Lou Sanz

I prefer to handle my own dishes

March 7th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

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.

I’d prefer a gift voucher over you for Christmas, no offence.

December 14th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink

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

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

The Reader: Your Literary Career: Choose Your Own Adventure by Lou Sanz

December 13th, 2010 § 4 comments § permalink

Ok, so someone once told you that you bear a striking resemblance to Harper Lee and you thought yes, yes I do, and so of course the only logical thing would be to become a writer. And so that’s what you’ve decided to do. Great. Welcome. Pull up a chair. Can I get you a drink? No? Of course, me too, I never drink before midday either. Now before we go any further I’m going to get you to grab a pen, because to be a real writer you’re going to need a few things: latent carrier syphilis, a cravat and a Twitter starter account for writers (follow Stephen Fry, Benjamin Law, Marieke Hardy and current left-wing political poster boy – insert applicable name here). It would also do you good to develop an irreverence to Augustus Burroughs (e.g. he’s just like me, but I’m not gay, he’s the symbolic cock in the arse of my life), an apathetic and uneducated understanding of Cloudstreet (e.g. everyone knows it’s New Zealand’s answer to Angela’s Ashes) and an almost anecdotal dedication to Margaret Atwood (try you need a certain amount of nerve to be a writer at your next Camus cheese-and wine appreciation night). Done? Great. Now you’re a writer! Might I be so bold as to say the hard work is over? So what next? Should you start a blog? Sure, why not?….

So you’ve decided to toss acid in the face of the teen queen we like to call conventional publishing and start a blog. You call it Thinking of You, the story of a young boy spurned by his father’s love exploring his relationship with his now deceased mother, set in a seaside town. It’s a really good blog, too, so much so that after encouragement you decide to upgrade it and expand your readership. An ex of yours, who to this day believes it wasn’t cheating as long as you didn’t know about it, offers you some career advice, the only thing they’ve ever been good at getting up. They suggest funding, but what path to take? You could apply to the Australia Council which is, after all, about the promotion of new vibrant and diverse talent, which you have in spades, if you do say so yourself or you could register for Google Ads?

You decide to apply for an Australia Council Grant….

It was five months ago but you did it: you applied for an arts grant. Unfortunately, blogging isn’t recognised as a legitimate artform and your submission is denied. But hey, we encourage you to apply again in the future and might we suggest you try your hand at short stories. You can pick your sorry self up from the pub floor and apply for another grant for something else in four months? or – fuck it – just throw in the towel here. Your choice.

You apply for an arts grant, again, and you are denied, again. But hey, they encourage you to apply again and encourage you to keep writing and thus the dance begins again (if you want to apply for Google Ads go for it.) But congratulations my friend, that empty or almost chronic feeling of failure accompanied by a burning desire to keep on trucking, well, that’s the feeling of being a writer, a real writer, so don’t despair, you’re a real writer now. Go buy yourself a t-shirt! Your career begins and ends right here.

You decide to apply for Google Ads….

After carefully accessing your blog traffic with Google Ads, you finally start to see some revenue from your writing. You celebrate by buying a stamp to put on the envelope that holds the letter to your Year 10 English teacher – a rampant alcoholic and failed writer who once had an open letter published in The Sun (yes, before it amalgamated) – telling them you’ve made it, you’ve finally made it. You celebrate by writing your own open letter to the Green Guide about a recent episode of Two and a Half Men asking why a wifebeater is allowed on prime-time TV. A Herald Sun writer hits upon this small but poignant letter and they demand your resignation from The Australian, which is fine given you don’t write for The Australian, but as the writer from the Herald Sun doesn’t actually read, they weren’t to know. Bless ’em. As a result you are commissioned to write for online publication The Drum. With your Twitter followers now around the hundreds, the possibilities open up before you. You could submit an article to some indie fashion / badgesavvy culture mag – let’s just call it Spankie ? –Sign up for a radio course at some public / volunteer-funded station? or record a spoken word single of Mandy Moore’s ‘Crush’ on rhythm guitar and enter it in triple j’s Unearthed contest ?

You submit an article to Spankie, then wait for a reply. You can hear crickets in the background. You bide your time by subscribing to it, maybe they’ll notice? Nice try. Should you do the radio course while you wait? If not, your career ends here.

You decide to do a radio course at a hip volunteer station ’cause after all you have heaps of cool ideas… wait… there’s a really long waiting list. To bide your time you subscribe, maybe they’ll notice? Don’t worry, someone will die soon enough.Should you enter Triple J’s Unearthed?

Otherwise, your career ends here.

You decide to record a spoken word cover version of Mandy Moore’s underrated hit ‘Crush’ – and it’s cool now ’cause she’s married to Ryan Adams – and enter it in triple j’s Unearthed. It does so well it pretty much kicks the latest indie comedian’s single in the dick, and not only does it win but it goes on to become the number one most requested video – a homage to Kate Bush’s ‘Running Up That Hill’ directed by some guy who used to play the drums in Powderfinger on Rage. Invited to headline at Splendour in the Grass and various other summer festivals, you finally find the time to draft that short story you’ve been meaning to write, and then when you’ve finished writing it you decide to have a crack at a book? Wait, no, fuck that, you apply for an arts grant to write that book, like any clever sod would?

You decide to write a novel aimed at a local indie press entitled I Forgive You, the story of a young boy spurned by his mother’s love, exploring his relationship with his now deceased father and the brother he never knew he had, set to the backdrop of a once prosperous mining town. But before you do that you’ve got to complete a double shift at a Portuguese chicken family restaurant and then go to rehearsal because the band you manage is playing a venue where the boys ride fixies and the girls work in PR, and the gig is tonight and you promised them you’d be there, and then you’ve got your writers’ group like the next day and you haven’t done anything for it yet and it’s your turn to read and that girl’s going to be there, the one that’s really into Janette Winterson and Sarah Waterson, and sure she’s got a girlfriend but that’s nothing: the well-placed whisper of a Hunter S Thompson quote will wet the legs of any writer girl. Look, you’re just too busy right now living life to write about life and win the Vogel and anyway, MasterChef is about to start, so it really isn’t a good time.

Your career ends here.

Your Literary Career: Choose Your Own Adventure was published in The Reader November 2010

http://www.emergingwritersfestival.org.au/reader/

22 isn’t too young if they have arm hair. Fact.

November 15th, 2010 § 2 comments § permalink

‘Is 22 still too young?’ I asked as I watched the object of my distraction lie naked say for a few well-placed bubbles, in a bathtub on my local Hoyts cinema screen.

My friend heaved her fist back into her popcorn for one/ for both of us to share.

‘Yes, she said, in this case it is.’ She took a sip of hers/ mine diet coke. ‘We’ve known him since we was like 13 years old.’

‘But surely if there’s grass on the wicket it’s kosher to play cricket?’

I glanced at the now ex-Harry Potter actor on the screen, dressed in nothing but a samurai sword and a belt, the subject of our discussion.

‘That’s a bit anti-Semitic Lou’

‘It’s a saying, it means good.’

‘Ok, but here’s a hypothetical, if say there isn’t grass on the wicket then my guess is it isn’t kosher to play cricket, right?’

‘I guess’

‘So in that case it’s anti-Semitic because it’s a negative.’

‘It’s just a word, there’s no anti-Semitic sentiment involved at all.’

‘Ok, let’s say I believe you, the other glaring problem is you don’t play cricket, nor do you understand it.’

‘I’m a full MCC member. If anything that gives me carte blanche to wax lyrical about young Hollywood youths who have come of age.’

‘No, no it doesn’t. You treat your MCC membership like that Bikram yoga course you never took.’

‘I took it.’

‘Once Lou, once.’

‘It was full of women that didn’t need to wear supportive underwear even when they bent over.’

‘If you stopped blaming gravity you too could live without a bra. It’s all about will power and you know, if it you had less skin.’

‘So? It’s my membership; I can do whatever I want with it, even if that means never using it.’

‘If I was your membership I’d despise you. Year in, year out leading it on, paying for it so it’s always at your beck and call, getting it’s hopes up every time there’s an Ashes series or a Grand Final but never following through on your promise of attending, so it sits there in the stairwell staring at the phone, a single tear rolling down it’s cheek, masturbating to your forgotten touch, praying that things could be different but knowing deep down inside that you’re never going to change, that you’re never going to change.’

‘We’re not talking about the cricket anymore are we?’

‘Don’t Lou, don’t. It’s hard enough I have a Jewish friend and enjoy the cricket because I’m a big supporter of diversity but I’m afraid if we keep talking you’ll offend me with some remark about nuns and flying and you know how I feel about the church Lou and nuns because I wanted to be a nun once so let’s just watch the movie.’

As instructed I turned my attentions back to the movie now with a slight feeling of guilt wafting over me, either that or it was the smell emanating from the gentleman sitting on the other side of me struggling to hold a conversation on the phone with someone I figured was his wife because he kept telling her the store had run out of control top panty hose in her size and he was in line like a West German matriarch waiting for a bread ration to find them for her and would be home soon – in the middle of a crowded picture theatre. Bless him, maybe we should’ve all pissed off and given him some privacy, after all no one likes to have people eavesdrop on them, especially at the movies.

This wasn’t the first time my interest in someone younger than me had been shot down in a flame of ‘you’re over 30 now; you’re beginning to look more sex pest and less elegant aging beauty.’

In my defence it’s not predatory, it’s not like their age has ever ended in ‘teen’, it’s just that I general date more ‘Magnum PI’ types, you know the sort that could harvest a coconut plantation thanks to the ecosystem that exists in their chest hair’ and less ‘I think it’s a guy, could be a girl, but I’m pretty sure he’s a guy, he’s just very pretty for a guy, maybe if I’m lucky I could teach him how to drive, or maybe his parents will let me take him to Luna Park for the day, or maybe I can pick him up from the airport when he gets back from schoolies week.’

I’ve gone younger only on two occasions; and only once without knowing. The unknowingly bit on the side was a camping fling and he seemed wise beyond his years, well we didn’t’ talk much and he smelt of absinth but I knew he could drive and he was taller than me; everything pointed to him being over 30.

‘He’s 26’ our mutual friend told me when she discovered the extent of our association.

Spitting my luke warm tea all over my Gado Gado I proclaimed ‘But he has arm hair!’

‘That doesn’t mean he’s legal.’

‘It would help’ I couldn’t help but scoff.

‘You’re being an idiot, he’s hot, and you’ve got a really big tent. It’s like fates colliding.’

She was right. He was hot and no one had ever complained about my big tent – there’s always been plenty of room for everyone.

My only other Harold and Maude moment came in my mid twenties, in Sydney when my staple wardrobe consisted of vintage mini dresses held together with staples, fish net stockings and cowboy boots held together with gaffer tape care of my film school. It sounds hot. It wasn’t. Think about how you might dress to attend an

‘I’ve never had an orgasm party’ and you’d be bang on the money.

His name was By, 21 years old. He told me my legs were like a stair way to heaven. It was a nice thought, but if anything my legs were more a rope ladder to Wobby’s World, complete with disused helicopter and that look of 100s of disappointed children realised they weren’t at Disneyland.

Our affair was brief; it had to be that way. He had much to do like move to London to live in a squat and pursue an acting career only to develop a predilection for c**k, an addiction to crack cocaine, and chronic STD that would eventually land him in prison – who was I to derail his dream?

As the film credits rolled I realised maybe my friend was right, that 22 was still too young.

‘I think I’m just going to look and not touch.’

‘Great. You know who does that Lou, men in parks that stand in bushes watching women jog by and wear pants with elasticised waists.’

‘So you wanna see the new Harry Potter next week?’

‘Do I have to put you on the sex offender’s registry?’

‘Not yet’ I smiled. ‘Not just yet. I’m on 31, it’s not creepy yet’

Sexy adventures with Cankle Lady

June 28th, 2010 § 4 comments § permalink

Coming home from a gig on Saturday night realising that if I managed to make it home by 9pm The Bill would be in full throttle and even with my comprehensive knowledge of back-story I’d struggle to keep up, I stood waiting for the illustrious No 19 tram. Not to worry, I wasn’t alone. I had the luck of keeping company with a couple of teenagers/burgeoning football team and when I say a couple I mean not enough to terrify me into a gang bang, but enough to have quite clearly justified their purchase of two slabs of Jim Bean & Coke.

Not that I’m a snob in the traditional sense, but yes I will admit, a couple of slabs of some sort of pale ale and these young men would have easily transformed in my eyes from just sex offenders to alleged sex offenders.

One of them spat in front of me or threw up (I’m finding it harder and harder to tell these days) before asking me how my night was, well that’s what I thought ‘…avin a good night…cat…apper…penis’ meant.

Having promised myself not to get herpes in this lifetime I stepped back from him and then watched as he tried to chase a car packed with ‘the ladies’ down Sydney Rd egged on by his friends in a way a dog might chase a car, a dog whose parents paid for it’s private school education.

I noticed a girl in the mix drinking a Red Bull with her hair pulled back into a sensible ponytail. She watched the idiots around her and for a moment I was reminded of a young me. One of the boys kept pulling her hooded sweat, trying to drag her over to him like a caveman but to her credit she spurned his advances as he tried to whisper something in her ear. She pushed him away.

‘No Tony, I’m not giving you a hand job.’

You go sister I thought as I smiled to myself.

‘Last time my hand cramped and I couldn’t text for like hours and you didn’t even cum, f**k that.’

How I yearned for those curious fumbling years…

Finally the tram arrived and we all climbed on board, the teenagers by now figuring that if they sat at the back of the tram they’d come across less like drunk dickheads and more like hip urban commuters. I moved to the front as I heard a conversation about ‘how to spot a tardo’ fade into the distance.

Deciding to stand for the next few stops, I noticed an older woman staring at me and found myself wondering for a brief moment if the No 19 was the tram of choice for lesbians to cruising away their Saturday night. I didn’t have to wait long for my answer as the woman came over to me.

‘You remind me a lot of myself when I was your age.’

Now I don’t know about you but I’ve never been into the idea of hooking up with people that look me, admitting though that I was yet to come across 5’3 curvy Latino type gentlemen who couldn’t grow a decent moustache, but hey, the night was young.

‘Um, thanks’ I replied to her, not that it was a compliment she’d paid me as I looked down at her cankles.

‘Back when I was your age I tried to kill myself, didn’t manage it mind you. Just ended up alone.’

My eyes drew away from her cankles and elasticised Susanne Gray pants and I suddenly realised how sad a complete stranger could make me feel.

I didn’t know what to say and my overwhelming curiosity to ask why she hadn’t kept trying was threatening to leap out of my mouth at any moment.

‘Um…I’m sure someone loves you.’ I offered.

‘Does someone love you?’ she asked.

Ouch.

‘My parents I think.’

‘Doesn’t count.’

‘Some of my friends?’

‘Doesn’t count.’

‘What, you mean like a boyfriend or something?’

‘I knew the touch of a man once, his name was Tom. Full of cock and confidence Tom was.’

‘What happened to Tom, did he die in the war or something?’

‘The war? I’m only 37, he was only 17.It was the love that dare not speak its name. Don’t be stupid. Died in the war. No, he just changed schools. It wasn’t meant to be.’

‘That’s a shame.’ I muttered, looking at this woman, this broken woman. Why had she been so unlucky? Would I have the same fate given I once admitted to a crush on the red head from Harry Potter?

‘If you don’t mind my saying your fringe makes you looks like a guard at a women’s prison.’

Oh, this must be why no one loved her.

I pulled the cord announcing my impending stop.

‘Ok, well you have a good night then.’

‘You don’t work in a woman’s prison do you?’

‘No.’

‘Would you like to?’

‘No’

‘Ok, no harm in asking.’ And with that she started up towards the back of the tram looking to acquaint herself with some of Jim Bean fuelled football team.

As I hoped off the tram I heard her turn to the girl I’d seen earlier.

‘You remind me of myself when I was your age.’

‘I’m not licking you out or nuffin’ the girl spat back at her.

You go sister I couldn’t help but smile to myself.

I like my friends, conditionally.

June 21st, 2010 § 2 comments § permalink

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.

A minor faux pas

June 7th, 2010 § 5 comments § permalink

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.

Helen Mirren and Me

May 12th, 2010 § 2 comments § permalink

It’s a sad day financially and personally when you find yourself standing at the frozen food aisle at 9 o’clock on a Saturday night staring at the home brand frozen French fries, complaining into your mobile to a friend that you refuse to spend more than $3.68 on fries, but that said, a potato gem, well one can’t place a monetary value on genius.

‘Why don’t you just go to McDonald’s or that fish and chip shop around the corner?’ my friend so ignorantly suggested.

‘Because I never actually see them working there. They’re always out the front and that says to me they don’t change their oil.’

‘But you’ll eat something resembling a potato cake no questions asked from Golden Tower at 4am.’

‘My self worth was particularly low that day, and if you remember correctly I also found the guy who ran the 7/11 shaggable that evening. We all have lapses in judgement and anyway I want to make my own chips.’

‘Then buy a potato’

‘No, they have to be frozen, oven baked fries. It’s Saturday night for crying out loud and I have Prime Suspect on DVD. Don’t you see? Scrubbing, peeling, cutting and roasting my own chips – I might as well start wearing knitted trousers and calling my kids Acorn and Wonderment.

There was silence for a moment.

‘Hey, I was thinking, what happens when we don’t have internet?’ My friend pondered.

‘What, like if it didn’t exist?’

‘No, as in, I don’t have it where I’m staying right now.’

‘Well I assume you’ll just have to do what most people do. Call someone, pay them, get it installed, or you could take your laptop outside, find someone to sit in the gutter and cross your fingers.’

‘That’s called stealing.’

‘No, in today’s world it’s referred to as knowledge transfer.’

I awaited her answer while considering if my hair should endure another winter with discount conditioner.

‘Hmmm, look Lou I need to go; my hair dye is bleeding into the handset.’

‘Ha! You’re dying your hair on a Saturday night – loser!’

‘You’re buying frozen chips.’

‘Ok, to be fair I’ve now moved onto condiments.’

‘Yep, how’s that cognitive therapy working out?’

‘I haven’t started yet, like I only just gave up coffee and all other stimulants including men- BAM! – did you get it? It was a joke!’

‘Yeah, Lou I got it, but I think you should hop to it, cause just imagine how embarrassed you’ll be after I visit you after your first suicide attempt. I mean you’ll just kick yourself.’

‘I’m hanging up now.’

‘Enjoy your potato.’

‘Thank you. I will.’

Now at home and settled into with my box set of Prime Suspect a.k.a Helen Mirren marathon and chips, I began to imagine myself as DCI Tennison. I smiled as she spoke of fish fingers, knowing that she too wouldn’t have broken budget to buy the better frozen chips. We both shared that quality of great humility coupled with superiority. I didn’t have time to think of all our other similarities, the DVD was about to start.

NOTE TO SELF: forge new career as actor as have recently discovered an ability to emphasise with Oscar winning actress Helen Mirren. Follow up with manager on Monday.

I’ve started wearing tracksuits

May 11th, 2010 § 1 comment § permalink

Often when one thinks of romance we conjure up images of young, nubile (look, maybe that’s just me and my penchant for being able to bounce things off walls) creatures, fornicating on a deserted beach at sunset, declaring a love that need not speak its name, unapologetically crushing the pink tinged roses he’d bought her at the start of their date…

To be honest though, after years of getting sand in my crutch and never been given flowers, when I think of romance it’s slightly more evolved, having changed from whispers of sweet nothings to something more along the lines of that if I’ve been seeing a guy for a few months and I don’t receive a phone call from a friend telling me he’s been shagging someone else, well I burst into tears of happiness cause fuck me I’ve never felt so much joy.

However in recent weeks my idea of romance has evolved once again, it’s more platonic by nature (and no, I’m not mounting objects on the wall and running at them). Whether this has been a result of getting better bed sheets or recent illness’s ‘how many flu’s can you get?’ it’s growing where?’ and ‘you’re not pregnant like we first thought, it’s an infection’, I’ve found myself seduced by the romance of being a shut in.

It started simply enough. Friends asking me to go and have a good time with them, sure it seemed like a nice idea but that would involved getting dressed into what I call my ‘outside’ clothes and I’d only recently discovered the benefits of your ex leaving his crap at yours – large over sized hooded jumpers. I needed to devote as much time as I could to this new found discovery. Of course I wasn’t a complete social drop out; I’d always offer a solution to my friends:

‘Come around to mine and I’ll make us some dinner, we don’t need to go out to have a good time.’

‘Will you be wearing pants?’

‘Yes’

‘And what about that gingham smock thing?’

‘I’ll be wearing both; I’ve neither shaved my underarms or my legs.’

I did understand though why my friends started seeing other people when my dinner menu consisted of the one and only question ‘baked beans or spaghettio’s, and I don’t have any bread, we’ll just have to make do without bread right?’

My flat mates were as supportive as they could be with it all, but when one wandered in to see me reading my copy of Laura Bushes biography and fiddling with the oven whilst drinking my 10th cup of strong Yorkshire tea for the day and lamenting I couldn’t find my anti-anxiety medication anywhere useful and must’ve left it in the shower, well he had to intervene cause ‘Lou, you haven’t showered in days, lets stop making shit up ok?’

I was sure I wasn’t a complete lost cause; after all I had to leave the house to go to my local video store to continue my research on British police procedural dramas. What I was researching I didn’t know quite yet. It had taken me about 30 seconds to admit to myself I’d so go Vincent D’Onofrio from Law & Order Criminal Intent, but the lead guy from Midsummer Murders, well it had been over 6 years and I still wasn’t convinced, as such there was much work to be done.

The video store was easy enough; people go in there with top high ponytails and hooded jumpers all the time. I made my selection, including some DVD’s of a show I was to be in, but when I got to the counter and the clerk informed me I was one over my Weekly Special limit I chose to put that DVD back – really, I thought, I should buy it, you know support local industry the way it was supporting me – the clerk seemed happy with my selection including the one I chose to put back.

‘Good choice putting that one back. If you asked me we stopped making people laugh when the Crocodile Hunter died.’

Arriving home shortly after I logged onto the internet and joined an online DVD rental store.

It was pointed out though at some point, even though I was literally living in my own filth trying to work to deadline that I might need deodorant or a leg razor, you know for ‘special occasions.’

Trudging out in my smock and high tops I walked the 50 meters to my local shopping centre and found myself staring at the deodorant rack, armed with soy milk, veggie burgers, HP sauce and Oreos, debating whether a further spend of 38c was warranted given I wasn’t loyal to any sort of particular brand. To this day I don’t know the difference between a deodorant and an antiperspirant and I’m afraid I’m too old to ask.

Now I’m not casting judgment on anyone that picks up in the toiletries aisle at a supermarket, but I’m not a huge fun of scoring anywhere near where they sell lubricant and indigestion tablets, because it would be too much like looking into a future relationship mirror. So imagine my surprise if you will when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around to see a man wearing elastic wasted trousers – enough said.

‘I know you from somewhere’ he so eloquently observed.

My vanity got the better of me, Christ I was in a smock and trainers.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Yes, I saw you die at Vibe comedy one night. It was awful you were shit.’

‘Thanks.’
‘Me I like jokes that rhyme.’

‘We all have a type.’

‘That we do, that we do.’

‘So buying deodorant, you don’t smell that bad.’

‘I wear deodorant.’

‘Then why you buying more?’

‘It’s not like a never ending packet of Tim Tams.’

‘I don’t understand’.

…and it was at that point I realized he quite possibly wasn’t even 24, of course he wouldn’t get the reference.

‘Look, um, if you’re not doing anything would you like to come to Maccas with me? I have a voucher and a health care car, gets you a discount’

He then noticed my soy milk and before I could answer…

‘..hey sorry, just saw the soy milk, but that’s cool, we both like vag.’

I went home and joined Woolworths Home Delivery and safe in the knowledge I wasn’t leaving my house anytime soon, took off my pants.

oh the drama of the dramatic

April 1st, 2010 § 2 comments § permalink

I experienced my first walk out the other night at comedy festival. A young couple who seated themselves so far back, I thought for a moment they were trying to position themselves to also catch a glimpse of the other show in the next room, at the very least to experience the touch of faux velvet curtains adorning the makeshift theatre against the whites of their skin.

What amused me about it all was the timing. Having just knocked out a bit about a finger assault of the insertion variety, I could admit ‘ok, not everyone’s cup of tea’, but to walk out in the middle of my ode to seaQuest DSV’s Jonthathan Brandis, well that’s just rude – the man hung himself for crying out loud – I don’t expect laughs, but respect, at the very least I expect that and so does Jonathan.

But that’s the thing about walk out’s, they never live up to the expectation, well mine don’t anyway. I always sit there offended and then at an ill considered time like say if someone’s asking after the health of my mother, I storm out, realise how out of context me walking out would make no sense to the person I was trying to prove a passionate point with and then I have to come back into the room, let them know my mother is in fine health and yes, I know you also tried to sleep with my boyfriend last month, and that’s really inconsiderate given we all know your rash hasn’t quite cleared up yet – and then I leave the room again – the thing about the walk out is you have to commit to it.

Given my audience walk outs didn’t return that night, I take my hat off to them – I often worry about the lack of conviction in today’s youth, but they managed to reassure me somewhat that not all is lost.

There are a few of my own walkouts that still stick in my head.

1. Being dragged to see a NIDA first year graduate piece on movement and walking out. (yes, I know, it clearly doesn’t need anymore explanation)

2. Being dragged to a WAPPA musical theatre graduate showcase and walking out.

3. Finding out my mother was really my father one year at Christmas (ok, not true, but saying I walked out because I inadvertently ate fishing bait thinking it was shrimp and thus was made to sit at the children’s table as a result doesn’t have the same impact).

4. Being taken on a date where a guy superimposed his head over mine in a picture and presented it as ‘our future’.

5. Seeing ‘Scary Movie 3’ and having only myself to blame, walked out.

…and then of course there was my walkout of 2009. I’d been seeing this new guy. He seemed pleasant enough and when I say pleasant I mean he didn’t open up with ‘the divorce was hard for me and the kids’ or ‘my mum is just a great flat mate, you know what they say, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it, or cut the umbilical cord’ and my favourite ‘I’m really looking for the one right now, but that might be one in a million and so if I have to sleep with a million women to find that one then it’s special when I finally find her, my only hope is she’s still working at Victoria’s Secret.’

We were hanging out with his friends (he was yet to meet mine, so that should give you a better understanding of where I saw this going) at a show I’d produced, in a bar full of my peers, sitting next to one of my friends when he decided the mood was right for a bit of a chat, oh to make it even more romantic, I’d just gone to kiss him and he pushed me away, nudging me back into the other people on the couch just enough so that they’re attention was now turned on us in that ‘they’re looking but not looking’ kinda way.

‘Um Lou, you know I like you and everything.’

‘Ok…’

‘But here’s the thing, when I look at you I really can’t see this being a relationship thing.’

‘It isn’t a relationship thing.’

‘But, and correct me if I’m wrong, I’m pretty sure you’re viewing it as a relationship thing.’

‘Let me correct you then….’

‘Ok Lou, no need to get worked up about this.’

‘I’m not worked up, but we’ve only gone out three times and I’ve never bought up a relationship.’

‘But you’re 30.’

‘And?’

‘Well it’s inevitable that eventually you’ll bring up the relationship thing, if not now then 7 months or a year from now if we were still going out.’

‘If we were still going out after a year then I’d argue that would be a relationship.’

‘And there in lies my point Lou – see to assume it’d be even close to a relationship after a year is a massive assumption and I can’t see myself in all honesty with someone who makes assumptions for the both of us.’

‘You’re an idiot.’

‘Alright, no need to get mean about this, but I’m breaking up with you and I think it best you hear it from me.’

‘You can’t break up with me if we weren’t really together yet.’

‘Can’t I Lou, can’t I?…you really need to stop being so hooked up about definitions.’

I took a deep breath and wondered to myself about whether or not I should take the door till home with me that night or come back tomorrow.

‘Hey Lou, look if it’s any consolation I still find you really hot and I’m still very attracted to you, like I could easily take you home tonight cause you make me very…, but the thing is when I’m seen out with you in public I find it awkward and uncomfortable for me – there I said it.’

‘Ok’

‘And now I’m having to meet all your friends.’

‘I’ve not even introduced you to one of them.’

‘But I know who they are.’

‘Seeing them on TV does not mean you know them.’

‘Doesn’t it Lou? Doesn’t it?’

And so it was at this point I got up to walk out.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Home.’ I grabbed my purse and suddenly my friend who’d been sitting next to me on the other side of the couch gently touched my arm.

‘Everything ok?’ he asked.

‘Yep, just think I got dumped by someone I wasn’t in a relationship with.’

‘Oh who?’

I pointed.

‘I didn’t even know you two were seeing each other.’

‘My point exactly’ I bemoaned to him, catching my stride as I headed towards the door, but not before my ‘dumper’ pulled me to the side.

‘Listen Lou, there’s no need to make a scene by walking out, lets not make you leaving the last memory you and I have together.’

I thought about it for the moment, maybe I shouldn’t leave, it was a nice party after all, actually it was my party….and it really is at this point that a well timed slap and a solid exit would have served me well, or even throwing him out would have been a compromise, but hey, I’m always the first to admit I’m the architect of my own demise…

‘…it’s just’ he continued ‘there’s a girl here who I really like and she’s a fan of your blog and stuff and if she’s us arguing I think that might just sully my chances with her – what do you say?’

‘I say no.’

‘Christ, you just can’t move on can you Lou, just admit it’s over and the sooner you can get back to a normal life, one devoid of this heart ache our break up has caused you.’

‘What script are you reading from?’ I asked.

‘The script of life Lou, you should try it sometime.’

And it was only at the point did I walk out and I’m pretty sure he landed the other lady, so in hindsight I shouldn’t be so harsh on myself – it was very well timed.