Kinkery Fuckery

I've never understood girls who get upset by their partner's interest in porn but I do have friends who feel that way, for whatever weird and stupid reason (sorry chums but it really is pretty weird and stupid) and it does seem like there are people out there who think that porn is gross and wrong and represents the decay of society when seriously they should be more worried about shit like the viewing figures for Being Lara Bingle. So I kinda enjoyed this column at The Punch about how soft porn for women like 50 Shades of Grey is dismissed as harmless and/or liberating while porn for straight dudes involving tits and cunts is depraved and wrong and just a little bit icky. Also the author of the above article, Stephen Harrington, is a bit of a dish, no? I'm just saying.

Lessons? (Warning: contains spoilers for the movie Take This Waltz)

Lessons I Feel I Was Supposed to Learn From The Movie Take This Waltz

1. Don't fancy people who are not your husband.
2. If you must fancy people who are not your husband try not to live near them.
3. If you must live within fucking distance of people who are not your husband you should probably leave said husband so you can fuck your fanciable neighbour.
4. If you follow step 3 you will be unhappy. Probably.

Lessons I Actually Learned From The Movie Take This Waltz

1. If you fall for a hot, pretentious stranger you cannot avoid then you should probably seriously consider having sex with fanciable neighbour to get it out of your system and never, ever tell your plump, adorable husband about it. I'm just saying. Could've saved everyone some drama.

I don't want to turn this into fucking poetry corner or anything but is there anything better than Langston Hughes on form?

What happens to a dream deferred?Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.Or does it explode?
(Langston Hughes)

I say this as someone who likes most of what Aaron Sorkin has done and loves some of it...

... but The Newsroom is not good. It might even be quite bad. This makes me sad.

The weirdest thing someone said to me when I told them I was switching jobs at work

"Yeah I never really thought you were right for [the job I've been doing for the last four and a half years]... I don't mean that in a negative way."

I'm Comic Sans, Asshole

There are moments in life that I am filled with a deep sense of gratitude for some of the people in my life. Receiving this morning's email from the wonderful Belle, containing simply a link to this -

"You don’t like that your coworker used me on that note about stealing her yogurt from the break room fridge? You don’t like that I’m all over your sister-in-law’s blog? You don’t like that I’m on the sign for that new Thai place? You think I’m pedestrian and tacky? Guess the fuck what, Picasso. We don’t all have seventy-three weights of stick-up-my-ass Helvetica sitting on our seventeen-inch MacBook Pros. Sorry the entire world can’t all be done in stark Eurotrash Swiss type. Sorry some people like to have fun. Sorry I’m standing in the way of your minimalist Bauhaus-esque fascist snoozefest. Maybe sometime you should take off your black turtleneck, stop compulsively adjusting your Tumblr theme, and lighten the fuck up for once."

- and a subject line that read "One for your Helvetica necklace" was one of those times.

Depressing emails from my boss I have received today

Great yarn about [a company I cover] in [a rival newspaper] today.

I think I might be a moron

At the very least I'm starting to forget what words mean. Or maybe I never knew. I just googled the word "dictum" because I wanted to use it in a work story and realised I wasn't sure if I was using it right. Moron. Same deal yesterday when I described someone in a story as "avuncular". The longer I stared at the word the less and less certain I was that I actually knew what it meant. Perhaps the conspiracy theorists are right: excessive diet coke consumption is eating away at my brain. I'm even more of a moron because now I'm sitting here thinking how much happier I would be trying to write this STUPID work story with a diet coke at my elbow. If I open up my front door to find an ice-cold diet coke on the step I think I might actually start believing in God.

UPDATE: No diet coke. Atheism remains intact. Probably all for the best.

This Les Miserables trailer would be perfect...

... if only they'd used another song, like "One Day More" maybe or my own weak spot, "Bring Him Home" because now I'm now concerned that my deep distaste for both Anne Hathaway and the character Fantine (seriously, just - SPOILER - die already) is going to ruin this movie, which I really really really want to love. That much said I'd be lying if I said I wasn't almost paralysed by excitement.

Symptom Recital

(A belated  nod to my beloved Dorothy Parker on

the 45th anniversary of her death earlier this month.)

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the simplest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick. I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore:
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men.
I'm due to fall in love again.

(DP)

Ignoring logistics I just feel like it would be really, really cold for both parties

I know it’s the done thing to rag on glossy women’s magazines about how terribly superficial they are, how boring, how pandering to gender stereotypes and how I absolutely never so much as glance in their direction at the newsagent because I’m too busy reading the fucking New Yorker and teaching myself Spanish, but the truth is that I have always loved a good magazine.

As I mentioned on this blog only too recently, I had my first Proper Journalist Job on a women's magazine and it was the kind of wonderful experience that has given me lifelong appreciation of the work that goes into the magazines I still read if not routinely then at least on a semi-regular basis. Coupled with that, I grew up reading Dolly and Girlfriend before graduating to Cosmo (and ultimately onto my current mish-mash crop of In-Style, Marie Claire and Madison, the latter being one of those magazines I always think is going to be better than it is, although I digress) and I believe those magazines were helpful to a shy young girl with no tits who genuinely didn't know why her classmates snickered when someone asked for a "rubber".

Nevertheless, I have to concede that in a lifetime of reading magazines I have come across some fairly crazy fucking shit which, I have to believe, the journos threw in on deadline because they were desperate or just really wanted to get out of the office to go to their friend's party because that dude they have a crush on said he'd totally be there.

Sadly, I have long-since thrown out all of my old magazines. So God bless Jezebel, which has reprinted this article on Cosmo's 44 Most Ridiculous Sex Tips, which - and I can't stress this enough, readers - should not be tried at home.

Here's just a sample of what I'm talking about but the whole thing is extremely amusing and you can read it here.

On handjobs: 

"Hold his penis in one hand and lightly slap it with the other... you can tap it back and forth like you're volleying a tennis ball and lightly pinch the skin on his shaft and testicles. Many women make the mistake of being too gentle."Second opinion: make the mistake of being too gentle. At least until you ask.

On blowjobs: 

"Chew a small piece of mango... then take him in your mouth. You can use whatever fruit you have, just don't try anything too acidic, as it can burn him."Non-acidic fruit won't burn... but it will probably feel just as weird and pulpy as it sounds. 

On tits: 

"Receive a butterfly kiss... of your breasts. To do: he bats his eyelids against the supersensitive underside of your breasts."He might have to insert his head into your chest cavity, forehead up, but give it a shot. 

On a whole bunch of random shit: 

"Take a few of your favorite erotically appealing flavor combinations, like peanut butter and honey or whipped cream and chocolate sauce, and mix up yummy treats all over his body."There's a variation on this mainstay of the Cosmo canon in almost every issue. Successfully incorporating food into sex - based on my life experiences and casual surveys - is not a real thing. It's sticky, wrecks the sheets, and, if done frequently, will give you Type II diabetes. 

"Keep a spray bottle filled with ice water next to the bed, and give each other a strategic spritz to extend the encounter... Aim for the nerve-packed, thin-skinned areas on each other's body, such as the nipples."On an unrelated note, this is also a great way to train your cat not to pee on the rug. 

"Record your voice on your cell the next time you have a solo session. Then, send him the audio file in the middle of the day, with just the text, 'Wanna hear me do this tonight?'"In the middle of the day. Best time. Right when he's at work. No way that could go wrong.

Boys, if you think we're making this shit up you have no idea. I remember when I was still reading Cosmo, it would have been in the late nineties, and every single fucking sealed sex section ever must have had this one tip where you were supposed to put a shitload of ice in your mouth for an eeeextra special blowjob that would blow your partner's mind or something. Even then, as inexperienced, ignorant and far from being called up to give a blowjob anytime soon as I was, I think I knew that was a really terrible fucking idea.

Questions I had after one of the cartoonists at work drew my picture to commemorate my new haircut (yeah it was a quiet day):

1. Are my boobs that big?

2. Are my hips that round?

3. Is my skirt that short?

4. Is possible said cartoonist is just kind of a perv?

Riddle me this

How is it I can buy a pair of flat shoes that are perfectly cute for $10 but my stockings - which are nude fishnets and therefore consist of basically zero material - cost $25? Enquiring minds want to know.

Fuck You,

Fuck you random guy who sent me that email. You know which one I'm talking about: the one where you started off politely with a "You don't know me but..." before segueing into your stupid hypothetical question about my views on the role of a journalist (the fuuuuu....?) because you needed to know "how professional [I am]".

Seriously: fuck you and no I shall not reply to you. I shall not, Sir! I have started a reply email several times since receiving yours but each time I find myself unable to come up with something remotely civil to write back. "Do you want to try rewriting this email without the implied insult?" Is about the closest I've come and even then I have to stop myself from adding a vitriolic PS that's basically just me mashing the keyboard at random.

Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions but I wouldn't be quite so pissed off if I didn't strongly suspect that at least some of your shitty attitude stems from the fact that I'm a girl writing about a very male-dominated industry.

Probably I also wouldn't be quite so shitty if your shitty email didn't remind me so much of a conversation I had maybe a year ago with some other dickhead on the phone. Bear in mind this was the first time I'd ever spoken to this douche who - like you, I suspect - was a random member of the public wanting me to write about a dodgy company in which he was an investor. It went something like this:

Him: (Blah, blah, blah)... Tell me, do you understand the concept of internal rate of return.

Me: Yes.

Him: What do you understand by it?

Me: (Pause) Why are you asking me this?

Him: I just want to know that you know what you're talking about.

Me: (Silence).

What. The. Fuck. Seriously: what the fuck?! When I go into the doctor about that weird lump on my earlobe (um, seriously, it's actually starting to freak me out a bit) do I start our session by asking if he or she knows the proper name for my funny bone? No. No I do not. Because I am not a psycho.

Just because I have tits and got kinda crappy marks in my Applicable Maths TEE exam 11 years ago (although, hah, you have know way of knowing that so suck it!) please do not assume that I'm not good at my job. I mean, I'm no scientician but I'm pretty sure the addition of a cock would not necessarily improve my ability to perform the tasks I am paid to.

But it's been a long, rough week. I've had stress and disappointment at work and in my personal life. I've stumbled across unpaid bills I'd forgotten existed and I've just realised I made a big mistake on last year's tax return. Generally I feel like a confused little pony that's been ridden hard and put away wet. As a result, perhaps I've judged you too hastily and inaccurately. Certainly I apologise in advance if any of the sweeping conclusions I've made about your reasons for writing that shitty email were incorrect and you're in fact a right-on feminist kind of a guy whose reasonable comments have been misinterpreted by my tired old brain. But, on reflection, I really, really doubt it so, honestly, fuck you again.

Regards etc

Token Smokin' Hottie: Ripley

Fear not, men of the world, I haven't gone over to the ladies. My deep and abiding love for Ripley (a fictional character, obviously, as if I need to point out that I'm not talking about the actress Sigourney Weaver) has nothing to do with wanting to get her into bed. Although, you know, should this somehow become a possibility I'm not entirely ruling it out. She is pretty cute and with her biceps I bet she could throw me around like a rag doll.

Having seen Prometheus at the weekend (forget the haters: I thought it was great schlocky fun, much of which didn't make a lick of sense and really didn't have to) I subsequently rewatched Alien, which is - for a sci-fi movie made in freaking 1979 - holding up pretty damn well. I've seen the sequel, Aliens, plenty of times because it's a classic but it'd been ages since I'd gone back to the first movie and I'd forgotten how much I love, love, love Ripley. Of course she is awesome in Aliens, where she's super tough right from the start (is it possible to NOT get chills every time you hear "get away from her you bitch"?), but I think I almost like her better in Alien, where she's a bit softer around the edges but you can see her hardening up as crew members around her keep, uh, dying horrifically. (Is that a spoiler? I don't think it's a spoiler. If you haven't got around to seeing Alien sometime in the past 30+ years you're probably not going to go out and see it tomorrow. Although, really, you should. It's great fun.)

Only when you get a movie (or indeed a string of movies) with a bitchingly awesome female lead - particularly in, although not limited to the action genre - who isn't just a love interest do you realise how few and far between they are. I'm not trying to make this into a rant but, seriously, it's a rarity and it can be a bit depressing. Do I need to explain why the likes of Angelina Jolie as the titular (heh) star of Tomb Raider doesn't count? No? Good.

Movies like Alien make me want to do away with M or MA ratings for movies because shit like this shouldn't be kept from kids: it should be fucking forced on young girls to stop them from growing up on a diet of nothing but bullshit movies/TV that tells them their happiness is tied to their ability to weigh less than 120 pounds, have perky tits and find "The One" (again, do I even need to talk about how bullshit this idea of The One is? Is that a conversation that's even worth starting? No? Aw, you guys are the best).

What better role model for the youth of today than Ripley, who starts off the movie disobeying her Captain's orders because she knows best. And she's right: she does know best. It's just a pity everyone else are kind of fucking morons and the only other smart person on the ship is a) evil as fuck b) an android.

To summarise, Ripley is everything a girl should be: tough, brave, smart, likes cats and I love her. And, hey, nobody ever said it was a crime to look good in a tank-top and a pair of skimpy undies.

I grow old (I shall wear my trousers rolled)

Comments friends or colleagues have made when seeing me for the first time since I cut my hair that makes me think they hate it and don't know how to tell me:

1. Wow

2. You've... cut your hair.

3. It's really short.

4. It's... shorter than I expected.

5. Do you miss it?

Balancing the scale

Often when I want to buy something I don't need (a second third copy of Maurice, perhaps, yet another pair of red heels, a $6.70 soy mocha) I tell myself that it's okay because I don't smoke. I mean, if I smoked just think of how much money I'd spend on cigarettes every day, week, month. If that's not enough (I mean, I'm just not sure I need a second poncho-jumper) I up the stakes: well, what if I was a CRACK addict, what about HEROIN? Imagine how much cash I'd blow through then. I'm saving hundreds of bucks with all this clean living I'm doing over here. I'd draw you a graph to explain just how this works but you probably wouldn't understand it.

I mention this because it's occurred to me lately that I'm not a particularly good person. I'm no monster - I try not to actively make other peoples' lives worse, I have my handful of standing orders in place - but there are many aspects of my character I don't particularly like and a few that make me feel downright awful if I think about them too hard, which obviously I try very hard not to do. With this in mind I have compiled a list of bad traits/character flaws I do not possess to convince myself I don't really need to change my ways and be a better person. So, you know, I may be kind of a cruddy human being at times but at least I don't...

• Kill people. That's right. I'm setting the bar pretty low. I don't kill people. I have never shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. That's something, right?
• Hurt Animals. Again: no shit. Who the fuck DOES hurt animals/kill people except serial killers or serial killers in the making? Patting myself on the back for this one seems like describing someone as a great boyfriend because he only hits you where it doesn't show. But bear with me, I'm just warming up.
• Double dip. On the other end of the spectrum, sure, but still: that's a check in the plus column.
• Wear harem pants. I will never undertand the appeal of these diaper pants. If you want a pair of pants you can do a shit and nobody will notice maybe you need to re-evaluate your life.
• Ignore Beggars. Okay, so I'm really sure randoms begging on the side of the street reeeeally appreciate my patronising smile and whispered "I'm sorry" when I don't have change/am not in the mood. Doubtless my recognition of their humanity Makes Their Day. No wait, I think they'd prefer $5.
• Kill Spiders. I'm not quite sure this is a virtue (does the world really need more spiders?) but I have to believe that opting not to kill a sentient being when you can just as easily trap it in a glass and escort it politely out to the garden makes the world a slightly better place. Flies of the world may disagree with me.
• Write indulgent blogs that will only be of passing interest to close friends who take an active interest in my life and absolutely nobody else. Oh, wait...

Awkward Work Conversations I Have Had...

... With the woman who sits very close to my desk at work and seems to think (incorrectly, honest) that I am behind a complaint lodged (anonymously) about her inanity. It was bad enough when she asked me about it in the office hallway but when she cornered me in the bathroom things got awkward... not as awkward as a little bit later when she came up to my desk, trying to speak through her TEARS, but still, you know, AWKWARD.

Things that are currently not working in my apartment (or why I sometimes despair at living in an apartment built in 1939 even though none of these things have anything to do with that fact).:

1. The washing machine.
2. The internet.
3. The water heater.
4. My brain.

I was going to say...

... that awkward moment when you realise the fresh-faced, super young and cute dude you were trying to make blush just for funsies may have been your friend's little (much younger) brother.

But that was days ago. Today a little bit of Facebook stalking has me nearly convinced said boy wasn't my friend's little brother at all but a legitimate party guest whose name I've forgotten but who was almost certainly of legal age. At least, you know, I really fucking hope so.

The enabler

Him: Do you want a port?

Me: Hmm yeah I'm not supposed to be weekday drinking this week.

Him: Port doesn't count.

Me: Okay then.

Highlights and lowlights

Highlight: I survived my first day back at work!
Lowlight: I cried.
Highlight: Nobody saw me!

By the by (In case you're looking for something to read this public holiday)

Great Sam de Brito column today I thought, which articulated many of my own feelings on an incredibly tacky story which irritated me no fucking end when I read it. Pass me a sick bag please.

Things that make me feel like I am maybe not a proper grown-up even though I am by now quite, quite old:

1. I don't have any bandaids in the house. This fact I did not discover until I damaged my poor feet trying to break in a pair of shoes which, now that I think about it, may be a smidgen too small for me. When I lived at home Mum and Dad's bathroom cabinet was chock full of medical supplies, both minor and major. So now I guess I have to... buy them myself?

2. I faintly resent having to pay for my own medication. Similar theme to number one. I don't have big medical expenses but I do have to take a pill for my stupid thyroid every day, which I resent deeply. It's by no means a big expense but shouldn't all my money be disposable income to spend on books I don't read and shoes that don't fit? Don't you want to keep me alive by paying for this stuff, Mum and Dad?

3. There is nothing to eat in my fridge except for an elderly piece of lasagna left over from a giant lasagna which my mother made me. No explanation required.

4. I am so broke my card got declined when I tried to buy a veggie burger at the pub. A veggie burger. And a diet coke. That was a sad day and I'm sure the woman behind the bar was not fooled by my "oh um, *ahem* guess that money hasn't come through... shall we just try credit then shall we?" SHAME.

Overhead in Perth: Outside the Flying Scotsman

"Connections is that way hahaha."

- Some random fucker sitting outside the pub. I can only assume he was talking to one of the dudes who walked past in skinny jeans but really, Perth? I mean REALLY?

Things I maybe possibly regret from last night

1. Deciding I just didn't need dinner before going to the party.
2. Having a sip of Jose's weird, kind of awful vodka drink.
3. Slurring "you're adorable" to some poor frightened cutie with amazing hair as I ran out the door (he was though).