She Thinks

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Tis the season

Tis the season to what? I'm not going to lie, I don't like the holiday season. I like that I get to drink with my colleagues, see some odd ball friends and get a few days out of the office but generally I am not a big fan of the season. I never have been. 

Christmas 2006: I can't even remember, but it was I am sure some variation of swimming, sauvignon blanc and seafood.

Christmas 2007: Woke up next to Cyanide and enjoyed the early morning on his balcony overlooking one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, with fresh orange juice. I am sure there was some variation of beach swimming and feasting with the Crazy Ladies.

Christmas 2008:  I woke up, next to a friend and spent the morning getting ready for the afternoon full of fresh seafood, fake snow, beach swims and booze. TBD was around and surprisingly, he still is. Not in the same sense, but still around. Cyanide was sniffing around as usual, this year I've changed my number and he's moved away. 

Something has got to give. Something has to change, its glaringly obvious.

What is the missing puzzle piece? I don't know, but I can't keep hating Christmas. I've had 25 but next year, I'll will make is special.

Next year, I will have a fresh Christmas tree. There will be a wreath on my door. My Christmas cards, even international, will be sent on time. I will bake holiday cookies and make Kahlua. I will host a gingerbread house making competition.

Next year, I won't hate Christmas.

This year, I'll drink wine. :)

Shame and then some ...

Shame.

I am not often ashamed of my behavior. Once in a blue moon I'll have one of those nights, where I'll wake up and truly believe that a dog must have pooped in my mouth overnight. After a mission to disinfect my mouth and  I'll brave my overly complicated espresso machine and make a round of calls, just to confirm my debauchery and appropriately apologize to those surrounding.

I can count on one hand the amount of shameful moments I've had while sober or at least not drunk enough to phone the ex or pash a stranger. Recently, while out of town, without a friends I'd known longer than a few hours, came one of those moments. Now, I wasn't sober per se but I wasn't about to fall asleep with a kebab in my hand.

Scene: A cheesy strip club. Cheap disco lights, Welcome to the Jungle blaring, $12 vodka tonics and very stained carpet (from what? I don't even want to know).

Players: An eclectic group, 45+ professional single mother out for her first wild night in years, a young dorky accountant, a charming middle aged Irish man donned in a full suit with a pricey watch along with his young protege, who was decidedly good looking with a fetish for thin trashy blondes and me. Odd, I know but trust me, appropriate given the confidential context of it all.

Action: On first looks, it was a run of the mill night out at a strip club. Drinks, dancers and chatting. Why a strip club? Well what else do you do when no one is looking, you are in a town of strangers and consequences are low. It was an attempt to liven up a night of newly acquainted. It worked.

Slowly but surely, Irish professional who I'll name Mc Mighty for simplicity, started to gravitate to each other. Friendly conversation lead to, one on one discussions. Evaluations on dancers, brief relationship philosophies and of course the inevitable, relationship status.

With the departure of Cyanide that very weekend, I was as free as a bird.  Mc Mighty was not. He was and currently is, married. Yep, the big M. Happily, blissfully married? No, he's cheated, she's cheated. He Has no intention of stopping and was contemplating making the big break up. In my mind, for some reason, he was separating. Blame the vodka tonics or my selective memory, either way ... married.

As conversation turned a tad too friendly, it was my job to smile and direct my attention else where. I did successfully for most of the night but ... a little bit of flirting wasn't hurting my fun factor or self esteem, so I tolerated it.

Although I may have thought I was just tolerating, I was probably a tad bit encouraging as well. I accepted the shots, the drinks, the cash to give to the dancers and most importantly, the attention. After all, it was just a bit of flirty fun, right? I figured after a few more rounds, we'll all tire and pile into a taxi back to the city and our separate suites.

At one stage, Mc Mighty suggested a lap dance. Now, being from America I've spent quite a bit of time in strip clubs...it's wasn't uncommon for a few of us to head out to a strip club for an 18th or just as an after hours spot to get a few drinks. I've had lap dances...many.

Yea, actually lots... in the champagne room, on stage, or in a dark booth in the back. I find it all quite removed and unsexy. It's almost always robotic.

At some stage, it's decided that Mc Mighty and I should go to a private room with my favourite stripper. After much discussion of which one she was, why she was the best looking one, locating her with the bouncer, watching another stage show, it was decided. We would both venture up to a private room.

Needing a bit of dependable liquid courage I wandered up to the bar for my usual, vodka and tonic with fresh lime, and overhear another female patron at another table chatting up Mc Mighty. My attention zoomed, out of curiosity and look, I am only human ... slight jealousy.

"So is she your wife?" said leggy blonde patron, while pointing at me. Mc Mighty went on to explain that yes, he was married and not it was not to me. Leggy blonde was visibly confused.

Buuhhh Buuuuuum.

It washed over me, I was so utterly ashamed that I had carried chatting, flirting and encouraging a married man. Although I hoped it would stay innocent enough,my own perceived innocence was not apparent to the others. We were caught and I was officially a homewrecker. A homewrecker, without actually doing any physical homewrecking. So really, I got all the spite without the pleasure.

I've never called a lap dance off so fast.

It's been a minute

I know, I know.

First things first, my good old trusty Dell decided to spit the dummy. Enter the new love of my life, my Macbook Pro.

She's a sexy little bitch, but is yet to be named. Thoughts?

On top of my computer dying, I've done a whole lot of eating on Tuesday nights, checking out some gigs and tossing around the idea for a few more changes in my life.

Now, lets get it a bit straight, i'm not unhappy I am just ... unsatisfied.

TBD, who seems to get mentioned here more than anyone else for some odd reason, worded it perfectly as, 'a vague sense of disappointment'. Not in one thing, all things or anything. It's just there and I need a change, in something. 

Dating has been purposefully uneventful. Is that what's missing? I hope not.

Work is as busy as ever and I still find it challenging, which I need.

Friendship, I am overwhelmed ... as usual. Although I have been having subtle bitch-fights with my closest girlfriend. Who am I kidding, Elle and I are are never subtle in anything we do. So it is often drawn out bitchy aggression, which of course is not ideal. 

Family, well my mother is my mother, nothing out of the usual.

What more is there? Do I need another degree?  Probably, I like school.I also need a permanent job that will pay for my degree...

Do I need a month of intensive yoga? Yea, that would be nice. Can I do it in Perth? Nope, I would succumb to the lure of alcohol here in Perth. I need a month in India. Can I afford it? No. See macbook purchase and recent trip to the US.

What can I do, today, tonight, right effing now? Well, I can go to more bikram yoga. I can walk to work, it reminds me that I live in a proper city. I can write, more. I can work really hard. Learn some new recipes, genres, ect.

So here we go, I am going to be a walking to work, yoga taking, sushi making, blog writing, workaholic. Don't I sound fun?

What I have to not do is get too caught up the emotional fuckedness of the ex. Not Bear, not TBD, but Cyanide. I haven't mentioned him here before, I guess you save the best for last.

Now when I say best, I don't mean that in the most positive way, more in the entertaining light. He was and still is a pretty big fuckwit. Regardless, a fuckwit I love. I think ... no wait, I know. I do love him, on some level.

After almost three years of off again, on again, not talking, only talking, loving, hating this emotional rollercoaster is going to stop. I have no choice ... he's going. Leaving. for. good.itisnotajokethistime. whoa.

This week. fuck.

So yes, not the best week to realize I need to make a change.

This overall feeling of feeling of disappointment isn't about Cyanide, but him leaving doesn't help.

Fuck.

Tuesday Night Dinner Club

It's like the First Wives Club, without the money, husbands and malice.So really not like it at all. More like Sex and the City but without the limitless bank accounts, boners and booze. Ok, so it's just a bunch of girls getting together and eating...kind of like any other group. No purpose.

Every Tuesday, or as often as we can all be bothered, a core group of my girlfriends meet at each others home for a night of wine, food and gossip.

Some of us can cook and those are they Tuesdays that you skip lunch. I like cooking, but fail for the most part. I try and that's all that matters. I'll keep thinking that...

It's not about homemade ice cream...or a bajillion layer cake...sometimes a subpar stir fry and a bottle of cheap white is all you need. No one tries to out do each other, we just eat, talk, drink. Most of the time one, a few or all of us are just out of the gym...no make up, nothing flash, just us.  The simplicity is the best part.

There are only two simple rules, no men and food. It's that easy. It gives us a good enough reason to catch up, without the distraction of partners, men and 'outsiders'.

Now don't get me wrong, this isn't Mean Girls or even better, Heathers. It's just that by some way or another we are all forced to spend time with people, that just aren't that awesome and when I mean awesome, I mean the slightest bit interesting or value packed. 

Namely, Ratty and Greasy.I won't write anything too identifying, as this is the internet...where lives are ruined or so they say. Plus sometimes people just stumble upon things and get really grumpy, not my style yo.

Now, Ratty and Greasy...some people find these two to be fascinating. I have tried, time and time again to see the appeal but I just don't get it. They are, much like a lot of my boyfriends, nice...enough. Chatty ... enough, but where is the pizazz? Be silly with me and you will have a friend for life. Bore me and I'll actively avoid you.

I want friends that can literally take the piss on themselves, make a fool even. Yes, I am so interested in that time when you were running 20 miles and totally thought you were going to poo your pants. That's makes you human, lovable, enjoyable. No I am not interested in your best ever life with your tended to garden alongside your dream job. Why bother with the niceties? It's just so beige ... bitch please, everyone has issues- embrace them!

Tuesday Night Dinner Club brings together the brightest, most eclectic group of women I know ... not only are they fabulous, but honest...without a ratlike face and greasy hair. It's gold.

Postcards from Yas's Mother

My mother's 15 minutes of fame. 

I emailed her to tell her that she was on the homepage of Postcards From Yo Momma.

She was clearly impressed...

Then she started sending me odd emails, trying to get back on Postcards From Yo Momma.

I didn't submit any and eventually she stopped.

Oh mothers, everybody has one ... sometimes even two. Oh dear.

Resonating

I read, a lot. I find it hard to fall asleep without a book. Since I’ve lived in my tiny apartment I have been without a nightstand table, there is no room. So I often, actually I can’t remember a time when I haven’t, fall asleep with my lights fully on and a book in my hand.

Somewhere in my bed you’ll find highlighters and at least three books strewn between my million pillows and phone chargers. 

I come back to Jacqueline Susann’s books on a regular basis. There is a reason they sold millions and were translated into more languages than I can count, they resonate … to everyone.

Today a line that I have meant to highlight for so long, rings so true.

The Love Machine, page 501.

“But when you play like an alley cat , sometimes you get treated like one.

True story.

Weiner Circle Dance Party, Chicago 09.

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The Wieners Circle is a hot dog stand in Chicago, Illinois. It is famous for four things: its signature Chicago-style hot dogs, hamburgers and cheese fries, and the mutual verbal abuse between the employees and the customers during the late-weekend hours. On the weekends, the establishment stays open as late as 5:00 AM, drawing many drunken customers who have arrived from bars and clubs.

Sometime in the early 1990s (circa 1992) Larry Gold, one of the proprietors, called a drunk and distracted customer an "asshole" in order to get his attention. This set-off the late-night abuse culture of the restaurant.

The atmosphere can range from playful to hostile. The language used by both the staff and customers during these hours in notoriously foul and aggressive, and sometimes racist. As the wait-staff is largely African-American and the clientele middle-class to wealthy white, the more racist epithets have led to the rare physical altercation. Customers commonly request a "chocolate milkshake," or for one of the female African-American employees to lift her shirt and shake her breasts.

Now, I didn't get a 'chocolate milkshake' but I did get booty shaking lessons in the ally, which is far better.

Pie Charts are fun!

This is from way earlier in the year, but I often think about it because it's so funny. I almost pissed myself when finalized it.Who makes a pie chart about a break up?  Yas does.

TBD, actually came up with the idea but had forgotten by the time I sent it to him.

Recently I sent him an email asking him to turn it into a jpeg so I could post it. After further review he wanted to say, "Yeah, it is pretty accurate although I think Fasntastico stuff deserves more than 29%"

He's probably right, because after all this time I still find myself literally laughing out loud at our engaging email debates and obscure observations. Although he's not a keeper in the sense where I want to take him to bed, have his children and buy a sedan but he's going to be around, in my thoughts/inbox and  pizza/pint afternoons for ... some amount of lengthy time. I like specifics. 

Random Acts of Creepiness

So, I have some fairly creepy friends, but one takes the cake, consistently.  Jon.

He is, by and large, one of the most amazing men I have ever met. During a time of strong uncertainty about the male species it was Jon (with the help of my other beautiful men, who have yet to be named) who turned my view on men. Men are good, just like women. Not all, but most.

Jon entered my life and I quickly dubbed him a fake Mexican and made him burritos. He ate them and he hasn't really left since. More than my boss would expect,  I am pleasantly surprised with an email from Jon containing solid evidence that we are meant to be friends.  

At some point he introduced Random Acts of Creepiness.  It never ceases to amaze me, how someone so solidly awesome can be so freaking creepy. Regardless, his creepiness makes me love him, just a bit more.

Jon: Asking the girl who is about to serve herself soup in the staff canteen line .... 'can I spoon you??' Creepy?

Yas: I love you. 

We are one creepy team.