Don't Panic

I have had a soft spot for Jae Laffer ever since he (accidentally, um, I assume) stood on my foot at a gig at The Amplifier way back when. And yet I just... don't know how I feel about this.

Things I hate today

Will Self - I used to be kind of a fan of Will Self, actually, and I still think Cock and Bull is a great, funny book. I'm also reliably informed he is a very nice chap indeed. Nevertheless his last couple of books have been self-indulgent tripe and seeing him nominated for the Man Booker prize makes me want to kill myself. Okay, not really but it does make me quite angry.

My job.

My thighs

My whining

Things other people have said this week that made me feel uncomfortable

"How would you like to have two Mummies?"

(N.B: To clarify, it wasn't the prospect of having two Mums that made me uncomfortable - it was the implication that I would think it was the worst thing in the world. Plus, using the word "Mummy", if you're over the age of 10, is kinda skeevy, no?)

Things I have said this week that made me feel uncomfortable.

"Well I was raised Catholic so..."

"The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to." (F.Scott Fitzgerald)

Last night I had my first bout of bad insomnia for awhile and, man, was it boring.

That's sort of what my sleep difficulties have come down to in recent years. Once upon a time it was a cause of great anxiety and distress because I hadn't yet learned how to stop myself from thinking of all the things I didn't want to think about. As a kid I remember lying awake at night, pondering the realisation that everyone I knew, myself included, was going to die, like I was the first person to ever realise such a thing and wondering exactly how I was supposed to crack on for the next 60+ years with that knowledge sitting inside me like a sharp, awful kidney stone.

Then for awhile there I started to use the time well: I used to plan school essays in my head, scribbling little cryptic notes for myself by the side of the bed, which I could only barely interprete the following morning. I distinctly remember writing an essay on The Cake Man during one particularly bad bout of insomnia in the late 90s, the only interesting thing here being that I'd never actually read The Cake Man - not then and certainly not now. (I feel like I made the right choice. It looks, how do I say this, not quite my kind of play.)

Now this whole insomnia thing is just sort of... boring. I want to be asleep, yet instead I lie awake staring at the ceiling, counting up the possible hours of sleep still open to me. Or perhaps I crack and listen to an audiobook or a podcast, in which case I'm liable to (as I did last night) wake up at 5am after two whole hours of sleep to hear goddamn show tunes blaring in my ears. (In my defence: I was gorging on NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour - thanks Bec - and so, honestly, I have nobody to blame but myself.)

The thing is, I honestly believe - and will happily tell anyone who listens - that it's important to be comfortable being alone. People who can't handle being by themselves make me sad. Ultimately - and I'm sorry if I'm bringing anyone down, here - we're all pretty much alone at the very end and if we don't like our own company why should we expect anyone else to? These are all ideas in which I very much believe. That much said, at 2.45am in the morning I can't say I much enjoy being along with my own thoughts. When forced, after hours of staring at nothing, to pay attention to the inanities rattling around in my noggin' - the petty disappointments, the jealousies, the unrelenting wanting - I can't say I'm exactly my biggest fan. At best I bore myself. At worst I bore myself.

So I'm heading off to bed tonight with a slightly heavy heart, hoping the wine consumed at dinner will be enough to push me into sleep and not enough to wake me up in an hour. I have several more NPR podcasts downloaded and at the ready, although I really do hate waking up with a set of headphone knotted dangerously about my neck so - fingers crossed - they won't be entirely necessary.

And yes I know what you're wondering: is that really my bed in the photo above and do I really look that good in my underwear? The answer, readers, is sadly no. My actual bed is wooden and square and has a headboard that is more or less covered with books and glasses of water, half abandoned and slightly dusty. The actual headboard itself is frequently dusty too, thanks to semi-inept cleaners. My sheets are stripey and delightful but neither particularly crisp nor snow white: my pillow slip was a gift and has a gorgeously weird picture of an owl on it. My bottom-sheet, for reasons best known to itself, emerged from the last wash with a weird blue stain.

But, yes, I do look that good in my underwear when lying face down in bed with my long, glossy brown locks strewn across the pillow as I frequently do. True story. Would I lie to you?

Dear person on Twitter who I also know IRL,

I think it's very nice that tonight you (allegedly) bought a homeless person in Subiaco a hot chocolate. It's just unfortunate you felt the need to share that fact on Twitter: a move that has neutralised any good will the act itself generated. I know, it's not fair.

Things that make me happy today

That I was woken up by an MMS from the lovely Danski containing two cute semi-naked boys making out and the words: "Free Morning Ho-Yay". That's a good start to a Tuesday.

Things I am rather looking forward to doing when I am left all alone this weekend:

Greta Garbo: "I want to be alone."

* Drinking the cheap-arse wine I favour but which - some people say - tastes like Mermaid's Tears. And not in a good way.

* Falling asleep on the couch while watching The Wire. Or Downton Abbey. Or anything I couldn't normally get away with.

* Putting up the three 'hidden bookshelves' I have quietly purchased, with an idea they would look quite smashing on my bedroom wall (as an aside: does anyone know how to use a power drill and/or install a bookshelf).

* Getting delightfully tipsy with good chums and rocketing home at an ungodly hour, squiffy as all hell (Mr Kate, bless him, really hates it when I come home drunk and doesn't really care for Drunk Kate at all - he says I get too loud and maybe he's right).

* [Redacted]

* Ummm.... Whatever the hell I want.

Love: a review in comments

• "Why didn't we walk out? We should have just walked out."
• "I was so angry about half an hour in when I realised nothing was going to happen."
• "So, what was with all the civil war stuff, do you think?"
• "Hey at least [the main actor] was good looking, right?"
• "The director should have just masturbated into space. That would actually have been more enjoyable to watch."
• "Did you spend the whole movie feeling bad about being the one to choose it? Because normally a movie like that would just send me into a rage but I didn't hate it... that much."

I shall never play The Dane

Remember that bit in Withnail and I where Uncle Monty (I think) says:

"It's the most devastating moment in a young man's life when he quite reasonably says to himself 'I shall never play The Dane'. It is at that moment that all ambition ceases to exist."

That's basically how I feel upon seeing this blonde cutie and realising I will never be able to wear this shirt or look as grand as she does right now.

Happy Thoughts Thursday

“Once upon a time there was a woman who was just like all women. And she married a man who was just like all men. And they had some children who were just like all children. And it rained all day. The woman had to skewer the hole in the kitchen sink, when it was blocked up. The man went to the pub every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. The other nights he mended his broken bicycle, did the pool coupons, and longed for money and power. The woman read love stories and longed for things to be different. The children fought and yelled and played and had scabs on their knees. In the end they all died.” (Elizabeth Smart)

The Green Dream

Sometimes I wish I could be like The Hulk so everyone would know it when I was furious, what with my muscles bursting the seams of my clothes and all. Then I could be all RAAAAAAAAGGGGE while I was The Hulk and when I transformed back to my Bruce Banneresque self I could just say "hey, I can't control it" and get on with regular non-Hulky business. Still, I guess my clothing repair allowance would probably go through the roof so maybe it's all for the best.

Sometimes I think I'm an idiot...

... because apparently I can forgive a person for treating someone close to me abominably and I can forgive them for breaking into the house of someone else very close to me and stealing their shit to buy drugs but apparently their decision to "like" racist, ill-informed and generally offensive Facebook group is the last straw for me. I probably need to re-examine my priorities.

Which movie I watched this weekend was worse: She's The Man vs The Girl Next Door

This is a tough one because, let me be frank, both of these movies were fucking terrible. I won't go into the details of why I was watching them because, you know, at times my life is simply too pathetic for description. Let it suffice to say that I watched them and lived (barely) to tell the tale.

Without further ado: our contenders.

The Premise

She's The Man: A high school student impersonates her twin brother at his swanky boarding school in order to prove a point about being... good at soccer(?) Or something. Full disclosure: I may have missed the start of the movie.

The Girl Next Door: A high school student falls for his hot next door neighbour who is (spoiler) a former(?) porn star. Shenanigans ensue.

The Talent

She's The Man: If pressed I must concede that Channing Tatum has grown on me in the past few years. He was charming in 21 Jump Street and Magic Mike and word on the street is that he's a complete sweetheart. But while he does look pretty good in a tank top and he's got gravitas to spare, up close he just... I mean, his neck is too thick, his jaw is too broad and... physically he's just... not quite in my wheelhouse. I'm sorry C'Tatz - this hurts me too. On the plus side, Timothy Olyphant pops up in a minor role as the former porn star's shady pimp.

The Girl Next Door: The star of this movie, Emile Hirsch, grew up to be quite the hottie. Sadly this hotness was not yet achieved by 2004, the year this movie was made.

The Laughs

She's the Man: Almost entirely unintentional. It begins with Amanda Bynes' RIDICULOUS wig which is supposed to disguise the fact she is a) a chick b) not her brother. Let it be said that said wig achieves neither of these aims. It ends with Channing Tatum's acting.

The Girl Next Door: Maybe it was the white wine I was drinking, maybe it was because it was... getting kinda late at night but every so often this super average movie threw out a line that really made me laugh. They lose a little something without the context but come on - "I'd do things to you I wouldn't do to a farm animal" doesn't make you laugh? What about: "The beach is for fags". Okay, that last one definitely needs context but, hey, I laughed.

The Winner (Loser)

She's The Man. Even Timothy Olyphant's God-given gifts (Jesus it must be time to revisit Deadwood) can't make up for a complete lack of laughs and the many crimes against acting committed by 90 per cent of the actors involved.

How to be a woman

I can't deny I saw this on Lindsay's blog and... basically stole it. But that's feminism, innit? Stealing your friend's blog post and passing it off as your own? I'm pretty sure that was the gist of one of at least one and possible more of the footnotes in The Female Eunuch. Also, have I told you lately you should be reading Caitlin Moran's book How to Be a Woman? You should. Even if you have a cock you should read it. If you are single it will help you get girls. If you are coupled up it will help you keep them. It will also ensure you fall very deeply in love with Caitlin Moran. I can't quite decide if I want to spend a lovely afternoon at the pub with her, talking rubbish, or lock her in my basement with a bucket of fish heads while I Single White Female her. Maybe both.

Overheard in the office

"Maybe I've just been working in courts for too long but I think Annie might have been written by a paedophile."

Shopping Conundrums

Question: How much wear would I reasonably get out of a charming black and silver beaded drop waist dress beyond a looming wedding in October?

Answer: Almost none.

Question: Do I care?

Answer: ...

"In my dreams I kiss your c*nt, your sweet wet c*nt..."

Given my charming personality and stunning, dare I say supermodel good looks, you'll be stunned I know, dear reader(s), to learn that over the years I haven't really received much in the way of love letters. Love emails... maybe. Post-break-up You're a Bitch Unless You Want to Get Back Together letters... definitely. But I can only think of two examples of what could be called declarative "love letters": one was gorgeous and from a lovely friend but sadly unrequited, the other was more of a sorry-for-that-shitty-thing-I-did kind of a letter. Which is really not the same.

This is not quite a tragedy but it is a bit sad to make it to the cusp of 30 without, say, ever having received a letter as good as this (which I have mentioned not only because it makes me positively weak at the knees but as a delightful excuse to run the photo above which... wow, those are some high pants).

In any case, if you're bored on this lovely Wednesday you could do worse than check out this bit over at The Hairpin where you can match the love letter to the author and subject. It's good fun and fairly difficult, except for Keats who is predictably too mushy for words (seriously dude: get it together). It's also got me wondering what it means for my personality that my favourite was this beauty from Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas, which made me think of something a smarter version of Heathcliff might have dashed off to Catherine.

I don't love you, not at all; on the contrary, I detest you. You're a naught, gawky, foolish Cinderella. You never write me; you don't love your own husband; you know what pleasures your letters give him, and yet you haven't written him six lines, dashed of so casually! … Of what sort can be that marvellous being, that new lover that tyrannises over your days, and prevents your giving any attention to your husband? _____, take care! Some fine night, the doors will be broken open and there I'll be.

Jesus. I mean, how good is that last line? "... the doors will be broken and there I'll be."

Sure, it does sound like the kind of correspondence you maaaaybe might receive from your stalker but does that make it any less delightful? Computer says no. Computer also says I... might have some problems.

Because sometimes you just need to see a picture of a meerkat in a watermelon.

Chicks vs Dicks

Approximately 364 days of the year I am very happy to be a girl. We get to wear dresses, don't have to shave our nice soft faces and it is more socially acceptable for us to show our emotions, weep at the Bridges of Madison County and be unable to change a fuse. However, this photo - courtesy of The Sartorialist - has me sort of jonesing to be a dude because... Jesus Christ. Could he look any more cool and breezy than he does right now? Could he be any more calm and relaxed without actually slipping into a light coma? Is there some scientific explanation for why I find the combination of the cuffed pant leg, the bare ankle and his sneaker so goddamn charming? And, yes, sure, in theory I could put on this exact same outfit and salmon my way up a New York street but... no: it has long been my view that t-shirts and jeans just hang better on a dude's body, yes, shut up, THEY DO AND YOU KNOW IT. Girls are great and all but when the right guy wears the right jeans and the right t-shirt the combination simply cannot be improved upon. I'm sorry, I don't make the rules. You know those stupid body swap movies like Freaky Friday, the Freaky Friday remake and, um... I'm sure there was another one? Anyway, if that body swap stuff ever becomes viable in real life I am putting my hand up to swap bodies with this dude basically immediately, just for a day or two to get it out of my system. I'll cruise around looking smooth and dapper and perfect and he can, uh, play with my boobs and get out of parking tickets? I don't know, I guess everybody wins.