Special.

My mama always told me I was special.
That I would do something great. That I would be somebody.
Someone great.
And that was all well and good until I hit the age of 27. Living in a red caravan in Melbourne winter in the backyard of a Northcote share house, with a bunch of boys that chain-smoked bongs, watched day time t.v and as it happened, were starting a sex toy business….. I was still on the dole, still trying to make it as a rockstar, still not famous, and too broke to buy a pair of ugg boots to get me through the winter.
And that’s when it hit me, that’s when I realised that the silver platter wasn’t going to fall out of the sky and that I would have to make a go of it all by myself. Saturn Return darlings.

Yes, it was a rude awakening, a shock to the system, a cold dip in Whim Hoff ice water.
And I was like, damn, maybe im not special like my mama told me, maybe I’m just like all the other plebs, and I would have to make it on my own.

And then the existential crisis began, for the first time in my life I pondered over the big questions- Like why the hell are we all here, what the hell is going on, what is after death, you know those kinds of deep questions that no one really knows the answer too. I know I was a bit late on the uptake. People think about these deep things young, but whatever…..

So I quit my band after 10 years, booked myself into a costume course, convinced a bikey couple to tow my caravan up to Byron Bay for $800 and a bottle of black sambuca. And started my life again, in the tropics.

Not much had changed. I was still on the dole, living in my red caravan, getting high. But, now I was on a pig farm in Byron Bay in the epicentre of spiritual quests and navel-gazers, so I was right at home….

That year I ate the most pig I have ever eaten in my Jewish life- Bacon fat with potatoes, bacon diced with cabbage, pork crackling, boiled pig bones, pork sausages, legs of pigs, you think it, I ate it. My Jewish stomach didn’t know what hit it. My ancestors would be rolling in their graves…. Oi Va Voi, the taste of sweet swine, so delicious and forbidden, salty and fatty and almost human tasting. I ate so much pig I ended up becoming allergic to it. But that’s another story…..

I was only in Byron Bay for a few months when I broke up with my partner of 10 years. I’m not sure why so many couples break up when they move to Byron….Maybe it’s because there are not as many distractions as there is in the city, so when you make the move to paradise, you’re all of a sudden confronted with the fact that you’re in a dysfunctional relationship and you haven’t made love for over 3 weeks, and you don’t wanna make love and your bickering about the toilet seat again, and you’ve heard the same stories over and over, and you’re both over it, and you both can’t be bothered fixing all the broken things…. So we broke up. It was big, but it was mutual, so ce la vie.

I got Farmer M to tow my caravan with his big old tractor to the other side of the pig farm, and boom! I was thrown into singledom.
I wrote my first love song, relished in the loneliness and agony of a broken heart.
Rewatched the whole of Sex and the City and slowly rebuilt myself.

I continued asking the big questions, searched far and wide…. I asked wise elders and young children alike- What is this all about?

Until one day, after years of questioning, I finally got my answer from a 70-year-old dear Scottish man that is eternally young and full of Joi De Vive.

Over a few pints of beer, he told me in his thick Scottish accent.

Be good. Do good and have a fantastic time.

And I think that pretty much covers it. That pretty much sums it up. Doesn’t matter whether your rich or poor, a meerkat or a lion, don’t matter if your ma says your special or not.
Just don’t be a cunt and have a ball.

Addict

You know you’re an addict when you do it in secret.  

When you innocently tell your sister you’re going out for “a walk” to look at the stars and digest your dinner ….. You go out under the stars and sneak a few spliffs back to back, creep back into the house and jump in the shower, change your clothes, smear on body lotion, spray on perfume, brush your teeth and then go out and act like nothing ever even happened. Rinse, Rinse and repeat.

Ever chucked out a fresh packet of cigarettes swearing for the millionth time that this time really is the last time and this time you’re definitely for sure going to quit because you’ve hit rock bottom and your wheezing after chain-smoking joints the night before for no particular occasion and to climb 5 stairs gets you out of breath and your teeth are stained yellow, even your 4-year-old niece tells you so and your skin is turning a pale shade of aubergine and you’re depressed because you’ve smoked up all your self worth and somehow you’re back where you began and you’re only pushin 35. 

One step forward, two steps back baby.

So you chuck out your full pouch of baccy, $60 down the composting toilet, can’t ever get it there, even though you know it’s bad for the worms and microflora of the composting toilet system you think it’s the worms or me, so after making a big list of the pros and cons of quitting you’ve decided to reign in the stallion, tame the beast and jump off the wagon.

At night whilst smoking away and plotting your new bright life, it all seems so easy and so logical and sane and grown-up and positive and brilliant even. You’re gonna get fit and get a glow up and you won’t stink and you’ll look 5 years younger, and you’ll finally be a respectable member of society and a good role model for the kids and there’s less chance of dying from lung cancer, and hell you might even run a marathon later in the year. No problemo. 

You wake up the next morning feeling determined and driven, you even do a few salutes to the sun, but by sunset, you’re crawling around in an ashtray, pulling apart old butts to make sorry joints so you can get high. And if you’ve never scraped butts out of an ashtray to smoke let me tell you haven’t lived! It feels a little dirty, like the hedonistic monkey that you thought you had under wraps, has totally gotten the better of you, in fact, this monkey has got you wrapped around its little mitt so tight that its got you grovelling. And you feel kind shitty and if anyone could see you now they would lose all respect for you, in fact, you’ve lost a little respect for you. But fuck it you think, YOLO and back on the wagon we go.

I’ve been smoking for way too long, at one point my friend did a calculation of how many fags I’ve smoked, and it was an ungodly amount, let me tell you that. Smoking has always been my crutch, my muse, my best friend, my inspiration, my social get out of jail free card, I’ve written poetry about it, countless songs about it, I love smoking after sex, smoking with coffee, smoking at night, after a meal, on a walk, smoking with a drink… what can I say? I’m attached… But I gotta face it, its a dying art… literally….and it ain’t the early 2000’s anymore, baby… when tobacco was pretty and at $13 bucks a pop. Now the cigarette packets have turned a shade of khaki vomit (‘Pantone 448 C opaque couché to be specific, officially the ‘world’s ugliest colour‘)… the prices have been jacked up to the nines so its got everyone quit, dead or vaping. So yeah, I guess its probably time.

And honey, I’ve tried everything, hypnotherapy, sheer willpower, juice fasting, water fasting, podcasts, motivational talks, gambling, reading that ‘how to quit smoking book’, you name it I’ve done it…Once I even drove halfway across the country and dropped $2000 cash on an Iboga retreat led by Wookie dookie sham shamans in a half-built suburban McMansion in Adelaide…. But hey, that’s a whole other story…….

Addiction is so crazy like that, the lengths we can go to to get a vice. The people you befriend for it, the time you waste trying to get it, the money you spend on it, the situations that you put yourself in for it, especially when your vice is illegal. I mean, I nearly started a small riot in a tiny town in country Ireland between the weed dealer and the local cook when I tried to score a twenty. I’ve put myself in some super precarious situations just to get a fix. Small back water rooms in foreign cities all alone with shady characters that only speak Spanish, and I don’t speak Spanish.

But the truth is, you know you should quit when you start looking like a cigarette. Like when you actually start to embody a fag. Yup, that’s when I knew it was time to reassess the situation and get in the heavyweights because, let’s face it, it’s just not a real good look, is it? Like everyone else quit in their late twenties, but you missed the memo and stayed on the wagon, fully committed to the cause, a real champion. 

One of the funniest things I read in that ‘how to quit smoking book’, compared smokers to athletes, it spoke about how a smoker has to have sheer perseverance when first starting smoking, you know, inhaling all that poison, all that coughing and spluttering and bum puffing and eyes stinging and that old man after taste, I mean that’s not easy getting through that, like you have to commit, go the full route, train your body to process poisons and live to tell the goddamn tale. And that, my friends is almost like a marathon. I mean not in a traditional sense of the word but yes, some kind of marathon.

So it’s been a ride, what can I say. Still, you know that after all these years of being beholden to some sort of vice, I do pride myself on having a new kind of empathy, an addict’s empathy. I still think addicts are a bunch of suckers that need to get there shit together, stat, but I can relate to them, I can relate to the most badass addicts around because addiction is essentially all one and the same. We’ve all got a little monster that lives inside of us that could do questionable things for the sake of a fix. I guess it’s whether you allow yourself to go there or not.

So I’m gonna smoke my last bit of everything tonight and kiss this sweet ass baby goodbye, Cause by god, I’ve done my time.

Peace out 

Don’t have Sex with your Ex.

Don’t have sex with your ex.

And don’t rub chilly in your eyes.

I have been guilty of both in the last 2 days.

And I knew I shouldn’t, and I swore I wouldn’t, but I just couldn’t resist after a few drinks of mezcal, a toke on a cheeky joint and the feeling of recklessness that comes with moving back to my old stomping ground.

So I did what I always do. So damn predictable. I went back like a sucker. Like a moth to the flame, like a kid to candy. I went willingly back to black.

Classic. I used to judge people like me. Look at them with some sort of pity. But look at me now… A fool for a good time. A fool for pleasure at any cost, even if I regret it in the morning.

We didn’t use protection. I was ovulating. I didn’t care. I mean, how dumb is that? I think a part of me secretly wanted to get preggers. And that’s super smart, right? Getting preggers to your ex on a drunken lonely-hearts club one-night stand hook up. I mean, how is that ever going to work? They are your ex for a reason.

But regardless of all the reasonings in the world, that night a part of me was leaving it up to the gods despite all the crazy and potentially dire consequences…

My biological clock was ticking hard and pulling out all the stops… and hell, I’m not even clucky…. So what is this all about, huh?

Is that why there are so many single parents? Because they had a biological clock moment that blinded them with hormone coloured shades, and all of a sudden, they thought it would be great to get pregnant to their ex? Or to their tinder date one-night stand? Or to their neighbour because they were so damn desperate to have a baby?

Are all our actions solely programmed by hormones and libido? Are we only here to procreate and keep the human race ticking?

I mean, aren’t we meant to be bigger than that now? Aren’t we meant to be living in a modern-day society where we are encouraged to be empowered and career-driven and narcissistic and tech-savvy and keeping up with the Jones’s?

These days ladies are freezing their eggs for a rainy day, making babies with same-sex partners, renting out our wombs to strangers, and playing god to some extent… Heck, we don’t even need partners anymore, particularly an ex that makes your life a living hell.

We can do it all alone now. This is modern times baby… but regardless of how ‘modern’ these times are, I still crave a tribe, a family unit, a partner in crime to sail through life with…

I grew up in a super traditional family of 6 – 2 parents and 4 x kids. My parents are still together, they’ve been together for 51 years, god damn. Both my grandparents stayed together their whole lives. They shared a beautiful love, so much so that their love story got featured on a Brazilian valentine’s day program!

So that is what I know of love… These are my examples of love… That and being raised by Disney, and love songs and Hollywood and the notion of happily ever after.

But looking around me, I’m seeing that ‘happily ever after soul mate love’ seems rarer than ever. I see a lot of single lonely people…

Are so many of us single and searching because we don’t want to work on love, instead we just upgrade to the next human when we’re not feeling it?  It took me 34 years to realise that love was work. Good work but work regardless.

But now I get it. I mean I haven’t actually tried the whole love is work thing out in real life yet, just lots of hypothesising and talking about it.

But yes, work is love, and love is work.

And love is a miracle, and miracles happen every day.

And yes I’m jaded, I’m cynical, I’m slightly broken, I occasionally sleep with my ex…. but despite all of it, all of my ranting and raving and dissecting and monologing I’m still a romantic, I still believe in Disney and I’m still searching for true love.

So bring it on baby.

Bring on the miracle of love.

Cake and cheese baby.

Aging is a funny old thing huh?

One day you look around an realise that you’re the oldest one at the party. And it’s cool, you can get in to it, being the ‘older’ one and all that jazz…. After about your third whisky you start giving out unsolicited advice to anyone that will listen about Saturn Returns and “look, you’ll understand when your 30…..” rants.

Since getting into my 30’s, I’ve had hair popping up in the most mysterious of places, some hidden, some setting up camp on my chin overnight. I mean I like witches and all, I have a few witchy friends and I see myself as a bit of a witch, but hairs growing out of my chin at 35…. Hold up. I thought I was signing up to that later in life….

In saying that I haven’t actually plucked the hair out… I don’t have the heart to, I mean maybe they’re supposed to grow there, like your body needs it to be there for some big picture unbeknownst to us? I gotta tell you I secretly do take some sort of pleasure in stroking the hairs on my chin, lost in thought, stroking as if it was an actual beard, kinda like my father does with his beard… Freud anyone??

And have you ever had that feeling when your Amazon package arrives after a lonely late night scroll party on Instagram (when the ads actually work) and like a zombie you drop some big cash on some linen dress but the dress doesn’t fit or look any good on you because the model in the advert is a sweet 16, never been kissed, pre-pubescent country gal with no hips and no ass and no nothing, and you quit smoking recently and accidently put on 5 kgs but you forgot that minor detail when you ordered the dress because you were a little high so you ordered a size 10 but now you’re a size 12 and linen doesn’t stretch and they don’t do exchanges and you wanna scream because you’re screwed.

Only woman squeeze into things that don’t quite fit them. Ever squeezed into a dress that needs 2 people to close the zip and you go to the party and look great but you can’t eat cause the zip will bust, and there’s a full tub of freshly shucked oysters there, and you can’t eat them, so you silently wail. Or ever bought clothes a size to small and justify it with the idealistic belief that I WILL do those workouts and I WILL use that gym pass and WORK religiously at getting that unattainable body that everyone on Instagram seems to have but no one in real life that you actually know has.

But hey that’s propaganda baby.

And it’s all a bit bullshit. Like when will we celebrate the aging of women, the gracefulness the softness the wisdom and the wonder of women? The Silver fox, gracious, make you cake and tea women. The assertive, zero fucks, hire a cleaner, I know what I want women. Don’t forget that every single one of us pretty much came out of a vagina? Remember where you came from.

And can I just say what the hell is wrong with a little cellulite, I mean apart from the chaffing, which a real thing, cellulite is fine, its normal, its cake and cheese mother fuckers, all cake and cheese. I mean, what are we meant to do? Not eat the cake and cheese?

They got us all wrapped up in a tizzy – they got us Primping, and preening, and curling, and sucking, and waxing, and waning, and cutting, and grooming, and fixing, and fussing and spending big bucks on snake oil medicines and silicone implants. And what the fuck for? To become young again, to be eternally youthful. I mean to be honest in my youth I was an insecure, blabber mouth, bong smoking, questionably dressed, naïve fresh faced and none the wiser little raver kid.. and now I got half-moons under my eyes, a little cellulite, pain in my joints, silver lightning in my hair, hangovers for days. But god damn I’m in my prime baby my god damn prime. Don’t you know? I got shit to talk about now. I know things. I listen to 99% invisible. Roman Mars forever.

Miss Bliss.

I was 17 years old and had just moved into an old rambling shared house in North Richmond, Melbourne. I had to lie about my age to get a room. The house was a classic old Melbourne shared house, with creaking floors, dodgy extensions, mouldy ceilings, and a giant fig tree in the back yard. I was paying $45 per week. It was full of freaks, dogs, punks, yogis and artists. I was in seventh heaven, I had just left my family home in rural QLD and was ready to take on the world.

One day my very eccentric thespian housemate S. announced that we were having a dildo party that night and that all the boys had to evacuate the house for the evening. 

We prepared a feast fit for queens- Figs stuffed with ricotta cheese, roasted eggplant served whole with tahini sauce drizzling out of it, mountains of cheeses, fresh sourdough bread laden with cold-pressed olive oil, and wine, yup, lots of wine.

That evening when all the ladies gathered around, the guest of honour arrived. The Dildo Rep. Dressed in a sharp 2 piece suit with immaculate platinum blonde hair and a perfect matching manicure that carried a briefcase bursting with sex toys. And these weren’t any ordinary sex toys, they were toys designed for women by a woman. And they were designed for your absolute orgasmic pleasure.

It was just like a Tupperware party. One by one, the rep pulled out the loot sporting colours of metallic pinks and purples, they were sculptural and curly and almost cartoon-like. 

She got us to sit in a circle, and after introducing each toy’s pros and cons, she got us to put them on the tips of our nose to feel them.

So there we were, a bunch of half tipsy giggling gals full on figs and wine sitting in a circle with sex toys vibrating on the tips of our noses. Secret women’s business eh?!

And then finally the rep pulled out the creme de la creme, the Queen Bee of all the toys. Her name was Miss Bliss. She a was a purple curvy, beautiful thing, all set with a 7 x channel matching purple remote control. 

She was sexy, pleasurable, non-toxic, you could wash her, preen her, she wouldn’t break up with you, she wouldn’t get you pregnant and she was solely dedicated to giving you a good time every time.

I was sold. I rose up from the circle, and like someone possessed, I walked into my room, got my piggy bank, and smashed it open with a hammer and dug out my total life savings of $180. I gave it to the rep, and that night I took Miss Bliss home to bed with me.

She was wonderful. Truly remarkable. Better then I imagined. Far out, This was living. 

I took her everywhere to me, to festivals, overnight trips, overseas, interstate, everywhere.

I didn’t need a man now, I had Miss Bliss. I ranted and raved about her attributes, I was even thinking of becoming a dildo rep myself.

Until one day, I left her for a few nights in my caravan at my parent’s property.

I came home after and realised that Miss Bliss was missing, I couldn’t find her anywhere. She wasn’t where I had put her…. Damn. I started getting nervous. Freaking out a little. My prized possession was missing.

Thats when my little sister came in to my caravan to tell me that she had found a “purple lamp” and taken it down to my father to show him. He took one look at it and went “what is this rubbish?” and chucked my “lamp” down the composting toilet.

And that was that. Miss Bliss had gone where no sex toy had gone before. Down our composting toilet. And once you went down there, there was no coming back. That was it. My Miss Bliss was gone. I was devastated. I was depressed. I was inconsolable. I had lost my dear friend. 

I never let my sister forget about it. I reminded her of it for years and told her that when she makes some proper cash, the first thing she has to do is buy me a new Miss Bliss.

And what can I say, she lived up to her word, and a few years ago she gave me $180 of cold hard cash. And ironically instead of buying a dildo, I spent it on avocado smash and lattes like any true millennial in overpriced Melbourne Cafes. But hey I had trained up my fingers well by then.

Pandemic

Tell me why?

Why are there so damn many strong beautiful driven talented single women in this country?

They are everything you could ask for…. 

Fierce, intelligent, sweet, gorgeous, sporting a bucketload of talent and big dreams to boot.

And for the boys that may be reading this….Yes, there are swarms of them….Swanning about ultimately and searching for love. Searching for someone that can match them. Someone that can hold them. Someone that can elevate them And it’s 2021 baby and they aint settling for anything less.

So whats going on?

Why is it so hard to find a good single decent man in the land of Oz? Are us gals setting the bar too high? Don’t get me wrong I’m aware that us women can be a bit on the fickle side…. I mean I nearly broke up with a guy I was “in love with” because he wore an earring on his left ear to our third date… So could it be pure feline fickleness? Or is this some sort of male drought? A pandemic? Or maybe it’s just pure statistics- That there is simply not enough good men to go round. 

According to the 2020 census, male to female ratio for Australia was 99.2 males per 100 females. 

Google says if you’re a single woman looking for love and can handle the crocs and the heat, you should go to Darwin as there are tonnes more men than women there. Particularly if you like a man in uniform or a man in prison. Whatever blows your hair back baby.

I had a fling with an Israeli man a few months ago…. It was wonderful. I asked him if there were more like him back in Israel. He said, yes, there were thousands more like him. I thought Brilliant! Maybe I could start an import-export business. Shipping in eligible bachelors from exotic countries. A win-win situation. The women get a good match, and the men get a brilliant woman and a visa….They have beautiful babies…And maybe do a Disney and live happily ever after… or not… but at least you get a golden baby and a dual passport.

Before covid hit my best friend and I were so despondent with the lack of potential love on our shores that we started planning a “Find a Husband Tour” overseas. We were going to play shows around Europe and do call outs for potential suitors. Get them to lineup for a swift interrogation after the show. You know just the usual simple questions…. Did your mother do everything for you when you were growing up? How is your relationship with your father? Can you cook? Do you hate your ex-partners? What do you want to be when you grow up?

We thought that maybe the boys over yonder could fulfil our needs, fuel our fire. But now that covid hit and international travel is out for a while, we have to wait it out. 

And let me set this straight we are not desperate. I for one am happy to grow old and grey in some kind of domestic bliss, laughing away with my girlfriends on a property in the bush whilst occasionally cougaring an innocent backpacker from the local pub. That sounds pretty fine to me. But until then I’ll put a shout out here for all the single ladies…!

If you’re a single man, a good man an emotionally intelligent, gracious, self-respecting honourable man who knows how to clean up after himself. Write to me. I might follow in my Mama’s footsteps and try out this match making business…. I know plenty of eligible bachelorettes waiting for big love!!!

J.P

Ok, let’s have it out. Internet dating. Hinge. Bumble. Tinder. Ok Cupid.

My parents are big into it. They are so into it they even offered to pay for a premium dating account for me. My dad keeps telling me how great it is, “The Twinders (that’s what he calls it) is just like shopping in a supermarket, nowadays you don’t even have to go out to find a guy, you can just swipe away.” he tells me in his thick Scottish accent. I keep trying to tell them that the supermarket produce is a bit bogan for my liking. That I’ve tried…..and after spending hours on it I just end up getting depressed and lose hope in the male race with RSI in my thumb from swiping left.

I mean can’t romance still happen the old-fashioned way. Like maybe meeting in a book shop when you reach for the same book and low and behold it hits you in the face LOVE… Or maybe he’s your cousin’s cousins stepbrothers best friends housemate, and you get introduced at some random house party and then boom it hits you like a freight train. LOVE! Or maybe you collide into each other on a bike path, and then he offers to fix your bike and then BOOM smack in the face. LOVE… You know, something IRL. A good story to tell your great great great grandkids… I mean I do know a few online success stories, maybe the odds are better in cities like Melbourne, but here in rural QLD most of the profile pics are of guys wearing wife-beaters and stubbies with shotguns and dead pigs or wearing drug dealer sunglasses swilling bottles of bourbon out of there utes, or guys with their arms around there ex-girlfriend/ wife. One of them actually wrote “I’m looking for a gal to drink beer with, play video games and go camping in my 4wd ute with me” I almost wrote to them to tell them that there actually looking for a mate, not a girlfriend.

I’m not sure who gave them the memo, but that ain’t the way to win a good gal’s heart.

I was actually thinking of getting into the business of advising men on how to make a good looking dating profile, maybe even doing photoshoots for them, styling them… But I digress.

Every time someone falls in love via online dating, my mama reminds me over and over again. “You know, so and so did meet online, Sara.” My mama even offered to make a dating profile for me and told me she would be most happy to manage it, spend hours swiping for me, chat for me, and ultimately find a match for me. So kind. It must be a common situation because now some smart entrepreneurial guy is developing an app for exactly that, for Jewish mama’s to find matches for their beloved perfect children before they become spinsters. My mama has pre ordered it.

So yes my parents are madly trying to pair me up with a mate. Preferably a Jewish educated man that owns a few properties and maybe a business or 3….

Last year my mama and her best friend concocted a plan.

They were both lamenting that their children were so wonderful and so brilliant but were still so single and had the brilliant realisation to partner us up. After all, we both liked music, we liked plants, we were of similar age, and of course, we were both Jewish. Perfect.

My parents drove 2000km from QLD to Melbourne and invited the lucky bachelor to come drink some whisky with the men so they could interrogate my potential future husband. After my father and uncle gave him the seal of approval, the mothers organised a date for us. So old school, huh? Who needs Tinder when you have Jewish parents! The date went well I must admit, but no chemistry, so what do you do? Can you grow chemistry in a lab? Or grow to fall in love? Or do you succumb and let your parents pay for Tinder Gold and employ your clucky mama to swipe and swipe and swipe till she finds you the one.

Below is a little tune I wrote for my mama!

The Nose

I spent $300 on perfume last week. Call it what you want. A millennial on job keeper with a disposable income that doesn’t know how to save. A 30+ something looking for love. New year = New scent. I’m not really sure. But I did it. It smells like Petey whisky and Cognac. It’s remarkable. Made by this Dutch perfumer guy that calls himself “The Nose”. Brilliant. Anyone that calls himself “The Nose” gets bucks from me. I thought this is an investment into my future, into my love life and casually blew my rent money for the week. I even watched the doco about him called “The Nose” He is mighty secretive about his perfume recipes, but says sometimes he puts cum, hash, and maybe some excrement into it to create the scent. And damn it smells good. It has everything going for it. In fact, I’m wearing it now. The perfume sales lady told me to dab it on the back of my neck so I can get continual wafts of it….that the scent should be “Just for me” I told her “Lady if I’m gonna drop this much cash on a scent I want the whole world to know about it, I want people on the street smelling it and swooning, none of this “Just for me” bullshit.”

But today I wear it just for me. I’m alone in my little covid cabin in the bush half-naked drinking iced coffee in the middle of Woop Woop trying to conceal the smell of mouse shit in my cabin with $300 perfume.

Yup. It’s true. I’m 35 years old. Living with my parents again.

A few weeks ago I texted a tinder date and invited him for a good old fashioned romp in a hotel room. He was a bit taken aback by my forwardness. I guess I was too. I blamed it on the blue moon and the fact that I’m ovulating and semi lonely. He said it was too much pressure and too much expectation and that we hardly knew each other and tried to psychoanalyse my text.  …. I told him YOLO and not to overthink it, like what’s the worse that could happen, we could both get an STD, and I could get preggers to a tinder date…. Not so bad, huh. I mean what kind of self-respecting male would say no to such an opportunity. Maybe he was broke and couldn’t afford the hotel room… I’m not quite sure… I guess I’ll probably won’t see him again.

I have never done anything like that before… but since cougaring a young Israeli boy on a one night stand , the spell has been broken, the chastity belt unlocked, the nun habit dried and chopped and rolled up into a smoke mix. I’m ready. Ready to get around for a bit. Finally. Jeez. My friends are stoked. Finally I’ll have some new goss to tell them. Some new stories.

So here I am living in the bush, with my entire family. Rich on Job Keeper, addicted to buying mid-century furniture and Afghan camel bags on Facebook marketplace. 2 weeks clean cause I got vain and started looking like a fag hag, and people judge you hard when you’re 35 and still a Fag Hag, so I’m trying hard to clean up my act, get back on the wagon and get myself a glow up.

My ex casually commented to me the other day that gals just don’t look that good after 40. I couldn’t believe it. It’s easy for them, with that salt and pepper George Cloony sheik look, dad bod and 7-day growth, but for us…. Damn.

I took it straight to heart and now I’m trying extra hard, I’m doing it all, I’m believing the hype. I’m trying unsuccessfully to do a HITT workout daily, I’m rubbing coffee grinds on my skin, gargling coconut oil, smearing turmeric on my face, putting cider vinegar in my hair, brushing charcoal in my teeth, drinking way too much water, doing squats cause my lil sister told me my ass has dropped and spraying on a lavish load of my $300 perfume.

Why Cant You Look Hot and Run?

Its day 3 of detox. No cigarettes, no illicit drugs, no alcohol, no coffee, no fun.

It all started with a pair of fluro pink and leopard skin black running shoes.

Well…. Actually, it all started with a boy…. Which led to the shoes…. Which lead to now…. Wait a second… let me just tell you the story…..

I’ve always been indulgent, a yes kinds girl. More coffee? Yes. More chocolate? Why not. Another smoke? Definitely…. Never had I said no to myself.

My Papa would always encourage me to read books on the topic of willpower, and discuss with me the importance of such things…. being able to control your mind over body…..

I would preach to people whilst happily chowing down my 3rd-morning coffee accompanied by my 3rd organic cigarette, that I could if I wanted to, but darling, its organic, and besides it makes me sing better…..Tom Waits??

Anyway, I met this boy, he’s an extremist. Yin to the Yang, black to white, yes or no. He runs when he’s not chain-smoking…He drinks power smoothies in the morning, strange “Heath Concoctions” kale, acai, chia, you name it… It’s in there…. I don’t think it actually tastes that pleasant, but honey it’s 2018, you’re in your thirties, and its the thing to do.

My friends are all getting to that age of discovering exercise… they tell me it actually feels good when those endorphins kick in…. gets you high in fact. I’ve always found those lycra clad, bad taste in shoes, hair ponytail slicked with sweat, iPod donning, brand emblazing, exercise iron man people rather freaky. But with a little encouragement of my friends, and fear of the middle-aged spread I decided to purchase my first pair of running shoes.

So…. My bestie and I, determined to get fit went from store to store, shop to shop, shoe to shoe… it was like Cinderella all over again…. Now you see this ain’t no easy task for two fickle ladies, especially from ladies that are both used to buying sequin heels, or Portuguese leather boots.

And let me tell you they were horrid…. these shoes…. I mean I don’t know who designs them or nothing, but Jesus Christ almighty… I mean the colour scheme…. What were they inspired by? The primary school highlighter collection….??? Every single fluro colour on one shoe….. strange lines, and detailing….

Why can’t you look hot and run? All I wanted was to look hot and run….

I mean already this was a step down from the hipster, bohemian queen identity I had going on…. But this selection? Atrocious.

Somehow I settled on a shoe that looked the best out of all of them, but honey, let me tell you, that ain’t saying much. There still ugly as all hell, fluro pink, lime and leopard skin.

I hate to say it, but these running shoes are way more comfortable than my Portuguese leather handcrafted shoes and way more comfortable than my Italian red wedges. Hmm goddamn! I  understand why people wear them now, wear them casually, wear them when they’re not even running around, wear them to the local café, sipping on skinny lattes. I dunno maybe just wearing them makes you fitter you know, some kinda positive reinforcement manifestation.

In fact, I’m wearing them right now and I’m not even jogging… and as fugly as they are, they feel great, they caress my feet like a knowing lover, I feel fit just sitting here, typing like a mad woman, and burning calories like nobodies business. I get it. Maybe this is it……maybe this is the future.

Dirty Thirties

Welcome to your dirty thirties- Your skin starts sagging a bit. You start looking your age. No more ID checks, unless you’re queuing up for a gold coast club on a Saturday night, searching for paradise. Those cigarettes actually show up on your skin. You get bags under your eyes if you drink coffee and have a bad night sleep. Hairs start growing in peculiar places. You friends that had jumped the gun in there twenties are all getting divorced and now dating millennials. Your friend’s kids are starting to hit puberty. Everyone you know around is breeding and playing house. Your friend’s friends are buying their second investment property, planning their second baby. And you are still 19 at heart living with your folks, smoking dope and trying to start your life afresh for the 100th time this year.

 

“Quit it tiger, you need to make your body clean so you can make good babies”

“Aren’t you to old for that now???”

“Your over the hill, should have had babies in your twenties, your much to old and fussy now”

“Your still so young, you can have babies at 40 now, and that’s fine”

 

All these unwarranted and conflicting opinions, these rants and raves about what people think I should do and when I should do it.

I was told I was over the hill the other day. I’m 32 years old. But I guess in some cultures that is a spinster age if you haven’t found “Mister Right”, or “Mister You’ll Do For Now”. All my Sisters friends have ended up worth Aussie Bogans. Part gentleman, part golf, part beer coaster. I wonder if it’s because of the diminishing selection of eligible bachelors in there 30’s and early 40’s. Or is that Mamas and Papas are bringing up uncouth, ill-mannered, sloppy men, and part bogan is better than full bogan so you settle, pettle.

Or is it this country.

I don’t get approached by men anymore, although to be honest I never really have, unless they’re drunk, desperate, ancient or stupid.

My Sisters tell me I’m attractive, my Mama tells me I’m special, my Papa says I’m alright, but men don’t say shit.

My Brazilian friend tells me to go to Latin America. She tells me it’s different there. My other bestie, who is now divorced from a Latin man, tells me to stay the hell away from there.

I was discussing this last year when I was told the problem is….I’m too attractive… which makes me intimidating, therefore unapproachable. Right…..

Or is that maybe as we get older, we have higher standards, are more stuck in our ways, have more barriers up, less reluctant to dive in deep and let it all go for love like we did in our free wheeling 20’s.

Last week I put up a sign on my community notice board.

 

SEARCHING FOR A HUSBAND

-MUST CLEAN- COOK- SAIL- GIVE GOOD ORGASMS-

I’m still waiting for a response…..

I used to be a sponge. My first few boyfriends had it relatively easy… I would shapeshift for them, chameleon into what was needed, desired…. But now. What? Can I no longer chameleon for love. Or is easier to live a single and sometimes lonesome life rather than cash it all in on some kind of crazy, forget me not guaranteed love….

Disney really fucked me up. I blame Disney 100 % on all my false hopes, fantasy rides and semi unrealistic dreams. From a young baby, I was brainwashed to think prince charming was going to come riding up on his donkey to take me away to a palace someplace… but I’m still waiting, and no donkey in sight…

But Disney and Bogans aside…. On a positive note….

Since I’ve turned 30…..

I have started living more of my truth, becoming more in my power, saying no to things that no longer serve me. Owning my worth and dancing like no ones watching. I’m more assertive, more focused and more alert. No longer do I have the endless soul-searching of youth, the “Who am I?, Why am I? Questions. I just am.

And although I sleep alone at night, am childless, ticking like a time bomb, with black rings under my eyes, I am happy and getting better at life one tiny step at a time.