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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The Moment I Realised I’m a Grown-Up

I struggle with the idea that I turned 35 yesterday.  After 35, doesn’t your skin start to wrinkle & pucker like you’ve been hoovering smack with Keith Richards for 20 years?   Doesn’t your bladder shrink to the size of Kiera Knightley’s left arse-cheek (very small indeed!)?   Don’t your boobs start resembling this?

Ok sure… that’s actually a man.  Whatever.

Even as a 10 year old, I felt like a grown-up. Always responsible, always sensible. Surrounded by adults, I felt like one.   The weird thing is, I AM a grown-up now.  I’m married.  I own a house.  I pay my bills.  I have a responsible job.  I remember to buy birthday presents for my in-laws.  But I don’t FEEL like a grown-up.

For one, I love to get hammered. Not in a ‘throwing-up-through-my-fingers-and-then-continuing-to-pash-that-hottie’ kinda way, more in a ‘gosh-this-bottle-of-verdelho-is-lovely-and-hey-I-can’t-feel-my-fingertips’ kinda way.  

Number 2, I say fuck… a lot.

Number 3, I still want Christina Ricci’s haircut NOT Jennifer Aniston’s.

Number 4, Cold War Kids & Santogold are the shit.  Paul Potts and Andre Rieue (whatever) are not.

Number 5, if you offer me a little something-something I’m saying yes please.

So what?  Am I regressing because I’m scared of getting old?  Hell no!  My mum’s 51 and she’s a child too.  We ARE grown-ups.  I think we are just gals about town with a sense of fun and adventure. 

So when did I realise it?  I’m sure it was something painfully mundane, like the first time I suggested dinner with my parents on a Saturday night, somewhere expensive, just because… oh and I didn’t expect them to pay.