LOU SANZ – humourist.writer.director.producer

Everyone can’t love us and on occasion we can barely be liked.

I finished up a new show I performed on Saturday night. It was the funnest (yep I’m using that as a word) show I’ve ever done. It was also the bravest as I made a decision not to use my usual safety net, to try something different, to do a slightly different show each night. I was immensely proud of it.

It got a really lovely response. People contacted me via my website and other social networking to let me know how the frankness of the show spoke to them – that was a first. It also got some nice reviews. The people that got the show got it. They saw beyond the shambolic appearance and realised that was the point, part of the story, a glimpse behind the fourth wall.  That the disjointed nature of the show was a fundamental part of the structure of the show. The brand new ending of the show that was fashioned in the week leading up to the show was my greatest risk but it was one I embraced. The show did what it said it would on the box – be different each night, be a mix of theatre and stand-up and challenge me as a performer and maybe in doing so I could open myself up to a new audience. I asked to debut it at the Melbourne Fringe festival because if ever there was a festival that embraced risk, well it’s that one and it’s all the more brilliant for it.

But for all the people that liked the show, of course there’s always going to be people that hate it, write about how much they didn’t like it and even mention that a cervical cancer scare in the days leading up the show was no excuse for the ‘under-rehearsed’ nature of the show. Ouch.

And you know what the shitty thing is? For all the great responses about the show, it’s this review that I listen to. This review that I believe, not the rest. As someone who has always lived by the motto (especially when it came to producing other acts over the years) ‘a great review is great, a bad review…well let’s just pretend it never happened.’

Now look, no one saw this review, oh look they might one day, it’s in a newspaper, hey people probably saw it and didn’t say anything to me, I don’t know. It didn’t affect ticket sales, it didn’t affect how I did the show, it didn’t affect me until after I saw it and so naturally I called my mother.

‘I thought we’d agree you’d stop Googling yourself?’

‘I agreed to nothing’

‘Do I need to take away your internet privileges, again?’

‘No mum I’m 34 years old.’

‘Anyway, what’s the big deal? Like you give a shit’.

‘But the thing is I do’ I muttered back, embarrassed.

‘Lot’s of people like marzipan, I hate it. You don’t see marzipan getting upset now do you?’

Hmmm….so now I was marzipan.

‘It’s not the same mum. This is a person and they don’t like me.’

‘So?’

My mother’s maternal love was almost too overwhelming.

‘It’s just, well I was trying something different –‘

She interrupted ‘-and they didn’t get it. So what? Remember that time you wore that matching Bolero and bike short combo to casual clothes day back at primary school and you lost some friends over it?’

‘They weren’t matching mum, I coordinated them myself.’

‘Whatever, the point is people hated you over it, disowned you, refused to me seen with you and yet 25 years on you’re still wearing Bolero jackets.’

‘They’re cropped blazers mum.’

‘They’re Bolero jackets Lou. You’re fooling no one.’

She was right. I’d never let negative attention about me or my work dissuade me and given I’d just done a show that was ostensibly about embracing failure, this was not the response I should have been having. I needed to basically, not give a fuck. Easier said than done.

Now look, I’ll probably obsess over this negative review for at least another week before a puppy distracts me or an article on global warming snaps me out of my narcissistic self-loathing.

But in the meantime, we do all need to look at the disturbing reality that we’re always more willing to believe the worst, that somehow that’s more real. That when someone says ‘nice smile’ you doubt them, can’t handle it, but when someone says ‘your nose is quite prominent’ well it’s fucking scripture.

A great video made by comedian Amy Schumer says it best (about how fucked up we are!):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzlvDV3mpZw

Basically we’ve got to get better at appreciating those that support us, treat us well and encourage us to be better people, better performers and better writers.  Whereas a negative review can inspire you to do excel, at some point you need to just switch-off, not hear it any more and forge your own path wearing your Bolero jacket with pride.

A traditional school photograph, me with my two black eyes, alongside my brother and his sexually ambiguous haircut (I can say that because we’re related). This photo once represented my scamp-like nature. When people looked at it they would often remark, ‘Oh my, how did you get those two black eyes?’ And I would laugh and say, ‘Oh, that’s just a result of my scamp-like behaviour, of course.’And then we’d all laugh, and their general delight in me would flow on further throughout the night and well into the morning.

It was a photo that sparked conversation. It was a photo that ignited a thirst to know more in all who came across it, in all who wanted answers to questions. It was a photo that made people laugh. It was a photo that made people cry, especially when they found out that my parents had managed to retain custody of me after the incident in question. I was just another child who had fallen through the cracks, who the authorities hadn’t managed to save. The guilt they would feel from just glancing at this photo, which I sent them every Christmas for the next twenty-five years, would fill them with so much despair, they would eventually give up on life, have their wills rewritten to make me their sole heir, and have ‘do not resuscitate’ bracelets made up, followed by a full page ad in the Saturday Age that just read, ‘Sorry, Lou.’

Of course, I was unaware of all of this guilt the authorities were feeling until Today Tonight landed on my doorstep, asking me to comment. I feigned disbelief and yet also offered the appropriate amount of gratitude, and they asked to see the photo and I at first said no but then they just insisted, and I still said no, and they asked again in adamant voices, and I told them, ‘No, this photo isn’t for you, it’s already done enough damage,’ but then they saw the twinkle in my eye, and I opened the door and said, ‘Go on, in you come, and don’t forget to wipe your feet,’ and they scurried in, the reporter remarking as he pushed past me, ‘You’re such a little scamp,’ and I said, ‘You don’t know the half of it, and feel free to help yourself to a Scotch Finger biscuit.’

But all of that feels like a lifetime ago. Because now, every time I look at this photo, I only see betrayal and lies, and I wish, now, that it had never been taken. It is a photo that hides an unimaginable depth of betrayal, secrets kept from me for over twenty-five years by those closest to me.

Betrayal doesn’t just happen; betrayal is the result of long-maintained untruths that have somehow become facts over time. And so I will present to you the events I believed that photographed captured, and then the truth of the events and the truth of the betrayal.

In 1987, my best friend was Tamara Minogue, the prettiest and most popular girl at Blah Blah School. We shared mutual interests, insofar as she hated me and I hated myself. We would often play four square at lunchtime – ‘we’ being the gang I was an associate member of, having not achieved full membership as result of no one wanting me to achieve it.

Even Georgia White, who was born on a leap year, was a full member, and she wasn’t even two years old yet (because she was eight and born on a leap year – Google it if you’re struggling). For whatever reasons, I constantly found myself falling short of their requirements for full membership. Not even a well-timed hand job would work, partially due to the fact none of the gang members had penises, but mostly because I didn’t know what one was.

On this day, as we played, I found myself dominating the field. I won’t lie to you – it felt good. Real good. My palm was like an iron fist, only flatter. The ball smashed down on each victory. Dunce: SMASH! Jack: SMASH! Queen: SMASH! King: SMASH! I was a fucking champion, and I wasn’t afraid to shout it from the rooftops!

‘I’m pretty good at this, Tamara. In fact, I’m better than you today. Wanna feel the touch of a champion? High five!’ Needless to say, Tamara left me hanging, and I was told in no uncertain terms that my company was no longer required, and that perhaps I would find more suitable friends at the other end of the playground. Of course, as we were only eight, the conversation went more along the lines of:

‘No one likes you, Louise.’

‘Yeah, go away.’

‘You smell like wog.’

‘Fuck off, you cunt.’

Or something like that. It was so long ago. You can hardly ask me to recall specifics.

Abandoned, rejected and isolated, with nowhere to call to home, I ventured to the other end of the playground. It was a wasteland, filled with boys who picked their nose and ate their snot; a place for little girls with itchy vaginas who got their periods on slides, vegetarians, a guy we suspected was Asian, chronic farters and boys fascinated with their penises. As I scratched my vagina, I thought, Perhaps these are my people. Maybe they’ll truly accept me. But to be accepted here I would have to convince the overlords – Fat and Skinny. You’ll never guess how they got their nicknames.

Fat and Skinny ruled from a fort that overlooked the playground with their army of My Child dolls. I’d never owned a My Child doll, only a Cabbage Patch doll.

Lucy was her name, but she was rarely spoken of. She was short and fat, and had freckles and red hair – I took one look at her and knew I could never love her. But I was forced to adopt her. Forced into motherhood. I tried to make it work, gave it the best shot I could, but do you know how hard it is to bring a kid home to play after school when you’ve got kid of your own? God forbid it’s someone you really like, and then one day you walk in on him and the doll, and you’re all like, ‘I don’t understand!’ and he’s all like, ‘She gets me,’ and I’m all like, ‘But she’s a doll,’ and he’s all like, ‘Exactly, Lou, exactly.’ No one knows what happened to Lucy after that, but, as a mother, I can theorise that maybe the little skank found herself getting into a heated argument where she was knocked down onto the hardwood floor in the kitchen and her body was stuffed into someone’s limited edition Blossom-branded sleeping bag under their bed while the assailant waited for their parents to go to bed, at which time they took the body and tied it to the back of their bike and rode it down to the park, whereupon they stuffed her body along with the sleeping bag into a barbecue and doused it all with petrol, then setting Lucy on fire, while they finally felt human again. At best I can only theorise, but I do know that’s the day my heart turned to stone and it’s why I’ve never really been able to get close to another human being. (And breathe, Lou, breathe.)

Anyway. As I climbed the 6-foot jungle gym/ fort to Fat and Skinny’s lair, a black crow landed in front of me – looking back now, this was possibly an omen, an omen screaming, ‘Stay away, little Lou, stay away!’ But all I remember thinking at the time is, ‘Oh, a black bird! How pretty! I love black birds, and black birds clearly love me!’

Reaching the top of the fort, I came face to face with Fat, a chubby blonde girl who always appeared clammy or lightly moistened. She stared at me through eyes that revealed a future of hepatitis, diabetes and glaucoma. ‘Welcome, Lou. Would you like a biscuit?’ said Fat, handing me a Salada. I was too polite to point out that a Salada wasn’t a real biscuit, so I just took it.

A second voice crept up behind me: ‘We’ve been watching you.’ It was Skinny, a mouse-like girl who liked to gnaw on things – and people, if the scarring on Fat’s arm was anything to go by.

‘You’re the small girl whose friends don’t like her. We know all about you.’

‘I’m in the same class as you guys.’

‘Class means nothing here on top of the fort,’ declared Skinny, clearly the more dominant in their girl-on-girl struggle to be on top.

‘So, Louise,’ said Skinny, ‘have you ever done a backflip off a fort before?’

‘Um, yeah, totally, like, all the time. If there’s a fort, I’m flipping off it.’

I was clearly lying, but my need for gang acceptance was too strong, or my self-esteem too low.

‘We thought so. From the first moment we saw you, we both knew, and I think I speak for Fat on this as well, that you were a girl with a daredevil spirit.’

‘Some people describe me as a bit of a scamp,’ I interjected.

‘Yes, that’s exactly what we thought. You’re a bit of a scamp. And you know what we said we were missing in this gang?’

‘A bit of a scamp?’ I asked

‘Exactly. Our gang needs a bit of scamp, and you, Lou, might be just that bit of a scamp we’re looking for – that is, if you can prove your worth.’

I stepped to the edge of the fort. I’m not sure what it was – maybe it was the fact that I’d finally found some friends who had unbridled faith in me, maybe it was the crowd that had gathered at the bottom of the fort, the faces of the disenfranchised looking up at me: David with his penis in hand, the Asian kid who years later we’d discover was really just a New Zealander, the fourteen-year-old girl who was still in grade three due to foetal alcohol poisoning. Suddenly I realised that yes, I could flip, I could do it. I grabbed the metal bar with both my hands and felt a tap of support on my back from Fat or Skinny, and I flipped/plunged to my death.

But something strange happened as I hurtled through the air that day, all 32 kilos of me. My best friend Tamara, dressed as Bette Midler, appeared beside me and spoke words of such wisdom, chanting the lyrics of ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’.

And then everything went black.

They’re not sure how long I lay unconscious on the tanbark after my 6-foot fall (or ‘moment of freedom’), but it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. Then, somehow, I managed to drag my battered and broken body to the teachers’ lounge. Doctors say that after some head traumas, the human body can appear to function as normal before the haemorrhaging kicks in.

Not two weeks after the best failed backflip in the history of our school, photos were taken, and this is how this photo came to be – a memory from my day of empowerment, a day when maybe I didn’t make into Fat and Skinny’s gang, but at least I tried and that’s all that matters. This photo reflected the scamp in all of us. That is, until a few months ago.

Mum and I were talking about photos, the way that mothers and daughters often do. I was reflecting on this particular school photo in a moment of nostalgia and started to recount the story of my quest for greatness in the school playground one afternoon, when suddenly my mother sobered up and interjected.

‘You didn’t fall,’ she stated.

‘You were pushed. They tried to kill you.’

I said nothing for a moment, trying to take it all in.

‘It was always suspected,’ she continued, ‘but no one could never prove it. They found a Salada not far from where your body landed.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ I spat back, angry and confused.

‘The teacher’s report said they lured you onto the fort with biscuits – they’d been trying to get a kid up there for days to push off. You must’ve just blocked it out.’

I wanted answers! ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’

‘There never seemed like a good time. We thought maybe when you graduated from primary school, but then you got cystic acne. And then we thought maybe in high school, but there was still the acne, and you got your period and breasts on the same day. That, coupled with your unwanted hair problem, your distinct lack of interest in cock, which led us to believe you might be a lesbian, and your penchant for wearing Jack Daniels promotional t-shirts, Blundstone boots and elasticised Kmart trousers – well, there never seemed to be a good time to bring it up, you know, without the possibility you might kill yourself. And Lou, this was in the days before funeral insurance.’

So look at this photo, everyone. Look at it carefully, because it’s no longer a photo of a scamp-like girl and her effeminate younger brother – it’s the photo of an attempted murder victim and her effeminate younger brother.

It is a photo of betrayal, for, in the words of Arthur Miller, better known as the man who married Marilyn Monroe, ‘Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.’ Sticks like my face, covered with my blood and mucus, did that day in 1987 to tanbark below the fort.

Lou

(This article first appeared on the Daily Life website www.dailylife.com.au)

As women, we’re often bombarded with music, literature and movies about break-ups with lovers. But when it comes to being dumped by a friend, we often struggle to find a way to articulate how devastated we feel and how to go about reconciling this loss in our lives. I know all too well the pain that comes with losing a friend, for I myself am a veteran of the friendship wars.

A few weeks ago as I left the bathroom at a local pub I ran into a woman who up until 12 months earlier, I would have considered one of my closest friends. I say ‘until’, because now all we could manage to say to each other was ‘Oh. Hi.’

We had never formally discussed our break-up, but the lack of returned phone calls, and the ongoing rain checks had led me to think something was awry. Thanks to Facebook, this suspicion was confirmed when I was treated to a swag of photos from her birthday party – a party that I appeared to be the only person in the world not to have received an invite too.

At 32, I’d been dumped by a friend.

But it’s not the first time this has happened. As I said, I’m a veteran. And like any incurable romantic, I remember my first time keenly. Picture it. Primary school, 1987. I’m enjoying a Le Snack when my best friend casually walks up to me and tells me in no uncertain terms that she doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.

In a telling portent of all future relationship breakdowns, I reasoned with myself that it was probably that she loved me too much. That in fact, she was frightened of the intensity of her friendship feelings towards me, and needed to insert a suitable distance so as not to make things ‘weird’. This sort of borderline unhinged optimism continued until a week later when she tried to throw a brick at my head.

I decided it might be best to move on.

For the next few years I lived a ‘best friend-free’ lifestyle, making friends with whom I wanted when I wanted, giving very little regard to the type of friend I was attracting. I went from short-term friendship to short-term friendship, like a used lollipop constantly being returned to its wrapper.  I’d been burnt by the hot plate of friendship once before and I wasn’t going to be making that mistake again.

Then I met Ryan.

Picture it. High school drama, 1993. Me, slightly overweight, drenched in the smell of cortisone and acne creams and he, sexually ambivalent and with a TV in his bedroom. It was a friendship we both found rewarding until one day, sitting on his bed watching theX-Files, he pressed pause on the VHS and turned to me.

‘Wanna make out?’ he asked.

I burst out laughing and popped another Caramel Crown.

‘Why are you laughing?’ he asked. ‘Is it because you think I’m gay?’

His tone dictated that this conversation was about to take a stroll towards serious town. Sometimes, you can just tell.

‘Um, no I don’t think that…but, are you?’

He jumped off the bed and began to pace around.

‘No, I’m not gay. Why does everyone think I am?’

‘I don’t know’ I mumbled, wanting to help him but mostly wanting another biscuit.

‘Then why don’t you want to make out with me?’ he implored.

I looked at him and said what seemed to be the most sensitive thing for a girl to say to a boy struggling with his sexual identity and looking to score a quick pash ‘just to make sure’.

‘You don’t have any chest hair. I’m just really all about chest hair at the moment.’

The next day upon arriving at school I found a note taped to my locker. It thanked me for my year of friendship services but regretted to inform me they would no longer be required. Honesty, it seems, is not always the best policy when dealing with a friend.

I thought of Ryan as I stood there, outside that pub bathroom, struggling to think of what unspoken offence I might have caused that would result in my literally being struck from the Facebook invite list. Nothing immediately presented itself. Perhaps I was imagining things? Had she just been busy? Was I being too needy?

But maybe the problem isn’t me. After all, five years after friend-dumping me for not adequately addressing the heinous accusations being leveled at his sexuality, Ryan came out as a homosexual male with a particular fondness for chest hair.

Sometimes, you just have to stop pretending.

Standing on my train station platform I thought about my new financial year resolution; to move away from meeting men at arts industry based events such as music festivals/ library borrowing queues / openings/ other festivals/ readings and the video store. So far it was going well; I hadn’t left my house in over a month. Eventually however, after advice on airing out my bedroom I found myself on a train station platform with a good looking young man standing next to me. Sure it was a crowded platform and one could argue there were really no other options as to where he might stand but in my mind what was important was that I thought I still had ‘it’ and I could meet people outside my ‘circle.’

He looked harmless enough, black wool jumper and jeans, not so tight as to cut off his family legacy and black worn brogues. All he was missing was a petite red-haired girlfriend with a blunt fringe, a smock with the Saver’s tag still on it, a pamphlet on alternative birth control methods and a Banksy tattoo and he would’ve looked like the guy who had everything, but all he had was a clip board and nothing else.

‘It’s very cold isn’t it?’ I turned around to see clipboard guy speaking directly to me.

‘Yes’ I replied as I hugged my large oversized duffle coat around me, a coat that could’ve past for a doona cover and of late given Melbourne’s freezing temperatures had been alternating as one. I’d had to start using the coat when I realised I’d started to develop an unnatural attachment to my hot bottle and the fact it had the ability to contour to my body shape. I only wanted one thing to do that and preferably I didn’t want it made from rubber and smelling like my grandmother.

‘Guess that’s winter for you’ he continued, allowing our natural chemistry to flow.

‘Well yeah, June is a winter month.’

‘So are August and July but not always in that order’ he pointed out to me.

‘Yeah.’

He fiddled with his clipboard.

‘Mind if I ask you some questions?’

‘No, not at all’ I responded as my ovaries began to move of their own accord – they were still there, good.

‘I noticed when you arrived at this station that you failed to validate your ticket.’

Ok, so this one wasn’t like other men I’d known, this one was a conversationalist. Tick.

‘Um, I bought a ticket.’ (I chose not to add the phrase ‘at least’)

‘Yes, I saw that but like I said I failed to see you validate your card. Is there a reason you didn’t manage to do that?’

‘I guess I just forgot.’

‘That’s why we have memory madam, it stops us from forgetting.’

‘What, you’re not making any sense’

‘But some of us don’t like memories. I don’t like all of my memories and that’s why I don’t like dogs and biscuits.’

Suddenly I felt a craving to check my inbox for any invites to something in Fed Square or at Meat Market I had forgotten to RSVP to, I mean who had financial year resolutions anyway?. .idiots did Lou, idiots…

‘Um, it’s not really any of your business why I didn’t validate my card.’

‘Today I’m making it my business’ and with that he opened up his clipboard and I couldn’t help but think this was the reason I’d never really gotten into role play.

‘Ok, fine you want to know why I don’t validate, well let’s start with the train before this one was cancelled and this train the one due to arrive is now 16 minutes late. It’s like being in a relationship with someone who ignores you at parties and then you brush it off cause you are after all barely 5’3 and he would have to look down to even notice you were there and that’s a big ask sometimes, well it’s the same as validating a ticket for a train that is running late all the time, never smiles when they see you and then surprises you by terminating early even though you already booked that holiday to Vietnam and you told him at the time that the tickets were non-refundable – if my own existence can barely be validated then I’ll be damned if I’m going to validate a ticket!’.

Clipboard guy stared at me for a moment.

‘Are you really only 5’3?’

‘I’m wearing heels today.’

‘Oh that explains it.’

He didn’t say anything for a moment.

‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t upset me, I’m ok, just fine me and let’s be done with this.’

‘What makes you think I’m a transit officer?’

‘You’ve got a clipboard.’

‘Lot’s of guys carry clipboards and it doesn’t mean we work in the transit industry. I don’t even own a car, but I bet you couldn’t tell what with your eyes being so jaded by prejudice.’

‘How does owning a car have anything to do with whether I validated my ticket?’

‘From where I stand it has everything to do with it.’

I looked up at the train timetable, delayed by another 7 minutes; God must’ve still been in the bathroom tending to himself.

‘Look, don’t worry I’m not a transit cop, I’m not going to fine you even though you are pretty fine, maybe we should have a coffee sometime. My mother says coffee is good for you.’

I realised at that point me developing an almost sexual relationship with my hot bottle wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing…

‘So if you’re not here to fine me what are you doing?’

‘It’s an assignment for school.’

‘School? Like postgraduate buiness school?’..even I noticed the desperate pleading in my voice.

‘No like high school. I’m doing an assignment on ethics and we were told to approach single parents and ask them a series of questions to see if their ethics had evolved after becoming parents let down by the world.’

‘You’re in high school?’

‘Yeah, Year 11.’

‘So you’re like 17 years old.’

’16 actually.’

‘Oh good, that makes what I was thinking 20 minutes ago even more illegal.’

The train finally pulled up.

‘I’m not a single mum just so you know’ I felt I needed to point that out to him.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to offend, it was just the fact you were carrying a doona with you.’

‘It’s my coat.’

‘Looks like a doona.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I like older woman you know. I get on great with my mum and she says I’ve got very soft hands.’

‘Lucky lady.’

‘She doesn’t have to be the only lucky lady in my life.’

 And with that I boarded the train and maybe, just maybe I walked away from an opportunity missed.

I like my friends. I find it helps. However sometimes I get the distinct impression that if faced with a ravenous mega crocodile in a swamp they would throw a bucket of fish guts over me and then run for the hills watching from afar as I get torn limb from limb, stopping only to remark to each other ‘poor Lou, she’s just always in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

This thought came about after a good friend of the ‘I just met him at the gym and he was the one and now we’ve bought a split level apartment together in Woollahra and I thought I knew what happiness was but I didn’t, I was a fool on a teenagers errand because now that I’ve met the blood (his name is Ian*) that pumped through my heart, well Lou I wondered how I ever managed without it before’ variety sent me an email admonishing me for not even owning a toaster oven and highly recommending I go on a blind date with one of Ian’s friends.

A new toaster oven I could use, but a blind date, chances of that making me an evenly toasted piece of heaven smothered with Nutalex was highly unlikely and that level of certainty comes with age children, age.

I emailed her back, politely declining, telling her I’d recently bought the box set of Pugwall and I owed it to him to watch it in full over the next say month or 36 years, so she rang me.

‘Pugwall isn’t available in box set yet. I Googled it. You’re lying.’

‘It should be.’

‘This is neither the time nor the place to go into that Lou.’

‘I finished Press Gang last week.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

Silence.

‘He’s a very nice man Lou.’

‘I’m sure his mum finds him real nice.’

‘Really Lou? A mum joke?’

‘Technically it wasn’t really a mum joke, but granted there was an inference so I’ll give you that.’

She ignored me and to be fair I understood why.

‘Ok, so he’s nice.’

‘Yes nice and has a job. He’s not leaving someone, dating anyone else, not moving overseas, doesn’t have a harem I know of and he doesn’t dress as a clown.’

‘I’ve never dated a clown.’

‘Clowns, performers, street folk, it’s all the same from where I sit with all my financial security looking down on you.’

‘Look, I’m just really not into the idea of it at all.’

‘Just think of it like going to a Farmer’s Market and you’re the cow that needs to be milked.’

‘That analogy managed to offend me on so many levels.’

‘Good’

‘And look I’m going away in a week so now really isn’t a good time to start anything.’

‘You’re going to Sydney for a weekend.’

‘Exactly’

‘And his recent STD check came back clear and don’t panic I showed him a copy of yours.’

‘God, I should never have given you a copy.’

‘Consider it a reference check.’

‘Fine, I’ll meet him.’

Within 15 minutes of hanging up I’d received an email from him, informing me he liked going to the gym, the movies and he’d Googled me, thus the absence of questions directly relating to myself I imagined. I’m not a mad fan of Googling people. I have a weird thing about getting to know them on my own terms, not have information thrust upon me, but this doesn’t always halt the expectation from others that you’ve Googled them. Whilst dating someone it came to my attention I’d missed his birthday – oh stop throwing stones – I’d asked him on numerous occasions when it was and he wouldn’t tell me. None of this was helped when at dinner one night I asked how his week had been and he pointed out I’d missed his birthday, something that if I’d ever checked his Wikipedia entry I would’ve known…

I wrote back to email guy and said next Wednesday would be good for a coffee. He tried to up the anti to dinner but I know what I’m like after a meal and a glass/bottle of wine so I told him coffee was preferable. He wrote back saying fingers crossed they might serve nuts there. I wrote back saying that if was prone to such overwhelming bursts of hunger perhaps it best he ‘eat’ before we met up.

The Wednesday arrived and out of the blue so did my parents, fresh from an 8 week jaunt around the Mediterranean. I’d have to reschedule. I sent him a quick text explaining the unexpected events that had led to our coffee cancellation, heck I even through in some wit without trying to sound flippant. All in all it was the perfect text message, however my intended audience didn’t agree.

My phone beeped. He’d replied:

‘Hi, look I’m worried if you can’t make time for us now then what hope do we have for a future. Think about it.’

I couldn’t help but think he had a great sense of humour, so I checked.

‘Are you serious?’ I wrote back.

‘Yes. I need to know now you’re just not going to flake out on me. I really wanted to meet you but I’m started to think you don’t want the same things I want for us.’

Ok, let’s just drown the puppy in the hessian sack now. I looked around to make sure I wasn’t jilting someone at the alter and had some how become so torn from  my  own reality I hadn’t even noticed, but no, my tracksuit was still firmly on and my kitchen looked nothing like a cathedral, but the floor did need to be mopped.

I deleted his number from my phone and got out the bucket.

My phone rang, it was my friend.

‘It took a lot of leg pulling to get that guy to even agree to meet you, especially after he read your blog.’

‘And hello to you too.’

‘Don’t Lou.’

‘Sorry’ I put the bucket down.

‘He rang to say you’ve stopped responding to his messages.’

‘Yes, about 3 minutes ago I stopped responding to his messages.’

‘Is this what happens Lou? Is that why your relationships end up in the toilet faster then a uni girl’s hair extension after a smoko?’

‘For Christ’s sake, he acted like we’d agree to start working things out after having gone through a legal separation.’

‘You’d be so lucky’ my friend scoffed.

‘He’s not right in the head.’

‘A predisposition to schizophrenia is a non-issue Lou.’

‘Oh my god is it so hard to believe that I have little to no interest in getting married or moving in with someone? If and when you see me advertised on Craig’s list then maybe I’ll re-evaluate, but right now I’m fine with Pugwall and men that might not return my calls.’

She said nothing as I imagined her muting the Lifestyle Channel before coming back to me.

‘Ok, fine. I’ll just tell him you’re taking time to figure yourself out.’

‘No, just tell him his messages were inappropriate and scary and at the end of the day I prefer the company of clowns.’

‘I knew it.’

‘Yes, you know me better than I know myself.’

We hung up and I picked up the mop just as my phone beeped. It was from email guy.

‘Hey, look you take all the time you need to figure yourself out. I’ll still be here. My sister thought she was gay once too, just turned out she couldn’t eat wheat. Take care.’

And so as I deleted his message and blocked his email address whilst buttering my toast I couldn’t help but think maybe he’d end up being the one that got away and I couldn’t be more grateful for that.

I’ve never been one for Christmas parties, or parties in general. A lot of forced conversations with people I wouldn’t normally make eye contact with on a tram, who make remarks about nuts, giggle at the word nuts, have a few drinks and then later in the evening ask you if you like nuts, giggle when you say you’re partial to a cashew, then pull their own ready-packed nuts out and ask you to sit on them.

Over the years I’ve become a virtual hermit when it comes to the festive season, I’ve also developed an acute allergic reaction to nuts. But this year I changed my mind. I decided to RSVP to every seasonal festivity I was asked to attend, you know to see who my real Facebook friends were these days and start eating nuts again.

Of the two invitations I received, yes colour me popular and dip me in the collective spit of the local high school football team circa 1996, the first one was last week. As usual it got off to a great start.

Arriving, I had my name ticked off at the door and the ‘all you can eat and drink’ invite was whittled down to me taking an orange ‘meat tray’ raffle ticket and being advised I was entitled to one complimentary drink at the bar of my choice so long as it was red or white something, any further clarification and I would need to fork over my own money. Let the festivities begin…

Once inside and armed with my ‘rose’ or as I instructed the girl at the bar my ‘half-half’, I looked around to see if I knew anyone.  Of course I didn’t, which meant I was exposed and vulnerable and having decided to go bare-legged on an ‘I really should shave my legs this morning’ day perhaps this feeling was somewhat exacerbated. I finally settled on making eye contact with someone that looked like someone I knew. I was aware he wasn’t the person I knew but I hoped the loud music, his lack of interest in me and the conversation we were having about funding bodies and Jon Polson would be enough to carry the time over until someone I knew arrived or I started to find him attractive. 

‘So you doing a Tropfest film this year?’ he asked as he adjusted his belt holding up his khaki coloured man slacks.

‘No, probably not.’ I replied.

‘Shame really, I could help you. I made a Tropfest film last year.’

‘That’s great. Did it win anything?’

‘Not last year, but you gotta remember that’s when the global financial crisis hit. It affected everything.’

‘Including your chances of getting into Tropfest?’

‘Amongst other things.’

‘You do know that if it doesn’t get into Tropfest, it’s technically not a Tropfest film.’

‘That’s a really limited way of looking at life Lou.’

‘Well using your logic that means that the short film I made was an Oscar film. It never got into consideration for the Oscar but what if that was my intent, thus it’s an Oscar film.’

‘They give Oscar’s to comedies these days Lou?’

‘Point taken.’

‘I’m making a Sundance film next.’

‘But let me guess it didn’t get into Sundance?’

‘Didn’t have to. It’ll always be a Sundance film to me and my half-brother whose mortgaged his house to pay for it.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s an atmospheric film set along the central coast.’

‘Sounds dramatic.’

‘The lead character’s mother dies and she has to deal with that on the central coast, that’s why it’s set on the central coast.’

‘Great.’

‘We’ve got the DOP, just need to write the script now.’

‘Why bother, with a storyline like that I’d be surprised if it didn’t write itself.’

‘I’ve been watching a lot of Darren Aronofsky lately so I totally know what you mean.’

‘Yeah, good luck with that.’

We both stood there saying nothing to each other, aware it was better than the alternative.

A few hours later, partially satisfied with the all-you-can eat buffet I’d received in the form of half a luke warm prawn I’d split with my friend I couldn’t help but notice someone staring at me and not in a ‘I can only bare to look at you from a distance for fear my heart might burst if I get too close.’ But more a ‘I know you killed my daughter and even though the cops don’t have the evidence to get you yet, I know and I’m watching you’ kinda way.

‘Do you know him?’ my friend asked, discreetly glaring his direction.

‘Don’t look at him!’

‘Maybe the thinks you’re cute.’

‘No, that’s not it. He’s looking at me like I hurt him in a past life or did something to his dog.’

‘Maybe you did. If you ask me I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a total bastard in your past life.’

‘Thanks for that.’

‘Like the guy that gave Marilyn Munroe the enema that killed her; a passive aggressive cog in the history of cover ups.’

And then it hit, like the day a handful of tanbark hurtled it’s way to my face in the St Joan of Arc Primary School playground back in 88 ‘cause my skin was a darker shade of middle class Brighton pale – I knew him. He was the blind date I never went on.

‘Shit, I know who he is.’

‘Who?’

‘Remember that guy who my friend tried to set me up with earlier this year and I had to reschedule and he told me I wasn’t taking our relationship seriously even though we’d never met? I’m pretty sure that’s him.’

(go here for the original story http://lousanz.com/2010/06/21/i-like-my-friends-conditionally/)

‘But he’s blonde.’

‘Exactly, it was never going to work out anyway.’

‘How do you know what he looks like?’

‘My friend sent me a photo’

‘And he got a photo of you?’

‘He told me he Googled me.’

‘Wow he really hates you.’

‘Yep and we’ve never even met.’

‘I thought only past lovers looked at you like that.’

‘So did I.’

‘It’s impressive Lou that men can now hate you even having never dated you.’

‘If I’ve learnt nothing this year, it’s that very fact.’

‘You must feel a real sense of accomplishment.’

‘I do, I really do.’

Sitting on the tram, heading home, trying not to make eye contact with the women shaving her legs opposite me, my phone beeped. It was a message from him:

I know that was you tonight. Have things gotten that bad between us you can’t even wish me a Merry Christmas?’

I wrote back nothing, the volume on my iPod leading me to distraction. The phone beeped again.

I could have made you very merry if we’d ever met. We could’ve had a family by now. Enjoy your coal Lou, enjoy your coal. You’ve been a very bad girl.

Then another beep.

And that wasn’t meant in a sexual way. You’re just not a nice person. I dodged a bullet.

And so I finally wrote back.

Merry Christmas. I’m just glad I got you what you want. Thank God for artillery themed lay-by. Lou

x

…..And Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

I’m never good at buying Christmas presents. I always seem to get outdone. Like the year I got my friend a double pass to the movies and then his girlfriend rail roaded me by giving him a baby. It’s not that a Hoyts cinema pass can’t compete with a new born child; it was just the way she did it, all legs akimbo screaming his name. I went for a more a dignified approach having placed his tickets in a carefully chosen Wrongside card which featured the adventures of a dog trying to teach his owner how to roller skate. Classic Sanz. I remember months later he rang me up to say thank you for the present, what given all the chaos of now having a kid he’d plumb forgotten his vouchers until he recovered them while tidying up the coffee table one afternoon.

‘They’ve probably expired.’ I told him ‘or been cancelled by someone who rang the cinema to see if anyone had bothered using them.’

‘I guess it’s the thought that counts. Thanks all the same.’

‘Well we can’t all just show up umbilical cord at the ready, some of us like to put more thought into our presents.’

Last Christmas was no different. Whereas my brother got my parents the gift of him getting engaged, I presented my parents with the gift of a nail file, Michael Chugg’s autobiography, oh and news that my ex-boyfriend was moving into my house after a 5 year estrangement.

In my defence my ex was sleeping in another room, on the ground, but as friends were all too quick to point out ‘how does that differ from last time Lou?’…well played ‘friends’.

So whereas my brother was looking to the future, I’d pretty much stumbled across an old garbage bag of clothes destined for St Vinnie’s, opened it up and gone ‘oh there’s that dress I really like, why don’t I wear it anymore? I should so wear it more; like all the time…oh that’s why I don’t wear it …it has an elasticised waist, but hang on I’ve lost weight so it’ll probably look great…no, it has an elasticised waist, why on earth did I just not burn this dress! Why am I giving it to someone else? No one looks good in an elasticised waist, even the poor! Oh for the love of god, why did I even buy it?…is my life just a landscape of regret littered with mistakes?’

We got on fine. For the most part until he started washing my dishes.

‘Really there’s no need to do the dishes.’

‘But I should, I’m a guest.’

‘I’d really rather you didn’t.’

‘They’re just dishes.’

‘No they’re not just dishes.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s too much like a relationship if I let you wash my dishes.’

‘Is this about the fact I don’t wash your dishes anymore?’

‘I’m just saying I’ve gone 5 years without you washing my dishes and I really don’t think it’s a good idea if you start washing them now.’

‘We’re not talking about dishes now are we…?’

He moved out a week later.

Dragging a discarded bassinet through the streets of Brunswick I couldn’t help but marvel at the wonder that is ‘hard rubbish day’ as I yelled out at no one in particular ‘has anyone seen my baby? I told her to hold on…damn babies.’

My housemate said nothing as I dragged my latest find into our house.

After a moment the tension got too much.

‘Do you really think we need more bassinets in the house, you know given you don’t have an actual baby?’

‘You say that like I’ve got a hidden stash of bassinets hidden under my bed, like some sort of crazy baby lady.’

We both said nothing.

‘So where did you get it?’

‘Just found it on the side of the road, can you believe someone actually wanted to throw this out?’

‘Yes I can’ my flatmate remarked, gesturing at the bassinet handle that had broken off in my hand.

‘You haven’t been walking around pretending there’s a baby in there have you?’

I said nothing but knew my silent stance would betray me.

‘Again Lou? Really?’

‘Well look don’t panic I bought something from an actual shop as well.’

I stepped aside to reveal a large portrait of the Swiss Alps.

‘Oh good god.’ My housemate mumbled.

‘It’s even mounted on chip board so we can stick pins in it.’

‘Why would we stick pins in it?’

‘Cause on occasion everyone gets an urge to stick a pin in something, it’s just human nature.’

He glared at me and for a moment I couldn’t help but feel like a pin cushion…

‘It’ll be great, every time someone walks down the corridor they’ll be reminded of the Alps and it was only $6 at Savers.’

‘That’s where you bought it? Savers?’

‘Yeah, you’d have to pay like at least $30 bucks for a Swiss Alps pin board anywhere else. I’m not a fool, especially when it comes to art.’

Later that afternoon as I sat in  my lounge room looking at my latest find I found myself making a list of the things I could do with my aforementioned bassinet:

1. Do something with it involving cheese. Thinking some sort of fondue party…
2. Buy small plastic babies, fill bassinet with small plastic babies and then leave on porch. Maybe scatter some other plastic babies around it for effect with a trail of plastic babies leading out onto the street. Watch from my office to see if anyone really cares about abandoned little plastic babies.
3. Have a baby and then make the bassinet not only a great find but also functional.
4. Make into a herb garden and then write about it in Frankie…that is if they ever return my phone calls…(Reminder to self – CALL FRANKIE)
5. Attach some invisible string to it and then when my housemate is working with his door open drag past in manner of haunted bassinet, whispering something like ‘I’m the ghost of the baby you never knew you might have had.’
6. Don’t do anything with bassinet. Just leave the bassinet alone or better yet, throw it out. STUPID IDEA.

 As night came around I informed my housemate that I would be turning my bassinet into a herb garden, after all I’m adult. He seemed satisfied with the idea. I then wished him a good evening and set about trying to find where I’d misplaced my invisible string.

Last night I was woken by an anxious friend calling me from overseas concerned that her boyfriend was on the verge of cheating on her.

‘It’s horrible, like I know he’s not right now cause he’s making me a smoothie but when he asked if I wanted avocado I just thought of my god that’s her vagina and him making me the smoothie well that’s just him metaphorically f**king her.’

‘With the avocado?’

‘No, she is the avocado. Don’t you see?’

‘He’s not going to cheat on you with an avocado, there’s not enough room’ I mumbled as I rolled onto my side and was greeted with my flashing clock and the reminder it was 3am – clearly finest advice given hour.

‘It’s my own fault you know, I hired her for this campaign and she’s his ‘free walk around the park.’ Oh my god, I’m Jennifer Aniston. I can literally feel the pity of others dripping off me.’

‘Not that this is important, but you do know it’s free to walk around a park?’

‘Not in LA Lou.’

‘Since when?’

‘9/11 Lou.’

My pillow fell on my face but to my shock and horror I was still able to breathe…f**k I can’t even muffle myself properly at this hour…

‘So what she’s his ‘if I could cheat on you it would be with her’?! Everyone knows they’re just the thing of fiction, something couples do to add meaning to a relationship.’

‘You so know this is how it started with Brad and Angelina.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Him and Jen were just kicking back at their house in Malibu and Jen’s all like she’d so go Captain Picard – ‘

‘-Captain Picard, from Star Trek?’

‘- yes Lou, he’s very commanding and anyway I thought you liked bald?’

‘I’ve done bald, but it never set a precedent.’

‘That’s a shame; I think you and the Captain would work well together.’

‘He’s not real’

‘Those things from your past you’ve called relationships aren’t what we’d call real either but let’s not split hairs, I was talking about Jen and Brad.’

‘Yes, back to those close friends of ours.’

‘Don’t get sarky.’

‘I’m tired.’

‘And so am I Lou, from this constant fight to keep my man.’ 

My pillow smelled nice, I could feel my oxygen levels running low…

‘Fine, continue.’

‘Well they were just hanging and she’s like her night on the town would be Captain Picard and Brad laughs and knocks back some carb-free popcorn and Jen tickles him until he admits he’d so go Lara Croft from Tomb Raider and then they both laugh cause they know they’ll never cheat on each other cause their cheats are fictional characters and then Jen’s like ‘hey Brad, we just got this script, it’s called Mr & Mrs Smith I’m thinking of producing it post Friends and then BOOM he’s suddenly adopting Asians.’

I hung up, still alive.

Now a few years back when I was living in London I’d had this same conversation with my then boyfriend who at every turn made it very clear he was never out to impress me.

‘Any page 3 girl’ he said. ‘You know just for something different.’

‘Different how?’ I asked

‘You know naked with boobs.’

‘Oh as opposed to myself?’

‘Well I can see you naked any time I want so it doesn’t count.’

‘I can guarantee you from this point on you will not be able to see me naked anytime you want.’

‘You going all frigid or something?’

‘Yes, that’s it. I’m going all frigid or something.’

The conversation had been prompted when my ‘night off’ guy had moved into the same street as us, Matt Day, previously of A Country Practice…ok, so it had been a long time between long term relationships and I hadn’t gotten around to updating my list. It happens to the best of us.

‘You have to change your guy’ my boyfriend stated.

‘Why?’

‘Cause he now lives next door.’

‘And?’

‘You’re more inclined to have sex with him if the he’s next door. It’s a presented opportunity now.’

 ‘I don’t want to have sex with him.’

‘It doesn’t matter if you do or you don’t.’

‘I think you’ll find it does both legally and human rights wise’

He closed his copy of the Mirror, Sandra from Cheshire’s breasts saw the light of day no more…

‘No. You see if we’re together forever then he’s your only way out, whereas I get page 3 ladies and Julie Sawahla but only from her Press Gang days, you’ve should’ve given yourself more options.’

‘So you’re saying I either sleep with Matt Day, cause that’s bound to happen at some point when he walks past our flat with his baby and wife, or never sleep with anyone but you ever again?’

‘Yes. It’s really a concept that doesn’t involve that much thought Lou.’

‘There’s a lot things in this room at the moment that don’t require much thought…’

We’re not together anymore. 15 years on (yes, it was that long ago I made him my ‘get out of jail free card’) and Matt Day is still a hottie, but as my relationship ended and I matured with age I was very aware of the severe limitations I’d placed on myself with only one option, now I have more, starting with Ron Weasley and ending with Shaun Micallef (yeah, I just haven’t made my career more awkward). That is why there is now a chair on my front porch, just in case they move in down the street.

I spent some time in the US this year mainly performing, mainly spending a lot of time on Skype trying to make myself still an attractive propspect to my boyfriend back home at 2am in the morning, mainly trying to smile at the passive aggressive remarks of Midwest men like ‘ you know, your stuff would be funnier if you weren’t a woman…you know your stuff would be funnier if you didn’t have that Australian accent…you know your stuff would be funnier if I found Mexican’s attractive…you know your stuff would be funnier if you didn’t write it  yourself…your stuff would be funnier if I wasn’t attracted to you, but only sexually and only if my wife was cool with it’ and mainly trying to explain to other Australians that lived over there, that yes I like it and everything but no, I could never see myself living there. I would watch as their tiny little heads filled with newly formed transatlantic accents exploded all over their skinny black jeans, you know, the ones that belonged to Sid Vicious, the ones he was wearing the day he died. All the kids are wearing them, especially in New York.

And this is where this story is set, in New York City. It’s a bittersweet town for me, after all this is the birthplace and inevitable killing zone of Law & Order – no one called a Grand Jury on that decision and as such I call ‘worst bullshit cancelling in the history of ever’ – yes, worse than the Wonder Years and that short lived law series with Moira Tierney and Rob Morrow which was EXCELLENT!

I was walking through Central Park with my friends Mark and Sam, minding our own business when suddenly a small child flew off his bicycle in front of us. It took Mark a moment to get to him as we waited for the all the other cyclists and pedestrians who were closer to the accident to just walk or ride around him. By the time Mark got to  him and helped moved him out the way his mother had ridden up and as any mother should she started consoling her boy who had managed to escape with not even a scratch, but it didn’t stop him from whinging to his mother that he never wanted to ride his bike in the first place and yes, bikes are stupid.

My friend Sam and I watched from a distance. To anyone else we probably looked like two Hispanic nannies neglecting the white babies of the Upper Eastside elite.

‘If anyone asks’ I told Sam ‘we tell em we sold em, sold their little white babies.’

‘Man’ said Sam ‘I wish I’d filmed that on my phone.’

‘That’s what monsters do.’  I told her.

‘God, Lou it’s not like the kid was shot. He fell off his bike. If anything if he had died at least we’d have some footage you know for insurance and stuff.’

I watched as Mark started to drag the bikes of the mother and the son one by one to the side of the park and that’s when I noticed…

‘You know who that is?’ I teased Sam ‘It’s the actress from Will & Grace; you know the one that isn’t Karen.’

Sam took a closer look with the zoom feature on her phone.

‘So it is’ she breathed in ‘it’s the other one.’

Oddly enough only hours before Mark and I had engaged in an exhaustive 15 minute diatribe about how much we hated ‘Will & Grace’. As Mark was gay this was clearly a confronting conversation that needed to be had. I think we had both settled on the uncomfortable truth that ‘Will & Grace’ was really just ‘Ned and Stacey’ except that people knew what ‘Will & Grace’ was.

Tired, Mark put the final bike down next to our feet and we waited patiently as the mother escorted her still whinging trust fund child back to the curb.

Now in most developed countries and I’d argue most countries where humans live, I guess the normal thing to do would be to, as a mother, thank the man who stepped out into oncoming traffic and pulled her son to the side of the road out of harm’s way and then went back and got both bikes, but as were in the US there was a strong chance this wasn’t going to happen and so that’s when things got awkward.

The actress from Will & Grace continued to ignore Mark as he hovered nearby, the English gentlemen in him having trouble coming to grips with the fact he was being completely ignored and would not be receiving the most simple of a thank-you. Fuck, a coin being placed patronizingly in the palm of his hand with instructions to go and by himself the Hispanic cleaners standing next to him some sweets wouldn’t have been nearly as offensive at this moment.

Now granted, if the kid was injured and being tumbled into an ambulance I think we’d all settle on a compassionately raised eye-brow enough of a thank-you, but he was fine, my friend was exhausted from helping out and you know what, fuck all the excuse making, it would just be the polite fucking thing to do ‘Ms Not Karen from Will & Grace.’

I finally couldn’t stand it anymore and let the bikes drop to the ground. And that was when we got her attention.

‘Come on’ I said ‘Let’s go, she’s not going to say thanks to you Mark because she  thinks she’s on TV.’

And that was the truth, there was something in her eyes that said ‘Yep, you know who I am and so you’re going to get all fan obsessed and I shouldn’t have to thank you from saving my child, I’m on TV.’ To which my eyes said something back like ‘yeah and your last show was cancelled and you’re wearing a bum bag and people with bum bags can’t afford to not say thank you to the man who saved your kid from being run over.’

After that Mark and I found ourselves having a cocktail somewhere as we normally did after 10am on a weekday. We settled into a hotel bar in the Meat Packing district and started to while away our day and bitch about said television star.

‘Karen wouldn’t have done that’ I told Mark.

 ‘Of course not. In fact if it had been Karen we’d be having these cocktails with her right now.’

‘Yes and her husband Nick Offerman.’

‘Karen’s amazing.’

‘Yes, yes she is.’

When it was time to head home to drink more wine I stopped into the bathroom. It was one of those set ups with 10 sinks and only one toilet.

As the toilet door didn’t have an engaged sign I opened it expecting to find an unoccupied toilet. How wrong I was.

‘Get out!’ screamed a fully clothed, pants zipped up and all woman of about my age standing next to the toilet.

‘Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realise, the door wasn’t locked you see’… I mumbled my way to shutting the door. “I’m sorry but the door was open.’

I waited outside the toilet and tried to distract myself from what was not going on inside. She hadn’t locked the door, it was still clearly unlocked and from what I could tell she was just standing in there.

‘Are you ok?’ I called out ‘Do you need me to get you some help or something’? Maybe she was from a squatting country and confused. I was trying to help.

Finally the door flung open and the women ran to the sink to wash her hands, probably from the all the over top of her clothes masturbation she’d been up to.

‘I can’t believe you just walked in on me’ she ranted ‘I mean I was in there.’

‘Yes, I said, but in my defence the door was unlocked – ‘

‘Is that how you go to the toilet in Sydney?’ she accused me.

‘Ok, Australia isn’t just Sydney, but yes, we go to the bathroom by opening unlocked doors.’

Clearly distressed she ran the water over her hands for far too long and yet for whatever reason I still couldn’t compel myself to go to the toilet.

‘It’s just so rude’ she continued ‘I mean not to even be able to go to the bathroom without some Australian girl just walking in.’

‘You left the door unlocked’ I mumbled back wondering if what had really happened was I’d stumbled across her attempt to cruise women in bathrooms stalls.

Suddenly an older looking version of the women walked into the bathroom.

‘Is everything ok? She asked the irrational toilet woman ‘you’ve been gone and awfully long time.’

‘This Australian woman just walked in on me in the bathroom!’

‘I did not, well not really, she left the door unlocked. I just opened the door and it’s not she was doing anything, she was just standing there, fully clothed.’

‘Fully clothed?’ Asked the women who I was pretty sure was her legal guardian.

‘Pants up I mean’.

‘You did it again? She turned to her daughter who hid her head away.

Ok, so this was clearly a thing.

‘So you left the door opened on purpose?!’

‘No, you walked in on me.’

Her mother turned to me ‘really, you Australian’s are so rude.’

‘But I didn’t do anything wrong’ I yelled back. ‘Clearly your daughter has a thing for baiting women into bathrooms.’

‘How dare you!’ Her mother spat at me ‘it pains me to say to it, but the truth is the last good Australian died the day Steve Irwin died.’

And with that she bundled up her daughter and left the bathroom.

Unable to pee anymore I left the bathroom shortly after. Mark was waiting for me.

‘You took long enough’ he moaned ‘is it a vagina thing?’

‘Well yes’ I said ‘you could definitely say it was cunt related.’

I’ll be honest; I’ve never really had a proper Valentine’s Day. It’s through no fault of my own because god knows I’ve tried. Dressing up as boxes of  heart shaped candy, yelling at random men in the street ‘ ok who wants to eat me; I have a soft centre, taste of strawberries I’ve been told, or you could pick a flavour, I’m cool with that too…oh god, look at me! Why won’t someone love me!…look at me!’

So like I’ve said, I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried.

Having recently been dumped by my boyfriend, less than a week ago to be exact, I’m expecting this Valentine’s Day that I’m going to be single. I hold a Master’s degree in case you’re wondering where my powers of observation about my life come from and yes; sometimes it’s hard to be as perceptive as I am. Burdens hey, we all bare them. 

My first understanding of Valentine’s Day came about when I was 7 years old and Matthew Kennedy threw a bottle of perfume at me, hitting my arm and as such unfortunately managing to miss my heart. I still remember the lilt of his words that accompanied his physical abuse ‘my mum made me give you that because I don’t like girls who have moustaches.’

With his jealousy of my ability to grow facial hair 10 years before he sprouted a pube laid to bare across the school playground, I held my head high, kicked him in the head and returned to my game of handball, sore arm and all, cause and though I’m loathed to do it because it calls for a direct quote from Destiny’s Child but ‘I’m a survivor.’ Of course with all the chaos of the day it was easy to lose focus of what was really important; that I got a valentine and as such my self-worth was clearly better than anyone else’s was because even though he didn’t want to admit it, convention dictated that Matthew Kennedy was in love with me.

Years past and I’ve managed to miss Valentine’s Day every time, for varying reasons of course:

-       I’m single at the time

-     My boyfriend is dating someone else and can’t afford to spring for 2 presents (totally understandable)

-       We’ve been on a break

-       He was Catholic

-       I wasn’t tall enough

I did think perhaps my dry streak might have ended early last year when an old flame rang me to say just say:

‘Hi there sexy’

‘Oh hi there’ I quipped back

‘Hey you know how I could always call you if I had a problem Lou.’

‘Yeah, what’s up?’

‘Well it would appear I have a bit of a blockage.’

‘I’m not a plumber.’

‘It’s not that sort of blockage.’

‘Then get some Metamucil, I mean really we haven’t spoken in months and now you call because you’ve always had a fibre shy diet. This really isn’t my problem. I told you that when we were together’

‘No, it’s not that, I’m just lying here, all pent up and thought I’d call and see if you were good to your word about helping a fella out.’

‘You want me to come over and have sex with you?’

‘Oh no need for that, I’m pretty much almost there, we could really just do it over the phone…you know phone it in.’

Yep.

 I have decided though I’m not going to bemoan Valentine’s Day this year; I’m pretty sure my ex isn’t, so no, instead I’m going to do a twist on an old favourite. I’m going to stand out the front of my house tossing bottles of perfume at men as they walk past and fingers crossed I knock one unconscious and finally get the chance to defile someone to country music – like they say ‘fish gotta swim, girl gotta try.’

 Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone.

As appeared in The Lifted Brow – The Summer Magazine , January 2012.

COMMENT

Lou Sanz

Recently, I had the terrifying feeling that I’d run out of things to write about. In my panic, I found myself attempting to convince an ex-boyfriend to get back together with me, say only for three months—you know, just till he hit that bit where he could turn into a cheating wanker and I could become an irrational thespian, shredding his prized Pixies t-shirt by a freeway alongside an open flame.

There’d be no hard feelings and after three months, we could simply walk away with just enough damage done to fuel my work for perhaps the next six to twelve months.

So here he was, two years later, resting his lemon on the side of his earl grey tea. And here I was, in the same café, sipping my coffee as I awaited his reply.

I was pretty confident that I’d sold him on it; he too liked the drama. And I was pretty happy with the whole thing generally. Okay, perhaps it might’ve sounded a touch desperate—some might even have argued pathetic. But come on, I was young. I could earn my dignity back later on.

I watched him carefully. He took a brief sip of the tea and realising it was too hot, put it back down again and took a deep breath instead.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“Awesome.”

“But some things are going to have to change.”

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at the sole of his worn-out Dunlop runner. It had a tear in the side, a result of his trying to brake on a fixie.

I was concerned. This was not part of the plan. I was not here to negotiate.

“But I don’t want things to change,” I said. “I want us to get so caught up in the moment where we think this is a good idea, and then BAM—I call you one day and tell you that dinner is at seven, not eight. And then you tell me that you can’t make it because you’re inside someone else.” I placed my hand on his, encouragingly. “Just like the good old days.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “But it won’t work between us if we repeat the mistakes of the past.”

“It’s not meant to work out between us,” I said. “It’s just meant to be something that holds us over for a bit.”

He tried his tea again. It was still too hot, or perhaps with age he’d become less tolerant of heated beverages. “I’m not a rental property Lou, while you save up for a mortgage.”

“I thought I made it pretty clear that what I proposed was more of a research mission. You know—like going diving for an old wreck, finding some treasure but ultimately deciding to leave it at the bottom of the ocean, rotting.”

Annoyed, he pushed his tea away. I only just managed to save my coffee from falling off the table.
“So you’re okay with raping and pillaging my life for your little stories, but not staying around to raise the child that might result from your careless ways? Is that what you’re saying, Lou?”

“A child?” I said. “I don’t want a child with you, or anyone.”

“Why, Lou? Because the birth of a child might be the moment where you have to really confront the reality of your life?”

“Um, what are you on about?” I said. “This was just an idea. If you don’t want in, then I’ll find someone else.”
A disconcerting smile broke out across his face. “Oh really, Lou? You’ll find another one just like me, another one of your men? Well, I’ve got news for you, Lou. We talk, yes we do.”

“You speak to no one!” I spat back.

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you, that none of us know of each other, but we do.” He smiled a smile I wanted to punch.

Surely he was bluffing. “But how?”

“We all need our secrets, but if you must know? Facebook. I was reluctant at first to join; to be honest, I was more than happy with my MySpace setup. But public opinion and social convention swayed me and so I joined and at first I thought, and I’ll be honest Lou, I thought it was bullshit, but slowly it opened itself to me, its wondrous delights, its gardens of knowledge, and I came to realise I wasn’t alone, there were others like me, others who’d at some point had to endure you Lou, others who understood.”

It would seem I had been checkmated, and I had never been good at Scrabble.

This whole plan was not working at all as I’d hoped. It was almost beginning to feel like I had been set up, that sabotage was upon me. Or that I’d walked into a self-fulfilling trap.

“Why did you even agree to meet with me today?” I leaned back in my chair, attempted to fake some power.

“I was curious. I wanted to see after all these years what you were willing to lay on the table for me.”

“Lay on the table for you? There will be no laying.” I tried to banish my cleavage; it was no longer my fallback plan. But I was in too deep, and the boobs in this story were out for all to see.

“Perhaps that’s where we need to negotiate Lou.”

I got up to leave.

“Fine, Lou. Walk away. But I have what you want.”

I stopped.

“You asked to see me today because you know that I can offer an unfulfilling relationship like none other.”

He was right. He offered destruction and drama to an unprecedented degree and with only three months to work with he would be pushed to the hilt, perhaps outdoing himself in a way neither of us had thought possible.

He resumed sipping his tea.

“I think you should sit back down, Lou. You’ve created quite the little scene with your unprompted standing.”

He was right. I slumped back into my chair.

“So, Lou, like I said. Things will have to change for this to work. Firstly,” he began. “You will no longer address me as the ‘friend’ in those little blogs you write. You will refer to me by my birth-intended name—”

“No, I can’t do this,” I interrupted.

“What?”

“It’s not worth it—your gloating, your bullshit. Not even my drive for a decent story is enough to make me do this.”

“But you need me, Lou. Without me you are nothing.”

“Maybe I am, and maybe without you I will never write again. But maybe it’s best to accept that fate instead of this, with you.”

“I made you, Lou. You know that.”

I stood up and he stood up. He matched my standing intensity. But he was not going to win.

“Perhaps you had something to do with who I am today. I’ll give you that,” I said. “Because there’s only so many times you can walk in on your boyfriend surrounded by candlelight and pulling himself off to Andre Rieu without this having some profound effect on you. But right now I’m better off taking my chances by walking into oncoming traffic. It has drama, pain, anguish. It has the will-she-or-won’t-she-survive moment. It has it all. And you, you have nothing.”

And with that I left him, walking swiftly, determined not to look back. And then I heard it, the quick pounding of feet, the calling of my name. I spun around, and I was confronted by an out-of-breath waiter. He was waving an unpaid bill at me, but I was not angry. Ahead of me was the busy street, and the traffic was waiting.

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Nevending Storage

‘*****’ Time Out, Sydney

Winner ‘Time Out Critics Choice Award 2012′