Archive for May, 2004

Oh, Just Give Up!

Monday, May 31st, 2004

Saturday was Stuart’s birthday. Aside from the fact that I spent most of the day either at work or asleep, I did my best to make it a nice day for him (because it’s always really, really great when someone you’re sexually attracted to climbs on top of you and promptly falls asleep. Poor Stu).

One component of his present was a voucher for the massage clinic I go to in Richmond. I was telling a co-worker about it on Saturday morning and he was getting a bit confused as to precisely what I meant by “massage”, since apparently there’s a parlour in close proximity to the clinic. Probably best not to think about why he knows that. Eventually, we managed to acertain that I did, in fact, mean a genuine place of health improvement (although the health benefits of the other could probably be argued, too). I wondered how my co-worker would even think I would make a purchase like that for my boyfriend, and just barely managed to bite back a comment about how I don’t believe in outsourcing something you can do yourself. We were in a small public library filled with grandmothers and little children, after all.

I also decided to write him a birthday card. This may not sound like much to you, but I have Issues with writing birthday cards, even for people I really care about (actually, especially for people I really care about). I just can’t do it. I can’t even come out with very good trite bullshit, just the normal kind of trite bullshit that any old moron with a grade three education and a solid knowledge of the Top 40 could churn out. So I decided instead to write out a deeply emotional, loving card that truly expressed my feelings towards Stuart and our relationship. It ended up containing the sentence “I will knife you in your sleep”.

I think I should just give up and accept that I am no good at this romance caper.

Hair: the Great Girly Bastion

Thursday, May 27th, 2004

In an effort to make myself feel better than I have lately, and because I’ve been looking like shite, I got my hair cut today. It’s always a big event because I rarely get it done (I’ve found exactly one hairdresser who can cut my hair properly in my LIFE and I’m not going to let go of him, problem is he’s pretty expensive to keep hold of), and there’s always a big excitement buildup because I’m a bit sad like that.

As usual, Geoff was entertaining as he worked his magic. Usually we talk about things like how we imagine the world to be if there was a true separation of church and state, which sure beats conversations I’ve had with other hairdressers, which always seem to contain the inevitable question ‘So, [snaps gum] you gotta boyfrien’?’ I wish that was exaggeration, but it isn’t. I think it also had something to do with the fact that this was back in Gippsland, where it’s widely acknowledged that if you’re a young girl without a boyfriend you are a) a sad loser and b) a prime candidate for a friendly gang-raping by one of the local football teams. I know people just try to make conversation, but seriously? It’s a question I can’t help but have a problem with. I mean, I never asked a Moe scrubber hairdresser ‘So, how’s the herpes going?’ or ‘Have the paternity test results come through yet?’ Which is probably just as well; since it was Moe, I probably would have ended up with a pig’s head thrown through my window – that’s if they’d been able to find me in my isolated mountain hideaway (I do not kid when I say I grew up on top of a mountain, kilometres from anywhere. Fortunately trips into Moe were not that frequent. That said, the whole top-of-mountain thing sounds kind of cool and exotic until I point out that it was also in the midst of a whole shitload of potato paddocks. Unless you’re Irish, there’s nothing particularly exciting about potato paddocks.).

It got to the point where, during one of my rare haircuts, when asked the inevitable question I would start muttering darkly about the evils of the patriarchy rather than giving a direct response. Given that I was a scowly militant type at the time anyway, it proved quite effective. Although it’s possible that my slightly mean-spirited sense of humour went a bit too far the time I claimed to be an active member of SCUM.

Today’s haircut conversation revolved around cartoons, Commodore 64s, and the fact that Geoff really, really hates little children, the latter conversation only occurring as his employer’s children ran around the salon shrieking. I could see his point, although they were cute in a don’t-feed-them-after-midnight kind of way.

Most importantly, however, is my hair. Ahh, my hair. I walked out of the salon feeling all swish and sleek and lovely. Unfortunately, the wind picked up the second after I stepped out the door, so I got to keep my salonlicious feeling for even less time than usual (even styled by experts my hair is psychotic). Apart from that, things were okay until I got home. I studied in my room for a while and eventually went to the bathroom, where I made my discovery.

As I glanced sidelong at myself in the mirror, shaking the shorter, layered locks of hair at the front out of my eyes, I realised I looked like someone else.

Unfortunately, that someone else is Hilary bloody Duff. Sure, you have to imagine her as older, crankier, fatter, poorer, with glasses and no makeup, but the resemblance is definitely there, and it’s all the haircut’s fault.

Tomorrow I go cyan!

Intergalactic Drunkard

Thursday, May 20th, 2004

It seems that banging on about underpants, strippers and my inability to find non-psychotic housemates in Melbourne’s suburbs for the past few months has given me some sort of blogging street cred (even if the goddamn tough kids do keep stealing my lunch money). I’ve been asked by Jeb, formerly of World Wide Jeb, to write for his new collaborative site, Tastes Like Drunk. Naturally, I was so pleased and flattered that it took me forever to write a goddamn entry, but I finally got around to doing so. I’d forgotten the story of my father’s relationship with Jesus until I was casting around for a childhood trauma to write about. Whee!

It was very nice to be asked. It’s like being popular, except I haven’t had to blow any football players!

There’s Something About Being a Famewhore

Tuesday, May 11th, 2004

Tonight is the Australian premiere of British reality TV series There’s Something About Miriam. There’s a fair bit of controversy around about it, what with the men who competed for the attention of the lovely “lady” suing after discovering that she, too, could write her name in the snow if she wanted, as well as general fears about moral fibre (keeps you regular!) and all that.

Free Melbourne rag B News ran a photo of Miriam as their front cover for the May 6 edition, supposedly in support of an article about whether or not the show was exploitative. In true Journalism-student reportage, however, the article itself makes no mention of any issues of exploitation and instead operates as a summary of the show itself, with a few quotes from Miriam thrown in. Someone’s headed for a bright career with the Herald Sun!

I could write about reality TV’s need to wade ever further-out in the quest for ratings. I could write about the potential effects the show could have on transsexual issues, and pretend I have in depth knowledge of current issues in the trans community, which I don’t.

Instead, I choose to write about Miriam herself, based on the quotes used in the article.

Apparently, her reason for agreeing to the show was “I wanted to know if real love exists.”

I can answer that one for you, lovey. Real love exists. If my cyincal black heart can believe in it, anyone can believe in it. The thing is, you’re probably not going to find it by looking for it on a reality TV program. I’m just not sure it works that way. And even if it does, there are a lot of different aspects of love, and all are important in keeping it alive. One of the more important things is honesty. While you may not tell your partner absolutely everything, it’s important to share some of the more vital things about yourself with them, like, oh I don’t know, THE FACT THAT YOU HAVE A PENIS.

She goes on to say of her gender orientation that “if anyone has asked me about myself I would have told them.” Well. That’s big of her. Personally, I would think that telling someone you’re not quite the woman they think you are would rate pretty highly on the list of Things I Have to Tell Someone About Myself Before I Get Naked. Sure, she didn’t lie to them exactly, but when most straight boys see a person with breasts, a curvy figure, a pretty face with makeup on, and long hair, they think “woman” rather than “someone like in those videos Uncle Albert used to make me watch with him while we sat around in our underwear”. Generally they don’t think to have a surreptitious look at their interest’s crotch to make there aren’t any dodgy-looking bulges ruining the line of her skirt.

“The show will help people understand better what people like me are all about,” Miriam says. I, personally, am almost sure it will, just like Big Brother and Australian Idol help people better understand what other, non-transsexual soulless fame-whores are about. And the answer to that is: not a whole fucking lot, really.

Oh for the love of…

Monday, May 10th, 2004

Okay, so, unbeknownst to me, my comments haven’t been working for some time, thanks to a cunting internal server error. This isn’t the first time something like this has happening in the, oh, five months this site has been around. I am thoroughly unimpressed. Here I was, thinking ‘wow, my page got really unpopular before it even got popular!’, but no. It’s a bloody SERVER ERROR, as well as garden variety unpopularity. Hmph.

In other news, I’m going to attempt to write a real entry with actual content today, but I’m not sure how I’ll go. I’ve got a major essay for one of my history classes due today, and one I haven’t started yet due on Wednesday. I’ve nearly finished the one due today, the only problem is that I’ve been doing some additional research in the last half-hour or so after getting a funny feeling about something I’d written, only to discover that one of my major arguments is based on something that’s entirely a figment of my imagination. Damn it. Also, it’s bloody unfair: if Keith Windschuttle can make up ‘history’ to suit his own arguments, why can’t I?

EDIT (11/05/04): They’re fixed, hurrah! It’s been kind of annoying not having them (because I’m sure people have been dying to discuss my hard-hitting social commentary with me, ahem), but on the plus side, I haven’t had to delete any comment spam. Hurrah!