Does Zooey Deschanel fantasise about herself when she can’t sleep?

500full-zooey-deschanelIt’s 3.43am and contrary to my earlier predictions this evening, I’m apparently still wide awake.  I’ve tried all the obvious remedies – warm milk, reading, valium and sweet, sweet dreams of my eternal girl crush Zooey… all to no effect.

This is not a new phenomenon to me.  Usually it succeeds a hatred for my job, distress about a best friend who didn’t live up to promises made, or panic about an ever increasing credit card bill.  This time, I can’t really lay claim to major concerns on any of those fronts.  Life is good (credit card debt notwitstanding).  Work is, you know, ok.  An previously undeveloped friendship has magically worked its way into real connection and I no longer feel the gaping hole of my formerly disappearing BFF.  Husband is funny, charming and keeping the home fires burning (*snigger *).   I’m creatively inspired and excited for what seems to be a promising venture.

Perhaps therein lies the clanger.  Today I inadvertantly did the most mortifyingly embarrassing thing through sheer stupidity.  The sun was out and mother had lent me her convertible for a few days.  What is a girl to do?  Get in the damn thing and drive of course!  I wandered here and there, lapping up the luxury of a warm winters day on my seasonably pale visage (all hail tinted moisturiser!).  As someone who works from home the sun is a foreigner to me.  I’m daily cloistered in a cool garret with a candle melting fat drips of  wax as I toil and a thin worsted blanket loosely covering my shoulders to keep the cold from bruising my bones.  Ok I exaggerate.  It’s a lovely desk with a pretty view of a vast, hulking, deciduous green tree and central heating. And I wear my PJs and slippers to work.  Whatever.  The point is, to spend an hour or two drenching myself in the sun is unusual.  

Notice how long I’ve avoided getting to the actual point?   Yeah well.  I managed to completely and utterly lose track of myself and forgot a 3pm appointment which was really important to me.  To do with aforementioned future creative endeavours.  Till I got a politely innocuous sms at 3.30 reminding me where I was supposed to be.  At that point, I would like to have flayed the golden warmth from my face and arms and return to my cold garret in shame.  I of course was in Manly  so still obscenely far from where I should have been – in Rose Bay.  Mortification complete.  Did I mention I had already postponed this meeting from the previous day so I could frivolously see some ridiculous baby elephant?  Which didn’t eventuate after much waiting around.

So here I sit, vainly (god, please let me be wrong) hoping that this last ditch effort to expunge my embarrassment from my brain by sharing with others in writing will, at last, help me get to sleep.  Writing as therapy and all that.


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Have I Offended You Yet? No? Well, let’s remedy that!

I’ve always held the belief that I’m un-offendable.  Clearly this is patently untrue.  What I mean is, if you tell a dirty joke, or say a rude word, I’m laughin’ mister!  Presuming it’s actually funny of course.  Although anything about boobs, bottoms (both front and back) or poo is really a gimme… the inherent comedy is hard to ignore.

So at Em’s place on Friday night, in what is essentially a room full of loud & crude women, this random guy says, and I quote –

“You girls are great. You just say ‘fuck’ whenever you want. I love it.”

Well, jeez mister.  Thanks!  I feel so liberated.

I fully acknowledge that there are women out there who aren’t so comfortable with ‘curse words’, who don’t like dirty jokes and who don’t have men as ‘mates’.  But for christs sake, are we such a shocking breed?  Are we so rare that it must be commented upon?  For that matter, is it so uncommon that it’s even noticeable???  Really, I would have thought that for anyone below the age of about 45, that sort of language is pretty normal.

I came across this question on a random forum on the interweb

“I had just finished taking my second law school exam this week. A 3 hour exam had just finished and I was packing up my stuff when I heard this 20-something year old woman say to another 20-something, “I thought that test was shi_tty!” I used to hear men talk like this all the time, but it seems that women now use more profanity than the guys. What gives? A generational thing? Some kind of new trend?”

I should add that the questioner was tagged as a ‘senior member’. I guess it’s all so subjective.  In ‘senior member’s mind, the word ‘shitty’ has a lot of power.  Whereas to those girls it was a bland statement of fact, nothing extreme about it.  I’m sure it didn’t even cross their minds that it could be construed as such. Not unlike my experience on Friday night.

A response was later posted to Senior Member which I had to show because well, just read it…

“Because women think that they can do anything that men can do. This is one of the main reasons that men stopped respecting women. Women have the mentality that they are tired of being on the receiving end of everything and therefore are dishing it out as much if not more than men. Can you understand why men don’t treat women like ladies anymore. I am a very traditional woman, and I feel flattered when a man holds a door for me or picks up something that I dropped, etc. Men and women were created with very specific roles and because of their rebellion, women have created nothing but problems for themselves, their families, and their children.”

(a) I’m gonna leave that first sentence alone cause it’s just too easy

(b) I can’t say that I’ve noticed men are less respectful… have you?  In my experience, men, in fact, both men AND women, do these kind acts out of respect, kindness and politeness.  The fact that I curse like a sailor doesn’t seem to have made a difference.  Doors are still being opened, dropped things are still being picked up…

(c) My attitude doesn’t seem to have “created nothing but problems”.  I’m happy… my friends are happy… my family are happy… I have a great job, car, house and things… a wonderful husband and many male friends that I consider to be GREAT mates.

So I’m gonna continue in my childish way and be as crass as the next ham, male or female. Whatever tickles my funnybone. So to that end, here is a video of one of the funniest jokes I have ever heard, as told by Bob Saget… ah yes, Em it’s that one!

WARNING!! if you are easily offended, fuck off because you WON’T find this at all funny… in fact, even if you are not easily offended.. be warned!

Luke Davies is the Shit

So I have this ridiculous habit of forming obsessive crushes on writers, film-makers, singers, musicians etc. And these crushes are not limited to the end product, or the artistic endeavour itself. No, no, it extends to the person actually producing the work. Call it vicarious creativity or something.

Em & I went to a ra-ra Book Reading tonight (god, our smug intellectual middle-class-ness sickens me) – the writer in question, yes you guessed it – Luke Davies. Author of Candy – you know, the one where Heath Ledger played a drug addict. See how superior we are? Not only did we read the book – BEFORE the movie came out – but we actually went to the author’s book reading… hello!

So, Luke Davies. Clearly the man is a good 10 years older than me (I’d like to pretend that I’m guessing here but I’ll be frank, I googled him the second I got home. According to Wikipedia he was born in 1962 in Pymble, NSW and has a brother called Ben. Shall I continue? Perhaps not.). And yet, about a minute in, I lean over to Em and oh so casually whisper “isn’t he charming?”. God love her, she nodded without tearing her adoring eyes off him. Who am I to be jealous, she found him first. And hey, that makes him – roughly(!!) – 19 years older than her so I don’t feel so ridiculous about my sudden passion for an older man.

It started out well. We were in the front row. I didn’t knock over any glasses. I asked a reasonably insightful question during the Q&A which he seemed to enjoy answering. There was plenty of eye contact and I was feeling pretty damn ace. We eventually wandered over to buy a copy of his book and started chatting. Everyone was sort of leaving but the conversation was flowing nicely. Em dropped my name in the conversation and 10 minutes later he referred to me by name… not only had he taken notice but he still remembered it later – egads!!!!! By this point I was crowing, really crowing. Internally of course.

Then my usual self took over. The know-it-all blather commenced. About novels & language in comparison to film & imagery – how the two shouldn’t be compared. A nice enough point if made once. Concisely. But am I capable of that? Of course not. I trip over myself to point out my fucking fountain of knowledge and experience. What knowledge and experience am I referring to? Yes well that is the question isn’t it? Which one of us here has written 3 novels (one of which is a bestseller) and one very successful film script (longer than 7 minutes)? Not me folks, not me. From smug to mortified in 2 easy steps. That’s how it’s done.

Why is Luke Davies the shit? Well, how many people do you know who start a book with:

“FUCKING, AND FLYING, were the best, the most solid, of all the things I did.”

I love that man dammit!