JustAnne.

Men. WTF??

I have found myself in a 'funk' about men at the moment. Indeed, if I am completely honest with myself - I think I'm losing my faith in them. 

Why? Let me tell you why.

(The following is a collection of moments over the last month that have either happened to me, or to women of my acquaintance. And yes, it's a little bit ranty.)

The other day I was sitting on a bus and looked up to see the following ad:

 

All of a sudden, I got mad. Really mad. I would almost consider my rage illogical except that I think my reasoning is sound. But before I begin, let me say that I know STIs are currently spreading like wildfire, and I know that I can have Chlamydia and not even know. That is why I get an STI check whenever I have a pap smear. So who is this campaign targeting? I'll tell you who. Women. The website, the resources, the information - all clearly pitched at women. Which is all fine and dandy, but let me tell you about "No Condom Man"

No Condom Man is a common occurrence in our modern world. He is of 'normal' appearance and is therefore very difficult to spot. In fact, he only appears at the 'crucial moment'. That moment when you are on fire and you desperately want him, No Condom Man appears. "Oh baby, you're on birth control aren't you?" "I'm clean, aren't you?" "But it just feels so much better without one". These are his mantras. No Condom Man is an expert at making you feel bad for insisting, and even occasionally 'sneaks it in' before you can stop him. And once that happens? Well. It's easy to get carried away, because it does feel good. But guess who feels guilty afterwards? It certainly isn't No Condom Man.

And here's kicker. Even when you manage to persevere, and the condom comes out of your purse/bedside table - No Condom Man doesn't own any - guess what happens? The minute the latex touches his skin, he goes floppy. Does No Condom Man apologise? No. Because who's fault is it? The woman who insisted he use one. And who's the one left feeling frustrated and even a little bit guilty? You.

So tell me, where is the national ad campaign targeting No Condom Man? Why is it women have the responsibility of not only paying for birth and STI control, but for negotiating its use as well? When we talk about the personal being political, your encounters with No Condom Man are the perfect example. One person has the power to make the other feel uncomfortable, guilty and occasionally, disgusted with themselves. And I tell you what, the person with the power is usually a man. And why shouldn't it be? No one's tax dollars are being spent blaming him for STIs he could have and not even know about. 

And besides, it's perfectly okay for a man to put his dick wherever he chooses, unless he's in a relationship, right?

Which brings me to my next point. Men lie. 

Okay. That is a rash generalisation - women lie too. All the time. Lying is a people thing, not just a man thing. But until you have had sex with a man, who immediately blurts out afterwards that he's married, has a son and his wife is pregnant, it's hard not to generalise. Especially when it is mother's day weekend. And he asks you if you can have a 'casual thing'. And his wife is calling him as you kick him out the door.

And while you cannot feel bad about someone cheating on their wife with you when you didn't know they had a wife - this sort of thing does not make you feel particularly optimistic about men. Especially when you hear similar tales from other women. And men.

And so to my last point. Men are bastards.

After chasing you for weeks and finally pulling the moves on you, they go to the bathroom and never come back. They tell you you're amazing and then they never call. They leave before you wake up and they take your money. They let you down. 

And yet, despite all of this, we keep going back for more? WTF??

Last night I was told an old german saying - if you put all of the bad men in a bag and beat it with a stick, you'll always hit the right one. I like this saying, and it rather characterised the evening. May hasn't been a great month for me and mine. 

So what have these recent experiences taught me? I've discussed this at length, with a variety of close lady friends and after many words of wisdom, reassurances and curse words the general consensus is thus ....

It's time to revisit the selection criteria, and it is time to take a break.

So. I am officially declaring that June 2010 will be a man free zone. Or at least a sex free zone. Or perhaps a no sex with men I haven't met before zone. Or something like that.

Now, this isn't going to be easy. I am going to need all the help I can get. But it must be done. I cannot even begin to think up a list of formalised rules, and while logically 'no drinking' should be right up the top, this is not going to happen. Maybe in July ... maybe.

So, dear Interwebs, I ask you to wish me luck, and keep me honest.

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 .... 

Bah. Humbug.

Traditionally Christmas is an exciting, even joyous time for me. Historically Christmas meant visiting relatives, lots of swimming, lots of video games, ice blocks, more swimming, and presents. Glorious presents! As I got older and did my time in retail, it became more about work, but extra money. And I did still love it. I loved buying Christmas cards, buying decorations, listening to carols, selecting just the right gift for all of my nearest and dearest. All of it. Loved it. Then over the last few years I began making things as gifts, and Christmas became a time where I could learn new skills, like sewing and making extreme amounts of Truffles in a v small kitchen. You can imagine my joy as I realised people liked the handmade gifts even more. Sure, they were an investment of time, but a worthy investment in the spirit of celebration and giving. 

But Christmas 2009? This Christmas I am so cranky, I cannot even begin to express it in a coherent manner.

If I am completely honest with myself, I should recognise that my mood has been in the toilet for at least a month and a half. The cause? The inevitably soul-destroying process of job hunting. It just goes on and on. Can people not see how truly fabulous I am? Really?? Officially, for the record, job-hunting is much worse than dating. Being rejected by men pales in comparison to being rejected from positions your perfect for based on a cold evaluation of your skills and abilities. So I have been harbouring some unkind, and exceedingly uncharitable thoughts around certain organisations of late. Because when I feel hurt, I turn it into anger. Then I cry. Then I feel angry. And so on and so forth.

So it would seem that this hurt and anger is killing Christmas. And how has this presented itself? Well, I knew I was in trouble last week when I found myself shooting Hate Rays, out of my eyeballs, at any couple that looked even remotely happy. Last Friday I was inches away from issuing a public declaration on Facebook that any person who happened to speak to me of how happy they were in their relationship/job was at serious risk of harm. But I restrained myself, because I felt that these thoughts were predominantly influenced by hormones. And this week, as I welcomed my lady time, I felt better. I felt like my crankypants were gone. Like I could finally get back into the spirit of things. 

And then, THEN! I came down with Tonsillitis. What. The Fuck.

Yesterday, as I dragged myself out of bed at 4 in the afternoon and went to the shops in the quest for some kind of food, I suddenly realised something. The Hate Rays were back. The couples, did they have to hold hands and look so smug? And the carollers? Do they have to wander around the shops singing? They only make people uneasy. And today? Still there. I tried listening to Christmas carols to buoy my spirit, and as I heard the opening lines to "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" the only thought that went through my head was "Fuck you". I will say however, that some of Hanson's Christmas carols did bring a smile to my lips, proving once again that you can always rely on something you loved when you were 14. 

Yes. Well. As you can see my headspace has not been in the best place for awhile, which I will wholeheartedly use as my excuse for not blogging for a while. I do try not to be a Negative Nancy all of the time. But alas, today I could not hold it in. 

The sooner Christmas comes and I can go on holidays to the Philippines, the better. My batteries are in desperate need of recharging.

Another Chip Out of My Soul.

Earlier this week I was lamenting the sorry state of affairs my morning skin care regime has become. Courtesy of dermatitis and a rather judgemental dermatologist my routine now consists of a 'chemist only' cleanser and HOME BRAND sorbolene cream. Oh how I long for the days when my bathroom sink was covered with a variety of interesting and moderately expensive products. Oh how colourful and alluring they were! 

Today I suffered further insult when my GP revealed that it is highly likely I am currently experiencing another dermatitis courtesy of my newly sensitive skin. The implications of this reaction are even more devastating. Indeed, it will strike to the very core of my being. This dermatitis will effect how I do my laundry.

For those of you who know me quite well, you will immediately comprehend my pain. For everyone else it is important to understand that my laundry routine is one of my 'things'. I like it done a certain way. For example, linens and towels must always be washed with a liquid soap and fabric softener. My blacks and jeans must always be washed with Radiant Black Wash. And my bras, knits and stockings must always be washed with liquid wool and delicates wash. And everything is washed with cold water. 

Do not ask me to explain this. We all have our 'little ways' and this is one of mine. 

So. You can imagine my inward expressions of horror and consequent spiral into despair when my GP informed me that I should switch to laundry powder for sensitive skin. 

Why are you doing this to me Universe?? Why??? Every. Time. I try and show myself some special attention, be it with a new skin cream or a new fabric softener, you see fit to make my body reject it. It isn't fair. Next my acrylic nails will fall off and my hair will fall out.

Sigh. This has not been the greatest Friday the 13th. 

I suppose I should look on the bright side. I suppose I still have at least one interesting element in my daily routine. I have some pretty awesome perfumes. Although I am beginning to wonder if I should start spraying them on my clothes rather than my skin.

Sensitivity is a bitch.

Simplify.

This is not a word a young, product-obessed woman ever wants to hear from her dermatologist. But alas, it is true. I waged war upon my skin, and my skin won. It would seem that my skin has become 'sensitive', why? Probably just a reaction to long-term use of a variety of skin products with, and I quote, "too many 'natural' ingredients" (I am not sure the use of single quotation marks accurately describes the disdain with which my dermatologist uttered the word 'natural', but you get the idea). Apparently the more whiz bang ingredients a skin cream offers, the more likely I am to react.

The answer? Keep taking antibiotics for at least a month, use a prescription ointment as a cleanser for a month then switch to Cetaphil, and use sorbolene cream as a moisturiser, but only if I absolutely have to. When I desperately asked what kind of sunscreen I could use, the dermatologist sighed, gave me the name of one and kindly drew a diagram showing which areas of the face are most commonly prone to skin cancers and advised me to only apply there. On the diagram he also drew a hat indicating that those same areas could also be protected by a broad brim.

What I did not tell him but will tell you Internet as you are significantly less judgemental, is that while he may take away my products he will never take away my awesome haircut by condemning me to hats. That, I will not stand for.

The good news? At this stage I am able to wear any eye make-up and lip colour I want. Thank. God. I am not sure I could go on living if I had to give up my OTT eye make-up on weekends. Foundation wise I have been recommended to use a particular Clinque range, but I am not, under any circumstances, allowed to let them 'diagnose' my skin as a 'combination type' and sell me a '3 step' product routine.

So here I am, practically skin product free and to the delight of my friends and collegues, in the throes of the Great Product Giveaway. Perhaps the most embarrassing thing about this process is that everytime I give away a large quantity of products, I keep finding more I need to get rid of. I shudder to think just how much it is all worth.

BUT! At least I do not have to give away any of my make-up. Phew!

As a result of the whole Skin Saga I have decided to go back on the Pill. I suspect this will mean I'll never have sex again as the minute I stopped taking it things, er, picked up. So I would just like to take a moment to curse the Universe for making me choose between sex and acne free skin. Bastard that it is.

The world had better get ready for even more sexually frustrated blogging from one Ms Anne. Yes siree.

A RomCom Inspired Rant.

Every so often I go through phases where I consume a number of 'romantic' or 'chick' films with a reckless abandon. I usually find this quite a satisfying and enjoyable process, but lately something's changed. Last week I re-watched When Harry Met Sally, never my favourite of the genre but could never figure out why. Last week it clicked, and it highlighted my two main irritations with films of this genre. Firstly, the idea of being single is never treated as a realistic or desirable option and secondly, the female lead is never particularly interesting nor particularly strong. 

I get that these movies are pitched at women, and consequently the male characters are the most interesting (and incredibly dishy). I get that they are selling us an ideal, a dream, a fantasy. And don't get me wrong, I love an ideal, dream and fantasy, the last thing I look for at the cinema is a cold hard dose of reality. But I think I have reached a point in my life where this underlying assumption that true happiness only happens when you are in a relationship does not sit right. Sure, it was nice when Harry and Sally finally hooked-up, a gal cannot help but gush at Harry's declaration of love in his jeans and sneakers at a black tie event. But these were two characters that went immediately from long-term relationships into a co-dependent, pseudo-relationship. There was no time for personal development in that plot line.  

And let's take a closer look at Sally. Like many female leads in these kinds of films, she's neurotic, holds a generic media-based job, is pretty, but not particularly interesting. It is her flaws that we identify with, that denial that things are okay, that pedantic ordering of food. Is the fantasy then that if these 'flawed' women can find 'Mr. Right', we can too? And why are the Sally's of the genre always journalists, or in PR, television or publishing? Is it because these professions are enough to indicate a woman's intelligence without being overly threatening to the men in the story? A woman's job certainly is not used as a plot device to make her more interesting. Indeed, the films where women have more high-status jobs they are only used to highlight her flaws. Think about Just Like Heaven or more recently The Proposal, the female leads were 'career focused'. Translation: they were cold and/or lonely with great big emotional 'walls'. These women have to 'soften' to be loved, whereas the Sally's are, eventually, loved for who they are. WHAT is that about?

The thing is, it is not like strong and interesting female characters are a turn-off for women when it comes to the consumption of ideals, dreams and fantasies. Quite the opposite. When I think of some of my all time favourite romantic tales I always, always, come back to Jane Austen. Read and adored by generations of women, and almost all centring around strong female characters in the face of a difficult and ridiculous world. And if these women are flawed, they generally adapt and grow. I do not think the modern world is devoid of Elizabeths, Elenors, and Annes, so why is it that when it comes to our RomComs, we can only identify with the neuroses and hysterics. The Sallys, Carries and Bridgets?

I feel quite unsettled by it all. Certainly I love a good love story. But it occurs to me that the movies made for women are all about the men. Interesting, funny, good-looking and strong men. And the movies made for men? Well, let's just say that I have heard them referred to simply as "guns, breasts, explosions, breasts".  So, where are the movies about strong and interesting women that are loved for who they are?  

My Not-So-Swine Flu

So I was home sick yesterday and find myself at home again today. And no, I do not think I have swine flu. As I said to my mother, I am not even going to bother getting tested unless I spike a fever. And fortunately there has been no fever. Although I have been avoiding my father in case he starts shoveling TamiFlu down my throat, which he has a stockpile of in the kitchen. 

I have had a very sore throat and have developed a nice juicy cough, which is what is keeping me at home. 2009 is not the year for being blase about displaying cold and flu symptoms in public places - let alone in enclosed office spaces with six other people. I am even a bit concerned about going down to Woolworths lest I cough and am thrown out by the daytime shoppers. Don't laugh! It has happened to me before - I was 12 years old with the chicken pox and was asked to leave a toy store. Sigh. I had completely repressed that until now. That was shit.

I'm bored. I hope I do not get the real swine flu. I hate the idea of being quarantined for weeks - with my family. But the pressure is on, my brother rather pointedly informs me that if I have swine flu he gets to stay home from school for a whole week. I think he has exams coming up. At least I can do some necessary phone-based-work from home, but it only takes me so far. I can do some more sewing I suppose. Or look into some knitting. Or take a bath. Problem is these things are only fun if you are doing them by choice. I am doing them out of necessity, which is somehow infinitely less cool.

The most exciting thing I have planned for the day is changing out of the pajamas I have been wearing for the last 24 hours, and choosing some new and exciting pajamas to wear for the next 12-24 hours. Golly, it just does not get any more glamourous than that now does it?

Typical.

So, I've started feeling a bit better about things. I have realised that I am out of balance and a key to 'righting myself' is taking back some of my time and getting active again (I have been working some big hours leaving me broken and exhausted). So this morning I finally get out for my first walk/run of the week. Things were going well, I was feeling mentally cleansed and enjoying the endorphin kick when at my halfway point my back seizes and spasms. Bastard that it is.

I would just like to take a moment to say, F*** you Body. Way to go make me feel alone again, because I had no one to call and had to shuffle 1.5km home in pain. Ok, look. I get it. It was a rather harsh and elaborate way to tell me to stop, just about everything. But come on!! I was just getting myself back into the land of emotional stability and you take away my prime focusing object?? Grah!!

Fortunately, I have been getting better throughout the day. Even managing a rather slow paced and dazed jaunt to the shops. It seems that if I keep moving around (within certain limits) it's not too bad. But if I stop moving and then start again, woe is me. The hot bath and pain killers have been useful. And by some kind of crazy miracle my mood has been quite positive. I think the anticipation of tomorrow evening's 'P' themed costume party, which I shall be attending as Princess Peach, has helped immensely. Not too mention the intended ANZAC Day two-up and evening out dancing w my ladies (provided my body lets me dance, bastard that it is).

Tomorrow will be a hard day, but I am hoping my weekend activities with fabulous friends will bolster my spirit and that my body will let me indulge in the physical activity that I have come to rely on. 

(Bah! Can you believe that?? 12 months ago I would have vomited a little in my mouth at the prospect of physical activity - and now it helps keep me sane? Gosh life can do funny things to us)

Itchy.

You know, I only really wanted to achieve two things tonight. Have a nice hot bath, and go to bed on fresh bed linen. Unfortunately, thanks to the half a tube of steroid cream I have just slaked across half of my body, I have not changed the sheets for fear of stinkin' them up. You see, last night I was eaten alive by Hervey Bay Midges. I have never had this many insect bites on my body. And they just seem to keep popping up. 

It is awful. And I am in a foul mood. And I am beginning to feel overwhelmed by what is likely to be one of my worst work weeks on record. I know, I am not thinking positively and this will effect the outcome blah, blah, blah. But realistically, I do not think I will be getting out of this week unscathed. 

Everything is just yukky in my head right now, and the itching is. Not. Helping. 

Simply Singleton

I recently picked up my copy of Bridget Jones Diary and began re-reading it in an attempt to make myself feel less neurotic. This tactic has failed miserably. If anything, I am completely over identifying and am left craving chocolate croissants. And Colin Firth.

I have stated in the past that I definitely identify more with the Bridget Jones model of single life than the Sex and the City model. But I am beginning to suspect that I may be some kind of bizarre combination of Bridget and Miranda. Either that or Bridget and Sharon. My feminist rants and issues in connection gender biases in dating is something that just cannot be ignored in trying to understand my character.

For example, I am fed up with all of my awesome single lady doctor friends being unable to find decent men and my semi-awesome single man doctor friends being in constant demand. AND! May I recount for you the tale of one of my dear friends, who when a man asked what she did and she replied "I'm in marketing", he promptly replied "That's too good for me" and walked away. The real tragedy of the tale is that she was a state marketing manager, but was worried she'd scare him off if she told him this upfront. She then proceeded to spend the rest of the evening as a hairdresser. 

I really cannot believe that a disturbing number of men are still too insecure to handle the mere idea of intelligent and successful women. And I am totally not about the culture that generates this insecurity (I haven't used the word 'misogyny' on this blog before - but I am v tempted). As if women do not have enough shit to deal with, what with the whole beauty, body, babies thing.

Blah!

You know, the problem with being disgusted by men who cannot handle a strong woman is that it significantly narrows your playing field. And I really, really hate that. Grr Argh.

I need a Chocolate Hot Cross Bun . . . .