Monthly Archives: December 2013

Pessimism versus realism

We are the generation of optimism. Seriously, you cannot have a “successful” Instagram account without daily mantras, words of wisdom or some sort of prayer for prosperity or peace. It is guaranteed likes. We can be so detached from each other in real life, including ‘spiritually’ (if you believe in that stuff), that it’s really quite farcical. We preach Buddha online & call strangers ‘cunts’ at the shopping centre for taking our car spot at Christmas time. Our generation has come to believe that if you are positive, you can achieve ANYTHING. It is THE most important thing. You wanna be a rockstar? Cool. Think positive, work at it, & shit… You can do it. Want to be famous? Not hard these days. Tell yourself you CAN & you WILL! A scientist? Of course you can. Love yourself, & others will love you too. Etc.

How much of this is true, though? Why have we come to value optimism over anything else? Why are you akin to a modern day deviant for being truthful instead of positive? People like Miranda Kerr & Louise Hay have spearheaded the notion of positivity over EVERYTHING. But really, when you think about Kerr at least, all she is doing is telling you to treasure your body. Nourish your body. Women, it’s all about your body. Where is the honesty? Where is the truth in any of this?

Women have brains & can think, & are actually not really like flowers at all. Women are more than their beauty. But thanks, Miranda. You look smoking hot.

Women have brains & can think, & are actually not really like flowers at all. Women are more than their beauty. But thanks, Miranda. You look smoking hot.

I got here because I realise I am perceived as quite a negative person. A pessimist. A fucking wet blanket, if you will. I say, actually, you are wrong, dear optimist. I am a realist. My mantra is truth. I live by TRYING (it’s impossible all the time. We change hourly, depending on who we are with) to be who I am, speak what I really think, & just generally avoiding anything that might not rest easily with me upon deeper reflection (it’s easier to sleep at night). I say, let’s start to value realism. Let’s all be realists, not only optimists. Let’s be honest with ourselves & each other. It’s hard. It’s not the du jour persona to broadcast. I can honestly say, the people who dislike me probably do so because of my overt realist attitude at times. It can come off offensive. It can come off rude. Whiney & whingey, even. I know this. & that’s because I’m a REALIST: I’m even real with myself. Most of the time, anyway.

I'll take this quote & trade you this food for thought. Life is about balance: how about we be realists & embrace the good AND the bad?

I’ll take this inspirational quote & trade you this food for thought. Life is about balance: how about we be realists & embrace the good AND the bad thoughts? & learn from both?

Before you write me off as merely a pessimist, please understand sometimes optimism is crucial. Sometimes, the only way to get through something is to believe you will be okay, & allow yourself only happy thoughts. & it’s true, you WILL be okay. There are some certainties in life, & that includes inspirational quotes on Instagram by celebrities that didn’t ever say that shit, & that you will eventually be okay. Optimism is an amazing thing. The ability to both support & encourage yourself during trying times is one of the most important abilities one should learn to harness. BUT. Here is the big, heaping, OMNIPOTENT BUT… All the time? Really? You are happy your cat just got hit by a car? Did it teach you heaps, did it? Heaps about fucking HEARTBREAK. WHAT IS POSITIVE ABOUT THAT. WHY DOES IT NEED A POSITIVE SPIN!? Optimism, I believe, is not above everything. It is both powerful & important, but not always the best policy.

I’d like to put my theory into practice. Let’s take a look at this scenario, first with the optimist:
YOU: “Does my ass look huge in this?”***

OPTIMIST: “No. It looks bountiful. Always believe in your beauty, & you will always look beautiful”
Three days later, you’re untagging all the photos from the weekend on Facebook because actually, those positive thoughts didn’t fix the dress you wore that was perhaps too tight. Thanks.

Replay this scenario, but with me. The realist:
YOU: “Does my ass look huge in this?”
ME: “No I like your butt, but I don’t know about that dress, try on something else?”
Three days later, you can’t even decide which picture to use as your display picture because you are just so hot! That outfit was killer! YAY FOR REALISM!

So anyway, as you can see by my very scientific scenario I created in my mind where we are best friends & I am brutally honest with you, being truthful is good. It’s really good. Being honest should not be, and IS NOT, the same as being a pessimist. Please, let’s praise being honest. Even if it seems rude, or harsh, or shitty. & let’s be optimists sometimes, but not value it over everything else.

The truth isn’t always positive. But always being positive also isn’t always the truth (if you wanna make that your Facebook status please make sure to include my full name as the person who said it, in quotation marks. Cool, thank you).

***I love all asses so please, do not think I am some heinous bitch. Asses are beautiful & I’m sure yours is too. Purely for scientific purposes.

Flying the nest

“I wish I could run away & just start again”.

You’ve seen this status on Facebook. If you haven’t, count your blessings because I see it OFTEN. I’m not afraid to place actual, real life money (which I don’t have much of) on the fact that these people probably partied really, really hard the weekend before. But that’s beside the point & a whole other issue. These people are more than likely still living at home, although this is a huge generalisation that I can’t prove. I actually have done the proverbial “running away & starting it all over”, although it’s not so much running away dramatically & never looking back. It’s more like months of planning & a horrendous upheaval of absolutely everything you’ve ever known. It’s not a fairy tale… Actually, it can be fucking shit. That’s without an ounce of hyperbole, promise.

I moved from Victoria to Western Australia three years ago. I was completely naive & totally unafraid, which I am now thankful for. Sometimes cliches are the most apt of things to say. Ignorance is bliss. Moving to the other side of the country & thinking it will all be perfectly fine was the best head space to be in, because you probably wouldn’t do it if you were aware of how hard it was going to be.

I packed up my things (basically my bedroom. Packing up a bedroom versus packing up a whole house is A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT EXPERIENCE). I put my shit in my car. I put my car on a big ass truck. Then I put myself on a plane. Sitting on the window seat & watching Melbourne lose all its features & turning into nothing but a nondescript chunk of earth was heart-wrenching. I cried. I was sitting next to a woman with a baby who was screaming, totally ruining my Hollywood movie moment. Head turned, looking out the window & tears running down my cheeks. But seriously, the surge of emotion I felt leaving my place of birth ‘for good’ was one of the strongest things I have ever felt. Like anyone, my home is a place full of painful memories & experiences (LIFE). But it is also where my blood is, my friends are, & where my heart will ultimately always reside.

Then I got to Perth. The first thing I noticed was sand. Heaps of sand. Where is the dirt? Holy fuck, I have moved to the Sahara desert. I’m sorry, when is the next flight back to Melbourne? 10 hour wait? That’s fine, I will sit right here & wait for it. I happened to be moving over for the love of my life, & seeing him again was nothing short of fucking awesome. I was shaking with anticipation.

I moved into a house with people I had never met before, & hid in my bedroom for at least a couple of days. My own house felt strange to me. It wasn’t really mine, I didn’t know this place at all.

I had no car. I had none of the things that were in my car. I didn’t know where the supermarket was. I didn’t know where anything was. I knew no one but my boyfriend. I KNEW NOTHING. In movies, this is liberating & beautiful & adventurous. So gloriously romantic & free-spirited. In real life, this is extremely trying. All that shit about getting out of your comfort zone, that’s where the magic happens, blah blah blah… I was there & it wasn’t fun. I’m not a cryer. Anyone who knows me will know that I don’t get sad, I get angry. I CRIED DAILY. “Oh boo, pathetic woman, the hardest thing she has ever done is move. What a blessed life”. No, it’s not the hardest thing I have ever done. But YES, IT IS HARD. Life is not a fairy tale, & these things are never how they appear romanticised in your mind.

When you ‘start again’, it is also tempting to believe you can be whoever you want to be. Oh, how beautiful. A clean slate to work with. A chance to build the life you never had before. Mmm… Not likely. You are still you. You are still carrying the same emotional baggage that once plagued you. If anything, all the shit in your life is placed under a magnifying glass because you are so hypersensitive & missing everything you ever knew. Every time I had too many drinks, it ended up in “I want to go homeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”, tears flowing, sometimes lying on the ground, fully reverted back to toddleresque forms of communication. Not very grown up or mature. I couldn’t help it. I yearned for everything that felt familiar. My mum. My grandparents. My friends. Those cliches are serving me well today, as you sure as shit don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

I left these two cuties behind also. I like to think this is how they spend their days, waiting for me.

I left these two cuties behind also. I like to think this is how they spend their days, waiting for me.

Very slowly, the crying would be every four days. Then every couple of weeks. Then one day it stopped altogether. Like a break up I guess. At first it hurts so bad while the synapses that have formed in your brain sit there familiar & unused. They fade though, & new ones are formed. That’s how it stops hurting so much. New pathways are formed, as you create something new. Eventually, you build a life around you again. Nothing like you envisioned. It’s sometimes shit. It’s sometimes beautiful. The same petty dramas, different location. You live not much differently to how you did before. Sometimes, home is all you want. Sometimes, your new home is all you need. You never stop loving everyone you left behind. Somehow you have enough love left to give the new people you meet. It’s not anything how you think it would be.

If you really do want to run away & start all over again, I wish you well. I hope you find strength when you need it, & comfort in strange places. I hope you find similar souls & create a life with no regret. It’s hard. Really, really hard. I’ll admit though, sometimes it works out.

West Coast Eagles Best & Fairest 2013

Last Friday night was the annual West Coast Eagles Club Champion Awards 2013. It was my third, & although I have an odd superstition & voodooistic love for the number three, I was pretty blah about the whole thing really. The first year I attended was terrifying. A news crew? What the fuck? I very literally tried to run away, to no avail. Then I ended up quite drunk in a bath tub eating mini bar chips & crying by the end of the night. The second year, we got a limo & I wore a sparkly dress & it was a fun night apart from my strappy so-in-but-fucking-worst-trend-ever stilettos ripping my feet to shreds. This year, well, I’ll start at the beginning. You may know someone who has attended an AFL club Best & Fairest awards night. You may have even been to one yourself. This is what my experience was like this year.

Three dresses. Yep. Three. I bought them all with my own money (THE ABSURDITY?! Aren’t WAGs meant to know, like, everyone whose anyone?). I know no one. Not one single person with sweet hook ups. Sigh. So this year I went through three dresses before I found one I was comfortable wearing. I’m off to a bad start more than a month before the night. The white, ethereal Camilla & Marc dress which is totally reminiscent of what I would love to wear to my own wedding one day has a small problem. Ha, the irony. A small problem. My tits are too small. It looks stupid. I hang it up & leave it there for over a month while I drag my feet as to what to do because really… it’s a beautiful dress.

Then I find this sleek but slutty red dress online. It plunges at the front, it plunges at the back. Just plunging necklines/back lines/bum lines galore. I get back from Bali (I ate three full meals a day, to the point of gagging almost) & eye it off suspiciously. Fuck you, plunges. Or fuck you, delicious Bali food, either way. I put it on & the sexy satin grabs at the tops of my thighs. But not in the way a lover should… The way you grab them with frustration on an especially “fat” day. So maybe I was being really overdramatic. I am a size 8, I’ve got an alright bod. But FEELING pudgy in this dress wasn’t an option. I wanted to feel like a babe. That’s the best part of this annual night; getting dressed up & having heaps of Facebook display picture contenders.

Bec & Bridge come to the rescue. Thanks, girls. It’s semi see-through but I decide if my undies end up a laughing stock, it will blow over the next time the Fremantle Doctor comes through. AKA. the next day.

The winner. Front & back.

The winner. Front & back.

So next came the fake tan debate. Do I? Don’t I? Do, I decided. I asked for dark “but not ridiculous”. Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that I liked my fake tan to look like fake tan. I came home & looked at myself. I’ve had enough spray tans in my life to know when one looks slightly off. I instantly regretted the way I had worded what I wanted, as overspray was drying into speckled pools on my shins. Next comes an hour of frantically texting a handful of people asking what the fuck to do?! As if it’s someone else’s problem to deal with instead of mine. I shower once that night, & wake up looking like I never did. Shit. Another shower & a bit of a scrub, & I’m okay. CRISIS AVERTED, THE WORLD CAN GET BACK TO WHAT IT WAS DOING BEFORE MY TAN TRAGEDY.

My luck starts looking up when it’s time for hair & makeup. This is the fun part, when you get to feel like a princess. Ady Orupe from AROUSAL&DESIGN has done my makeup for three years. & holy shit, if I were rich I’d move her in with me. I show her a picture of Cara Delevingne. She doesn’t laugh, thank god. A pretty impossible task to make me look anything like her, but she does my face exactly how I want it. Makeup gods walk the earth ladies & gentlemen, & Ady is one.

Ady. She doesn't do makeup so much as make your face a piece of her art

Ady. She doesn’t do makeup so much as make your face a piece of her art

This is how much makeup it takes to get me ready

This is how much makeup it takes to get me ready

When I moved to Perth, I was pretty worried about how I was going to find a hairdresser (priorities). Queue David Marchesi, from Marchesi Coiffeur in Osborne Park. I’ve never let anyone else do my hair, for good reason. We do a slick pony, & for a few minutes I ask everyone if maybe my ears stick out?! Do I look okay? My head is really round, isn’t it? We decide it’s amazing, David never disappoints. Like, ever.

My regular hair saviour working magic

My regular hair saviour working magic

I’m feeling good. I had found out ALL my accessories did not match my dress about an hour ago, but that’s forgotten. Thank you two year old Diva rip off cuffs (I totally mixed Diva with Alexander Wang. Sacrilegious!). The night goes really quick, & I lament my outfit when I get home. I only wore it for a couple of hours. & the night wasn’t about me anyway, but it was fun to be a babe for the night.

A LOT goes in behind the scenes, even for something as ‘low-key’ (it’s no Brownlow) as the West Coast Eagles Club Champ Awards. Saying I struggled might be a bit of an understatement, thank god for the amazing people who were there to make me look half decent. Lastly, a quick congratulations to every one of the boys at the club. I’m going to throw a really cheesy one out there & say you’re all champs. 2013 wasn’t so great but 2014 is a new year.

Blue Carpet 2013

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