Pope-a-palooza

The pilgrims. They came. They saw. They judged.

Or was that just me?

It’s World Youth Day at the moment and this place is literally drowning in the faithful and righteous. Which I don’t have a religious/ ideological problem with, more a logistical one in that they are seriously effing up my transport schedule.

And let’s not even start on the whole matching backpack/ group sing-a-long thing.  Not that I’m averse to a little communal chorusing, but the koombi-yas should be kept to the campfire, not central station.

From what I can tell most of the kids here seem relatively harmless, having fun, feeling the faith and all that pope-y goodness. But as is the case with all groups, there’s always one or two bad eggs that un/consciously leave you feeling like you could happily beat them over the head with their own tambourines.

If you were to read into a few of the ‘looks’ I’ve witnessed lately it would seem the people I know are literally walking around with big neon signs saying ‘sinner’. While i’d like to think we’re fairly immune to innuendo, there’s only so many times strangers can stress ‘god bless you’ without starting to consider your descent into hell a mere formality.

But I guess I can’t be too hard on them seeing as I was the only one in the train carriage last night smelling of cheap wine and cigarettes.

Music Critique 101

Did I miss the part where everybody graduated from Music Critique 101 and became song dictators?

Nowadays when someone asks me ‘So, what music do you listen to?’ I’m expected to break into a cold sweat in my attempts to meet their standards of musical superiority. Apparently this is no longer just a simple question, oh no, how I answer will now determine my level of social acceptability (because there’s an ambition, getting the approval of every lame kid who likes to think he’s a rock star).

Even if I decided this was my life calling, to be declared the Girl with the Best Record Collection, exactly how would I decide who’s opinions actually count? Trying to find two people with the exact same taste in music is like drinking cask wine and trying to convince yourself it’s a nice sav blanc – pointless and ultimately unsatisfying.

Perhaps I missed the memo that declared similarity in music taste as an essential element of friendship and compatibility. I get that you might want people to meet basic prerequisites – nice to old ladies, doesn’t kick puppies, understanding of personal hygiene etc. but I hardly think my ignorance of obscure folk songs should rule me out of any potential friendships.

Sure it’s always a bonus to have a friend who supports your particular brand of concert crazy. Pity poor fools like my brother who has to see bands with his big sister because his friends aren’t into the same styles of music as we are. That said, I’m hardly going to ditch my best friend because her particular blend of blues and roots wouldn’t make my Top 20.

Ah, if only I could bring back the good old days when no one knew or cared what CD you had on high rotation. Sitting in mum and dad’s car listening to classic fm on the radio, blissfully butchering the sounds of Mr Big with my tuneless vocals. Hold on little girl, show me what he’s done to you…

not-so sick note

Ok seriously, if I have to listen to one more reality TV testimonial from an overweight, unhealthy nobody bleating about their high risk of diabetes I might just have a nosebleed. Do you really expect any sympathy from me, considering the fact that for you, avoiding diabetes is a CHOICE? And p.s. changing your lifestyle and diet may seem like a big deal, but it sure as hell beats four injections a day.

Aaagh. Bitter much?

I’ve been an insulin dependent diabetic since I was a ‘wee lass’. And no, unlike the stereotype, I am not middle aged, grossly overweight and inherently lazy (ok maybe just a little), nor have I been enjoying a diet of cream buns and coke for the past two decades.

Surprisingly enough, at various times in my life the fact I’m a diabetic has even brought some unexpected perks. Not to mention automatic dibs on playing Stacey in  backyard versions of The Babysitters Club.  She may have been stuck with the disease but the girl had it all – New York background, ‘dreamy’ boyfriend, goods looks and nowhere near as annoying as do-gooder Kristy. Come to think of it, I think I’m still subconsciously trying to steal her life.

I’m not saying I’m some sort of martyr. Having a hyperglycaemic seizure after one too many Smirnoff blacks on New Years Eve probably ruins any chance I have of being the poster child for health and wellbeing.

In hindsight I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard whose job it was to teach me sports in high school. Out of 2 years of phys ed I think I managed to avoid all but a grand total of 3 classes. Blast those high blood sugar levels/ low blood sugar levels/ any random illness/ailment that in someway (however thinly) related to diabetes. ‘I’m really sorry sir, I really want to participate, it’s just this damn disease…’

My heart is beating, you make me nervous

Someone asked me the other day to describe my ‘type’ and to be honest it was harder to answer than I first thought. Obviously there are characteristics/ looks that I find more attractive than others, but I would like to think my abject superficiality is not so far gone that I would be/ not be interested in someone purely based on what they look like*.

But fear not, this is not some rant about our looks-based society (I am far too vain and narcissistic to jump on board that bandwagon without drowning in hypocritical guilt), simply a way for me to try and sift through my mind vomit and try and define what it is I look for in a plus one.

Which is not to say these criteria would have any sway on my romantic interactions whatsoever. In a perfect world I would be able to cut a swathe through the eligible men of Sydney and pick and choose according to my latest whim or fancy, where in truth I’d be more likely to settle for someone that fits just two criteria a. single and b. wants me back. But let’s not get sidetracked by my old friends self-doubt and desperation.

Side Note: I actually started drafting this post some time ago. But once I got halfway through I realised I wasn’t quite sure where I wanted it to go (do you like how I’ve tried to infer that my other posts have/ will have an actual point?). Well, either that or the fact that this thread of thought required me to sift through lives/loves past – a depressing avenue I’m afraid. But I shall power on regardless, albeit on a slightly different note.

I guess the only real consistency I have seen in this frolic through ex town is the fact that I have terrible taste. Not that the guys I crush on are horrible (well most aren’t anyway) but rather that they are horribly inappropriate. Best friend? Tick. Friends ex? Tick. Too young? Tick. Too old? Tick. My twin? Tick. My polar opposite? Tick. Has a girlfriend? Tick. Would rather a boyfriend? Tick.

Honestly, I have no idea why my love life hasn’t been a stellar success. I suppose I could always just enter a nunnery. Or simply stick my head in the oven. But on a positive note, perhaps this is merely as a sign that I should admit defeat, embrace some new age rubbish and start to ‘love myself’ instead.

Fuck it. I love the drama.

*Disclaimer: If you are a guy in your mid – late 20’s, have dark hair, a great sense of humour, embrace your inner geek and look like you got lost on your way to band practice (the guitar laden, not cello toting kind) I could be convinced to renounce this entire post. Just so you know.

I would if I could: the life of the creatively challenged

Am I the only one who suffers an inverse relationship between their talent for, and interest in, being creative? I love to draw, unfortunately am better suited to crayon scribbles on butchers paper than oils on canvas. I love music, and yet my singing could make even the ears of a deaf man bleed. I love acting, but lack the looks of a lead actress and the talent of a character actress. Sigh.

Perhaps in a past life I was much more artistically inclined. Alas in this one all I have is words, and perhaps even that is a stretch seeing as my audience is more than likely restricted to friends and family. Well, it would be if I ever actually told them about my tragic vanity project of course.

The sad thing is I don’t even wish to be the next literary genius, or even the next Nora Roberts. And yes, the name check is a shady admission that I have read one of her books. Perhaps even more than one. What can I say? Sometimes I feel the need to embrace my inner romantic.

The truth is I don’t have any desire to change the world. Perhaps not even to change one person’s world. Is it any less of an ambition to want someone reading my scribbles to simply nod their head in agreement, let loose a girlish giggle, or if I was to aim so high, laugh so hard they end up snorting milk (or in the case of my likely target audience, paint stripper masquerading as cheap booze) out their nose?

I like to think not.

Who knew boobs & brains were mutually exclusive?

And in today’s lesson, we will be looking at one of things you should NOT do if you wish to avoid a kick in the head. Pet hate numero uno – condescending wankers that insist on speaking down to me, rather than to me.

Now I’m not going to sit here and list my academic scores, IQ or trivial pursuit skills in an attempt to prove some sort of intellectual superiority. I’m not Miss Einstein, but I’m no airhead either. Yes, I work in PR. No, I don’t spend my work hours swilling champagne and spitting out lies to the tabloids [here’s looking at you, Samantha Jones and Stephen Fry]. I went to uni, I have a degree, I work hard and I’m no idiot. Guaranteed to make smart choices? Not always. Somewhat naïve and superficial? Maybe a little.

But nothing irritates me more than when I talk to people who automatically assume that because I’m young, female and work in this industry I could not possibly comprehend anything beyond clothes and caviar. Corporate and financial issues? Please sir, how could a widdle girl like me possibly follow? I need a big, strong man to hold my hand and talk me through those 2+ syllable words….