Manboob Monday #17: Chicks Dig Hard Ones

Today I quote from a fellow blogger.

There are three kinds of man boobs. The first type: Hard.
Hard man boobs are the kind that you would have if you
worked out regularly. Hard man boobs are good. Chicks
dig them. The second type: Semi-hard. Semi-hard man
boobs are also good. Most chicks dig them. These are
found on dudes that work out on occasion or used to be
athletic or at least in decent shape at one point. The third
kind: Flabby. Flabby man boobs are not good at all,
unless you are a pro golfer. Chicks do not dig flabby man
boobs unless you happen to have Phil Mickelson money.
These are found on the type of dudes that were never
athletic in their lives. These dudes don’t even watch sports.

Mmmm.  Yes.  You’ve really nailed it there.  Sheer genius my good man.

Didn’t think I’d leave you completely boob-free did you?  This week, a little touchy-feely.  Aw shucks!

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

It’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.

4.04am.

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Fearless in Frisco (like Sleepless in Seattle, geddit?)

Some people are just fearless.  I’m not suggesting they don’t feel the fear but maybe they don’t feel it as much as the rest of us.  Or maybe they just don’t give a flying fuck.  One of my friends just quit her job so she could start a magazine.  Just like that.  She has no other magic job to go to that will pay the bills.  And yes, she has a mortgage.  And a fondness for nice shoes.  I’m in awe.

I’m completely and utterly bound by fear of poverty.  I couldn’t quit my job in the hope of future success.  I need to know where my next paycheck is coming from.  Frankly, my credit card bill and my mortgage would bury me otherwise.  Is there some secret knowledge I’m missing out on that allows other people to do this sort of thing?  Yeah, no credit card debt.  And no car loan maybe?  I don’t know.  It’s not fear of failure that paralyses me, it’s fear of having to struggle to pay the bills.  I hate money really.  I have zero interest in it.  What I do like, is not having to think about it ever. I’m terrified at the idea of returning to the days when it’s a constant struggle.

Are they all excuses for doing nothing?  Is it actually just my nature to be fearful?

I can’t even commit to putting my real name on this blog for fear of being found out by potential employers.  I’m not quite sure what it is they might find out but goddamit whatever it is, it must remain a secret!  They might not hire me and pay me a nice salary if they knew.  And we can’t have that can we?  (Again, I will remind you that I actually don’t have anything to hide.  Except perhaps a love of margaritas, expensive handbags and saying “fuck” a lot).

Is it time to face up to myself and follow suit?

Aarrgh!  All hail Saffy cos she’s the bravest person I’ve ever met.

What’s Your Bliss?

If you haven’t had a look at Rainn Wilson’s Soul Pancake website, do it now!  Well, later actually… after you’ve finished reading mine 🙂  

(Rainn Wilson, if you aren’t sure, is a comedian – mostly famous for his role as Dwight in the US version of The Office but also as Arthur, the creepy undertaker in Six Feet Under).  

On his website, Rainn asked the question, what five things are your bliss?  And it got me thinking, what is my bliss?  Where and when are my perfect moments of contentment and joy?  Sure it’s cheesy but from time to time, it’s a good thing to remind yourself of.

With no further ado, here is my list (in no particular order):

• Sitting in the passenger seat on a warm sunny day with the windows down, driving aimlessly, and singing so loudly my eardrums hurt 
• Going to bed early and lying there with my husband talking about everything and nothing
• Lying face up in the sea where sound is muffled, the sun is warm and the water cool… being softly bumped about by the waves 
• Crafting the perfect sentence, just the right words, just the right tone 
• Laughing so hard with my sister that my ears distort, my jaw aches and I pee my pants ever so slightly

So… what’s yours?

Laziness is a curse

I’ve always wanted to be ‘talented’. I don’t need to a wunderkind… but I’d just like to be great at something… and to be passionate and driven. Sadly, I’m not. I’m above average at most everything but great at nothing. It’s a terrible burden to bear…

Last night I saw the film Rachel Getting Married – the one Anne “more boring than a vanilla Vienetta” Hathaway got an Oscar nod for.  It’s a film about family and the inherent disfunction – it’s about the truism that family never love us the way we want them to.  I sat through that movie with envy in my heart.

Why envious?   Well, isn’t my family just as fucked up?  Don’t I have a wellspring of angsty fodder buried and waiting for it’s day on the silver screen?  I’m pretty good with those word-type things… is it too much to ask for a little ambition and drive too?

And yet, I sit at the goddam computer with a blank page staring at me… I’ll get maybe a page – at the most.. what about the other 119 pages?  Where are they?

According to Angela “I’m such a great writer I have a fun club” Booth (oh for christs sake), the writers curse is perfectionism.  Is she insane?  Perfectionism?  I don’t need it to be perfect, I just want to start the damn thing and maybe finish it too!

Maybe I was born with writers block?

Ha.

OK so I researched this idea a little… no, really…  here are some suggestions I’ve tried:

Talk to a monkey
I don’t  exactly know what this means, but I have booked myself for a trip to the zoo (overnight no less – gotta get in as much ‘talking’ time as possible) .  I’ll let you know how that pans out.  Contrary to what you’re thinking right now, I’m not joking.   I paid for $240 buckeroos for this so it better feckin work.

Try Freewriting
Yeah, I tried it.  It’s still just gobbledy gook.  But I did learn that I have a strong interest in pillows, baby seals and lasic surgery.  Hopefully not all at the same time.

Vacuum Your Lungs
After I’d put away the dustbuster (snigger), I tried this out.  It’s an old singing trick.  Exhale completely and then bend over.  Close your throat so you don’t breathe  in any air and stand up again.  Keep holding your breath for as long as you can and then breathe.  I passed out.

Add a Ritual Behaviour
The examples given are, drink from a glass of water every 30 seconds or swallow a mentos at the end of every paragraph.  I tried both. My teeth feel like a baboons arse and I can’t leave the house without locking the front door 17 times.

Basically I’m screwed.