Post melbourne Cup melt down part 2

Do JB still sell cassettes? Do they still sell cassette players? I wish I could make a mix tape of all this stuff. I suppose I could make a play list but it just doesn't seem to have the same romance. I'd like a turntable some vinyl and a tapedeck please santa.

Post Melbourne Cup melt down

Mental long weekend at work. I'm shagged.  Today is a couch, remote control, Big M and Tim Tam kinda day. iPod's stuffed. Wish Rage was on. Thank God for Youtube.  Some of me faves...

Same as it ever was. Looks a bit like David Tennant as Dr Who.Love this song.

Another Dr Who - Tom Baker with blond hair?

This one has nothing to do with Dr Who.

I don't know why this one is so small

Never though I'd hear this song live.

why do women always buy their drinks separately?

Why don't they go in shouts?  And why do they always have to pay with the exact change? And why is it always in 5 cent pieces? Souldn't be blogging at work but then what are mobil phones for?

toady

I meant to type ‘I find myself today’ but instead I typed ‘I find myself toady’ and I think that just about sums it up, although toady is perhaps not the first word that would spring to mind were I asked to describe myself.

‘Toady’ would suggest that I’m a sniveller but I’m not that.  However if you asked me whether I ever felt as if I was abhorrent, green and slimy then I would have to say yes, right now I do.

Toad in teh hole. I certainly feel like I'm in a hole. I'm the one in the middle at the top with teh nice belt. I do have a rather nice belt.  I stole it off the set of a Just JEans ad I was in once.

First date nerves

You know what it’s like when you’re 15 and you’re on a date with a girl for the first time, and you’re in the movies and you can’t really believe that this girl is out with you because she actually likes you? You’re convinced that there’s no way she can be in to you as much as you’re in to her, and that she’s only agreed to go out with you for some reason you’ll never understand.

It took all the guts you’ll ever have to ask her out and you can’t believe she said yes. It then took all the sneaky smarts you’ve got to get some money out of your parents, without telling them you need it for a date, because you couldn’t stand them asking you about her. Bringing your parents into the world of a first date is a bad thing. They’d want to know what she’s like, and where are you going, and heaven forbid, they might realize they’ve never had “that talk” with you and so they might think this is the perfect time to do so.

And then there’s the choice of movie: should it be something she’ll like; something you like; something you’ll both like; or should you go and see Scream and hope that you score scare factor cuddles?

Of course, you let her decide, and so off you go to see Clueless, or no wait, it was Romeo and Juliet, not that you really care; you have other things on your mind. You’re going over those, “other things” in your head, weighing up the evidence and seeing how it falls. This is your case:

1.     Let’s assume, as crazy as it may seem, that she agreed to come out on a date with you because she actually likes you.

2.     Therefore, she probably wouldn’t go berserk if you put your arm around her.

3.     It is also within the bounds of reason to assume, from the above, that if she is willing to let you go that far, she might also be amenable to you kissing her, and to perhaps engaging in a limited uni - or multi - lateral exploration of each other’s territory.

This all makes perfect sense to you on an intellectual level, but how do you put it into practice?

It seems completely beyond the realms of all possibility that you might just simply put your arm around her as she sits next to you. You just can’t do it. It cannot happen. You spend the first thirty minutes of the film searching in vain for a strategy that might enable you to do so, while she’s obviously thinking that you’re some kind of retard for not doing so, but nothing comes to mind. You could pretend you’re tired and stretch your arms above your head, letting one casually fall across her shoulders, but you know you haven’t even got the guts to do that. You hate the fact that boys have to do all the hard work, while she just sits there sucking on Fantales, apparently engrossed in Olivia Newton John and Gene Kelly’s roller skating routines.

You start to sweat. You sense defeat. Then she turns just a little in her seat (she’s probably just getting comfortable) and you shift a little too and then she looks at you and you at her and you’re doing it. You’re pashing at a movie with a girl, and you don’t know how it happened, but your arm is around her too, both your arms, in fact, are around her. What’s more you can feel her breasts pressed against your chest and you’d like to go there too, but you think you’d better quit while you’re ahead and leave that to a second date, or at least to when you’re snogging on the train home.

Revenge

Revenge is sweet, revenge is a dish best served cold – perhaps it’s a custard tart? Wouldn’t that be the best revenge!  Revenge is mine sayeth the lord, but somehow I can’t see him stuffing prawns into Gillian’s curtain rods. 

Don’t get mad get even. Even what? Even madder? Even sharper claws? I always thought that sentence was unfinished.

Is it wrong ot want revenge? Because I do. I want to do damage. The fact that I know I won't doesn't make me feel civilised or well-adjusted, it just makes me loathe myself, makes me feel weak. I wish I had a lightsabre.

I'd chop both his hands off.

Don't tell your parents

My advice to you is this: Don’t tell your parents that you and your girlfriend have broken up.

Just don’t.

Telling your parents that you’ve broken up with a long-term partner is impossible, because they won’t really hear what you’re saying. Try and get a sibling to do it for you or better still just never tell them and let her gradually slip from their memories.

It’s not that they won’t understand, or they don’t care, it’s just that they are simply unable to comprehend what you’re saying. They don’t get it. It’s not in their nature to hear adult problems coming from their children. The very thought that you might be stuffing things up for yourself just as royally as they did freaks them out. To them you’ll always be a kid, not a thirty-something slacker. It’s boring; it’s frustrating, but it’s much safer and easier for all concerned that it stays that way too.

Remember what happened when your backpack was stolen in Athens and you were left with nothing but the clothes you were wearing.

Beep beep beep

Mum: Hello

You: Hi mum.

Mum: Oh, who is it?

You: Me mum, Bill-

Mum: Oh, but you’re in Greece –

You: Mum the money’s going to run out, can I –?

Mum: Oh, OK, I’ll just get your father.

You: Mum!

Dad: Hello son.

You: Hi Dad, listen can I –

(Mum in background: “Ask him what time it is?”)

Dad: Your mother wants to know what time it is.

You: It’s 3am, dad can I just –

Dad: 3am love.

(Mum in background: what day is it over there?)

Dad: What love–?

You: I can hear her Dad. It’s Tuesday.

Dad: He says Tuesday.

You: Dad, have you still got my credit card details-?

Dad: Yes I’ll just go and get them.

He puts the phone down.

You: No da-!

Beep beep beep.

The phone cut out and there went your last chance of having them wire money to you and have you ever tried to sell a watch in a Greek pawnshop?

Exactly the same thing will happen when you tell them that you and your ex, the one they thought you’d be with forever, have broken up.

No matter what you say, your mum will at first just not hear it. You’ll have to say it over and over again until it finally sinks in, and when it does, look out, because things just start to get very weird.

One of two very disturbing things will happen: either she’ll think it’s your fault and that something you did must have pissed off that sweet girl who’s been putting up with your irritating habits for years, “and does that mean I’ll not see any grandchildren?” or she’ll suddenly be so scathing about your ex that you’ll be left stunned and bewildered, wondering what she’s really been thinking all this time when she’s been offering her a slice of sponge cake and a cup of tea every third sunday evening of teh month.

You’ll finally see the non-mum side of your mum. You’ll realize, perhaps for the first time ever that she’s actually a person, that she’s got feelings, and that she’s just as fucked up as you. She’ll see you in a new light too. She’ll see the potential, idealised her-perfect-son version of you replaced by the actual and much less appealing real you; she’ll realize that her little boy is just as messed up as she is. You’ll go past the polite conversation and pleasantries that pass for much interfamilial communication and hurtle straight into a full on mano a (wo)mano slug fest, in which your mum pulls off the lovely oven gloves you bought her for Christmas when you were ten and goes bare knuckle, toe-to-toe with you.

She’ll treat you like an adult. She’ll want details; she’ll ask questions; she might even ask you about your sex life; she’ll want to know were you shagging around; was she? She’ll get upset and your father will stand up and put his hands in his pockets and look out the window humming a marching tune while you try and comfort your mum, who just keeps dabbing her eyes, holding up her hands and repeating, “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just a bit of a shock.”

Pretty soon though she’ll pull herself together and head off to the kitchen to get the dinner on.

When she comes back in, eyes red-rimmed, she’ll pretend that she’s, “fine really,” but you’ll see it in her face – she can’t hide it - and every time you look at her you’ll wish there was some way you could make her stop worrying, and so her pain - which is really your pain - becomes yours again, only doubled, and so you clam up, and you can’t tell her anything more. You become testy, touchy, and of course this just adds another layer to her unease, and every time she so much as touches you, you can feel her anxiety sucking at you like a baby at a tit, and now you’re the one worried. You feel like the parent and you wish there was some way you could make things better for her, but you’re just not right enough in the head to cope with that. You’re not selfless enough to cope with someone else’s load. You’re so self obsessed, so sorry for yourself that there’s just no room for anyone else, and even though you know you’re being a silent, moody arsehole to the two people in the world who are truly willing to listen to your grief you can’t stop.

And when mum finally clears away the plates, and you’re left alone with dad, who, after a suitable silence, asks you if you watched the match yesterday, you’re still grumpy, but you’re on familiar territory and you wish you’d just told him instead. Because he’ll be gutted, he’ll be shocked and he’ll eat his insides out with worry just as much as your mum, but he’ll do it quietly and without any fuss. Like her, he’ll lie awake all that night, wondering whether you’ll ever find happiness. He’ll spend silent moments remembering how you used to be such a happy little boy, or maybe he’ll look back and remember that he always worried about your state of mind, about whether you were the kind of person who’d sail through life without any troubles, or whether you were always the type to trip himself up or to get tripped up.

But he won’t let you see that. The most he’ll say is, “Ah well,”. Dads know better than to say any more than that.