Bringing Boxy Back.

It all started with me throwing out my condoms.

This may not sound like such a big deal to you dear readers, but for me it was distressing, disheartening, depressing and just plain upsetting. Partly because i had about $70 worth all up and that's just a waste of money, but mostly because of what it signified. Only moments before this egregious activity i had realised i couldn't actually remember the last time i had had sex, and thus required a condom. I could remember having sex (thank god) i just couldn't actually put a time, place or face to the actual last occurrence. Since this was the case i also realised that i had condoms that were either out of date, or had been left in places that are not conducive to them maintaining their function if required. Better to be safe than sorry so i went through all my bags, drawers, make-up containers and even some of my shoes and removed them all instead of risking any mishaps in the what seemed distant future. You ever want to depress yourself about the likelihood of getting laid, try throwing out masses of stashed condoms because you've had them so long you don't know if they're reliable any more.
*Sigh*

And my condition was becoming epidemic. I love sex. And once was the day when i had it whenever i wanted as much as i wanted. Now, i realised, the worryingly depressing fact was that i was so long without sharing a bed (sexually that is) that it wasn't even just the sex that i missed, it was the presence. I would have happily settled just to have someone lay on me and with me just to feel the weight of a man over me again. *Sigh* This was distressing, i am not like this.

However the story lifts. The very next time i went out, about four days after the awful condom disposal, i literally bumped into someone outside Eurotrash. A someone named Ryan. A Ryan who was tall, with dark hair, blue eyes and a great white smile. I had just left Seb and Andrew dancing the night away to go home when i fell over my own feet and into said Ryan. He didn't seem to mind and after a few minutes he somehow had lost all his mates and we were on our way to Manchuria, alone. Then after a few drinks and a little kissing we were on our way back to my place and once in my bedroom i was seriously lamenting the fact that i had gotten rid of all my condoms. Luckily he came prepared. It was a night of me getting my cake and eating it to. Not only did i have a great one night stand with a very good looking guy but i also had my desire of the weight of a man on top of me fulfilled and let me tell you, i was the better for it. That said, and gorgeous as he was we totally did not connect on a mental level so the next day i said goodbye and shut the door without exchanging numbers or deets. Short but oh so sweet.

Exactly a week after this i ended up at Eurotrash again, with some of the girls, and as we were leaving we bumped into a group of guys. Somehow we all ended up at Manchuria having drinks (is anyone else seeing a pattern emerging) and a little while after this i went home. With Nathan. Again i lamented having destroyed my stock and we stopped at a service station (but seriously after such a drought, i thought the Ryan night had been a glorious fluke) before getting home. Nathan is very different to Ryan. For a start he's blonde, he's totally country and he's sweet. Not the type i usually go for in these situations but we bonded over b-grade tv shows and other superficial details. I had forgiven him for being an engineer and he'd forgiven me for bad-mouthing engineers.* And he's a really, REALLY good kisser. So he spent the night, and apart from him getting all embarrassed at me in the servo when i asked for the condoms and me being still quite drunk and rather unco having trouble getting out of my clothes, and banging my head twice against two different walls while on the bed we managed to have a really good time (even when the other girls got home and stomped past my room, twice). He stayed in the morning, which was nice rather than awkward despite how hung over he was and i ended up giving him my number.

The point to this account? Not to fill you in on my sex life (well there's that too) but rather it can be summarised in this one phrase:
I AM TOTALLY BRINGING BOXY BACK!
And consequently I've brought some brand new condoms. And, thanks to two travelling buddies (Ms M and Aster) have had some rather more exciting ones given to me.

Kisses, L.

*That conversation had gone something like this:
L: So what do you do?
N: I do structural engineering, final semester at Monash.
L: Fuck, why is it i always meet bloody engineers?
N:Huh?
To be fair, i hadn't realised i said that last line outloud since i'd just been thinking it but you know how i am, and i do always end up meeting bloody engineers, it's like i have a brand on my forehead.

Baby Bird Death

Let me tell you a story about a dead baby bird to distract you all from you exam studying stress. The other day Lucy went out into the backyard to tip the remainder of the pancake mix down the drain and she found that laying face down in our drain was a dead baby chicken. We have no idea where it came from and of course it was very distressing to see it's sad, wet, dead little body there. However it had to be removed before it clogged our drain - and it's only the decent thing to do. Lucy wasn't able to handle even looking at it so she went inside and i pulled on the rubber gloves.

Now i've handled dead bodies before (animal or otherwise) so i was prepared. They usually feel pretty hard and stiff (hehe, that sounds a bit naughty) after being dead as long as this chick. So anyway i bent down and picked it up. It was not hard and stiff, i'd forgotten that it was in water and had clearly been there for a while so it was very very soggy and almost oozing. Well i am ashamed to say i freaked out and in revulsion i threw it. Then, as Lucy watched from the kitchen window in horror, i squealed and ran around as i was afraid the dead baby bird i'd thrown up into the air would land on me. It did not. It landed over the fence in our neighbours yard. With a splat. It was very very gross and very very distressing.

This is why i now have baby bird guilt about the way i handled it's poor, gooey little body.

This is why Lucy and i spent the rest of the day shuddering convulsively whenever we remembered.

This is why I meant to give Nick trouble when he got home for not being the man of the house and present in the first place to deal with it. But i forgot thanks to my mind busily repressing.

This is also why I am avoiding our squatter neighbour at the moment.

I hope this little story has distracted you for a few minutes from the study that i'm sure you're doing. Be prepared for more such snippets from my life over the next few days as it's one of the ways i procrastinate. Also, you're not allowed to laugh at me, i feel very traumatised.

Kisses, L
PS. feel free to reciprocate with any bird death stories of your own.

Switching On

So I've realised that for the last few months (OK, the last 8 months and 14 days - not that I'm keeping count) that i have been completely switched off. Several of my friends have suggested this to me (most frequently Ms. M - you just know me so well Ms. M.) over this long, long period, and i sort of believed them. After all what else could explain it? But a few events of the past week have caused that switch to flick and suddenly, being back on (I see the light!) I realise just how bad it was.

Let me be clear, for those of you who haven't had this conversation with me (and i know it's not many of you). As you know if you've read my past posts at the start of the year i cut my boys off. Least the ones i had at that stage. I didn't intend to cut off all guys ever. I just decided that my priorities had changed and friends with benefits was no longer what i wanted and it was just more trouble than it was worth. Unconsciously however i seemed to flick the switch that is my, how shall we say?... irrepressible and veracious flirt vibe. You know what i mean. I'm a flirt, i love to flirt and i love where it can take you and when i flirt I'm, to quote "a force to be reckoned with".

Anyway on Sunday night i went to the Monash Law Ball (i know, i know, I'm not a law student or a Monash student - but that's all the more reason to go and disgrace yourself). Needless to say i took advantage of the free alcohol and i got SMASHED. I was barely conscious at 9.30pm. No, that's a lie, i was never in danger of losing consciousness (much as Hils may have wished me to). But for some reason i suddenly got my flirt back. And, naturally, i hooked up. Not a bad one either, despite my state, he was tall and relatively good looking and wearing a white top hat and tails suit. I don't know his name but I'll call him Uncle Sam (due to the colours of his waistcoat). Drunk and dancing on a way too crowded dance floor in bare feet (it's hard to co-ordinate when drunk and dancing in heels) i met him, not sure how (can't remember)and we danced together. He noticed i didn't have any shoes on
"You don't have any shoes on!" He said in surprise. In my drunken head i said 'well of course not, i took them off' out loud i put on a mock-surprised look and tone
"Oh my god, where can they be?"
"You've lost them?" He asked in concern. Tsk.
"No, don't be stupid." I replied and continued to dance as he looked utterly confused. How we got from there to making out is totally beyond my recollection. Thus i must put it down to my switch flicking back on. I met lots of people that night, and flirted with them all (even when i sobered up a bit) and it was great.

Then, two nights ago,i had one of those dreams. You know the ones. And it was vivid. Really, really vivid. It was, to put it bluntly, mind-blowingly toe-numbing. And it was the whole dream, complete, no waking up before the really good bit. Now, not to harp on about poor little actionless me, but it's been a good while since i've had any kind of nocturnal action and this was much appreciated. The only concern i have, post-dream, is that the guy was someone i actually know. And i keep getting these intense flashbacks - like it really happened and wasn't all in my head. I am now rather concerned that the next time i see Mr. Action i may just jump his bones. Something that i really shouldn't do. So if i avoid you for the next couple of weeks you'll know why. Or if i suddenly jump you you will also know why.

The switch is back on ladies and gents! I noticed it as i worked today, flirting away with the customers. I noticed it as i walked through uni, undressing good looking guys with my eyes and not caring if they noticed (in fact winking roguishly when they did - that' s me, the rogue). I noticed it when i was in the supermarket and managed to get the two guys in front of me in the line to let me go first. Yes, the switch is back on.

Brace yourselves, i have plenty of missed time to catch up on!

Kisses, L.

*for pics of me at the law ball, check out Hils' facebook page

Mungo and the cold

My trip to Mungo was eventful in all the usual ways, and some unusual. The archaeology was exciting (even if you think of archaeology only as mucking about in the dirt, this was still exciting - for me, an avid and keen archaeologist wannabe i was practically wetting myself). The location was stunning (unless you have a phobia of wide open spaces). The people were great, friendly and smart - and just as colourful and bizarre as usual.

We stayed in a 'rustic' station which translates as derelict and uninhabited since the 1950s, but once we did a bit of serious cleaning and some minor (by which i mean major) repairs it actually wasn't that bad and kinda fun. If only I'd remembered my dryzabone, accubra and horse i would have felt like a pioneer. Or a serious cowgirl outlaw about to go charging into the sunset and away from the law.

But i digress.

Mungo really is one the most beautiful places in the country, my photos do it no justice, the space is enormous and the horizon looks like it's been taken out of a movie and at night the sky seems to touch the ground and it's so clear you can see every single star individually in the milky way and the only sound was a distant animal wondering about or Craig snoring. Yeah the night sky was awesome. Until you had to pee at 2.00am. It was sooooo incredibly cold up there at night that we all wore more to bed than during the day. I slept in my thermals, over which i wore another set of thermals, a pair of socks with bed socks over those, my flannel pjs, my soft gloves, my beanie, my polarfleece jacket and sometimes a scarf (until i woke up two nights in a row having choked myself awake in its tangles) and this was inside my snow sleeping bag and two blankets. As you can imagine waking up really needing to pee at the coldest part of the night was never pleasant. You had to get out of your warm sleeping bag, pull on your boots, leaving your room by the door that had stuck shut with frost while trying to not wake your roommate, pull on an extra jacket and grab the torch. Then bracing yourself against the icy wind you ran the length of the station because all that time getting out of your room has made your need for the toilet even more desperate, also running helps the blood keep flowing. Right now you hate the clear starry sky, the wide open space (especially since this space is between you and the outside toilet at the far end of the station site) and any noises you hear scare you because they sound so close and you really need to pee, not try and find some stupid desert animal to reassure yourself it's not going to attack you. Finally you reach the corrugated iron shed and rush in to it's solid blackness, then holding the torch in your mouth so you can still see in the pitch black you have to yank off all your layers while scanning to see that no nasty spiders had moved in during the night before you sit (and that did happen quite a lot, the spiders loved the toilet shed) and my god the toilet seat is FREEZING!!!! Try not to yelp at the cold in case you wake the others. When you finally get back to bed you have no chance in hell of getting warm again and spend the rest of the night shivering and cursing that cup of tea you had after dinner by the fire.

But apart from that - and the cold showers, and then no showers because the pipes froze - it was great! Everyone there was lots of fun and we all got along really well. Within a day of meeting each other most of us had acquired nicknames. Craig who was huge, 6 foot 5 i think he said, and solid but the strong silent type though really nice, was nicknamed Obelix. Peter, the bone expert (so consequently i hung with him a lot) was great fun, a real joker and always playing pranks and supplying the alcohol was called Peter Pan because he refused to grow up. Nikki, who was heading the dig was The Boss, Deanna the cook was called Cookie, Cally became Supercally because Rachel and Coby (the kids) thought her name sounded like the first part of Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious from Mary Poppins. Red became Bluey, Rudey became Inspector Gadget because he fixed everything, and always had everything anyone needed on him. Jackie became No.2 because she was Nikki's assistant. And i became Oh Passionate Gazelle. And no i am not going to say why, suffice to say that it's all Peter's fault. The others kept their names.

Archaeologically so much to do and even more to learn, talk about being thrown in the deep end! I actually found something! All on my own! A skeleton of a Tasmanian Devil (silly me for thinking that they were only ever in Tassie) that dates back to approx. 16,000 years ago. Peter Pan was really cool about it and it got to be my own little project. Which was exciting until i panicked and freaked out about all the responsibility this entailed cos if you fuck up the uncovering of a 16,000 year old skeleton there's no way to fix it.

This post is way too long ( i whinged about the night toilet excursions too much) so I'll stop there but it was a great trip and i had a great time and pics will soon be up on my new facebook account (how's that for cross-referencing and advertising).

Kisses, L.

Apologies

I know it's been ages since i've written and i'm so grieviously sorry to all my devotees out there, waiting, no doubt with bated breath for the next instalment of the life of this Princess. It's not that my life has hit the pause button (it has never done any such thing, fast-forward yes, instant replay yes, and even rewind) indeed it's been ever so busy but i just haven't gotten to writing about it.

I have most excellent excuses why not. First of all i was away. Isolated, 387 kms into the desert from anywhere and without phones or internet so there, try and get around that one. True i have been back for a week yet it has been one crazed week mainly focused around a rather violent fisticuffs with the Melbourne University Arts Faculty admin about my enrolment. Infact i'm still recovering, and still seething with fury at the stupidity and crap i've had to deal with. That said, i don't think that my opponent came off much better. And i so totally won.

So anyway, i am now promising you - my faithful fans - that in the next 48 hours there will be a totally fabulous and truely spectacular blogpost up with pics and all about my trip to Mungo and the dig.

That is my promise to you.
Kisses, L.

Systematically Coping

Swotvac, or as its known to most of us students The-week-before-finals-when-you-try-to-learn-a-whole-semesters-worth-of-work-in-7-caffine-filled-sleep-deprived-unwashed-days always manages to bring out the strangest parts of me. Maybe it’s the sitting at a desk for 17 hours a day, or my body growing accustomed to artificial light to the point where I avoid direct sunlight because I actually think it’ll hurt me, or it could even be the complete overload and jumbled mess that is my brain trying to remember, in photographic detail, everything I am supposed to have learned these last few months. What I know is that my system always finds some strange method of dealing with the stress of this week. Last Swotvac I was in the uni library from an unmentionably early hour till I got kicked out when it shut just to go home and cram some more. I dealt with the stress that time by eating entire tubes of Berrocca, without water, and building pyramids out of coffee cups with Miss M and Miss Newspop. The Swotvac before that I dealt with my overload by spending long hours thinking of something to write in the copious email newsletters I sent, and after writing them eagerly checking my inbox every few minutes to see if I myself had gotten any emails. The Swotvac before that I used retail therapy – adding several, ok more than several, pairs of shoes to my collection in less than a week. The Swotvac before that I … well actually I don’t remember what I did to cope then. In fact, now that I think about it I don’t remember that week at all.

Needless to say I am once again enduring Swotvac and being half way through am realizing something I already knew. I don’t cope so well under stress. Well I guess I do, in that I always manage to get through it, but that’s only because my afore mentioned system starts going wacky as an outlet. This Swotvac seems to be no different. I’ve reached the point where I actually feel ok about going to uni in my trackies and thongs (for those of you who don’t see me all the time this almost never happens. The one time it did previously – also during Swotvac – I managed to bump into almost everyone I know at uni and they all independently commented on my attire). I currently consider biscuits and olive dip a fitting meal. For breakfast. Lunch. And dinner. When I actually do come into contact with other people I get all excited and nervous and full of pent up energy, like a puppy that’s been locked in a house alone for several days. My concentration on anything outside my studies is defunct – as proven when I tried to eat my highlighter and highlight with my toothbrush (what my toothbrush was doing in the living room is beyond me). I call a friend to have a break but don’t have anything to talk about because I have no life outside my homework. 15 minutes later I call them again and still have nothing to say. After typing my uni password a bagillion times I suddenly can’t remember it, or my log on (which is ldamman by the way – yeah, tricky).

This year’s coping mechanisms my system has developed? Late night TV and Exercise. I know, I know. First of all late night TV. By the time I go to bed it’s after 2.00am and I’m wiped but my mind is still buzzing so I can’t sleep. Instead I lay in bed and watch those quality shows on in the early hours of the morning. And those great late night adds. I now know the phone and txt numbers for Gaymatchmaker.com, Lesbian Lovers, Dirty Texts, Manga Porn for you Phone (yeah that one weirded me out) all by heart. I also have an urge to buy Proactive acne wash, even though I don’t have acne, and a robo-gym, which just scares me. As to the shows themselves, well as I lay here writing this ‘Life Talk’ is on. Don’t be misled by it’s catchy title, this show is actually an American chat show-style indoctrination program that just goes on and on, and on, and on, and on about how great it is to be Catholic, how it solves all your life problems including relationships, debt and financial needs, education and, oh yeah, spiritual well being. Not to mention Catholicism is the cure for world poverty, hunger and AIDS. If this blatant propaganda wasn’t so nauseating and offensive I might actually stop to wonder about how if Catholicism is such a fix-it-all and has been around for just over 2,000years why hasn’t it fixed? Then again I usually just switch over to the robo-gym infomercial and try and figure out how it gives you abs like that. Or the unknown Eastern European country’s news on SBS.

My other newfound … activity, seems to be exercise. This in itself is drastic. For long ago were the days when I welcomed, with well-toned arms wide open, extensive and highly beneficial exercise. Nope, these days I get my heart rate going by spending a whole day on uni campus in heels, or a whole night dancing, or some serious (or not too serious) sex. Or all of the above, preferably one after the other. However these past few days I’ve been getting a serious urge to build up a sweat on a treadmill (I hate running) or pull on my runners and head for the nearest park. So finally, this morning, I caved and did just that. I now know just how unfit I am, especially compared to what I used to be. Upon arriving at the carlton gardens I picked a moderate pace and chose a course covering the perimeter of the park. Turning my ipod up off I went.

45 minutes later I collapsed onto the ground gasping, red-faced and sweaty to the point where it looked like I’d been swimming. I was only ¾ of the way around but I couldn’t run, walk or crawl another step. Too hard, too soon (hehe, that sounds naughty, in a good way). Bad move Leah. My obvious distress at my body’s betrayal actually attracted the attention of a kind-hearted dog-walker and concerned she knelt beside me and asked if there was anyone she should call. The woman thought I was having a heart attack, or some kind of attack. Well that punctured my self-righteous I’m-a-hard-core-runner ego that I’d sorta half formed. When I managed to get my breath, and energy, back I thanked her for her concern and explained that I was really fine as her little dog continued to climb with his muddy little paws all over me. I didn’t have that much energy that I could stop him, or even flail about a bit to make him desist. The woman, clearly not believing me insisted on staying until I was able to get back on my feet. I waited until she was out of sight before attempting to walk. Thus, shakey-legged, clammy from old sweat, covered in dog footprints and disheveled I slowly, oh so slowly made my way back home. I almost wept as I crawled up the stairs and practically threw myself into the shower. Hopefully that got this urge for unfun exercise (aka not the three preferred methods i listed above) out of my system. I think the stiffness and soreness I am now experiencing whenever I, well, move will help with that.

Thus another Swotvac passes and I must content myself with the knowledge that in a few days it’ll all be over and I can detox my system’s latest kinks by going out till all hours of the night, drinking exciting new drinks, meeting highly unsuitable men, sleeping in, eating a regular diet (well regular for me), watching as much tv at regular viewing times as I want and having fun. Yes, it will all be worth it. I have to tell myself that.

Kisses, L.

Sick of being Singled out for being Single

A guest blogpost by the ever wonderful, brilliantly delightful Miss Lucy

As a single veteran I feel I am more than qualified to write on the subject of being single. Normally I would not give this more than say five minutes over coffee with a girlfriend, but events at my aunty’s 60th birthday yesterday drove me to such despair that I feel I have hi-jack Leah’s blog and get my feelings heard, if not just for my own peace of mind, for the greater good of all those single gal’s out there.

Family get togethers in my family, as I assume with most large family gatherings, are at best, a few hours spent over-eating, drinking, looking at the latest photos of aunty June’s grandkids; or at worst, shrinking away in disgust as aunty Margaret changes her colostomy bag, whilst your mum argues loudly with her sisters about who gets to host Christmas and why. Yesterdays 60th however, was an exception. After the annoying hour and a half drive out past Geelong, I spent the best part of three hours sitting around chatting to my gran and watching the younger generation pick up chips with there dirt stained fingers, lick them, then put them back in the bowl for another unsuspecting relative to pick up and eat. After the usual lull, the conversation inevitably turned to the subject of boyfriends, or in my case, lack thereof. My brother had dragged his girlfriend to the party and consequently spent the entire time sitting on the couch with an assortment of foods and drinks, not socialising with anyone. I made the effort to say hi and inquire about the health and well being of my relatives, only to be verbally abused and driven into a corner, simply for the fact that I wasn’t sitting on the couch, isolating myself from everyone with my boyfriend.

My gran was first. “So, are you seeing any boys at the moment?” After my negative response, the follow up was, “Why not? Are you not interested? How come your sister can get a boyfriend but you can’t?” How to respond to this baragement of questions? I felt like saying, ‘Why gran, didn’t you notice? I’ve got a second head growing from my shoulder, and a third eye, as well as a harelip.’ Instead however, I answered meekly, “I don’t know gran, yes I am interested, no I don’t know why my sister can and I can’t.” I slink away as fast as I can, only to run into another group of relatives who grasp at me and continue the boyfriend interrogation. “So Lucy, have you got a man on the scene?”, “next time we see you, we expect to see a handsome young man on your arm, hey?”, “So your brother and your sister both have girlfriends/boyfriends now, I see.”

Why I ask you, am I made to feel like I am somehow inferior, and socially retarded because I’m single. My cousin who is the same age as me, and also single, but male, does not receive any of this attention. In fact, my uncles and aunties laugh and joke about him being single, “that’s right, lad, don’t tie yourself down this young”, “have fun being young, that’s what I say mate”, “plenty of time for serious relationship later on, enjoy the single life my son”, they all say, patting him on the back, congratulating him for playing the field, for not getting attached, in other words, for staying single.

I don’t know why most of the single people I know are single. We’re all bright, attractive, intelligent and independent women, with no major physical or psychological flaws, yet single we are. The thing that really drives me crazy about my family, however, is that none of them even seem to consider the idea that maybe, just maybe, I’m doing ok without a boyfriend. I mean, it’s not like I’m about to graduate from a university degree, I have a job and support myself fully financially, have travelled successfully half way across the world by myself…Oh wait, it is like that! I am not saying a boyfriend wouldn’t be great, hell, at the moment I’m sick of the single life and would love to have someone to hangout with, to catch the train home with and to take to these heinous family gatherings, but lets just get one thing straight, in the wise words of the Pussy Cat Dolls, I don’t NEED a man. I have a great life, I have a wonderful bunch of girlfriends who are always around whenever I need them and we have loads of fun together. I don’t need to sit at home waiting for my knight in shining armour to come and carry me off into the sunset, I can drive myself.

Facing Fear

Phobia. The irrational fear of something. Now i have never claimed to be a wholly rational person, often it can be claimed that i am not even remotely rational and i am fine with that since to me my irrationality is perfectly normal and understandable and just who i am. A result of Leah logic if you like. That said I do not have any irrational fears of the usual kind. Spiders, heights, enclosed spaces, wide open spaces, the dark, germs and bunny rabbits. None of these regular and even popular phobias effect me in any way, in fact i quite like all of the above things.

I do have an irrational hate. I am not afraid of them but they do make me shiver and gag in revulsion and I'd rather be in a pit of scorpions than be on the receiving end of someone who likes the damned things. Yes, feet. I can't stand the ugly things. I absolutely hate feet and especially anything to do with them sexually. I don't care how perfect a guy may be if he starts paying attention to my feet then i will run away and never look back. Urgh. *shudders involuntarily at the image*. I think that is why i have such a fondness for shoes. They cover your feet. They make them pretty. Yes, i do love shoes.

However Wednesday night i was reminded of my phobia. The phobia i had long repressed and that not many people knew i even had. My totally irrational, clinically recognised phobia. Wednesday night was Dean's birthday (happy birthday Dean darling) and to celebrate there was a little shin-dig at The Laundry on Johnston St. This was all fine. I got dressed up, i went to The Laundry and i had a few laughs with friends. Then we went upstairs to partake in Karaoke.

That's right, Karaoke. That's when things got hard for me.

If Karaoke is ever mentioned or suggested to me i will intantly reply that i don't like Karaoke. Captain Subtext would very easily be able to tell you that what i'm really saying is that i go cold and clammy all over at the mere thought of watching Karaoke, that i'm absolutely terrified of participating in the activity and that if anyone i know participates i have to leave the room before i have a seizure. Captain Subtext would tell you that by "don't like" i actually mean "acute phobia of".

So there i was on Wednesday night having to face my fear. I couldn't get incredibly druk because i was driving and i didn't want to make a scene because it wasn't my party (if anyone had a right to make a scene it was Dean, his party, his scene). So i decided to suck it up and try to deal. I actually did alright. I think. Except people seemed to notice that i wasn't dealing as well as everyone else. Especially when someone suggested i sing, or demanded i sing and i completely shut down and bluntly refused. I even tried to watch instead of hiding up the back and trying to drown out the singing by talking. Dean went first and since the firs 1min 57seconds was instrumental i was fine and quite enjoyed Dean's dancing. But when he started to sing i had to leave. It only got worse. No one could actually sing, or even tried to actually sing and when Karina, Maya and Seb got up and did "Like a Virgin" by Madonna i was so mortified with embarrassment for them and horrified at having to witness it that i almost stopped breathing.

I just want to make it clear: I was not forced or tricked into going to Dean's thing at The Laundry and i knew they were planning to do Karaoke. I went of my own will. I think i thought i should be ok, that it wouldn't be that bad and that it had been so long since i'd been anywhere near Karaoke (the last time that i remember was when i was 12) that maybe i was just overreacting. I was wrong. And i apologise to those who got concerned, and for leaving early (at about 11.30 i couldn't take any more) and i thank both Maya for looking after me and Dean for letting me not sing.

This is why the movie i absolutely cannot watch is "Duets" and not some horror flick, movie horror is fine, true horror is watching someone totally humiliate themselves as they butcher a song infront of a live audience.

Pleasantly Rediscovering When My Toes Go Numb

As you would probably know by now i have not been in a relationship with a guy for long enough now that it's becoming a bit of an issue of mine. What you may or may not have known is that I've cut off my casuals as well. From February i went into what can be more pleasantly termed a guy detox. Less pleasantly it can be said i got fed up with the lot of them and threw in the towel and went cold turkey. This has turned out to be a lot harder than i anticipated. Also i didn't expect it to last so long. This is in fact the longest I've gone without sex since, well since i started having sex back in my VCE days.

On Thursday night i had a girls night with Miss M and Miss C which included a long-talked about visit to Sexyland. We spent a good two and a half hours in the store. We tried on sexy lingerie and costumes, we browsed the dvd collection - Miss M. with a purpose, a certain title had been recommended to her - and we whipped each other with the various riding crops and whips. Then there were the discussions about different types of lube (silicon vs waterbased, Swiss Pluss vs Ansel) the disbelief as we saw the sizes and shapes of various toys and the comparison between different vibrators. No wonder we were there for as long as we were and we had a blast! It was like Christmas and our birthdays rolled into one! So now we are all card-holding members to Sexyland and we all left with a purchase, or two. My purchase was by far the most extravagant - after all i need little encouragement to impulse buy and i was getting quite a lot from the other two so it's a given that i bought the toy.

Yes i did. And it's so pretty to look at and we pushed all the buttons and there was a collective giggle and "ooohhhh" from the three of us as all it's functions were demonstrated. Yes folks i got myself a Rabbit. That's right, the Rabbit. And i do not for one moment regret the purchase. Not then, and definitely not now. In fact I'm not sure who was more excited that i got it, me or Miss M. However after owning it for the past 4 days, 22 hours and 17 minutes i can confidently say that i am much more pleased with it than Miss M. On the very first night it reminded me of the intense and utterly pleasant sensation i feel at a certain... moment and my toes go numb. Very few 'real' men have been able to get me to that stage with such finesse and, well shall we say map-reading by my self. Even fewer have accomplished to the level that causes me to tingle right down to my feet and not feel my toes for a whole minute. And it wasn't just a once off. I confess i have shared my bed with my versatile new friend every night since and am now starting to think that my toes will suffer from blood-loss.

Man-drought be damned I'm staying in tonight (and possibly every night to come) with my darling, multi-skilled Rabbit.

Dirty little txts

**Warning: The following contents of this post is generally explicit in language and imagery, and if not alludes to explicit and adult behaviour. If this in any way will offend you please do not read on.
For the rest of you: Enjoy!

After a rather interesting, and definately fun conversation in the library with the girls (namely Maya and Chox) at uni today i decided our subject needed a post dedicated to it. We were talking about dirty talk, more precisely dirty text messages and creating examples of these - both from personal experience and from our imaginations. I will now put up some of the fruits of our labour. This post is merely for your amusement but feel free to take said fruits and use them yourself, or add your own examples or what has worked for you or what you would like to work for you.

I can't wait to explore every inch of you with my tounge... inside and out.

I want you to slide your hard manhood into my gasping va-jay-jay.

The thought of your body initiates such a visceral response in my body that i can barely stop myself from losing control.

Dear (insert name here), i can't wait to tear all your clothes off with my teeth and feel your warm body pressed against mine.

I can't wait to put my hands on your body and feel your breath quicken and your skin shiver at my touch.

I love the feel of your warm breath on my neck and your hands on my body making my underware damp (alternative ending: making me wet and dripping with sauce).

I shiver at the memory of the warmth of your tounge between my legs last night.

Meet me in the toilets/storeroom/house in 15mins...

I keep fantasising about how i'm going to slam you against a wall and penetrate your body over nad over until i unleash a spunk storm all over your body.

And to end on a classic:

Hey Boxy, let's get wet 'n' shit. I wanna suck you down like a muthafucka. My knob is priming for some A grade box.

Thankyou.
Kisses, L.

Damsel in Distress

Today a middle-aged, overweight, hairy man with strange skin and a seriously cringe worthy plumbers crack told me, and i quote "so you're the damsel in distress, guess that makes me your knight in shinning armour".

My first impulse in response to this comment was to run screaming down the hill. My first desire was to both rip out all my hair and simultaneously hurl the nearby spanners at my verbal assailant. My first thought was one of despair along the lines of "i cannot have sunk this low".

My secondary reactions were more rationally controlled. My feminist side (thanks to my upbringing no doubt) was insulted that i appeared to be not only a distressed damsel but one that actually required some silly knight in shinning armour (I've always thought that was silly, if the armour is shiny chances are the knight hasn't required if very much or had any real action to test it's workmanship). I resisted my primary urges, crossed my arms, stood straight and tall and smiled grimly at the offencive man. "Thank you for coming." Was all i said in response to his words, I at least was polite.

Let me explain how this came about.

This morning my car wouldn't start. Distressing sure but not unsolvable. Unable to get myself to the station to get in to work i called a neighbour and got a lift, deciding I'd sort the car out when i got home, or even tomorrow morning. When i got home this evening i realised not only were there overdue videos to go back but also that there was nothing in the house to eat for dinner - and i need my dinner. So sighing in resignation i got dressed (I'd already showered and put on my pj's) in my work clothes, grabbed the torch, keys and tools I'd need from the shed and went up to the damned car. I knew it was most likely the battery - car doesn't start, generally a good place to start. So i started by hooking it up to the other car and jump starting it. This did not work. Getting concerned i took the battery out (not easy in a saab, damned things are in a tight spot and lots of unnatural bending of the arm is required to unscrew it) and hooked it up to the charger. Noticing it wouldn't charge properly i had a brain wave and put the battery from the other saab into the auto, thinking something was wrong with the battery itself, not the car. Unfortunately, 20mins later, i realised this wouldn't work either and i resigned myself to the fact that something was wrong with the car and i would have to call RACV.

Enter my "knight in shinning armour".

He did not arrive with his yellow RACV steed until 9.00pm, by which time i was starving and had actually eaten dry cereal (no milk left), a whole jar of sultanas and the slightly fuzzy last two oranges. I did not feel like a damsel wanting to be rescued, i felt hungry, fed up and shitty with how long it had taken him to get here. I did not look like a damsel wanting to meet her knight in shining armour. I was wearing hard yakka overalls with my dad's Swedish ugg boots, my hair stuffed into a beanie and grease and dirt all over my hands, clothes and possibly my face. I was mentally prepared for the treatment i next got after his opening comment and once over glance however it still irritated me as he condescendingly asked me if I'd checked the car was in park before trying the ignition, if the oil and water were ok, if I'd had someone - maybe one of my manly neighbours - come over and try to jump start it and i rolled my eyes at his surprise that i had checked and tried all these things. Then he proceeded to ignore me as i told him that it wasn't the battery and how i knew that and insisted on putting in a new battery himself - cos obviously a girl wouldn't know what she was talking about. When this didn't work he seemed surprised.

At this stage i went back down to the house and made myself a cup of tea. I did not offer one to my patronising misogynistic knight. When I'd finished my tea i went back up and found him fiddling with the starter motor. 40 minutes later the car was working. I'm not sure why, and i don't think the RACV guy is either but i didn't care. Politely i thanked him, got in and headed down to monbulk to get food from Safeway.

I just want to make one thing very clear. I am not a damsel in distress. Now i have calmed down, and eaten properly, i can see that he was just being who he is and i over-reacted but it still annoys me that these presumptions are made about me. I wasn't even wearing any of my usual shoes or clothes that may give the impression of a damsel, distressed or otherwise. If, or when, i decide to be a distressed damsel in want of a knight in (shinning) armour to rescue me i will damned well say so. And needless to say i will be sure to be dressed appropriately.

Drama Queen

I'm a drama queen. I know this and i admit it freely; nay proudly. I come from a long line of drama queens in fact, it's an integral part of my heritage (refer to 'about me'). My mama is a drama queen, my auntie is a drama queen, my grandma is definitely a drama queen and my little sister is THE drama queen. I must say i like a good bit of drama, it gives daily life more excitement and flavour. I grew up in a house full of drama and it was encouraged and considered a healthy way of expressing and understanding our own and each other's emotions.

But now there's no-one in my house but me to be dramatic and it's rather defeatist to be a drama queen without an audience to appreciate it. This hasn't stopped me in my dramatic expression, far from it - it just makes it rather hollow.

The other day i realised my work uniform was dirty because no one had done the washing. I promptly muttered about slackers and roughly manhandled the garments in question and the washing machine, slamming it's door shut and storming out of the laundry for extra dramatic effect but no one was there to notice and since I'm home alone it was really my fault that the washing hadn't been done and the outburst was therefore directed at myself.

Then last night i was doing the dishes and laughing as i washed a big knife impulsively covered my lower face in bubbled so i had a snowy beard and proceeded to act out the stabbing scene from psycho with the knife with Santa as the killer. Yet again there was no one to appreciate and laugh at this improper humour but myself (and i did, it was quite hilarious).

Only this morning, when i forced myself out of bed at 6.00am, i was alarmed at how cold it was and complained vehemently about it as i shuddered and shivered and hopped from foot to foot melodramatically then clutched at my mug of tea like a desperate housewife clutches her Valium, but no one cared i was freezing to death. To further this point i realised after getting out of the shower upstairs that the clothes i wanted to wear were downstairs in my room at the end of the house. So wet and naked and squealing with cold i made a mad dash down through the house, grabbed the clothes as i turned consistently bluer and dashed back upstairs where i quickly dived under the covers of the bed and huddled shivering. Just to make it clear how much i was suffering and how my delicate self was compromised by the experience i got dressed in bed so i could stay warm. Yet no one was there to witness my drama or tell me to get over it and what a princess i am.

My friends are my salvation. I at least know i can let loose with the drama around them and they'll react - even if it's to shake their head and tut at my folly (James) or laugh at the scenes i cause or the situations i manage to put myself in (Maya). That's all any drama queen desires: to be noticed and to cause a reaction. I like to think that in my won small way that i make a positive difference to the lives of those i touch with my exuberant and melodramatic flair by distracting them and giving joy. I do what i can.

How was that for drama?

Man Drought

So i'm in a drought. A man drought. A serious man drought. And i'm not really sure why, none of my friends seem to be in the same situation, even if they're single it's not for lack of guys as it seems to be with me. I don't even have a crush or a friendly flirt let alone anyone i could actually see myself dating, or sleeping with. So i was thinking about this on the train on the way home yesterday and i thought well maybe i'm just walking around shut-down. Maybe there are plenty of guys for me to meet, who want to meet me who i'm just not seeing because i'm so caught up in me.

As i was thinking this i noticed a guy sitting across from me a few seats down. He was good looking in a quirky, i-got-dressed-in-the-dark-but-am-still-trendy way. And he was looking at me. With big, blue, unblinking eyes. Right at me. This in itself is unsual because everyone on the train always makes a point of not looking at each other with their ipods in, or mobile phones or books or papers to keep themselves to themselves, myself included. Yet here he was. So after catching his eye a few times as he continued to check me out i decided what the hell and i gave him a quick grin and a flirty wink. And he smiled back! So this time i held his eyes and smiled, just as we came into Box Hill station. As the train slowed he stood up and i held my breath, wondering if he'd make a move or ask for my number. Well he did make a move. He took out a collapsable white walking stick that blind people use, flicked it out so it was straight and guided himself off the train.

I was mortified! I am still so embarrassed about even thinking that he was flirting with me when he couldn't even see me, let alone flirting back. He wasn't staring at me, he was staring because he couldn't see! Immediately i glanced around to see if anyone else sitting on the train had noticed the little pantomime that was my humiliation for the week and with bright red cheeks i put in my ipod and stared out the window of the train, much too horrified to even risk catching anyone elses eye during the trip.

So i am in a man drought and considering my flirting technique, and the situations i always seem to find myself in it is likely to remain this way for quite some time.