The Break Up Diary

So I started writing this when Tom and Katie split, which was what, like two weeks ago? And now I sit down afresh and the news has passed. Thankfully, this whole RPatz/Kirsten Stewart* implosion has happened so this is all still valid. (BTW in other celebrity news, Michelle Williams’s getting engaged to Jason Segal, and I really approve of that because if I can’t marry him, it might as well be her as she seems sane. Moreover, I think he’d make a really nice stepdad, so go them!)

Annywaay.

Breaking up with people, or them breaking up with you, kinda sucks. Regardless of whether you’re having all your personal Scientology sex secrets are being dragged through the headlines of Ninemsn or just setting fire to each other’s stuff in the back yard of your fibro, when someone decides they don’t like you as much as they did - or you arrive at that decision about your partner -  feelings get hurt, egos get bruised and people are sad.

Coping mechanisms! Figure out your way of handling this shit. Katie Holmes and RPatz** were sensible enough to extract themselves from their situation with as little drama as possible. Kirsten Stewart, in her 22 years of wisdom,  has decided to traipse out her infidelity as publicly as possible like the rest of us actually give a shit, like it’s world flippin’ news. Tom Cruise chose to throw money at the problem*** and continue being crazy, a business plan that has certainly been good to him in the past.

You might choose to tragicraft, experiment with your sexual orientation for a while, or become a cat burglar and destroy a department store for fun. You could also let yourself go in a spectacular pancake flop of hairy jumpery gross.  I chose to keep a diary. Below are some excerpts from the last heinous break up I underwent.

Day 1: Cried in the shower, cried on the way to work. Was told to go home because of the crying. Mother and sister watched me cry and eat. Met a friend in similar position. We cried. The waiter didn’t ask, he just poured the wine and walked away…

…Day 5: Went for incredibly long walks. Began drinking, eating and dressing like John Goodman. Have been crying so hard I think I have dehydrated myself. The purple giraffe put me to bed…

…Day 12: Decided to pack up everything he’d ever given me into a box under the bed. Found it really hard to heat up chocolate pudding with the microwave down there. Went to sister’s to do other stereotypically cliché breakup things. Watching Steel Magnolias is very boring. Ice cream and pizza is not. Ha fucking ha…

…Day 15 Monday: Have finally stopped crying all the time. This is good. May be able to regain dignity now and stop buying frozen Bavarians in bulk...

 You may have noticed a bit of a theme running through that - oh the eating I did! That’s not really a recommended coping mechanism, binge eating. I made it worse for myself by having a nervous condition which makes me throw-up when I’m stressed. That particular emotional stop-gap ended up being an incredible waste of money, equivalent to making a children’s piñata out of fifty dollar notes.  

But this diary thing really helped me. I re-read  passages and chortled myself back into reality. At the end, when you are further away from the horror of realising that someone doesn’t want to kiss you anymore, you can start to have fun because some break ups are kind of hilarious, funny because they can be so amazingly tragic.

I think it’s important to enjoy some of the operatic, deep and ridiculous tragedy of a breaking up; cancelling the romantic holiday you dreamt up, returning your hypothetical wedding dress, killing off a family of imaginary children you’ve housed in your fantasy the castle in the sky. Treat your break up like a temporary end of the world! It’s sad, this is sad, you’re allowed to be sad, so do it!

Enjoy that for a couple of weeks then get your shit together and start behaving like a grown up again. Regardless of feeling frequently confounded, slightly destroyed and a smidgeon relieved, there’s a good reason this has happened. Maybe you’re going to be better off, maybe they will come back when the timing is better or maybe you were just supposed to learn something. Cos think about it, you rarely break up with the person you are meant to be with in the end.

*Kirsten, seriously, what the hell did you think you were doing? You are what, the highest paid actress in Hollywood right now, how did you think you could do anything secretly? Surely you’ve worked out you can’t eat a sammich without someone taking photos of you, how the fuck did you think you’d get away with an affair with a married guy!?! SERIOUSLY, YOU ARE A MORON!

** Apparently he’s ‘inconsolable’ and ‘distraught’, and that’s totally understandable, cos he’ll never find love again or anything like that, cos he’s so unappealing, and I’m a giant spotted elephant named Fritz.

***He must have put down a bit of cash to avoid a crazy divorce circus, I know it’s none of my business, but he must have.

Dear Michael Fassbender

Dear Michael Fassbender,

What’s up, you ridiculously smoking German/Irish man you?

As your future wife I have to say that I'm thrilled with your current popularity. I don’t think I’ve used the phrase ‘on trend’ in regards to a person so much in my life as I have in the last year and a half. You’re the current talk of the town, the cock of the walk and the captain of my heart and I have to say I’m really glad you’ve found a niche playing handsome weirdos in every other movie going.

Moreover, I'm really glad that the time has come where everyone stopped all this ‘OMG RYAN GOSLING IN MY PANTS PLS!’ nonsense and remembered that there are actual men still alive in the world. Actual real men, walking around on strong, manly, Olympian thighs of gods, with thrillingly sharky sharky smiles.  Are you about to kiss me, or take a bite outta me? I dunno, but I think it’s just… neat.

What’s the deal with Gosling anyway? I completely fail to see that dork’s appeal. Honestly, you, mo mhuirnín,  make him look like a wet cocker-spaniel puppy with a cold who has just been told about Bambi’s mum from the bottom of a well , i.e.  drippy, wet and annoyingly pathetic (P.S. could you please shield me with your amazing manly arms of wonder when the Gosling fans come baying for my blood? Those hounds! Thanks.)

All your hotness aside, it doesn’t really change the fact that you are a probably more than a bit creepy. And it’s not just because my mother thinks your eyes are too far apart. It’s your collected body of work. I just watched the viral for Prometheus, David 8 in which you appear to be some sort of TERRIFYING FLOWER SNIFFING ROBOT BUTLER from the future.  Add that to:

• Serial Shagging addict 
• Serious Doctor/Patient confidentiality breach
• Secret Wife Haver
• Masochistic Spartan 
• Sadistic Roman
• Giant magnet with a serious chip on his shoulder

And those are just the one off the dome, I'm sure a couple of hours of IMDB research would yield more proof of your sexy creeping, occasionally in German. Oh Michael, just how many languages can you act in, mein lieber schatz?

On the crazy and hot celebrity scale (1 being the lowest, Justin Timberlake = Surprisingly Normal and 10 being the highest aka Christian Bale = probably would eat someone) your collected body of work (not to mention, you know, your body) would probably earn you a solid 8. This means you've probably got a couple of years before you go Oliver Reed/ Richard Harris style bonkers, drink yourself to death or start narrating IMAX features.

But Mikey… Fassi… Bendi? We’ll sort out the nickname situation later. It should be said that it’s not just your glorious jolie laide face, stupefying bod or air of crazy danger that has us so excited, it’s the fact that you may have the ability to refresh the power of the edgy UK actor once more. 

The golden boys of the nineties are gone; the Rickmans, the Oldmans, they have become jowly and old.  The hotties of the 2000s- Ewan McGregor, Ralph Fiennes and Gerard Butler-  have failed us with shitty rom-coms like Down With Love, Maid in Manhattan and that one with Katherine Heigl… eurgh Heigl, she is pure whitebread boring and I'm gluten intolerant!

And what are we left with? Can we really rely on Rupert Penry-Jones to deliver strength, or Benedict Cumberbatch to supply sensuality? Neurotics and mad geniuses maybe. The truth is, Mister Fassbender, fan girls of the world need you to deliver obscure United Kingdom hotness out of the dark depths of Middle America date movies and ABC costume dramas and into the white hot light of good films with self-respecting actors.  Come on, Toms Hardy and Hiddleston can’t do this all by themselves. Fassbender, my heart, we are all counting on you.

You future frau/bean chéile,

Joe

Things you can tell yourself next time you feel like crap

According to my naturopath, when you hold onto bitterness, you get stomach problems, so I feel that positive affirmations are very important. Say you’ve had a shit day. Say you got yelled at during work in front of everyone, or you fell down in a really awkward and embarrassing way and laddered your new tights. Maybe you found out your ex-boyfriend is getting married to an 18 year old and you stop watching where you’re going and sixty yards of barbed wire hits ya right smack in the puss and then a wild animal comes over and runs away with your shoes and your car blows up suddenly and your windshield-wiper ends up in your mouth and ya can’t move and the mud's rising up to your nostrils and you’re sinking fast and ya can’t hear yourself screaming anymore? Is that what’s on your mind, cousin? Perhaps you need to give yourself a good talking to, like I have below….

So other people appear to have perfect lives full of sunshine and flowers. Well, they might have something going on that you don’t know about, like they’re allergic to peanuts or they can’t find jeans that fit - problems that, though small, may be slowly making their lives uncomfortable in some way. You’re definitely not wishing that on them, you’re just saying that could be the case.

But really, your life is pretty excellent. You have so many great shoes and that really nice orange coat that everyone comments on. That is a great coat. Even though the rest of your clothes don’t fit and everything you buy falls apart pretty quickly, makes you look old or like an overgrown high school kid, that coat is still amazing. Well done, you own one piece of clothing which doesn’t make you look like an idiot.

So you think you’ve sent that guy one message too many. So what? If he’s scared by that, he’s a wuss and do you really want a skittish man as the protector of you and your young? No, yo mamma taught you better than that! And it’s not as though you’ve done anything really crazy. You haven’t sent five messages a day or kidnapped any pets. You don’t know if they have any pets anyway because you’re not a crazy Facebook stalker either, and even if you were, Facebook stalking isn’t actually stalking. It’s checking up on friends and that’s what Facebook was made for.

Anyway, if anything, it shows that you are persistent. And polite. So polite, you should teach a course in manners.

You don’t have the time to be stalking anyone, what with your glittering social life full of extra –curricular activities and sophisticated friends. You know loads of interesting people who bring boutique beers to parties and let you try them, and buy you hamburgers on your birthday. With friends like these life is a big bowl of cherries! And you’ve got the spoon man, the silver spoon!

In fact, you staying home eating macaroni and cheese both Friday and Saturday was the respite your body needed after this week. You’re a pragmatic grown-up who takes care of themselves. You make wise decisions regarding your health and finances and that $70 jumper with ‘JUMPER’ written on it was a wise investment in comedy clothing and I’m proud of you. And think of all the weight you’ll lose now that you can’t afford to eat this weekend!

And look at your hair. You hair is perfect, every time. It’s like a realistic My Little Pony’s mane it’s so shiny. But you’re better than a mere pony, you’re a horse, a tall graceful, lithe horse. You are a Silver Brumby of a woman.

So what if today was way stupid? That doesn’t mean that tomorrow will be. Tomorrow might be the best day that ever happened to you,  the beginning of the rest of your life. Just because life usually plays like a guinea pig running in a wheel, around and round with the same old crap doesn’t mean that the same thing is going to happen tomorrow. In fact I know that it won’t, because if most of the day seems like shit, I just found $2 and I’m going to use that to buy you a mars bar for dessert tomorrow. That’s right, you get a mars bar, you’ve earned it.

8 Things I'd do if I were a dude

 You ever wonder what you would do if you woke up one day to discover you had a dick? After the initial panic and frantic attempt to find my Brian Doyle-Murray spiritual guide, I think I’d settle in very nicely and get started on my new gender agenda.

Here are just a couple of things I’d do if I were a dude.

Smell Amazing all the time
Seriously menfolk, how do you expect us to get busy with you when you smell like old vegetable sacks full of rotten shoes? All you have to do is wear clean clothes and wash yourself and your body will do the rest. If I were a dude preparing for a date I’d wash with Old Spice, brush my teeth, gently splash myself with cologne, put on clean clothes then run to wherever I needed to be, working up my intoxicating manly musk. Yep, the scent of a vaguely sweaty clean man is a confusingly sexy thing.

Grow a beard
I’ve always envied the stately sartorial statement which is a manly beard. It’s like an extra accessory you can wear on your face. Whereas women have to pay to get their facial hair removed I’d have a legitimate excuse to grow it luxuriously long and lovely for free.

Strike up conversations with likely girls
If I were a dude I would talk to any pretty girl that looked at me appreciatively. I’d make conversation in buses, chat in elevators and flirt at bars. I’d share my umbrella, offer to carry things and generally be courteous and friendly to the point of seeming Edwardian.  I know that this would probably turn out being way creepier than it sounds in my head but once I figured out how to pick my targets I think I could do quite well for myself.

Talk as men do
Dudes seem to bond with other dudes purely on the basis on a mutual  Y chromosome. Seriously, I was having a drink with a mate and this complete stranger sat down with us. Within ten minutes they had exchanged numbers and were planning to watch movies the next day. I overhear real men having hilarious conversations and have devoted some energy into decoding them.  Are they being profound and deep or are they really talking that intensely about melted cheese? One things for sure, I want in!

Play a musical instrument 
I could certainly, happily be the dude who just walks into a place, picks up a banjo and starts serenading people. I don’t know why I don’t do this now, but I know it would be  more charming with my big bushy beard. I would play the banjo, wear a Greek fisherman’s hat and play Appelachian mountain songs… shit I just became my grandpa.

Allow women to style me.
If I were a man I would rely very heavily on the fashion instruction of the women around me, because most of the women I know look amazing all the time. If I took their advice I would almost certainly look interesting, well groomed, hipsterish and hot enough to be up to my elbows in bookish fringy women.

Go topless more often
It’s not socially acceptable for me to get my tits out whenever I like. If I had none, then there would be nothing to stop me from being shirtless 65% of the time.

Not be a dick
Just because society has given me carte blanche to forget appointments, leave texts unreturned, commit constant faux pas, openly ogle, fart, belch and blunder my way through life doesn’t mean that I have to.

Knickers to that I say...

During my last move I had a rare opportunity to count my all my underwear, should the zombie apocalypse arrive I am glad to say I have enough underwear for 30 days before I have to find an abandoned laundromat. I was surprised by the lack of variety and, frankly, the complete lack of ‘fanciness’ in my collection but after all, I am a pragmatic utilitarian. Maybe you’re a petty bourgeois with a satin box full of lace camiknicks and corsets, or a Calvinist with a bundle of hessian bloomers and thistle undershirts, I sure as hell don’t care, but I can tell you…

What your underpants say about you!

G-Sting
Everyone has some bogus reason for why these non-pants exist, so lemme dispel some G-string myths for you;
1. They are good for dancing. Yeah, maybe, but what if you jump to wide and slice yourself in half?
2. They’re sexier than normal undies. Yeah maybe back in Striptease/Showgirls/80’s/90’s land these might have been the better option, considering that the alternative was some sort of puckered floral high cut nightmare your grandma wouldn’t wear. These days we have boy leg Brazil cut camiknicker things which provide both coverage and underbum and are subtle and sophisticated. Thongs are a juvenile kind of sexy you’d see in Zoo or some shit so if you’re a grown arse lady leave them to children. Moreover while it may be considered a good idea to wear your whale tail stickin’ out of your jeans, have you considered that denim is like butt sand paper? You’re going to hurt yourself.
3. They look better under tight things. Great you’re wearing a g-string! Brilliant! So instead of just seeing where your underpants end I can now see every contour of your butt, every cellulite dimple, every mole, every goose bump. That’s much better than a VPL and not a nauseating over share at all!
The bottom line: Not for me.

Cotton Tails
Are you sixty? If not don’t do it. Nothing says ‘I want no willies near me ever’ like panties that go up to your arm pit. Under normal circumstances you can probably get away with wearing these once a fortnight. Any more than that and you might as well embroider ‘Closed’ on the front so no one misses the message.
The bottom line: Better start that cat collection now buddy.



Boy-Leg
You are a person; you live in the world and buy knickers there. You also must be frustrated at the fact that you have a constant VPL, unless you buy those special non-stick scan-pan silicone grippy pants… they are the bestest.
The bottom line: Captain Sensible.










Actual Boy's Underpants
Oooh look at you! You have a boyfriend! Ooooh you spend more time at his place than your own! Oooh you’re so entrenched in his life that you actually share intimate apparel! You’re so smugly in love! Ooooohh oohohooohh!
You make me sick.
Okay whatever, so more than likely you’ve borrowed these from the boyf (fine), keep them as a memento from previous boyf (a bit sad) or you buy men’s undies cos they are so darn comfy (completely understandable).
The bottom line: You’ve figured out an ingenious way to steal cocktail franks and plums.

No Pants
Wow, that’s a game change. Are you sure you want to do that? While everyone should go free at least once a year, being pants-less makes me so nervous I can’t ever really enjoy it. What if your pants aren’t as opaque as you think they are? What if you sit in poison? What if you find yourself upside down for some reason? It’s just too risky! Wearing no underwear is an incredibly powerful secret, and like the codes for the nukes, it would be catastrophic if it falls into the wrong hands. If you do tell someone, expect them to have a strong reaction, otherwise keep it to yourself. Seriously, the news would break like avian flu.
The bottom line:There isn’t one. When you go commando, chaos reigns.

Creeper gotta creep

Public transport is a great democratiser. The rich, the poor, the strange and the normal will all eventually find themselves traveling together cheek by jowl in metal oblongs. But in the case of public transport ‘all walks of life’ includes not only the walkers but skulkers, shufflers and worst of all creepers.

Chances are if you caught public transport and have a vagina* you’ve been creeped on public transport. You'll be sitting on the train, minding your own business and you’ll suddenly discover that the seat next to you has been filled by the kind of dude you’d usually cross the street to avoid. He’ll sit next to you and start doing something wildly inappropriate, absolutely disgusting and frankly confusing, thus rendering you really uncomfortable.

Me and my sisters have had my fair share of creeper experiences. Dingo once had a dude talk at her for a solid hour before grabbing her hand and licking it. She stood up in the middle of the carriage and shouted ‘this man is licking me! Somebody please help’ and no one did anything! I got stuck on a broken down train with a dude who just got out on prison who began reading Anne of the Island over my shoulder, out loud. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to think this kind of stuff is not on.

It doesn’t help that we are conditioned to be a bit skittish these days. A stranger asks me the time and I’m already making a fist with my keys. However, with a creeper there’s usually something, a crazed look in the eye, a prison tattoo or a peculiar smell which sends a clear message ‘this dude is a not someone I wish engage with’.

Maybe sometimes we’re over reacting and misconstrue a friendly conversation as a prelude to cutting off our head and putting it a plastic bag. Clever creepers know this and use this against us. You say to someone ‘I don’t wish to be rude but I don’t feel like talking, I’m reading my book’ and they accuse you of branding them a rapist just because they were being social.

Whilst everyone is entitled to the benefit of the doubt, and a person could be made awkward by personality, situation, social ineptitude and emotional health, the point is that you know when you feel venerable or consider behaviour inappropriate and you have every right not to put up with it. We all should be allowed to say no, we should be allowed to keep our personal space personal and we should be allowed feel safe.

If you wish to escape the clutches of the creeper, the following tactics should work;

-Pretend not to be able to speak English. This one is chancy as it is completely foiled if you phone rings, if they speak the language that you are pretending to know or if you are with a mate. Actually, that works better, cos if you insist that you can’t communicate with the creeper but continue a completely normal conversation in plain English with your friend they may just get the jist that you aren’t interested in how they lost their hook hand in a turkey factory.

-The Jenna Marbles face.

-Call a friend and have a conversation about how you’re being made really uncomfortable by this guy sitting next to you on the train and yes, he does smell like rotten vegetables and wee and absolutely, you’re calling the police as soon as you hang up, but just in case you are carrying your Taser today.

-Come prepared with something like a book, laptop or headphones.Even better if your headphones are obviously not connected to anything.

-Change carriages. I know that this is not really fair, as we have as much right to be in a space as they do without being made to be uncomfortable but if it’s a choice between your safety and peace of mind than making a point that may easily be missed then just move.

*look this is from my experience. I'm not saying that all dudes on trains are creepers or the all creepers are dudes on trains. I am especially not saying that it's only dudes that creep, I have been creeped by ladies too, and I also know a couple of dudes who have been creeped upon. My point is that these sentiments are fluid... suspiciously warm, beany smelling, mysterious fluid.

Pour vinegar on the thorn in your cardboard heart... whoa! That's depressing!

Google is a wonderfun thing. I’d like to think if I was unemployed, or in hospital for a long period of time (say for argument I had suffered a terrible fall after trying to jump my Shetland pony, Morgrim the Wonderhorse, over a matchbox in a steeplechase) I would happily wile away the long futile hours in traction with only my left hand in tact by going on the Google and looking up things.

I love that Google will just hand me interesting things to look up. Hey there Joe, did you know it’s the 100th anniversary of water? Find out what it’s made of! It’s a distraction engine.

Yesterday, of course, it decided to tell me all about Valentine’s Day, and the ensuing five minute Wikipaedia break lead to the discovery of a twee little tradition known as the Vinegar Valentine.

For those of you who don’t know what this is (and haven't already clicked through) participate in this scenario. Imagine this, the dude that you like, let’s say for my example, the tall cute beardy one from Commercial Kings, Rhett, wants to meet you on Valentine’s Day. You see him approach; he might even be wearing a subtle red shirt for the occasion. From the sheepish, promising smile that you know is only for you, you can tell that the small pink envelope he’s handing you is the magical key to all the wonders of a long term, serious and outlook-changing relationship that is seconds form being yours.

You giggle demurely as you snatch the espial out of his hand and tear it open only to find this...

What a slap in the left, right, lower and all other ventricles. I can't think of a more delightfully weird and wonderful way to tell someone that you hate them than give them a card on a day usually reserved for love, niceness and special sexy underpants. I cannot believe that someone would actually give someone this and not expect to be paper cut eviscerated.

I mean Valentine’s Day was concerning enough but I had no idea that instead of just being plum ignored I could be handed a deceptive, hope-raising item which will then viciously lampoon all my character flaws in a concise little card with an unflattering and painstakingly accurate caricature.

The vinegar valentines I’ve found have been olde worldy, stuff like ‘shiftless man’, the ‘bookworm’ and the ‘busybody’. It seems like such a weird thing that in a time where snark is the go to attitude, people swear in wedding vows and people play sarcastic songs at funerals, I surprises me that these haven’t replaced genuine romantic cards. Why don’t we give in nasty cards to the ‘constant status updater’, the ‘competitive dieter’ or the ‘glued to your iPhone guy’. The person who comes up with the best one in the comments gets a Kit Kat

Curse of the Cool Kids

So I’m catching the train to Parramatta to go see The Muppets (which was just delightful by the way) and it’s hot and sweaty and full of grown-up people who just wanted to get the heck away from their work-a-day lives and relax for a 48 hours. A train of hardworking, world weary adults which qualify as proper humans.

The train pulls up to Central and six or seven youths get on, in the blush of fifteen and very serious sunburn. The girls are wearing only their bikinis and shorts, the boys aren’t wearing shirts. No one appears to be carrying a bag or sunscreen. They have clearly spent their day at the beach. Bastards. But it gets worse. One has a cigarette behind his ear, another was swearing a lot, this one’s made a snarly remark to an old woman and another has an unorthodox piercing. I'm on the train with a bunch of cool kids.

Suddenly I am seized by a sudden cold panic. Am I sweating profusely? Am I making that squirrel face again? Is there anything about the way I look right now that these kids could use against me? Why is this happening here? I have been out of high school for more than six years! I am a grown ass lady. I rent things and have a special card with my face on it which gets me in and out of my place of work. I worry about my vegetable intake and discuss energy costs. But the presence of cool kids slingshots me back to a nerdy 13 year old again, the prefect target.

The cool kids at my school drank first, fought first and fucked first. They were the kids that stole things and got expelled for setting fire to people’s rats tales. Not only were they delinquents but they were cunning. Not witty, but thorough, there’s only so many times someone can ‘accidentally’ stab you with a compass until you crumble. Their taunting could reduce to one to absolute dust, and once a teenager knows how to upset you, they will continue to do it until you end up having to repeat P.E.

Maybe you weren’t the kind of youth that got picked on, but I was 1^st Lieutenant of the Superdork squad for the majority of the time (that’s right, wasn’t cool enough to be Captain). High test scoring, student representing sanctimonious little spocky git, who’s really easy to rile up. So needless to say, the cool kids took me down with the keenness I deserved.

Oh gosh, one of them is looking at me! What do I do? Look away or stare them down? If I stare they might think I’m making some sort of misguided cougar attempt. Good, how embarrassing, especially given their teenaged girl friend is as unlumpy and tanned as a card board tube! Look away! Search in bag! Yes search for something in your giant nanna hand bag, maybe you’ll find your hearing medicine in there

Shouldn’t they be terrified of the fact that I older than them? Does that count for anything anymore? When did kids stop respecting their elders? Did I just refer to myself as an elder? Oh my god, I'm freaking out! It used to be when I was younger that you would pretty much break your back trying to get out of the way of a grown up, but now they just stand around with their unburdened, unfettered, unspoilt lives...

Oh god, one’s looking at me! Quick, conspicuously check phone. I’m cool, I have a phone! No messages, they’ll never know as long as you fill out those complicated forms in your bag. Yes, your grown up complicated rentals application forms… yeah, that’s impressive. Not.

Oh thank goodness, I’m at my stop. How do I get past without them lampooning me or acknowledging my exsistance? Don’t they realise it’s hard to negotiate a skateboard strapped to a backpack?

‘Erm, excuse me’.

One kid turns around and looks absolutely aghast. ‘Oh, god, I’m sorry, beg your pardon Ma’am’

‘That’s alright… thanks’.

That’s right… I just got ma’amed… by a cool kid.

Ma’amed.

Remind me again

I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror and thought ‘you know who I remind me of? Miss Piggy.’ I’m essentially a slightly less glamorous, brunette version of Miss Piggy… with teeth. Like if Miss Piggy had been a hamster… Miss Guinea Piggy. Now, whilst some of you may think I have some tickets of myself to compare myself to the Devine Swine; I’m definitely less stylish, less high maintenance and less skilled at hitting people than she is. But like it or not, at some point we all remind others and ourselves of someone, or something else.

People often tell me that I remind them of someone they know, to which I usually reply ‘I’ve just got one of those faces’. I may very well have ‘just one of those faces’, you know, the kind with two eyes, a nose and a mouth that could pretty much be anyone. I totally see why folk are frequently mixing me up with completely disparate people. If you’ve ‘just got one of those faces’ it likely that you don’t care that you look just like their sister’s boyfriend’s second cousin either but will politely agree that you look just like some person you’ve never meet as long as it lets you get on your life.

Having said that, I really don’t mind if I remind you of someone, especially if it’s someone you like or think is fun and tells good stories. It’s kind of nice that there’s another version of me. I hope we meet up one day and mess with everyone in a series of wacky misunderstandings.

I am also totally happy to remind people of celebrities, as long as they are vaguely attractive, intelligent and sane celebrities. No one wants to hear that they're a dead ringer for Mickey Rouke. Someone once told me that I reminded them of Maggie Gyllanhaal and I was like ‘that’s such an insane leap of reasoning that I’m actually flattered that you’d attempt it just to make me smile’.

Comparing someone to a celebrity is a weird pick up gambit because it could go so terribly wrong. Forgetting subjectively attractive celebs like Sarah Jessica Parker - those ones that really divide people- you could just pick someone who’s played someone unattractive once. Saying ‘you look just like Charlize Theron’ to a person who has only seen Monster would probably crush their living soul.

I use like to use celebrities as a point of reference; say if I am trying to describe a hair cut or a clothing style or some person that I know. It makes life easier because they’re a visual reference that most can recognise or Google. It also helps because I use up all my adjectives here I actually run out during conversations. ‘You know Whathisface? He looks like that dude in that thing with the monkeys... Franco! That’s the one! He looks like James Franco if he was ginger and had a hunch.*

*I know no one who even remotely looks like Franco, so stop asking.