JustAnne.

The Games We Play.

It is a habit of mine to frequently lament things on Twitter and it is probably a habit I should consider breaking, particularly when the consumption of alcohol is involved. But hey, at least it's better than drunk dialling inappropriate people (yet another reason why I have developed a worse habit of deleting men from my phonebook as soon as they annoy me). Although Twitter is more public than a 3am Booty Call. But surely there is some level of privacy in the anonymity of the public, right? (Oh. God.)

In any case, one of my more recent laments was the following statement:

I hate playing games, so why is it that when it comes to men, I feel like I have to? Grumble.

This off the cuff expression of frustration turned out to be quite the conversation starter. Nothing too scary, but it gave me a moment's pause. Especially seeing as upon second glance, I realised I actually sounded like a bit of a bitch. 

The context behind this particular Tweet was that I was trying to line up a booty call and it wasn't panning out for me. In short, I felt like I was being toyed with. And you know what that means - 'he's just not that into me'. Which is fine, I just wish he'd had the decency to let me know. Of course, I am able to recognise this behaviour immediately because I, like many others, have perpetrated it myself. 

And no, I don't really like that I have. I actually really despise playing games with people. It's totally not how I roll, but what I hate even more is how easily I seem to fall into them. All of a sudden you have all of these feelings about someone (okay, in my case they're usually lusty feelings), and you want them to contact you, you want the fun, cute, witty banter, you want the rush. That buzz that zings through you when your phone beeps or you get a Facebook notification. But all too often this fun little courtship phase is warped by one, or both of you trying to get the upper hand. Or by someone stringing someone else on just to keep the buzz going. It's fun for awhile, and I suppose it gives us plenty to talk about, not too mention offering us a nice little distraction from the daily grind. But after a while, I dunno, it feels a little soul destroying.

It's scary to be honest with people. I get that. That's why I try and make myself do it as often as possible. Also I am a terrible liar. Just terrible. It's when I truly feel my very lapsed Irish Catholic roots - oh, the guilt! This is probably why I dislike playing games so much. I guess the best I can do is keep practicing my honesty. It's hard you know, opening up and making yourself vulnerable to another person. It's not something I have developed a particular knack for (Reason #12 as to Why I'm Still Single). I always figured that for the right person it would be easy. I guess the problem (or the joy, depending on your viewpoint) is that I am currently dealing with Mr Right Now(s), and not Mr Right. And when it comes to Mr Right Now(s), it's all about The Games. 

Although, I should note that I have been told I am decidedly too subtle. That I should just name times and places for shags and be done with it. But I don't know, is it really such a bad thing to want to be taken out to the pub first? You know, to have the illusion of romance? I know it's not really romance... 

Grah. Love, lust and dating - you vex me so! But give me so much to blog about .... 

The Erect-A-Meter

The oddities of the relationship between my father and I has been well documented. Although I think we reached a milestone recently when he casually asked me if I would like an 'Erection Meter'. My eyes lit up like Christmas and I replied with a fervent "Yes!". Now, for some strange reason when I tell people how the Erection Meter came to be in my possession they look somewhat horrified. "Your father gave it to you?", "Yeah, of course!" I reply, like it is the most natural thing in the world for a twenty-something woman to be gifted an Erection Meter from her father.

You see, what makes this a milestone moment is that I was the only person in my father's life that he felt comfortable sharing the hilarity of this 'clinical aide' with. And I think that's awesome. It highlights our shared understanding, sense of humour and a level of comfort that only a lifetime of medical conversations over the dinner table can lend. So with that said, let me tell you about the Erection Meter, or, as my father likes to call it the "Erect-A-Meter".

Firstly, I should comment that it was significantly less offensive than anticipated, which perhaps reveals more about me than the company that produced it. That company of course, is Pfizer, the big-pharma that bought us Viagra. My father is GP by trade, and for years has consequently been courted by drug companies attempting to harness his prescribing power. Dinners, lunches, conferences, free pens, medical charts, umbrellas and post-it notes have all been gifted to him in an effort to buy his prescription preference. And like most doctors, my father has taken the freebies and prescribed what he felt was the most effective medications regardless of what is printed on the pens and post-it notes. 

Sadly, this gravy-train of freebies is coming to an end as the Australian government seeks to wipe out this sort of bribery. As a social worker I believe this to be a positive thing, but as the daughter of doctors I feel completely devastated. Some of the best biros and notepads I have ever owned were branded with Zyprexa and Stilnox. So not only is the Erect-A-Meter an amusing party-favour, it also represents the end of an era of drug company freebies in the life of one Miss Anne.

From what I can gather, the Erect-A-Meter presents the patient with four 'panels' of varying 'rigidities' which are each assigned a type from 1 to 4. The types are:

1. Larger, but not hard.
2. Hard, but not hard enough for penetration.
3. Hard enough for penetration, but not completely hard.
4. Completely hard and fully rigid.

My father made the following comment when he gave it to me - "It's completely useless clinically. What Australian male is going to admit to anything but a 4?"

(The Erect-A-Meter, as modelled by myself in the guise of Vince Noir)

I must confess that now I own an Erect-A-Meter I am a little unsure of what to do with it. As if I wasn't already a scary prospect to the male species, I now own something I could conceivably use to judge them where they're most vulnerable. I like to think that I would never use this object to judge a man, but the phrase "he was definitely a 4" has already found its way into conversations with some of the female friends I have shown it to. I have also had more than one female friend comment that they could "definitely work with a 2" and that they felt Pfizer's assumption that it was 'not hard enough' to be unfair. To add to my confusion, my most recent presentation of the Erect-A-Meter to the public (my housewarming), the men were equally, if not more fascinated by it than the women were.

Clearly I must keep it as a party piece. But where do I keep it? On a shelf? On public display? Under my bed? In my goodie drawer?? I feel as if a sacred object has been trusted to me and I am overwhelmed by my responsibility to protect the world from its potential evils. Or perhaps I am overreacting and should just put it in a cupboard. Either way, can you believe that such a thing even exists?? That, is the funniest thing of all.

What Is It About Me?

For those of you who know me personally, and if my site statistics are anything to go by that accounts for the vast majority of my beautiful readers (snaps for Facebook!), you know that I am something of an attention whore. Be it the witty quips at the pub, the sheer volume of my voice after a couple of drinks, the often inappropriate dinner conversation or my love of 'the stage', there are many elements of my life (and my behaviours) geared to draw the spotlight to my darling self. Some would even say the mere presence of this blog is another fine example of this, which reminds me of the time a particularly young sprite uttered the following to me . . . 

"I have thought about blogging, but it just seems so self-indulgent" **

Tonight, as I watch and adore Glee and read some of the slightly more grown-up and socially acceptable magazines that I enjoy I find myself pondering - why? What is it about the spotlight that I love so, so much?

I am an extrovert to be sure. I love people, and as a social worker they are my business, my bread and butter if you will. And while I have never really considered myself to a social 'force', I am increasingly finding that is often how I am often perceived by others. Which is so strange to me - I know I love the spotlight, but the idea that people might actually enjoy watching me there? Talk about weird. 

It is certainly not something I have inherited from my parents. My mother, a wonderful and incredibly witty woman is also quite the introvert. When people I know have encountered her they are often taken aback - they expect another 'Anne', but my mother is an entity entirely distict from me. Well, except in the realm of home organisation, planning, humour and fastidious laundry. In those realms we are quite similar. She confessed to me earlier this year that when I was younger, all of the other mothers from the various activities I participated in used to call her 'Anne'. She was so quiet they could never remember her name. Poor mum, she really is a rockin' lady, you just need to get to know her.

Perhaps my lust for the spotlight is from being largely ignored for 9 out of my 12 years of schooling? And always, always being picked last for sporting teams? But then I think "hang on, my entire work life is about helping others" AND "I went through a substantial phase where my friends had to coach me to not be a doormat". So maybe, maybe, my current lust for the spotlight is not as pathological as I paranoidly feel. Maybe it is merely an expression of a young woman finally coming into her own. And maybe I should just enjoy this 'self-indulgence' while it lasts. Goodness knows it could all change at the drop of a hat.

Eeesh. Another rambling self-indulgent self-reflection bought to you by three or more alcoholic beverages and a girl with a laptop. Happy Saturday all!

**I should also note that this was the same young sprite who once branded me homophobic, much to the shock and awe of me and mine. Then, wrote me an apology note a week later. A note.

I'm a Disco Boy.

Say what you will about Twitter, it is clearly a solid marketing tool. I recently purchased Disco Boy by Dominic Knight based solely on the fact that I appreciated the author's Tweets and writing style. Actually, I think it was an article he wrote on his speed dating experience that sold me. It was a very familiar take on a not too distant personal experience leading to more than one knowing chuckle. It was absolutely not The Chaser Thing, but I think that was how I stumbled upon his Twitter account. 

So after grumpily forking over my hard-earned cash on a marked-up signed copy of the book (I was way too lazy to hike to another bookstore for the cheaper version), I actually read it. This was a feat in itself considering the large pile of books that sit unread on my bookshelf. I love buying them, but making the time to read them? Whole other story. I finished the book late last night and I felt, perplexed.

I can't quite put my finger on why, the story itself was not an unfamiliar tale, but I think it was about my own assumptions of the book's target audience. I haven't read much 'LadLit' (or 'ChickLit' for that matter), but I suspect Disco Boy would fall into that genre. Certainly in the past I have spurned fiction novels written about men, by men with the reasoning that "I have enough problems wading through books about neurotic women, let alone books about neurotic men". I suspect I was referring to the work of Nick Earls at the time. A body of work whose only highlights I remember being the thrill of actually knowing where "Zigzag Street" was. And as I read Disco Boy I was filled with the sense that perhaps this novel was not 'for' me, me being a twenty-something female and all. 

So I think what perplexed me was the fact that I actually identified with the main character. He drove a Volvo (I miss my old beast to this day), he lived with his parents, he had dissed a conventional career path for something other (my parents still have not got over the jump from would-be-medical student to social worker), and he used humour/smart-arsed-ness in his flirtations (although I do find this to be a hinderance as it is not always picked up on and I end up spending hours stroking fragile male egos). Not too mention the sections covering the interpretation and composition of SMS and E-Mail communications. They hit a little bit close to the bone. Particularly the notion of 'taking time to respond', a rather distasteful habit of mine. Although sometimes it is just the fact that I am easily distractible or a little bit lazy. 

By the time I got to the end of the book my thought processes were running something along the lines of: Are men and women really that different? Perhaps I should read more LadLit to try and figure it out? Urgh, but I really don't want to. Perhaps this is merely the reflection of one man (the author) rather than all men, what with it being a first novel with a proclaimed "use of self" in its creation. Perhaps I just want to apply it to all men to make myself feel less alone. Perhaps my mother is right, perhaps I do give men too much credit. No! I cannot believe they are all buffoons, despite evidence to the contrary. Damn it. I'm confused. Perhaps this isn't a gender thing at all. Perhaps it's just a middle class thing.

And so on, and so forth. 

Ultimately, any story or character that elicits an emotional reaction (and a blog post) is a good one. Even if it serves merely as an example of my own capacity to over-think things. And I was always more interested in reading the book from the perspective of a would-be-writer-of-god-knows-what to gain some insight into the process of another writer's first work of fiction. And in that sense it was very interesting, and I am more than happy to have supported it. I have the utmost respect for novelists as the idea of ever writing a book completely overwhelms me. Would I recommend Disco Boy to my lady friends? Probably not, but I will pass it on to a couple of my man friends. I'd be very keen to hear their opinions.

Boy Radar.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one is eagerly wishing one boy to return her correspondence, she will be contacted only by those she has previously cast aside.

Seriously, what is up with that? The issue of boy radar is something that I have been pondering for some time. It's like all of a sudden a little light bulb goes off in their heads - *bing* "Hmmm. That awesome woman I encountered recently but spurned because she seemed too complicated. She might have other men interested in her. I do not think I can allow this. Better try hooking up with her again".

How do they know?? It's absolutely uncanny. Do any of my three, maybe four male readers have any insight? I remain befuddled. 

Fraudulently Fit.

I noticed something while I was in the bath last night. It was a strange something that I had never noticed before. It was new. It was my biceps. Clearly all of my 'hard work' at the gym has been paying off. I use single apostrophes in this instance because I do not think that I have been working that hard. At all.

Sure, I pay a personal trainer, a pilates physio and an evil multi-national gym good money to help me maintain my fabulousness. But I have been slacking off. Six weeks ago I got a strengths program from my personal trainer, during that period I managed to fit in about three sessions. When I met with my personal trainer on the weekend to 'review my program', he became excited. If you've ever had a personal trainer you know the kind of excitement I'm talking about. It's sort of fake and a little overwhelming. Well, on Saturday I copped it big time. Apparently, I've really improved. Apparently, I am kind of impressive. Apparently, my personal trainer gives the best programs ever. He actually asked my permission to discuss my improvements with his other clients. 

This was all well and good, except that I felt like a big fat fraud and was actually quite embarrassed. I did not have the heart to tell him that my 'improvements' may actually come down to factors related to my age, metabolism and the work I have been doing in pilates, and not just his weights program. Still, I do seem to have biceps now, that's kinda cool.

Oh, and for the record - I am not attracted to him. Thank god. I could not imagine anything worse than being attracted to my personal trainer. I am always baffled when people suggest that I could meet someone at the gym. My fellow gym goers see me at my absolute ugliest. I am all red, and sweaty, and usually wearing head bands that give me an afro. Sure, I walk out of there feeling great, but by golly gosh do I look like shit. Which is a shame, because I really quite enjoy scoping out the fellas floating about the place. I have started calling them Gym Pups. And they certainly make my rest periods between weight sets much easier to bear.

In completely unrelated news, I had lunch with my mother on Sunday and she made the comment that my freaked out Zit Attack might actually be dermatitis. For about thirty seconds I was over the moon. It was not pimples! Perhaps I am not going through a second adolescence after all!! Then she commented that I had had this before. When I was a teenager. And then I realised that dermatitis on your face that requires steroid cream is probably worse than pimples. I guess that is what you get when you fake-out your personal trainer. 

Poppin' That Pill.

When Day Three of my Not-So-Swine Flu began with limited progress on the wellness scale, I dragged my sorry butt out of bed and to the doctors. Now to be clear, as the daughter of doctors, as a friend of doctors and as a former pre-med student, I hate having to pay for medical advice. But, I needed to talk to someone about changing my Pill and I needed a medical certificate. The verdict? Not swine flu (duh), some other viral thing (duh), and I just have to wait it out (duh). That was $45 dollars well spent.

But it gets worse. When discussing my options for a different pill, I was forced to reveal that I am not currently sexually active. To which the doctor responded with the rather challenging question "then, do you really need to be on the pill?". A question I had never even considered and, to be perfectly honest, left me feeling quite flummoxed. 

I have been taking the Pill since I was 17, which is nearly (oh God!) ten years. It's a part of my life, a habit. I started taking it not as a contraceptive, but as a treatment for acne. The doctor's question flustered me because it forced me to examine something I have been doing every day for (nearly) ten years, and ask the question - why am I bothering? The problem is that the answers to that question are not very flattering, the answers are vanity and control.

Vanity because when I am not taking it I get acne. And do not even bother trying to convince me that I am 'older' now, and that it probably won't happen again. Both of my parents are in their fifties and they still get pimples. And when I have my monthly 'week off', I get pimples. And control because I have never, ever had regular periods. Hell, the reason I am wanting to switch from my current Pill is because I am having issues with spotting and I am sick of buying panty liners (there - I said it - spotting!). And the one time I went off the Pill, when I was 19 (or 20), I did not have a normal period for nine months, freaked out, then went back on it again. Not too mention the epic levels of randiness I experienced thanks to a previously suppressed libido. And the acne.

Fortunately during my inner-monologue on this issue I was able to construct the control thing as a positive pro-feminist approach (why should I let my biology control me etc. etc.), but I have struggled a bit around the vanity thing. And what am I doing to myself when I take the Pill? Pumping my body with hormones that it doesn't really need (well, to avoid pregnancy at least) that when used over a long period time can have significant health risks. You know, like breast cancer. That friggin' doctor has completely tripped me into an existential crisis.

When relating all of this to my good friend, co-conspirator and GSD Rule Mistress Lulu Latanza** she proffered the following pearl of wisdom:

"you know the answer to this - just start getting laid..."

And god-dammit, she's right. I'm going to fill that script and I'll show that doctor who needs to be on the Pill!!

Now if only I could kick this not-so-swine flu in time for the weekend . . . 

**Not her real name. And yes, she did make it up.

Insight.

It has been a theory in our house that our Foxtel IQ box was broken. All of the programming we were so diligently recording and series-linking kept disappearing at random.

Well, we have now solved the mystery. My brother has been deleting them. During the day. When no-one is home.

We were first tipped off when the only programs that seemed to be surviving deletion were Ruby Gloom, Forrest Gump and Basketball. And then, he was caught in the act. Firm words were had.

And what makes this tale even more intriguing? That my brother has his own Foxtel IQ set up in his bedroom that he records all of his programs on. Why did he feel the need to enter the family room and take over a whole other live recording device?

And that, my friends, is the eternal mystery of Rob.

I'm not even sure where to start.

I've been in a bit of a head spin over the last few days, but I haven't really been able to figure out what the hell was going on. But this afternoon amidst a teary drive home I think I finally grasped it. I ummed and ahhed about whether I should blog it, but I thought that my overwhelming desire to blog it meant that I probably should. I think its something along the lines of committing to the thoughts and emotions, making them real and open. But perhaps it is more about me not knowing how to actually say it to anyone face-to-face yet.

It is no secret that I have been sans-man for a long time. Well, since forever really. I'm heading round the bend to 26 and all my love life has to show for it is a few 'drunken moments' and a notable pair of 'unrequited loves'. I think, bah! I know that after my last 'unrequited love' I shut down. I was sick of having these crushes that did not, for one reason or another, go anywhere and I was left nursing a broken heart. So I suppose I put up a wall. I said to myself that I was not going to bother developing an interest in men unless it seemed likely that I would get something slightly more tangible from the relationship. Like a shag, or even a kiss.

But then, that was only one chink in the armour. Now, ok, I have never really felt very sexy. Men never seemed that attracted to me, they enjoyed my company, but I don't know, things never really progressed. There was one period in my life that I can think of where I felt sexy, and that was when I was 20 and weighed about 65 kilograms. I had gotten down to that weight by some strange ill-thought out dieting methods and it's safe to say that I certainly didn't stay there. After that, it came into my head, actually, i think it had always been there, that I didn't have a boyfriend because I was overweight, and not that sexy in general.

So, when you've shut your heart down for business until something worthwhile comes along and even if it did, you're not really sure you deserve it anyways, you've only got one thing left. Yourself. So I focused on myself. My education, my work, my friends, my family. These are things that I have focused on and I feel reasonably confident in. In fact, I think I'm pretty darn' tootin' good at these things. For people who know me through these areas, I am a confident, fun, groovin' woman. And I'm proud of that.

Things have been changing over the last year or two. I started actually performing my Bollywood dancing and loving every minute of it. I love it because when I am performing, I can be sexy. And because I don't get to do it much, I really throw myself into it. And people love it. I can't describe how amazing it feels to be, for lack of a better phrase, the 'star' of something. It has given me something I haven't really felt before, and while I wrestle with my own internal notions of modesty and arrogance, I think I need to let myself enjoy it.

Another thing that has changed, and I think it was partly about me wanting to be a better dancer, is that I have been doing WeightWatchers. And I have been doing really well. There was a dress I wore when I was 65 kilos, it was a hot dress. I got it on ebay for 10 dollars, and it says everything about me that a dress should. I set my weight loss goal at 65 kilos, but what I was really aiming for was that dress. I tried it on on Sunday night. It fit. I still have a bit of a 'baby bump' showing - but nothing a bit of extra work and some really good underwear can't fix. The dress fits and I weigh 72 kilos. And I feel fantastic. There are so many things that come with this kind of weight loss (12.8 kilos thus far), one of them is the fellas. And herein lies my problem.

As I drove home this afternoon it dawned on my why I had been in a funk for a little while. I am at a point where I would really like to share my life with someone, where there are things I would like to do and experience with someone else and now that I've jumped my hurdles to get there - I am totally lost. I am not good at letting people in. At least not in the way you do in intimate relationships. And I am absolutely terrified of being open and vulnerable to someone. Turns out I've gotten really good at avoiding that. So much so that even the hint of something extra completely freaks me out. 

It hardly seems fair, I have spent a good three years on a journey of immense personal transformation and I still feel totally lost and scared. My older and wiser friends will probably shake their heads, understanding that everyone always feels lost and scared about something, no matter what age they are. But I don't know - how do I acknowledge where I've been and what I've achieved when I have just stumbled across a whole new chasm I need to bridge? I am struggling with not losing my perspective while I get ready to face the next challenge ahead. And I have no idea where to begin.

It strikes me as strange that I am not really ready to talk about the above out loud with someone, but it seems perfectly fine for me to write in a forum that any friend or foe can see. I don't really get what that's about. But I figure, I have used my various blogs as a way of remembering where I was and where I am now. I think that today is an important day in my journey. So there it is.

Confused.

I seem to have found myself stuck with job of scanning photos for my brother's 21st birthday party tomorrow. I am not sure how this has happened. I certainly did not volunteer to scan about 100 photos, two at a time, on our cold rumpas room floor.

So, seeing as I have been left with this 'honour', I am scanning lots of photos that feature me. Because really, I'm what it's all about. I mean, how cute am I?

Friggin' cute. That's how.