;Pieces of me.

I don’t have a reason why I wrote this other than I was thinking of you today. I was thinking how wonderful you are. You are such a good friend to me. You are my soul sister and I love you! I look back at when we first met. From appearance, the two of us couldn't have been more different. But who would have known that we were, in fact, kindred spirits.

People have walked in and out of our lives but through everything, we have remained the most unbreakable of friends. Through ups and down, arguments, complete silence and sad times, nothing has been able to come between us. I just want you to know that I appreciate you for your loyalty, your friendship and your love. I know I have been guilty at times of not being the best friend I can and I know I've let you down before. But you’ve always been so forgiving. I love that about you. You are the living, breathing, living definition of what it is to be individual, of what it is to know who you are. I see straight through your pale skin, bright red hair that constantly changes colour and crazy wardrobe to a wonderful sense of humor and a heart that draws people to you.

You've been a true friend to me that has rolled with the punches. As I've grown and changed, you've known how to deal with my quirks and faults. You're patient with me when I make mistakes, even big ones, and you always learn to forgive me when I hurt you. You never treat me with anything but respect, even when we both know that I'm at fault.

To the best friend a girl could ask for, I love you.... because you don't try to steal my girlfriends or boyfriends, mimic the way I look, or clone my personality. You don't gossip about me or try to damage my reputation. You let me know when you're concerned and ALWAYS do your best to stick up for me when I'm in trouble. Not to mention you’ve always supported my dreams, no matter how crazy or big they are.

You are one of the most important people in my life who just "get" me. No questions asked, I never have to explain anything, you somehow always just know. It's like having my feelings and emotions in sync with one another.

xx

;An open letter to: All menfolk of Australia

Dear Blokes,

Quick, we haven't got much time! While your girls in the shower, I need to tell you a few things, heart to heart. Turn off the TV. Right, I want to talk about legs. Namely, yours.

Tell me - this summer, what are your legs plans? Now have a little think about this. Stroke that stubble good and proper. Wait, lemmie guess, you're going to wear jeans, right? Unless it gets real hot, where in that case you'll wear those 'sports jeans' that cut off at the knee. What about down at the beach? probably just your boardies, yeah? Good ol' faithful, baggy-arse ocean flappers. They're nice and loose, just like the surfers wear. So, do you actually surf? No? Okay.

Answer me this, tiger, is the main reason you keep your legs covered up is because they are so fluorescent that they upset babies? Have you been chastised in the past for pins so pastel they show up on Google Maps? Have you considered that the possibility that the main cause of this symptom is that for years, your upper-leg region has been as heavily guarded as a US military installation? Without being overly dramatic here, I beseech ye to consider the notion that you may in fact be caught in a self-fulfilling shame spiral of negative body image and that the key to casting off these shapeless poly/cotton shackles is at hand. Listen closely, the time to act is now.

MEN OF AUSTRALIA - IT'S TIME TO TAKE A STAND AND KNOCK DOWN THE OPPRESSION OF YOUR THIGHS LIKE TEN PINS.

There was a time in the early 80s when our male ancestors roamed free in colourful, side-split gym shorts and belted, high-waisted safari numbers without a care in the world. Men kept their legs healthy, took them out for walks, gave them plenty of water and drenched them in essential vitamin D. But circa 88', things began to change. Surfing culture suddenly became fashionable and board shorts descended downwards like a spandex sting-ray, casting a shadow over thighs forevermore. Aided by grunge and gangster culture, for 20 years men have been locked into the regime of the knickerbocker. Men's knees have become what ladies ankles were in the 1800s. Pair this with the Speedo backlash of recent times - the once playful 'budgie smuggler' gags turning increasingly spiteful to the point where professional swimmers now cover themselves in full piece body suits - and I see it as society's message that men should be ashamed of their groins.

I know what you're thinking - that short shorts are for the 'gay man'. But, while you've been bogged down in boardies, your homosexual brethren have been warming their buns in the disco oven. The truth is, you could all learn alot from such male pride.

Fashion has always been about rebelling the norm, and is often born out of the ironic statements of sub-culture. Look, I know shorts may seem like a stretch. But if it's not something you want to do for me, or for yourself, then at least do it for her. The greatest gift you can give Australian women this summer is something to perve on. A bum, some thigh, a hint of package - even if it is just your keys! The longest journey begins with a single step.. and this summer I urge you to get your thighs out and show the world that Aussie men have got the golden goods, too. xx

;Is honesty always the best policy when it comes to your BFF?

We’ve all done it, slipped a little white lie in when talking to a friend.

"Your hair looks fine"

"Of course he’ll call you back"

"You are absolutely right"

It’s not like you meant to be dishonest, but the words tumbled out of your mouth before you even had the chance to think about them. You’re not lying; you’re sparing her feelings. Does she really need to know that you think she completely overreacted or that no, you don’t think the reason he didn’t call was because he got run over by a truck? You’re just trying to be a good friend. But are you really? Not according to wise woman, Tori Gottlieb who believes that being one another’s “yes women” is turning our BFFs into our worst enemies.


I pride myself on always telling the truth, in friendships, in relationships, and at work. Always. Honesty is not only important; it’s necessary. It builds trust, gains respect, and keeps things simple. There is not a single situation that could possibly be made less complicated by lying. At least, that’s what I strive for, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I too have caved to the pressure of being a “yes women” on more than one occasion.

According to Gottlieb a “yes women” is a friend who tells you exactly what you want to hear. She reiterates your opinion right back to you, squashing your fears and reaffirming your beliefs. She makes you feel better about yourself, while also making herself feel better. If you’re right, then so is she. There’s safety in numbers. Misery loves company. We’re just helping each out, right?


Wrong. We think that by lying to our friends we’re helping them, when we’re actually doing just the opposite. Honesty is the best policy. It’s a tried and true cliché for a reason. Wouldn’t you want to know the truth? Isn’t it better that you have a BFF who cares enough to withstand your rage when she disagrees about your new boyfriend? Sometimes, the truth hurts. But that doesn’t make it any less valuable.



Granted, nothing is ever that simple. If the truth will do more harm than good should you still be honest? Your friend just finishes telling you about her horrible day. She woke up late, failed her Science pop quiz, and then had an argument with her boyfriend. The fight is over and done with and even though you disagree with the way she handled it, nothing can be done about that now. Ice cream ontainer in hand, she turns to you and says: “You think I did the right thing, right?". I applaud the women that won’t cave under that kind of pressure.


And even if you are one of the brave and blunt, that doesn’t always work in your favor. When someone asks for honesty, they don’t actually want honesty. At least, most women don’t. They want to hear you agree with them. They want to hear their own carefully crafted opinion repeated back to them. No one wants to hear “that dress makes you look fat”, or “yes I do think your boyfriend is cheating on you”. No one wants to hear the bad stuff. So on the off chance that your friend fesses up and tells you that the bright orange romper is best left on the sales rack, you probably won’t be particularly happy with her, either.

But maybe you should be?


When it comes down to it, it’s all about personal relationships. What do you want in a best friend? What type of person are you and who do you surround yourself with? Someone who will pat you on the back and tell you it will all work out, or someone who will tell you to stop whining and start dealing? Can you lie to your BFF to spare her feelings or are you always straightforward, despite the consequences?


It’s this ability to see a situation from someone else’s perspective that Gottlieb’s theory lacks. She makes interesting points, and offers what could be life changing advice. (Her article has been described as the He’s Just Not That Into You of female friendships.)  But she makes the mistake of assuming that everyone holds the same values that she does. With Gottlieb, everything is black and white, right and wrong. Everyone is exactly the same, and there is only one way to react to a situation. She generalizes, speaks for all women, instead of just herself, and doesn’t stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, there are exceptions to her rules. xx

;You don't make friends with Ed Hardy

Often it can be easier to find common ground with a white person by talking to them about something you both hate.  Discussing things you both like might lead to an argument over who likes it more or who liked it first.  Clearly, the safest route is mutual hatred.  When choosing to talk about something that white people hate, it’s best to choose something that will allow white people to make clever comments or at the very least feel better about themselves.  Currently, the easiest way to do that is to ask a white person for their thoughts on people who wear Ed Hardy.

Ed Hardy is a clothing company that makes a wide range of expensive t-shirts, hoodies, and jeans.  These clothes are notable for their use of elements from classic tattoo design such as skulls, hearts, and dragons.  On the surface, the use of the words “classic” “tattoo” and “t-shirt” would seem like a logical fit for white people, but it is not.  White people hate these clothes unilaterally and it is advised that you merely accept that at face value.  If you were to ask a white person to explain why a regular size dragon logo is ok but one that goes around the neck is not, you would be trapped in a long and fruitless conversation.

To put this in proper perspective, Ed Hardy is so hated by white people that it cannot be worn ironically.  This is no small feat.  As it stands, the only other entries in this category are Nazi Uniforms, Ku Klux Klan Robes, and self-tanner.

Since you cannot in good conscience have an Ed Hardy themed party, the best way to make use of this white hatred is to give your stories a little more appeal to white people.

For example, if you take the reasonable but not compelling story: “I got cut off in traffic this morning and when I honked the guy gave me the finger,” and replace it with: “I got cut off in traffic this morning by this guy in an Ed Hardy shirt.  I honked and then he gave me the finger!”  The story will become sixty percent more interesting to white people because it allows them to make a witty response like: “I guess that douche bag had to get to a UFC party or a nightclub event he was promoting.”

Follow this up with a laugh, a high five, and a compliment about the acceptable shirt the white person is wearing and you will find yourself with a new friend. xx

;Itty bitty vital words

Short and sweet: Get out of your own way.  You say you want to find love then bemoan the countless reasons it’s eternally elusive.  Okay, pick your poison:

   

*There are no good guys out there. 

*Why are all women psycho and/or gold diggers? 

*No way. He has a reciting hair line and wears checkers with stripes.

*She says she’s okay with my weekly boys only poker games but I know she doesn’t mean it. 

*He talks while he’s eating. Ewwww!  

*He's great fun to be with but I'm not physically attracted to him

*I know he’s gonna hurt me sooner or later so I’d better bail while I still have a chance..

*She’s a vegetarian and I love steak. How can that ever work? 

*He’d be insulted if I told him I prefer less tongue while we’re kissing. Guess we’ll never be sexually compatible. 

*She’s a little too close to her mum.  

* I really like him, but I know he's bad for me. 

   

The excuses why a potential partner can come close, but not close enough, to being "The One" are infinitive. Obviously there are numerous valid reasons to bail before anything blossoms– he/she is emotionally volatile and unstable; your major life goals don’t mesh (i.e.: he wants a pack of small fry; you want to change the world), or he's just not what you're looking for etc.  But until and unless you deal with your own fears and blocks and disconnects, as sad as it is to say - you’ll always remain an Admit One.  

   

So if you're one of the millions looking for love, note to self: stop the excuse; the litany of the"why are all the good ones are taken and all I ever get is dregs?" conversation you know you've had with your self way too many times before. If you truly want love, to find your soul-mate, that special someone who completes you like the missing piece to a puzzle... then approach love with an open mind. Instead of weighing up the negatives, look at the positives. You might already be starring it in the face... maybe you're just too stubborn to realise. xx

;The Modern Feminist

Us women have all done what we can to show that women can be proud and true and that they can do anything a man can - even pee standing up, although we're happy to admit men do that a lot better. Yes, life would be so, so much easier if women could pee standing up. Sadly, we just don’t have the equipment required. We’ve often pondered the benefits at times like lining up for porta' loos at music festivals or making friends while waiting to use the facilities at international airports. The queues at the loos would halve and heck, in moments of sheer desperation, we could even go behind a tree. Some clever souls have toyed with the idea and the "She Pee" was invented, but the reality is that we just weren’t designed for vertical urination. While equal pay is something we can work toward, equal pee just isn’t. Gentlemen, you win this round.

But we're flirty. Yes, we enjoy trying to impress men... although we'd like to think our charms include our endurance and intelligence as much as our pulsating dance moves. We love lipstick, stilettos and gossip, too. Does that make us traitors to our fair sex? Post-feminist? Or feminist in a modern age where we're trying to establish our position in society not a first, but a second time around?

There are many perks that came with being female. For example, we can go entire weekends without paying for a drink, cry during soppy movies (we saw you tearing up during The Notebook) and there is an unwritten law that, when it came to dating, men should do the approaching, the calling, the driving around, and the asking out. How things have changed. Yup, there has never been a better time to be a man than now. You get to be sensitive. Express your emotions. You don’t have to pay for dates or ask girls out. There are also many other manly advantages we ladies would be happy to have -- but we don’t, for no other reason than not having a…

But at the end of the day, my darlings, you're the captain of your own life - so never give up the ship to ANY sailor... no matter how cute he may be! xx

;Fuel for the Machine

Today I paid a visit to the Aladdin's cave of wonderful old books - that is, Avid Reader book store at West End. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, which is always dangerous when entering such a place, but I knew that I wanted old books, non-fiction and strange books. So old strange books that are a snap shot of the times they were written in. After spending at least 30 minutes browsing amongst the stacks and box and tables on the floor, I had 6 books that looked promising. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire Vol IV by Edward Gibbon; Meditations on the Occults Life by Geoffrey Hodson (1937); Beasts, Men and Gods by Ferdinand Ossendowski (1922); Stories of the Lives of Noble Women by W. H. Davenport Adams; A Study in Infamy: The Hungarian Secret Police by George Mikes (1959); and The Jungle and the Damned by Hassoldt Davis. Quite the diverse haul and rather pleasing on the eye. I’m looking forward to devouring each of these and seeing what new monsters and stories come out of my mind.

Not only was the visit to Avid Reader very successful in terms of acquiring wonderful old books that will hopefully inspire me, it was also very successful in that it created fertile ground for my mind to ponder...

Wish me luck. xx

;And now the grass is long.

I drive past at least weekly. The little state house is on the corner at a busy roundabout and sometimes the traffic backs up for miles. The house is nondescript, with off-white weatherboards, yellowish window sills, and corrugated iron roof. The garden though, that is a bit special. In my eyes it is not beautiful, or desirable, but it is loved. This garden is cherished and reminds me of my great grandmother’s house. She lived till 97 in a big house on the hill overlooking the sea. It has lots of land and she tended the flower beds and vegetable gardens until she’d had enough of living. This garden is not large. It is a strip of perfectly manicured grass that runs round two sides of the house, maybe four metres wide. Into the grass has been cut an array of geometric shapes, a square, a rectangle, a diamond, a circle, an oblong. Each shape contains a lovingly tended garden. A standard rose in one, trimmed and nurtured into a beautiful ball of white flowers. Bedding plants surround low bushes in another garden. A profusion of pansies fills another with colour. While small, this garden must take a lot of work to maintain. Every edge is always perfectly trimmed, not a weed is ever in sight and crowning the garden in the centre is a white painted tyre, cut and folded into the shape of a swan, floating on the soft river of green grass. The wired mesh fence is painted white and is low so that this little display of love can be shared with all who pass. It seems a shame when the fence has advertising signs periodically attached to it.

Every so often I see the old man tending his garden as I wait my turn to pass through the roundabout. He looks old and frail, I worry that he is lonely. His garden talks to me of a lost wife, a lonely existence, it seems like a memorial. The old man mows the lawn with an old push mower, blades sharp and whirring, I’ve seen him pushing it about. I haven’t seen him trimming those immaculate edges. Does he get down on his knees with clippers? Does it pain his old bones to keep the weeds down, the earth turned and clean of debris. I imagine him in the garden every day, surely that is what it takes to preserve this strange sculpted corner.

I drove past the corner today. I can’t remember the last time I noticed the garden, but it must have been some time ago. Today the lawn was overgrown with barley grass, its tall yellow seed heads above the fence. The verdant green of that perfect smooth lawn was now a tangle of weeds in pale, washed out green, and decaying yellow. The swan has drowned beneath the growth. The standard rose stands as a thorny bare stick amongst the wilderness. The perfect edges obliterated, the flowers lost forever. What has happened to the old man? Is he sick, perhaps he needs help with his garden? Then I see the small bicycle lying on its side on the concrete path leading up the side of the house. The old man is gone then. I feel devastated for a moment as if I’ve lost a friend or relative. His garden, which seemed so poignant, such a lifeline, lies in ruins and I can only think the worst. Goodbye old man, I never knew you, but I admired your passion for your garden. xx

;A few simple words.

I wake to muffled sounds coming from our bedroom. At least it used to be our bedroom. Last night I slept on the couch. Except that this is more of a loveseat than a couch. The morning air finds me groggy and sore from the Benadryl taken the evening before. Normally I would have been snuggled safely beside him; trapped under a blanket of eternal bliss. Things are different now. No longer are we "together." My situation had become precarious. As a result I now had no idea what to do. Sooner or later one of us was going to have to move out. Staring at the ceiling I have the sneaking suspicion that it would be me.

I don't know quite when or how it happened. I suspect it all started with those few simple words. Three weeks ago, in heated conversation, they were uttered. Everything had been different since then. Simple greetings, car rides, even the quiet after sex had changed ambiance. About two weeks ago the sex stopped altogether. The arguments had been getting worse and worse. Eventually between words of malice and throwing wine bottles, we silently agreed that I would sleep on the couch. Yes, things are different all right.

My mind is suddenly jerked to alertness. The sounds from the bedroom are now getting louder. The pitch and tone hinted that he was not alone. I had been asleep when he got home. Evidently, he'd found someone at wherever he had been. The emotion of our breakup is still too fresh for me to be bitter. There is only dejected sadness. Like a kicked puppy. A kicked puppy being tortured to death, by the sounds coming loudly from the bedroom.

Deciding it would be best not to be here awake, when he emerged, I leave the apartment. Too many things could have gone wrong had I seen him sweaty, heaving and aloof. Not that it's any of my business anymore. That much was made clear to me already. I pull my jacket tight against the wind. Not knowing how long he and his mystery would be, I simply start to walk. My thoughts are with the wind as snow is kicked up in swirling gusts.

Four hours and countless cigarettes later I find myself at the door of the apartment. I quietly slip in. Everything is silent and the apartment is empty. My attention is drawn to a stack of boxes piled in a corner. The shelves are bare of books and pictures. The various oddities of two lives melted into one are now gone. My life is now packed away in boxes shielded from my existence. Amidst the pile of memories and things, an envelope sits. It is simple, with the word "open" scrawled across the face.

The instructions of the letter outline my life for the next few hours. I am to vacate the apartment, leave my key, and take care of myself. I knew that this would eventually come, but I had been unwilling to accept it. Now reality forces me to accept it. There are no second chances. There is only the promise or failure of the future. Whichever it may be, the fact remains that I am again without a home. Not homeless in the sense that I would have no place to live. I would always have a place to live. However a home is more than walls, ceilings and a few windows.

It took seven trips downstairs to load all the boxes into my car. Now, sitting on my heels in the living room; I reread the note he left me. Suddenly I feel as empty as the shelves that once held my books. I go to the kitchen and dig out paper and a pen. The note I leave on his pillow contains these few simple words, "I'm sorry." In the soft light of what once was our apartment, I take a last look around. Then slipping out the door, I pull it shut behind me, like the closing of a great book. xx