Online dating is for WINNERS. (also, people who dont like being vomited on)

My actual last messages on dating forums…
Try to imagine the chirp of crickets after each one...

I love opera

No, racism isn’t really something that I’m into.

No when I say I’m involved in community I mean I volunteer, not that I am involved in the TV show.

Um, I do identify as a feminist.

Have you tried geocaching?

I didn’t fill in the “kids” question because I think that planning children is more of a first date thing.

Sorry, I don’t collect miniatures (in response to a penis photo)

I’m going to stop you there. Domestic violence jokes aren’t as funny as let’s say, cancer.

Sorry, but your photo of you posing with a gun creeps me out

Sure, here is a photo of me.

 

WHY DO PEOPLE GO ON ONLINE DATING?

Why do I BOTHER? My weird hobbies and high standards, and witty sarcasm are a good thing right?
The reason I have decided to try online dating.

 

Because actual last comments while meeting men in bars…

Please don’t touch me

Please don’t grab me

Get your fucking hands off me

I can’t understand what you are saying

Ewwww, gross (after someone vomited on my feet)

 

So yeah, I’m trying internet dating.

Don’t judge me, it’s not the worst option.

 

How to be an organised woman...

I've got a tendancy to write blog posts in a word doc, and save it to complete later, or forget completely.
I found the following post (written in September 2011 - the month of the antidepressants!) in such a file, and it made me laugh. Hopefully it makes you laugh too.

I got a bunch of books out of the library this week.
All sorts of self-help books. Women in business, Business women. How to not just be a token woman in business. Dealing with business as a women. Taking care of woman business
You get the idea…

Basically I am interested in learning more effective techniques for the day-to-day and to improve my future career.
One of the books I got was about being more organised. The book was pink, so I knew it was actually a “How to be an organised lady” subtext.
I started with it because one of the issues I had was a distinct lack of time to do what I wanted to do as opposed to the stuff I felt like I should do. The book was a horrible disappointment and almost lead to my first panic attack since I started on anti-depressants.
Each chapter had patronising little quotes about how great women are and how useless men are, followed by things that you could do that would streamline your life.
Such as labelling everything that goes into the freezer, cooking multiple meals at a time. Scrubbing the floor while enjoying your favourite TV programme. Having all your herbs and spices in one place, with clearly defined with expiry dates.
Asking your partner to chip in.

WTF???
My partner was already valiantly running the household while I was never there.
I didn’t even know that our spices COULD expire! This was clearly designed for people who had NOTHING to do but couldn’t figure out why nothing was getting done.
It was essentially a chores list for people who have nothing better to do that store pillow cases between books to avoid ironing.
WHO THE FUCK IRONS ANYTHING LET ALONG PILLOW CASES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (That many exclamation marks is a sure sign that my mental illness was winning.)

I was almost homicidal by the second page, but at least I got up early today, too angry to lie in bed enjoying the fact I don’t have to work.

So here is MY advice to streamline your life.
Get your partner to write down their responsibilities, while you do the same on a different page.
Now each go through and tick what you ACTUALLY DO.
Redistribute chores so that ones that are being missed are swapped or negotiated, or split.
If this doesn’t work, or you can’t negotiate an even workload, find a fresh partner, or enjoy the peace of a single life.

If you are single, hire a cleaner and give them the list of most hated jobs and some money – life is too short to iron.

If the garden needs re-digging start a rumour that there is treasure in your garden then throw a party for the local 11 year olds. No one has more energy than a kid on a treasure hunt.

Tell people who sell label machines, tuppaware, and other assorted kitchen crap to fuck off. If you need to store that much food, you are buying too much or eating too little.

People who like to organise things do it because they like it. Don’t feel guilted into having a matchy-match kitchen or office space if the thought of it doesn’t give you a total lady boner. As virtuous as it looks, no one should do it for any reason other than personal satisfaction.

Bakerys are there for a reason. Cupcakes from the supermarket can be put in kitsch cupcake wrappers and sent to school with the kids with a clean conscience.

Schedule the fun stuff, your guilty conscience will ensure the jobs get done, and you will end the day a better person for it.

The most awesome people I know have houses that are a mess, because they are busy doing awesome things in it. Visit other people’s houses or get some cool friends who love your mess as much as they love you.

Staple multiple “magic mops” to your and your partner’s shirts and make love on the kitchen floor. If you are doing it right a vigorous 30 minute cleaning session should leave both you and the tiles glowing.

If your job has you out of town more than the three days a week they promised at the interview, quit and take three weeks off to sleep, eat and tell everyone you love them and you are sorry.

(And I did. And it was AWESOME!) x SN.

I hope this makes you laugh...

This is what happens when I get over excited about an idea.
The words get jumbled in the frenzy of awesome.

enjoy the laugh...

I’m definitely a theatre nurse.

When some-one stabs you with a sharp needle covered in a strangers blood, because they aren’t concentrating, and your response is... Oh, don’t feel bad, these things happen.
You are probably a theatre nurse.

When you walk into a house you are thinking about buying and you automatically check the ceiling…
You are probably a theatre nurse.

When you can talk for hours about topics that don’t involve anything controversial, or go for days without speaking until spoken to…

If it is a choice to brush your hair before work, because no-one will know if you don’t…
You are probably a theatre nurse.

If your nails never grow long enough to bite because of the chemicals you rub on them hundreds of times a day…
You are probably a theatre nurse.

If you can hold around 5 kilos of weight in a strange position for hours at a time…
You are probably a theatre nurse.

If, when your foot starts getting warm and wet, you just assume it has fallen asleep rather than checking if something warm and wet is leaking on it…
You are probably a theatre nurse.

If your idea of funny is body fluids in someone’s shoe…
You are probably a theatre nurse.

All my love to all you OR nurses out there.
Kia Kaha.
x

Want less crack in your flaps?

With all the oil and water, and Phil and John, and Rugby being done, we could all use a wee laugh.
I found this link today and had my first serious laughing out loud alone on the couch moment in forever!
Check this out for a fantastic waste of money.
I could write a feminist analysis of why this is a load of arse, but I cant see for the tears of laughter.
Someone else wanna take this one?

yours in awesomeness!
Scube,

The gift of Scruff.

I went to a shopping mall today to grab some birthday presents and do some chores.
While I was there I passed a stand designed to promote some kind of fancy-pants-hair-straightening-miracle- treatment-thingameebob. As I passed, looking completely disinterested and focused on something else, the two women working the stand went BANNANAS.
It was like a kid seeing candy in the checkout isle.
Like a girl spotting her crush.
Like a rugby fan in 2000 seeing Jonah Lomu.
Like a sceptic seeing a crack in someone’s iridology theory.
If my startled reaction hadn’t been to leap backwards, eyes wide and alarmed looking, I’m pretty sure they would have had me on the seat and being wrangled with the fancy-pants-hair-straightening-miracle- treatment-thingameebob in an instant.
As it was, they kept a bit of distance but began hollering at me (at the same time).
“Oh my god your hair is Amaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazing.”
“you would looooooove this product.”
“The curls are soooooooooooooo awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwsome”
“Do you love to straighten?”
“We can heeeeelp yoooooooooooooooooou.”

I vanished as fast as I could, trying very hard not to laugh.

One of the things I like very much with my curls is that I can deliberately appear homeless. If I don’t put product in it, it takes on a life of its own and develops a protective radius around me which strangers avoid.

I suspect they saw the hair and assumed no one would DELIBERATELY do that to themselves, and assumed they could save me from my ignorance.

Ha, I pity the fools.
The maintainance of hair that can look wayward and terrifying for doing chores, then look fab for tapas with my best friend tonight is ENTIRELY deliberate, and I feel sorry for you, only using your hair for good, not evil.

Embrace your inner anti-social hair, and enjoy the benefits you shall reap.
Shorter queues
Less annoying shop keeper questions.
No small talk (people assume you are having a REALLY bad day, and don’t ask)
People you know pretend they never saw you (see above)
Staff will help you efficiently without silly banter.
Clothing shop staff automatically direct you to the sales racks.

Brilliant. Have fun!

On an associated note, I went to go and put on make-up last night and couldn’t find my mascara or key pieces anywhere.
I found them in my work bag which I haven’t opened since I left almost three weeks ago.
No make-up in three weeks, and I didn’t even notice. I’m going to call it effective minimising of annoying chores while on holiday.

Mum raised a good daughter.

Life is one big scrapbook.

Righto, you may have noticed Ive been missing for a while.
No apologies, no explanation.
I hope you enjoyed the peace while it lasted!

I have had a fair bit of time on my hands recently, due to resigning my job and refusing to do any work until my headspace is better.
So I’ve been cleaning, cooking, catching up with friends, and doing stuff I’ve wanted to do in ages like go to the library, and catch up on organising my photos into scrapbooks.
The man pointed out the other night that there is a sort of irony that scrapbooking is considered a “girly” hobby.
Because “girly girls” are supposed to love pony’s…
And scrapbooking uses a SHITLOAD of glue.

…You do the math.

Just another reason for me to love scrapbooking as far as I’m concerned.

Not a nerd.

I am apparently “not really a nerd”.
I was discussing nerd stuff with a friend the other night and Doctor Who came up.
Doctor Who came up because I proud to self identify as a nerd, and we had been having some awesome discussions about nerd stuff...

Neverwhere vs. any of Terry Pratchett. – Bloody hard call but I gotta go with Terry for the politics.

Firefly – how funny is the fact that people actually started collecting money for Nathan Fillian seriously thinking that he would waste that amount purchasing the rights to a show??
(For those who have wanted to donate, Nathan suggests a good NFP – Perhaps a safe home for puppies against cancer in childen?)

Various nerdy podcasts (including Freakonomics – go get it NOW) and how much we love them.

When Doctor Who came up, I had nothing. As far as I am concerned it may as well be “Doctor Who?”, because the programme scared me as a kid, and bored me as an adult so badly I haven’t even bothered watching the new versions.
So yep, I don’t like Doctor Who.

“You don’t like Dr. Who? - you are sooooo not a nerd.”
“But I like Trek and Babylon 5...”
“Yeah but, jeeez. You really don’t like it?”

I just about had to hand over my coms badge and ray gun there on the spot.*

It made me laugh because for all the other nerdy things I do in my life, disliking one element that she was really passionate about was enough to undermine my identity in her eyes.

I didn’t really care; my nerd status has been pretty much set since WELL before nerd was trendy.
When I was 11 lunch times consisted of time in the library curled up with Stephen King, Terry Pratchett and the Alanna series.
Or when I was 12 and only had one real friend at school and we played chess all lunch time (A massive hug to Grover Boy at this point).
Or when at 13 I realised I was the only one who had already read all of Shakespeare’s comedies and tragedies.
Or at Uni, when I sat and read everything I could find on Fibonacci sequences, because I got interested in the maths behind art.

So yep, I didn’t really care what she thought.

Last week in yet another shitty mood that comes with this season I was sitting thinking about it...
How DARE someone undermine my self-identity?

It is called self identity for a reason, and if I want to call myself a nerd I can. If my particular brand of nerdiness isn’t enough for someone then they can bugger off.
Same goes with anything really.
I know it was just because I was in a bad mood that I cared what someone else thinks, but seriously – I will identify myself how I like, and that identity is flexible and my own choice.



*I don’t actually have a coms badge or ray gun. Or any other uniform. But I have friends who do.

I'm not just a vagina who likes men.

Hi,

My name is Scuba. Danger. Nurse. – yes my middle name is danger. I am THAT awesome!!
I was born with a fully formed vagina.
As a child I self identified as female with occasional yearnings to be a boy, when I realised I couldn’t climb trees that well.
As an adolescent I developed late at around 16, with acceptable female hormone levels and a socially acceptable female mammarys.
I became attracted to men once the hormones kicked in. Previous to that they were there to take me for bike rides and make dinner (dad) or fight (every other boy).
I occasionally feel that being a lesbian would be an acceptable choice for me when I see a petite masculine featured woman, but don’t really feel like the sex stuff with them, which makes it all a bit half hearted really.
I am in a long term, committed relationship with a man, and if the cysts on my ovaries are not an impediment I would like to one day become a mother by means of sexual male-female reproduction.

Are you confused about why I shared all of this?
It all seems a bit freaking pointless really, since it tells you exactly jack about who I actually am.
It tells you nothing about my hopes, dreams, personality, ethics, morals, lifestyle, and sense of humour, strengths or weaknesses (unless you count climbing trees).

So why do people who are Gay/lesbian/bisexual/trans have to explain every facet of their lives?
Why, when someone comes out as Trans, do people feel an explanation is due as to what “level/stage” they are at?
Why do people feel that if someone is not straight, they can quiz someone on when, where, how and what they like as if they should validate what they feel?

People are people, no matter who they love, and what their junk is.
Let people tell you who they are, in their way, on their terms.
Find out the usual way, by leering at strangers in bars, and comparing notes on your favourite films.
Because my vagina and sexuality tell you zilch about which film stars turn me on, and whether I want kids or can have them, or what I want to do with my life.

Judge people by the sum of their parts. Not their parts, or who they bump parts with.
(sorry had to do it!)

how to tell I am grumpy..

I’m tired and cranky at the airport waiting for a flight that is 2 hours late and counting. I hadn’t realised how grumpy I was until I started browsing the internet.
I was looking through one of those "getting to know you" quiz things that go around 16 year olds and bored bloggers.
First of all I am NOT going to do the whole quiz, since I was turned off the idea by the fact one of the questions was –“what are your thoughts on gay marriage”, like that should be in a list of trivial shit like how you take your coffee.

One of the questions made me crack up though... and it wasn’t actually that the question was funny -I’m in such a tired cranky state my immediate response was pretty dark.

Q: (scenario) your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?

A: Race to the hospital. Run into her room and kink off their life support; so she can’t tell the police I cut the brakes!

Bahahahahahahaha!
Yup, definitely time my flight arrived and I get to eat something and get to a safe bed!

Catch 22

I’m not very happy in my job right now, and a lot of that stems from the fact that I have transitioned from being a low level expert to a low level idiot.
This new role uses so little of the skills I am trained in that I am raw potential and fuck all else.
My instinct at the moment is to cut and run. I’m sick of not being great at what I do.
I’m sick of explaining why I’m always a beat behind what is happening because I don’t know enough about the industry to anticipate.
I’m sick of people who are lazier, less motivated and significantly less moral than I being better than me simply because they have rested on their laurels in a role for the last ten years and know it backwards.

I came to the realisation yesterday that my work ethic has screwed me over again.
I want to leave.
I won’t until I can hand over a ship-shape vessel.
So I need to stay long enough to get a firm grip on the role and tie up any loose ends.
Which means by the time I let myself resign, I should be past this phase of idiocy.
Which means I’m stuck.

Crap.

When I grow up...

Before I start, I am very lucky to live in a place that I don’t stress about the rent.
I've worked really hard and have oodles of luck to get to where I am and I own that privilege.
I am a feminist who blogs, and that is only one part of me, so don’t bother telling me to get back to doing my "real" writing, this is me too.
Sorry to start on a negative note, but with the followers come the judgers. Bless 'em.

At present our house needs very little attention. By choice I have a herb “garden” in inside pots and an assortment of year round plants on our wee balcony.
Other than that, our laundry is in a cupboard, and the biggest sink is the kitchen one.
We have about 60cm of bench space and the oven doesn’t get hot enough to bake with (great for slow cooking meat and grilling though).
There is so little kitchen space we just never bothered buying a toaster and we only have one drawer for utensils, so new stuff isn’t really bothered with.
It has taken me a while to settle in to appartment living, but it fits our lifestyle perfectly.
I am often away for work a couple of days a week, my partner works Mon-weds out of our home city and we like to go away for when we can.

When we go away we literally just walk out.
When we come back we walk back in with fresh milk and bread.
It’s so EASY.
But every now and again I wish I could do some baking.
Or make toast without having to keep an eagle eye out to stop the stove burning it.
Or just have some silly frivolous kitchen item.

So here it comes; a moment of nesting lust.
If I were a grown up, with a “real” house....

We would be able to throw dinner parties, and be seated at a dining table.
Because we would A) have a dining room and B) own a table!



We could make toast without keeping an eye on it – because we would have a toaster.
Preferably a sexy one like this...



With an oven that works, I could bake and make kitsch cupcakes and personalised cookies.



I could have cute little oven mitts – like these ones which appealed to my orthopaedic passions.



And with cupboards that have more than 4 shelves I could own more than the cheapo flat grater.
This wee mouse doubles as a AWWWWW moment as well as a grater.




But the reality is that until I am literally pinned down by the weight of a foetus and can no longer leave the house, this is what the dream kitchen/house would look like.



So I think I will stick with our small yet perfectly formed apartment with my art crammed on the walls and not enough storage area.
I use everything here. No waste.

And after all, the bedroom is great ;)

News flash! - Astrology still arse.

About a week ago I read in the newspaper that astronomers from the Minnesota Planetarium Society had shocked the world, claiming the Zodiac signs were incorrect and that everyone was actually a different sign.
My first instinct was “huh, I never thought anyone actually looked at those things for long enough to notice if they were off”.
Most people who call themselves thinkers/ sceptics were leaping in the air going “Ha ha! I KNEW it was all bollix and you can’t tell your Scorpio from your Libra.”
I was a bit sad.
I looked into astrology in my 'meaning seeking' days and wrote it off. Now I have to waste yet more time reading up on things to figure out whether, with new info this shite makes sense?
Then I thought, hold on a minute.
13 constellations...
That isn’t new – this is Sidereal astrology.
Ancient Babylonians developed the Zodiac signs with originally 13 constellations. But because of their desire for 12, Ophiuchus was eliminated. It is still unknown which twelve there were. Libra didn’t even enter the picture until Caesarian Rome was established.
And the changes are due to the "precession of the equinoxe” and that isn’t news either...

So it isn’t new, and it doesn’t really change the fact that people are making money telling people their supposed futures based on a pattern of stars so far away, that at the time of fortune telling they may not even exist anymore!

The 'new' signs and dates are as follows


Capricorn: Jan. 20 – Feb. 16
Aquarius: Feb. 16 – March 11
Pisces: March 11- April 18
Aries: April 18- May 13
Taurus: May 13- June 21
Gemini: June 21- July 20
Cancer: July 20- Aug. 10
Leo: Aug. 10- Sept. 16
Virgo: Sept. 16- Oct. 30
Libra: Oct. 30- Nov. 23
Scorpio: Nov. 23- Nov. 29
Ophiuchus: Nov. 29- Dec. 17
Sagittarius: Dec. 17- Jan. 20

And this will make you laugh...

Holiday Mathis, who writes The Sun's astrology feature quoted in 2004 on the topic:
“Whether the western astrological zodiac matches up with the stars or not "is a moot point," she said. "The archetypes are only as meaningful as we attribute meaning to them. If they do not resonate inside of a person, then astrology is not for that person."
So basically the same laws as God – if it isnt working for you, it's because your belief isnt strong enough. urgh.

Astrologer John Cainer said “There is no need for people to adjust their star signs or for a 13th star sign to be introduced. It’s just nonsense.”
Sir, I would argue with that, I would say “there is no need for yet another belief system for people to hinge decision making on, without using their own brains. The whole thing is nonsense – full stop.”

And in breaking news – India has deemed Astrology a science.

Excuse me while I go and perform some repetition therapy with my head and the table.

letters from a Fan Girl.

Sometimes the comments section just doesnt cover what needs to be written...
I received a couple of comments on my horribly shallow, flippant, and terribly thought out post about a stupid twitter feed called "thingswomendontdoanymore."
here is my replies as a blog post, just because it looked messy with all the links in the comment section.

Gen said...
Feminism is completely outdated and unneeded anymore. I am strong enough to laugh at the comments about women making sandwiches. I have more education then my husband, but I am the homemaker BY CHOICE. If these comments hurt your little feelings then it is your problem not the person who wrote them. Have a nice life always getting your feelings hurt.
January 20, 2011 1:04 PM

Scuba Nurse said...
Thanks for your comment Gen, I hope you appreciate the CHOICE you so pointedly mentioned. You have it because of feminism, and just Because YOU have freedom and choice doesn't mean everyone does. Push off the boat ladies, Gen's aboard!!
I find it interesting that you are so keen to judge my frustration on some really horrific comments because you are a stay at home mum. Where in that did I slag of those who are happy to do work at home?
Thanks for judging me though, and I will take you point on board not to get annoyed by the ignorant.
Oops, too late.
January 21, 2011 10:03 AM

Gen said...
I said that feminism is no longer needed, not that it was never needed. We did need the feminists to help us get equal pay and equal rights. I am very grateful for the hard and difficult work women did to give me what I have today.
I feel that in today's world feminism has turn to whining about insults and no longer helps women. If women want to be equal with men we have to put up with the same shit that they deal out to each other. It is pure arrogance to expect someone to "respect my feelings" just because I don't have tackle swinging between my legs. Let them make jokes about women, we have just as many about them. You don't hear the men whining about how unfair it is when we make references to them being dumb and unrefined. People will always make jokes about someone different, it is human nature, some people just need to develop their sense of humor.
How can you be horrified about some ass making a joke about women in the kitchen. If you need to be horrified about something it should be the female circumcision the some poor 5 year old is going through right this second. Maybe you should write a blog about that.
January 22, 2011 4:17 AM

Just to clarify your point that wining and insults no longer help women... Whining and insults never helped women, or indeed anyone.
Discussion and action on the issues makes a difference. I work helping people both in my ‘real’ job and my volunteer role. So I sincerely hope that my actions back up my ‘whining’.
Can you please explain exactly where in this blog post I get upset about people in the kitchen... where is this constant comment coming from?
Nowhere in there is there ANY comment from me about being in the kitchen.
There IS a comment from someone else; I just thought it was rather funny.
Sorry if you didn’t.
Someone recently told me to ‘be strong enough to laugh’, if that advice helps.

With response to your suggestion on what to write about, thanks, it is a good idea.
I try to only write about what I know, from breast cancer, to miscarriage and stillbirth, to sexual assault prevention.
If that strikes you as offensivly kiwi-focused please take a look at my blog about my support of the campaign to save Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani from death by stoning and execution

I have got a half written piece on female circumcision however I wrote it because of a woman I worked with, rather than my own experience, so has remained on the back burner for fear of being judgemental of a culture I’ve never been a part of.
So easy to do online.

why do editors print these empty faff letters?

Oh good grief.
I was sitting in an airport with no inclination to continue working (since I left home at 6am today), feeling a little bored when I stumbled across this gem.
This has made my DAY!

Check this out, have a good laugh, grab a cup of tea, and come back and read this.

Firstly, this whole thing seems to be a big dirty mark on the name of Professor Christopher Saunders (not actually given his dues in this particular letter.)
He wrote the paper "Introduction in Research in English Literary History," and set down the three tests to be used on historical writing in 1952.
A professor of military history and what seems to be a highly methodical writer with a strong attention to detail, I sincerely hope he is devoutly Christian, and kind enough to ignore these idiots using the basics of his concepts and twisting them to suit their beliefs.

I just want to quickly clarify his process and how badly Ms. Michele Silvernail has missed the point.

The Internal test: In reality the internal test for a manuscript is not as simple as having a nice family tree at the front, or characters clearly defined and linked – if that were the case most of the fantasy genre books with their convoluted Elven royal families would also be “real”.
The external test: Shouldn’t there be a good solid chain of proper evidence to support events in the bible? I appreciate that there are plenty of relics scattered across this earth, but the number of double ups, would suggest that their origins may be questionable. If we take the word of those in the church (e.g. his stated archaeologist Nelson Gluck is Jewish...) then we may as well take the word of those who have been “beamed up” that aliens are real.
The bibliographic test: Is a joke. In actuality we need to trace the manuscript back to the original in an unbroken chain. We find out how many copies of the manuscript there are, and establish how closely the copies agree. Finally - do we have any of the manuscript in the handwriting of the purported author?
Well, there is no author properly identified, we don’t even know who wrote the gospels (it’s only according to Matthew, Mark, John, and Luke.), and to top it off we have a THREE HUNDRED year gap between the first entire gospel and the time at which it was supposed to have been written – even shit like twilight didn’t take that long to get a reprint!

Urgh, It’s not even worth arguing it is so silly.
But I felt like killing time at the airport... and meaningless phrases like her quoted Ephesians 2:8
“it is by grace you have been saved, through faith.” Really piss me off.
I much prefer Einstein’s quote
"The further the spiritual evolution of mankind advances, the more certain it seems to me that the path to genuine religiosity does not lie through the fear of life, and the fear of death, and blind faith, but through striving after rational knowledge."

Fuck; Im Not a tomboy?

I’m sitting here with bright red nails, in a house that has a sewing machine, craft cupboard, and inordinate amount of women’s hats.
I’m quite a ‘feminine’ woman most of the time.
I also have hiking boots, a white water helmet and a bunch of rad-ass science nerd bits and pieces.
As an aside, I also have a kick ass bone collection, but that’s just seen as a bit odd, rather than traditionally gendered one way or the other.

Most of my childhood was spent thinking I was a tomboy.
I must have been; I never wore pink. I didn’t wear dresses.
I didn’t play with dolls, I liked to build things and climb trees.
So I must have been a tomboy.
Right?

When I was about 11 I said to a friend “well, you know; I’m such a Tom-boy.”
“No you aren’t! You like girl stuff.”
“Wha...???”
The thing was, at her place I painted my nails, and tried lipstick, and played dress –ups in actual dresses. I LOVED her Barbie collection and stayed pretty clean, because they didn’t have a yard.

Was I pretending to be a girly-girl to fit in?

As a confident kid, I wasn’t the type to pretend to be something I wasn’t.
The simple fact was that there were no pink, or dresses, or dolls, or girly crap at my house.
The option simply wasn’t there.
My wonderful mother decided when her baby was a little girl that I would decide who I was, and how gendered I was, in whatever direction I would choose, when I was ready. However she didn’t really provide balance, since I guess she figured the world provided it for her.

Mums third child was another girl, and by then she had relaxed the rules a bit.
While I had a pirate party and a lords and ladies party, and loved them both I would have KILLED for a fairy party.
On the eve of my little sister’s 4th birthday mum sat up until the wee hours sewing a gorgeous little fairy costume for her fairy party.
In the morning there was much excitement over the cute tutu based dress with a glitter heart on the front.
My sister took one look at the dress and burst into tears.
Hell NO - she was not going to wear that thing!!!
Once Mum realised that my sister wasn’t going to wear the dress, I think she was close to joining her on the floor in floods.
All that work for nothing!
The party went without a hitch with the birthday girl dressed in her usual shorts and t shirt. I was a bit too old for a fairy party but sucked up as much pink, and glitter, and fairy-ness as my 10 year old self could do.
After the party I snuck into my sister’s room and tried desperately to squeeze into the dress.
At 6 years age difference there was not a chance, but I think we figured out who the tom-boy is!!!

So I spent a large portion of my developmental life identifying as something I wasn’t simply because my mother set me up that way...

Do Mothers realise how much power they have?
I assumed that Mum didn’t, but at Christmas this year she told a story...

Apparently when she was a child she and her brother were told that they didn’t like cake.
Not that they weren’t allowed it – of course if they wanted it they could have it – but they didn’t like it.
So there would be some sandwiches and cakes at church tea and Mum would be told what the sandwiches were, and reminded (so she didn’t have to suffer) that the other option was cake – But she didn’t like cake. It took until she was about 11 until she realised that she did in-fact like cake, as did her brother.
What the fuck?

How many quality years of gorging on cake did she miss out on? I should report the woman to cyfs.

So in conclusion, Mum knew damn well what she was doing. All you other Mums out there - enjoy pulling the wool over your kids eyes for now, because around about age 11 they are going to start realising what they really do and don’t like, and choosing for themselves.



Also... a BIG round of applause to my lovely mother who allowed all three of us kids to decide who we were in our own time. We tried all sorts and eventually settled into our own skins.
Thanks to her we are all supremely comfortable with who we are since it was a self controlled process.
Our lives were ours to build and she was ‘just’ there to support the process.
Thanks Mum.

The article I wish could have been in cleo/cosmo/dolly etc when I was 17.

“Be the best he’s ever had”
“Ten tricks to make him want you forever”
“20 things men wish you knew about sex”
“Give him the sex he craves”
“Just do this on date one”
“Be cocksure” (I couldn’t make this up if I tried! - Nov 04 edition of Cosmo.)

Good grief ladies! What the hell must you be thinking?
Whereas in the real world we get asked to pull our heads out of our own asses in order to realise what is going on around us, it seems that in the “women’s interest” media we need to pull our head out of our partner’s ass in order to realise what is going on.

Come on out, it’s ok. Come on... You aren’t going to find anything useful up there; you may as well come out and learn something.

There is one simple fact of importance here, and that is that no one’s life should revolve around pleasing someone else 24/7, and after 124 years of publications (albeit not all of those were as focused on sex) Cosmo *still* seems to have missed the point.

If you want to please someone else, make yourself happy first.

So let’s try a new title line
“If you want to impress them in bed – start by impressing yourself.”

As an unhappy, unfulfilled person walking through this life, any good you do others will stink of martyrdom if you overlook your own fulfilment and joy.
No one wants a hospice nurse who looks like they wish they were dead, no one wants a home care helper who can’t crack a smile, and no one wants a childcare worker who doesn’t enjoy children’s company.

And no one wants a martyr in bed!

It doesn’t matter how many mags we read with info on how to please someone else. It doesn’t matter how perfect our technique is. No matter how experienced or inexperienced, or how firm or wobbly we are, no one wants sex to be just about them.
If it is only going to be about one person you may as well just masturbate. You get exactly what you want when you want it. You save on the effort of dating and don’t have to deal with messy things like feelings and personalities.

But sex isn’t like that. It’s about testing boundaries, as well as enjoying the same old stuff.
It’s about feeling someone else enjoy your body, and knowing they love seeing you having fun.
It’s NOT 60 positions in 60 minutes, and impressing other people whether you like it or not.

So for goodness sakes slow down.

Wait to have your first time with someone else, until you have had your first time with yourself.
Guys are perfectly open about masturbation and they seem to be quite comfortable with letting people know what they need, want, and like, in bed.
Women don’t really talk about it, and can sometimes remain a mystery and that in itself is an enigma. It doesn’t help us, and it sure doesn’t help our partners.
The only time keeping what you want and need a secret is going to work out well is if you are in a lesbian relationship with someone with the EXACT same tastes and needs as you.
Good luck finding that!

So figure out what you like, how you like it, and what works for you, without even involving another person.
That way when you do get around to letting someone else into your sphere of sexual experience, they don’t have to play guessing games that are set up for them to lose.

Have fun, and remember; if you are enjoying yourself... chances are your partner is too.

Part one in my series on Community theatre - THE TEAM

THE THEATRE TEAM.

There are Five distinct groups of people backstage.

The Performers:
These can be identified by several distinct markings.
They are light of frame, nocturnal of nature, strong in grandiose gestures, and like most in the animal kingdom, the male is gaudier in decoration. They are the focal point of each theatre, yet most are unaware of how their surrounds actually work.
They form strong attachments on immediate contact yet will forget people’s names within 5 minutes of leaving them. Consistency is important in their support crew as they are prone to panic and flap at the slightest changes.

There are four categories; Singer –dancers, singer-actors, actor dancers, and actors with no other talent. The latter is the most rare as their careers are often culled in infancy.

The Directors/choreographers / production team:
Like most predators these species are designed for stealth, they speak in hushed voices in the corridors, using cunning to catch their prey and ensnare them in the production. They use the power of words and reputation to lure a team of unsuspecting artists into their trap. The stalk the wings, glaring at any who dare slight the production or hinder its course. It is not until a team is in the trap that they raise their voices and begin to take charge.

The Technical team:
The grubby underbelly of the theatre. They wear all black and fight to camouflage with the surrounds.
They are the working class of the theatre, arriving hours before the show, and the last to lock up.
If you want to know where something is, how something works, or when things are happening, find someone in full blacks.
If you need something – anything; they can find it, make it, or steal it for you.
If they feel like it.

“The artists” Hair and makeup:
Often flamboyant and even more often out of their depth; these staff are often brought in from other areas such as film and television, or hair and makeup study centres.
Like beautiful trained pets; they are willing to please and keen to try anything, they are the talent of the tech team, but need reassurance and clear communication to avoid startling them.
Their plumage tends to be outlandish and fantastic, and they constantly smoke.

The groupies:
These people tend to be previous members of the performer community but are no longer performing.
Unwilling to wear black or get dirty, and unskilled in direction or art forms they generally hang around with a clip board fulfilling the “bad-guy” side of the “good-guy-bad-guy” team of the key members (director, producer etc).
Not particularly useful, they do strike fear into the hearts of all, and are good for ensuring fees are paid, the dishes are done, and the cupboards are stocked.

As with any species there is overlap. Isn’t a Mule a combination of a donkey and a horse?

The Mules:
In small towns or community theatres, many of the team are mules and will combine aspects of different team members.
They are generally as stubborn and loud as their name sakes.
An example would be I, a mule with a background of performing, lighting, sound, props, painting, backstage crew and makeup experience.
I wear black, know where everything is, boss people around, are generally smug about my knowledge, can convert to bright clothes and grandiose gestures at the end of the season, or in mating season. I always have a torch, safety pins, hat pins, sticking plaster and duct tape on my belt and can be called on to belt a tune in the Pitt if needed.

I take great delight in winding up and loving every member in the above team and am grateful to call them my Stage family.
Thanks gang.
And Break A Leg!
x

Date Rape - (It’s not what you think)

There are no triggers to follow.

Disclaimer.
I am fully anticipating receiving at least one angry message about making light of date rape, by misusing the term.
I wish to first explain I am striving in my life to prove that feminist is not a bad word or a derogatory term and I apply the label to myself with pride.
Part of that is appreciating the diversity that comes with any group of people, feminists included.
And I’m a feminist with a dark sense of humour. So like it, or leave.

My partner and I have gotten to that lovely stage in a relationship where we have to organise to be romantic; otherwise we tend to work on our own computers, occasionally discussing plans for the weekend and negotiating chores.
What usually happens is around Thursday we divvy up the things we have to do on the weekend (work, rehearsals, training), stuff we have to do that is fun (birthdays, dinners, shows etc), and the stuff we want to do without being told to!
A separate section of this process is the negotiation of “date nights”. These are special; we wash prior. We don’t read the paper, or books. We turn off our cell phones. We find something we both want to do, and try to play nicely.

Organisation has kind of gone down the tubes in our house, due to the Man working all hours, and me being at the theatre or training most nights of the week.
So we trudge through treacle all week and know that we will both be busy all day on the weekends.
And all of a sudden it’s Saturday night.

A few weeks back we had nothing planned by the time we got to Saturday night.
We had a shower, got some food, and saw a movie.
We were walking home hand in hand and I said
“What a lovely date.”
He looked stricken.
“This is a date?”
I thought about it...
“Well, we are both clean, and outside the house, there is no one else along, and we are being nice- so yeah, I think so.”

“But I haven’t put much effort in! I wasn’t trying! You ought to give me a warning before we go on a date so I can bring on the A game.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I hadn’t noticed.
“It’s ok, we had a nice night, it counts, go with it.”

He seemed genuinely concerned that I had tricked him into unwittingly having a lovely evening...

Odd.

Turns out, he is smart enough to know that date night is important enough to me that if he didn’t play the game I would be upset.
And if he doesn’t know there are expectations for an evening he could miss them by accident.

Fair enough.

I took him on a date, he didn’t consent, he wasn’t trying, and he had no chance to consciously agree to dating me and having fun.

Is that date rape?

Not A Morning Person.

For quite some time there has been a war going on in our home.

It has creeps up on me throughout the week, and on the weekend the battle intensifies.

As a little background... I am NOT a morning person.
It’s not that I am unpleasant once I wake (I don’t think so anyway), or that I don’t like mornings.
It’s simply that I genuinely struggle to wake up, and stay awake.



Generally if I can stagger upright I’m good to go, but keeping my eyes open and remembering to breath deeper so I can stand is sometimes a bit of a problem.

This comes to the great amusement of my full-time bed buddy (I really must think of a proper name to call him on here).
He seems to find it great fun to try to wake me up, and is totally amazed by my capacity to have interactive conversations which I then have absolutely no recollection of once I actually wake up.

So far he has tried being bossy and trying to MAKE me get up, stealing the blankets, going on about how “lovely the day is”, leaving the curtains open, talking at me, cuddling, turning the radio on... Even made me breakfast in bed!
All to no avail.



The poor man loves to get up and go in the morning, and doesn’t have a whole lot of excess time to waste waiting around for me to get my ass into gear, so it must be frustrating.

This morning he learnt a new trick.

I was doing my usual hit snooze trick when he started chatting to me.
I obliged by pretending to listen and mumbled intermittently when he paused for a response.
He then left the room and went downstairs.

I heard his feet receding off into the distance and relaxed back into my pillow.

From downstairs I heard his voice loudly proclaim –
“OH WOW!”

I went racing downstairs thinking there was hail outside, or something equally interesting to see.

Nope.
He just finally figured my strongest motivator...

Not greed, or shame, or self will, or love for him;

Just sheer curiosity!!

Me 12, He 1
However I think the war was just won.
Damn.