

WORSE! I am reading a dating self-help book.

WORSE! It was given to me as a gift, which is actually worse than buying one for one's self as it seems to suggest some underlying issue of denial.

But WORST OF ALL! I am actually getting something out of it.

It all kind of came around as a bit of a joke. Sister Dearest gave me a copy for my birthday (Pretty brutal, right? My birthday. I mean why not a nice fragrance? A stick of celery? Even a poke in the eye with a blunt stick would have felt better) of Zoe Foster and Hamish Blake's Textbook Romance. I still harbour a secret suspicion that she just wanted to read it herself, but she pulls men all the time so I doubt she's having any trouble with her own tactics.

Anyway, the book lay dormant on my bookshelf for a few months which is unusual because nothing lies dormant on my bookshelf for more than a few days. Truth be told, I was avoiding it. I was reading everything else but, even re-reading books I've re-read a hundred times before. But the time came last night when the mountain had to be conquered, so I opened the blazing red cover.

Firstly, I mean come on, Zoe? What were you thinking picking a cover THAT red? It's not exactly the kind of red which goes unnoticed when you're reading it on the train or it's simply poking out of your bag. This thing is seriously red. Alarm bell red. The kind of red which screams "Look at me! I am red! AND I am a self-help book AND a DATING self-help book to be exact! That's right! I belong to the lonely, pathetic, emotionally-crippled hermit who's currently trying to hide my bright red cover behind a copy of Sydney's MX as she travels home from work!" Seriously, Zoe? Like my ego isn't taking an all-mighty bashing already and you had to go and make the damn thing red.

Anyway, I managed to get over the red cover issue and began reading. At first, I was unimpressed. It seemed all Zoe's theories about 'how to attract men' revolved around concepts which I found completely anti-feminism. But two hours later, it was almost midnight and shock horror! I was still reading. I've read Pulitzer Prize nominees I've put down sooner than that. I wasn't sure what it was, but something in the book was beginning to make some sort of sense and the more I read, the more sense it made.

Men are not idiots. They're actually kinda savvy - who knew? Yes, they make stupid choices and say stupid things and generally act beneath a guise of general stupidity, but really, it's just that. A guise. Beneath all that macho-man-rubbish, they've got it worked out. They know what they're looking for (hint: it's us) and just like we have our dream white knight outlined in our little heads (tall, blonde, preferably a musician, likes the same parts of the paper as me and won't be afraid to tell me I'm being an opinionated git) they have a their dream Princess Peach built up in their little heads and they'll stop at nothing to get it. But the point is: you're either it or your not.

But just because you're not 'it' to one guy, or maybe five, doesn't mean there isn't someone, somewhere who does think you're it, who considers you the bees knees. The cat's pyjamas. The dog's tuxedo. Who thinks you're the best freaking thing since sliced bloody bread. And isn't that worth waiting for?

And while you're waiting, who isn't to say this isn't the best time of all? A time to do all those things which are so deliciously single, which you can only do when the only person in the world to love is yourself?

I'm only half way through Textbook Romance and but look what I've learnt - how to become more selfish! No really, I know it's a whole lot more than that. And if I was to say, accidently drop the book into a meat mincer, have each page folded into origami and delivered to my sister's office by a Singing Telegram or recycled into toilet paper to be stocked in a Port-A-Loo, I'm pretty sure what I've learnt so far will be enough to have a long and happy life... with myself.

Ciao for now. xo

Image Credit: Recordis Photography courtesy of Audrey Hepburn Complex