JustAnne.

Remembering Why I Choose Australia

I have had a lot of conversations lately about Australia Day, racism, 'boganism', flags, southern cross tattoos and the genocide of our Indigenous peoples. These conversations have all been incredibly interesting and often provide valid criticisms of our culture and history. They are also a bit of a downer and have the habit of making me feel a bit ashamed of my country. 

Unlike a lot of people my age and generation, I have not chosen to live and work overseas for any extended period. I have fallen in love with other countries and cities, but I only holiday there. Australia is my home, and I love it here. So this Australia Day, I am going to take a couple of minutes to reflect on what I think makes Australia pretty fabulous. Not perfect!! Just pretty fabulous. These are the things that keep me here, and that keep me committed to changing the things I don't particularly like. 

• I was born into a country with 50,000 years of cultural heritage. 50,000 years!
• This country granted my mother's family access when they were escaping famine and poverty in Ireland, and it still grants people access who are escaping war, oppression and genocide. (Okay, so they're pretty particular - but 13,500 per year is better than 0)**.
• If I get sick, I can easily see a doctor and get medicine to treat my illness.
• If I go to hospital, I do not have to provide my own linen, food and family members to attend to me.
• I can find myself sitting in someone's backyard, having a beer, watching my friends and classmates perform dances from Bollywood films and eat delicious food we have all made to share. 
• That I can always find someone interesting to talk to. What makes people interesting is that their experiences and cultures are different to my own. Because there is so much diversity here, there will always be new stories to hear!
• That our collective laid back Aussie attitude (as reported by many visitors and people who choose to live in here) is so complementary to my own personality.
• That there are so many people committed to creating change for the most vulnerable and powerless in our society.
• We have a welfare system!
• That Australians are so generous. Not just with our money, but with our time. In the year 2006, one third of Australian adults volunteered their time for their community. The grand total of hours worked in the year was around 713 million!***
• That I can sit and have open and frank discussions about why I disagree with many elements of my country's politics and culture and nobody punishes or ridicules me. Well, not to my face. 
• Our wit and our humour.
• That I am free to choose how I would like to live my life (provided of course, it does not encroach upon the rights of others).
• That there is still so much of this country I haven't seen.

So this Australia Day I am going to celebrate why I like living here in the way I normally do - listening to the Hottest 100, and chilling out. Although this year I will also be making Beetroot Hommus, which is pretty exciting.

Belatedly Resolved.

I have a little problem. Because I haven't 'officially' blogged my new years resolutions, I keep adding to them when other people tell me theirs. The list is getting too long, and judging by my complete inability to complete last year's list, I thought I had better post them quick smart.

This year I have gone for a combination of achievable tasks and broader attitudinal/behavioural shifts (Geez, that sounds fancy doesn't it!). So here we are . . .

• Up my Pilates regime to twice a week - this may require me to decrease spending on clothes or alcohol. *gulp*
• Find a new and fabulous job - it has to be fabulous to lure me away from my current position.
• Write something, anything, once a day.
• Finally sew a friggin' dress.
• Take back the reins on my 'healthy living'. I dropped them for a while there.
• Rock the U. S. of A.
• Make peace with my Lady Bits
• Be more conscious of my waste - food, garbage, the lot.
• Find an off switch for my brain.

The last item was particularly inspired by an affirmation card I encountered last year (yes, I know it's dorky, but that affirmation card set was the best $20 I spent last month). In fact, it was this card that prompted me to buy the set in the first place. This is definitely something I need to keep reminding myself to do this year . . .

So there you have it. My goals for 2010. I have a feeling it is going to be a very good year.

The Year That Was.

If there was one song that could have been considered the theme tune for my year it was Single Ladies by Beyonce. Not because I was trying to get back at someone for not marrying me, but because I think that for the first time, I actually enjoyed being a single lady. 

Yes, despite my current level of crotchety-ness I really have to admit that 2009 has been a very good year. Lots of fun, crazy things have happened and lots of lessons have been learnt amidst the ups and downs. So, in the spirit of annual reflections, I present you with my list of happenings and learnings:

• My Mojo Explosion. It had to happen sooner or later, and this year saw the introduction of The Huntress into society. And I am slowly beginning to manage her.
• I walk/jogged the flippin' Bridge to Brisbane! 10km!! Madness.
• I didn't go shopping for a whole month. EPIC achievement!
• I found my 'blog groove'. After eight years of recording cringeworthy thoughts and moments, I have finally found my voice and a deep enjoyment in the expression of it. I have even begun to think of myself as a person who writes.
• I learnt that it is much, much easier to get laid than it is to get a date. This may sound depressing, but it's not that bad. Sometimes it is better to have one rather than neither. 
• I moved out into the rather delightful bachelorette pad, Lady M. 
• I learnt that sometimes, my head lets me down. Especially when it comes to would be relationships. In the future I need to practice a bit of calm.
• I fell in love with Japan.
• I thought I liked someone, but at least 85% of it was in my head.
• I went speed dating and found it to be an amusing endeavour that I am keen to repeat in 2010.
• 2009 could also be known as The Year of the Hickey, which has resulted in a general ban from the neck area. I find this to be incredibly lame.
• I bonded with my hairdresser when he tried to wipe a hickey off my neck, thinking it was hair dye. My mother was sitting in the chair next to me.
• I shamefacedly bailed on spending time with my parents because I did not want them to see my dirty hickeys. On more than one occasion.
• I got boozed and bought tickets to see Salt'n'Pepper at Good Vibrations in 2010. On my iPhone.
• My relationship with my vagina has entered a new and not entirely positive sphere. We are slowly beginning to speak again, although I am not sure it will ever be the same . . . 
• I am slowly beginning to conceptualise what it is I would actually like to do with my life. Slowly.
• I have become very adept at writing selection criteria. 
• I have been reminded, yet again, that I am by no means perfect and shall continue to try and hold myself accountable for my actions whilst not punishing myself too severely.
• Getting to help my amazing employing organisation celebrate their 20th Anniversary in a way that honoured the work they have done and the sheer joy of the place that has kept me there for nearly four years. Flippin'. Awesome. Oh and! I got to be in a musical and wear bunny ears. For my job!
• Turns out my skin is quite sensitive.
• I Tweeted. Lots.

As you can see, it has been a rather fun and interesting year. Certainly there is plenty to inspire my forthcoming Resolutions for 2010. There are a couple of items I am tossing and turning over, so I may need a bit of help. You have been warned.

Taking a Moment.

Last night I suggested to my housemate that we should consider transmitting a live video feed from within our house. I felt this was important because our lives are so gosh darn exciting. I was refilling a dishwand at the time. True to form, my housemate one upped me by dropping fetta down her bra. However, for some strange reason she was not open to the notion of putting our lives on display. 

I have to confess I am often struck by how comfortably dull my life can be. Last night I crafted for three hours. Lost in the task, my mind considered nothing but the precise measurement and placement of fabric. I love sewing. It is all about basic maths, measurement and design. It is like doing a series of increasingly challenging puzzles. AND! You get to look at something pretty in the end. Alright, sure, I sometimes have to spend a considerable amount of time unpicking stitches and sure, I sometimes cry and bleed. But it is ultimately a very satisfying process. It is completely removed from the world of social work, where things come together in a neat and functional way considerably less often. 

So what's my point? My point, dear Interwebs, is that more often than not my life is considerably less exciting and glamourous than is portrayed on this weblog. Indeed, any hint of excitement and glamour is perhaps more reflective of my ability to tell a story five different ways. And you know me, I love spinnin' a good yarn. But this morning I find myself embracing and luxuriating in the dull. And you know, it is a luxury, being able to briefly stop your busy life and enjoy the moments of boring domesticity and time spent absorbed in interests and hobbies. I think it's actually pretty cool. So my dearest, loveliest readers, I urge you to spend a few minutes today appreciating some wonderfully dull aspect of your life. It may be filling out a form, photocopying, folding sheets and towels, staring blankly out a window on the train, anything! For these are the moments we never record, but they give us much needed respite from our lives. 

(Personal Insight: it just occurred to me that perhaps this is why I love doing my laundry so, so much?)

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.

Do I Even Want A Boyfriend? Really??

A close friend of mine recently observed that in ten short months I have pulled a complete 360 (or is it a 180?) when it comes to the subject of one night stands. Ten months ago I felt that sleeping with a man I was not in a relationship with was unsatisfactory. I did not consider the idea morally questionable, I just did not think it was for me. Now? Well, let’s just say my opinion on the matter has changed quite dramatically. Ten months ago, all I wanted was to be in love. Now? Now I find myself wondering if I even want a boyfriend. Do I? Really??

Let's consider this logically and take a look at the facts.

• Sometimes, it is nice to be cuddled by a man whose agenda is not entirely about getting a root. (That, I suppose is one for the Boyfriends)
• Sometimes, it is really, really nice to be able to sprawl across my bed and have a good night's sleep without anybody else's snoring or farting to cause discomfort. (Definitely a big tick for Singledom)
• Sometimes, it would be really nice not to be the only single person at a dinner party. (Boyfriends)
• However, having dinner, wine and smutty conversation with my single lady friends is totally awesome. (Singledom)
• It would be really, really nice to have someone to shag on a regular basis. (Boyfriends - or is that too strong a word?)
• But, if I had a boyfriend, how would I find time for my friends, family and myself? Would I have to give up taking myself on little dates to the cinema? Because they're very important for my sanity. (Singledom - although in the brief time I thought I could date someone this year [I didn't, of course], I did find my ability to make time for someone was suitably able. Too bad is wasn't mutual)
• Avoiding the constant emotional turmoil that comes from playing the dating game. (Boyfriends)
• Avoiding the emotional turmoil that will come from not being single anymore, as it will require a significant shift in personal identity. I could do it. I think. (Singledom)
• Not being able to rock to Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It) with quite the same verve. (Singledom)
• The love bites (minus one point for both Singledom and Boyfriends)
• The birth control. That shit adds up and I always seem to be the one who pays for it. (minus one for both Boyfriends and Singledom - UNLESS a vasectomy and STI check are involved. Or a desire for a child. Then it is plus one for Boyfriends)

Based on this list, the math leans me slightly more towards Singledom. But I suspect this result is due to some biases considering that being single is all I have ever really known. The truth is my desire for a more permanent man in my life comes and goes, and appears to be loosely connected to the cycles of the moon and my artificially controlled hormones. I like to think that for the right person, I will easily 'fall' into a relationship.

But until then? Well. I shall just have to amuse myself.

On Men and Ikea.

Not too long ago I spent the evening with a man who lived in Springwood. I spent the night in Springwood as the gentleman was young, of Irish extraction, had limited insight into the distances involved, and was therefore agreeable to driving me home. A courtesy I was not willing to extend to him.

For those of you not familiar with the greater Brisbane area, Springwood is South. So far South that in my snobbier moods I have referred to it as the 'Deep South'. It is so far South that it is not actually a part of Brisbane at all. For many years the only redeeming feature of Springwood was that it hosted Brisbane's one and only Ikea**. And for many years I have had a habit of going to Ikea whenever I happen to be hungover on the Southside.

As we began the long journey home, I commented to the gent that I felt like going to Ikea. He looked at me askance and dared to ask why. I explained to him my partiality towards Solutions for Modern Living, Sweedish Meatballs and their siren call to my hungover psyche. He looked at me blankly. He didn't understand.

I remember watching an episode of Love My Way, where a couple were shopping at Ikea and the female was incredibly hungover. I remember her sentiments being something along the lines of "If I can just sort out my storage, then everything will be okay". I could identify with that. 

Easing your pain with meatballs only to be left feeling vaguely nauseous, sitting on 'Display Only' couches for ten minutes before being able to rise again, and buying more novelty ice cube trays than any one person needs. This is what Ikea is all about. That and three pairs of scissors for $3 and an impressive range of psychadellic prints. 

However, Ikea is not about meeting men. Despite ones ability to amuse them with witty, albeit hungover, repartee, it is generally not okay to flirt with them as they are usually accompanied by a heavily pregnant partner. Or, as I sadly discovered on my latest Ikea trip, their incredibly cute male partner. I cannot begin to tell you how devastating it was to see the best looking men in Ikea measuring up a bed together.

On a recent Ikea trip the lovely Lulu imparted the following wisdom:

Anne, never let a man near your Tupperware. They don't understand.

I think the same may apply to Ikea itself. Perhaps men are useful when discussing dimensions and construction and when removing large flat-packs from the self-service area. But can they ever really share the passion for nesting and home organisation that seems to grip the female of the species? And still want to have sex with the female of the species??

**Ikea has recently left Springwood, leaving a gaping whole in their vibrant home-making district.

Gyms. They're Weird.

I have said it before and I will say it again, gyms are fundamentally weird places. I shudder to think what Goffman or Foucalt would have to say about them. There are many things that make the gym weird, the Personal Trainers, the Body Beautifuls, the strange slogans and incessant advertising, a room full of people running on the spot staring at television screens. The list goes on and on. But today I will talk about some of the gym’s weirder inhabitants: the Body Beautifuls. You know the ones.

The women are young with make up, free flowing ponytails and very short shorts. I am willing to concede the makeup, because if I actually wore makeup to work it is unlikely I would think to take it off before working out. But it would get messy once I started. This is not a problem for the female BBs as they do not seem prone to sweating. Nor are they prone to love handles, cellulite or unmanageable hair. I am becoming increasingly convinced they are a bread of aliens trying to bring down humanity by contributing to fellow gym-goers feelings of discomfort and dismay at their own flabby(er) bodies. The men don’t seem to sweat much either. The just look all hot and muscly and unattainable. Except for the really bulky ones who just look like aliens, lending further support to my Theory. (Although, another theory suggests that they exist purely for our amusement, but that feels unkind).

For the BBs working out isn’t so much about fitness but about putting yourself on display. It’s like a courtship ritual gone wrong. Wrong because the normal people (i.e. me) can only watch, occasionally drool and keep their arousal respectfully to themselves (the gym is one place where I am glad I am not a man, perhaps that’s why so many of them wear loose fitting shorts?). Courtship certainly takes place, and it is a strange thing to watch. It’s a bit like watching man peacocks try to impress lady peacocks. Except at the gym, everyone behaves like the man peacock.

‘Jealous?’ I hear you mumble with a raised eyebrow. Not really. The BBs are far removed from anyone I have experienced in real life, and it is hard to be jealous of something so completely unrelatable. And when I check out men in the gym (and believe me, I do) the ones I usually like the look of are a little bit scruffier, or a bit skinnier, or have glasses. You know, they look like real people (or are just really, really dirty hot). I would like to think the real people extend the same courtesy to me, but I’m not so sure. I look pretty whacked when I work out. 

Print Media and Me.

I have a confession to make. Two weeks ago I bought a newspaper. I finally got around to opening it on Monday, played around with it for about five minutes, felt overwhelmed, and put it promptly in the recycle bin. I think it was the first newspaper I had bought since 2005 when I was moving house and needed to wrap my dishes. I think I missed the boat when it comes to the Romanticism of newspapers.

Newspapers are something I associate with my grandfather, along with bus tickets and peppermint lifesavers. The only purpose I clearly remember them serving me was telling me what was on television, and delivering me cartoons. By the time I was old enough to be interested in the news, I had the Internet. Online I can pick and choose what I want to read, and it doesn't take up unnecessary space in my recycle bin (I need this space for all of the empty sparkling mineral water bottles, cans of Pepsi Max and frozen meal cartons I seem to accumulate at an alarming pace). Needless to say, when the following comment popped up on Twitter, I nodded along knowingly.

Although I should point out that I do know plenty of people my age who love reading the paper. But is is something they luxuriate in, a treat. A weekend or a holiday activity. Occasionally a lunch break activity, when they have the time to leave their desk. Newspapers just cannot compete with the convenience of online content delivered straight into our workstations. 

And while I just cannot seem to grasp Newspapers, I retain an unbridled passion towards books. Although I do not prioritise them as much as I should. Demands on my time are many and my habit of losing myself entirely to books holds me back all too often. A point that was certainly highlighted by the sentiment of this rather lengthy article on the lost art of reading. Books and Newspapers are good tools to try and steal some time back for yourself. But with the convenience of the Internet on my iPhone, giving me access to emails, news, blogs, Facebook and Twitter, the idea of carrying a book around in my handbag seems silly. All of that excess weight to carry around! No wonder I feel a bit lost when my Internet connection goes down.

Still, I think it is worth attempting to read more off-screen content, if only to reclaim some space for my mind to escape into fantasies and worlds that do not revolve around inappropriate people in my life. Goodness knows when it comes to that, I need all the help in the world!!

Cycles.

If I ever conceive a child it will be just before a full-moon. Seriously. Every sodding month I find myself pining/lusting/yearning/lamenting/obsessing over some guy (or any guy) with my libido soaring through the roof. I feel crazy. "What's wrong with me this week?" I ponder to myself, and then out of the car window I spy a nearly full moon and it all makes sense.

This week has been particularly harsh. Every night, every single male encounter (or would-be encounter) over the past year has been flitting into my consciousness and subconsciousness - that's right people, I've been dreaming of former shags. Pathetic. And like always, I felt confused by these strange happenings in my head. Is the universe trying to tell me I need a man to plug some kind of hole in my soul? Or do I just need one to plug another hole, not even remotely connected to my soul? (Sorry, that was crass, even for me). And then, as I drove back to the office this afternoon I saw a large pale disk in the still blue sky and thought "Oh. Okay, totally making sense now."

Now, I get that nature is full of cycles, the moon, the seasons, the centralisaiton and de-centralisation of Centrelink. But I do find it frustrating being a slave to them. And it is not just a 'monthly' thing. Every Thursday night, without fail, I become some kind of lusty beast. Maybe it's the anticipation of the weekend, or a build-up of tension from the work week, or maybe it's a post-pilates thing. I don't know. But one thing is certain, and that's if I were in a relationship, Thursday nights would be Business Time. 

But I am not in a relationship. So Thursday nights simply become Taking Care of Business Time. And it's just not the same. I'll say one thing though, my Sunday morning will be spent one of two ways - 1) frustrated and alone, or 2) satisfied but mildly awkward. I'd like to be more optimistic, you know, I may find my one true love blah, blah, blah. But previous cycles, lessons learned and gut instinct tell me otherwise. Still, I suspect I'll have a bloody good Saturday either way.