Tag Archives: Facebook

Trawling Tinder

8 Aug

I’ve never had a good experience on Tinder. And yet, like a woman trapped in a co-dependant union, I keep going back.

Because Tinder is fucking hilarious.

Pockets of humanity lurk on there and trawling Tinder freaks has become a perfectly acceptable way to spend my weekend.

He Gives Good Head

Take this guy:


Check out what he’s holding. Doesn’t the image of a man with a decapitated goats head scream, “IT PUTS THE FUCKING LOTION IN THE BASKET!”?

Who’d make that their Tinder profile pic anyway? I mean, doesn’t that just get your goat?

I’m ‘kid’ding.

Can you see where this is ‘head’ing?

Ooh- maybe he’s trying to allude to giving good head?

This joke is old now. It’s time to put it out to pasture.

Pre-Battle Banter

Some men on Tinder are only after one thing.

TinderMan1: “So are we going to meet? What’s your address?”

CC: “We can meet, but I’m not giving you my address. How about a coffee?”

TinderMan1: “We know where coffee is going to end up, so just give me your address.”

This vexed me: Where, exactly, did this audacious prick believe that coffee was going to end up? Does coffee herald coitus? Not necessarily. Coffee can wind up in lots of places: a manic discussion on Jack Kerouac. A hilarious foam-on-the-upper-lip moment. Hell, I could be a stage five clinger that thinks espressos will mean babycinos.

CC: “You see, coffee is my he’s-not-an-axe-murderer-and-I-can-invite-him-into-my-house insurance policy :)”

TinderMan1: “Yeah. See, I work in the music industry and I can’t afford to buy every girl coffee.”

As this message was read, a thwack echoed across the city as the drawbridge to my lady-parts slammed shut.

CC: “What a shame: I’m a gold-digger and I’m not interested in poor men. Better luck next time.”

Luckily, the men on Tinder are a production line and Tinderman1 segued seamlessly into Tinderman2.

TinderMan2: “Where do I work? I work in banking and investments. So how about a vino sometime?”

When I didn’t expeditiously respond, he messaged again.

Tinderman2: “What, is working in finance a deal breaker? :P”

CC: “No. It’s not a deal breaker at all. In fact, it might even be fun to have a drink with someone devoid of a soul :D”

He blocked me after that. He wasn’t devoid of a soul, but apparently devoid of a sense of humor. My sardonic wit often combusts in the tinderbox. I was blocked by another fellow after I playfully said, “Don’t get too excited to meet me- I might yet be a convincing pre-op transsexual ;)”

Testing my Patients

I recently matched with a bearded bloke from Enmore whose profile spoke of ‘sustainability’, ‘craft beer’ and ‘meat trays’.

My, how I do love a hipster.

On our first interaction, The Beard gave me his Instagram handle and invited me to stalk him. I did. There was- amid jumpy iPhone footage of a plethora of live bands- a surprising number of posts dedicated to Shiner Bock beer. These were photographed in glistening, moist, pornographic glory. I counted eleven pictures of beer, but hardly any of him. There was more beer than beard on there.

I pulled out my phone and typed, “Saw your Instagram. Nice. I think my first question is: are you still sponsored by Shiner Bock?”

It was a whimsical bon mot that deserved, at the very least, an emoticon smiley. Instead I got a long, not really coherent explanation that was so convoluted, I wondered why he didn’t just type the word ‘no’ and save us both a lot of time.

We decided to meet for a drink at Newtown. I caught public transport in. Trains weren’t running due to trackwork, so I arrived ten minutes late, breathless and nervous. I scanned the crowd, my gaze finally settling on what I can only describe as a ‘demented lumberjack’. And he wasn’t okay.

Neither was I, actually.

Because who this bloke was in the Tinderverse and who he was in reality was somewhat incongruent.

The man from Tinder was bearded, smiling, slender. He wore Wayfarer sunglasses in one shot, clutched a bass guitar in another. He drank from a stein. He posed with a mischievous pug.

And the man trudging towards me? Well, he was the kind of overweight that usually has the adverb ‘morbidly’ attached to it. His soft, round midsection poked through a threadbare, black sloppy joe that was long ago washed to grey. It was, at least, clean. There were no obvious cum-stains or spag-bol remnants on it. His beanie, on the other hand, was coated in a powdery white substance that was, at best, cocaine and, at worst, dandruff. His face and eyes were completely flat- nary a flicker of emotion was spared for the jittery brunette before him.

And really, an expression would have been nice.

Because I’d only made a tiny bit of fucking effort in getting there.

I’d only spent an hour or so trying on outfits in my bedroom in a Tassie-Devil whirlwind of cotton. I’d only spent ninety fucking minutes battling rail buses, half of which was time spent in close proximity to a man with a facial tattoo who overused the word ‘cunt’. And then, when I changed buses at Strathfield station, there was only that tiny, little argument that I got into with the douche-bag in the hatchback; the guy who, after clocking my vintage army jacket and Doc Marten boots, decided that I was a Neo-Nazi. The dude that then began to trawl me in his car, chanting things like: “Where’s your Swastika, love? Adolf, hey? Seig Heils! Yeah! Nice boots Adolf!” through the open passenger window as I willfully ignored him for as long as I could.

‘As long as I could’ turned out to be ‘half a block’. I snapped after that and shouted- yes, shouted– “Go fuck yourself, you Peugeot-driving wanker!”

Not my finest moment. If I didn’t look like a scary skinhead before I started shouting at passing motorists with wild-eyed zeal, I certainly did after. Something clever and punchy like: “How dare you call me Adolf! Call me Eva. Or Miss Braun, you socialist swine,” would have been better.

Fucking l’esprit d’escalier.

Anyway, this bummed me out, because I thought that my carefully-chosen outfit said, ‘I’m stylish without trying too hard and my Heathers t-shirt says that I understand and embrace cult pop-culture references.’

But it didn’t. Apparently it just said two words: Master Race.

But, back to The Beard: when he greeted me, it was in a monotone, and he slurred his words.

Oh fuck, I thought. Is he drunk?

He leaned in for a kiss. I offered a cheek. He rested a paw uncomfortably close to another cheek. I pulled away. His hand lingered on my jeans like Velcro. He told me about his Sunday: a long walk with a friend that was hard because he got “munted” Saturday night, but a walk that he persevered with nonetheless because he’s “a fat bastard now”.

Then he asked where I wanted to go. We could go anywhere except The Townie. He’d been kicked out of The Townie last month- a feat that I, nor anyone who has ever set foot in The Townie, would think possible. But it was. The Beard’s version of events was: ‘I slur even when I’m not drunk.’ The bouncers was: ‘Even so, ten beers and a broken chair is inappropriate, and you have to leave.’

He asked if I’d eaten, the memory of his fat arse breaking a chair seemingly jogging him back to food. “Let’s go to Mary’s. You ever been there?”

I hadn’t.

He wiped his mouth. “I can’t believe you’ve never been to Mary’s,” he exclaimed in a flat voice.

We began walking up King street, taking a left turn down an alleyway. He led me through the darkness, deep into sex-crime central, before stopping at a place that had no signage, just a bare red bulb glowing above the door.

Oh Christ, I thought. He’s taking me to a brothel. Or a rape dungeon.

It wasn’t. In fact, Mary’s may be the only good thing to come out of that night. Mary’s is a dingy, heavy metal pub that serves fried chicken so consumable, I’m fairly certain it was a Breaking Bad, crystal-meth laced, Los Pollos Hermanos bird. They also serve a fried chicken dish named ‘Larry Bird’, which tickled me. Immensely.

He sat opposite me, studying me with open curiosity. “So how’m ah’doin?”

I put down my piece of chicken. “What?”

He wiped his mouth. “How am I doin’ on the date?”

I was taken aback and laughed. Loudly. “HAHAHAHAHA! That’s a…question. Isn’t it? Look at you asking…questions.”

“Is there like, any chance of,” he paused. “You know…”

Oh please God, don’t say it.

“Because I don’t go for casual stuff,” he continued. “Mostly. Like, I had a friend with benefits once, but that ended. It’s not me. There was one Tinder girl who took me home. That was weird because, like, she was tall and our feet touched during it. She left straight after it.”

I’d like to pause the story and assure you that I am absolutely not making this up. He absolutely said this to me, and as he spoke, I was absolutely conducting a mini-mental examination on the poor bastard: What the fuck is he talking about? That didn’t make sense. That was thought disordered as fuck. And I think he’s derailing. Is he derailing? No, he’s totally derailing. Is he a patient somewhere? I bet he’s a schizophrenic.

He wiped his mouth again. “You’re, like, big- for a chick, I mean- aren’t ya? You’ve gotta be five eight or…?”

Maybe I should ask if he takes Clozapine. The belly. The drool. Fuck! Okay, this is weird. I think I’m accidentally on a date with a fucking-

He considered me. “How do you usually go on Tinder dates? Like how do you do this?”

What the shit…? Oh no, he’s staring at you! Quick, say something now! Change the subject! Talk about  the chicken! Larry Bird! LARRY BIRD!

He left to use the bathroom. I took the opportunity to broadcast my woe on Facebook. When he returned, I casually brought up the uni assignment due that evening. I’d already done it- it was submitted earlier that afternoon, in between leg-day at the gym and my ‘yuck, I now smell like a diseased yak’ pre-date shower. I didn’t know that The Beard was going to be a living nightmare and I wanted to be free from responsibility if he wasn’t.

“So I have to leave. Right now.” Which is a shame, I tried to say with my eyes. But, you know, responsibility. Stuff.

“Have another beer.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that! To Hornsby!”

“It’s an easy drive.”

“No, it’s fine. Besides, you’ve been drinking.”

“Only four pints.”

In two hours. And I don’t want to die in a fiery car wreck. At least not before I erase my Google Chrome history. “Really, I’ll get the train.”

He walked me to the station, I glanced at the board and saw that a train- although not my train- was leaving in two minutes. “Two minutes! Nick of time. I’ve really got to run.”

He responded by grabbing me around the waist and grinding his crotch into my hip like a horny Doberman. He went in for the kiss and, again, I offered a cheek. He smelt like chicken. Craft beer. Plague. Peristalsis. Hormones. And desperation.

I boarded my train feeling fed-up. You can’t go on a bad date without it draining you of something. Even if you enter the evening with no expectations, you leave robbed of a little effervescence. I can usually see the funny side, and writing about it fortifies me, but there are times when I can’t help but wish I could go back to that heady period in my early-twenties when the world didn’t seem to be full of weirdos.

Wanting a little pick me up, I opened Tinder.

And found this guy.
img_0023His profile states- with a two-finger salute to the rules of grammar- that he is “the badboy you’re mothers warned you about”, he’s “the real 50 shades baby.”

He’s also a poet, because he goes on to claim that he’s “hung like an ox”,

“enjoys nibbling at your…”

“and making you scream with his…”

But only blows his load into socks.

Okay, so I made that last one up.

Tinder, hey?


Rusty Butter Knives and Baby Bunny Rabbits

1 Oct

I’ve been writing a lot about love lately. One post seems to jump off the back of the last. What started as 5000 semi-literate words on my computer has been cut and pasted into four rambling posts that probably sound like a maudlin episode of Growing Pains where questionable wisdom is imparted with a smug, yet knowing smirk. I’m fairly certain that my last three blog offerings have elicited jaw-clenching yawns so severe that circulation is being cut off to the lower half of people’s faces as they read.

Nonetheless, I’m going to talk about this crap again and I do apologise in advance. I’m leaving to backpack South America in seven days, so I’m sure the blog will pick back up into overly descriptive sex stories and loquacious anecdotes about the idiotic things that I find myself doing on a daily basis.

But until then, here’s a bunny rabbit.


About a month ago, I connected with an old school friend on Facebook.

He accepted my friend-request and private-messaged me. I hadn’t seen him since high school, so I asked what had been happening in his life. He responded immediately:

“I’ve been hurt more than I can bear. Nearly every girl I’ve been with has cheated on me and I’ve had no luck with dating.”

It certainly set the tone for the conversation.

I gave a reply that I hoped was empathetic yet flippant. His reply was a five word bomb- “Can I tell you something?”- that ticked malevolently before exploding all over my computer screen in a rapid fire flurry of characters crudely moulded into badly spelt, overly emotive sentiments.

He had a crush on me in school but never told me. No, not just a crush, he was in love with me, something that, until this moment, I was blissfully unaware of. My fingers hovered awkwardly over the keyboard as I tried to find the kindest way of saying, “You are freaking me the fuck out and it’s probably best for everyone that you just shut up right now.” His messages continued, escalating to a level that kicked my bullshit radar into gear. He was saying insane things about his feelings, incredibly sweet things, but things that you don’t expect to hear on a windy Monday evening, where you are sitting at your computer in pyjamas with a blueberry facemask smeared on your dermis. He must be fucking with me, I thought. It had to be a joke. Ashton Kutcher was going to appear with a camera crew at any moment and call me a narcissistic bitch with a robust sense of self-esteem, and who wants to appear on Punkd! wearing only a mens business shirt and a Lush facemask? Even Miley Cyrus wears underwear on TV.

As I was pondering this, my phone chirped. It was him. He had pulled my number from Facebook, obviously believing that my online silence warranted communication on another medium. Another Facebook message arrived: “Did you get my text?” His five word bomb had erupted into a social media attack that quickly turned rogue. I was two messages away from hiding under my desk with my head between my knees like a well-fed Palestinian.

I texted my best friend from high school- who knew him- and briefly relayed the situation, saying ‘what the fuck do I do’ without explicitly saying it, knowing that she would take the excessive use of exclamation points as a sort of oestrogen-charged call to arms.

She agreed that it was odd and suggested that I block him. Removing someone from my friends list like a wart two hours after I have added them to it felt cruel, so I terminated the Facebook exchange with him and ignored his subsequent comments on my posts. Two weeks later he messaged again. I asked how he was. He lamented about the epic level of loneliness he felt. Unsure of what else to say, I suggested he get out there and try to meet women. Bad idea. Apparently no woman can measure up to his one true love that he met in high school. Again, the conversation was terminated and I’ve remained offline in Facebook chat, hiding like a fugitive ever since.

Now, I don’t want to make him sound like some gleaming toothed psychopath, an emotive fiend that slaveringly stalks my profile like a rabid Rottweiler because he’s not. He’s actually a very nice guy with a very big heart. He left his job to become a fulltime carer for his sick uncle. Not many people would do that, and when I asked about his reasons for putting his life on hold for a family member he was incredibly humble in his response. I have no problems roasting dickheadedness on this blog- nor do I have a problem with neologisms, it would appear- but I do have a problem with making arguably misguided men with good intentions sound like fuckwits. He’s not. I want to make that clear. He’s a lovely guy and if there is any justice in this world he will meet the lovely girl who he is so ardently yearning for and they will have ridiculously good looking babies that go on to solve world hunger and cure cancer.

But that girl ain’t me, and I’m hoping that my silence will be perceived as such. I’m also hoping that he doesn’t know about, or read, this blog.

So this completely true story is actually a clumsy springboard to talk about misusing the L word, which I want to rant about briefly because it’s my pet hate.

Unrequited love does not exist. You can’t love something that does not love you back. That’s not love. It’s lust mixed with rejection and sprinkled with the tiniest bit of obsession. Love is a bond between two people, not a knee-jerk reaction to a bruised ego. You can want something so badly that you will be able to talk yourself into believing that it must be love, but you are lying to yourself. You can really like someone; you can think to yourself, Wow, I have found a human being that seems to encompass everything that I have been looking for in a member of the opposite sex; and in extreme cases I suppose you could even say, Given the chance I could fall in love with them, but that’s not love. Not the real stuff, anyway. The concept of love is something that I tend to put on a pedestal, a pedestal so high my next boyfriend may well have to be ten feet tall, but Real Love fills you up with something warm and effervescent that makes you grin a lot. It’s fluffy and warm, it’s the widdle-bitty-baby-bunny-wabbit that you want to hug to death because it’s cuteness is simply too much for this planet.

Saying “I’ve loved you from afar for years…” is like comparing sadness to depression.

I was in Amsterdam last year and I went on an unintentional date with a fellow who told me, under the twinkling street lamps of Leidsestraat, that he was falling in love with me. I told him to piss off. Verbatim. I take this shit seriously. Love is not a word that I use lightly. When I do say the big L to a guy, they can be assured that I’m there, that it’s not emotional manipulation or entrapment because when I say it, I tend to fucking mean it.

And saying it can be hard. The word “Love” throws down a gauntlet in relationships. My ex-husband tried to tell me that he loved me after two weeks of us being almost constantly joined at the pelvis. It wasn’t love- we would grow to that stage later- but at that moment what he felt was just him being swept up in a reciprocated lust cloud by a girl who wasn’t a cunt or a nut-job. So when I saw his lips forming the words, I neatly cut him off by sticking my fingers in my ears and humming the theme to Fraggle Rock. Maybe my reaction sounds mean, but I wasn’t there yet, and I sensed that pinching his cheek and saying, ‘Of course you do, I’m adorable’ wouldn’t have gone down well. Serving love out to someone who doesn’t neatly lob it back across the court to you is the quickest way to create a schism in a relationship. Before you know it, it’s “30-love”.

My god, that was so clever I had to just pause and regather myself.

Here’s another bunny rabbit.


Anyway, doubt creeps in, remorse, insecurity…why would you want to spoil the awesome first stage of a romance with that shit? Why not just keep your mouth shut and enjoy what you have as you have it? If you are starting to feel a tingle of love, why not hold on to it? Let it build. Love usually means a long haul, so you have all the time in the world with each other. Instead of a relationship exploding like an atom bomb then settling to gradual resentment after a few months, why not sit on some things, parcel them out, and make the experience last? Exchanging I love you’s isn’t just an expression of your feelings, it’s an acknowledgement that you are going to take things to another level together, and you have to be ready for the gamut of shit that it can lead to. I love you also means, “There are times that I want to stab you repeatedly in the chest with a rusty butter knife but I stop myself because I’d miss not having you around”.

There’s almost an art to gauging the appropriate time to do it. It’s like finding the right time to enter a rapidly revolving skipping rope. I find that it’s generally when you really want them to buy you an expensive piece of jewellery for no reason and they are being a little bit reluctant.

I’m kidding, obviously.

You say I love you when you can’t manipulate a man with blow-jobs anymore.

…or when you don’t want to wax your bikini line…

If you want to let yourself go and binge on McDonald’s it’s a handy way to get away with wearing stretchy pants to every outing.

I like to say it when you accidentally break something of his that you suspect has sentimental value.

If you are an ambitious young woman with a wealthy but foolish older man, nothing turns silver into sapphires quicker than “love”.

And, of course, it’s a fantastic way to cease the arguments that will ensue when he finds out you’ve been fucking his best friend.

But enough love crap for now. Here’s another bunny rabbit.


CC Unplugged in Cambodia

9 Dec

I try not to hate on Facebook. It’s incredibly hipster to do so, but I don’t. I wouldn’t say that I take it seriously, but I acknowledge that I can be useful for some things: getting in contact with old friends, keeping in touch with people, forging new connections…heck, I wouldn’t have heard about Nelson Mandela if it didn’t pop up on my news feed. Only because I’m on holidays- not reading the news, I mean. That’s the only reason. Not because I’m some ignorant, social media whore.

I’m not, you know.

Anyway, there are times when unplugging yourself from social media can be useful.

When you are on holidays for instance.

My sister said something before I left- when she backpacked around Europe there was no such thing as Facebook, so she found it blissfully easy to live in the moment. No phone calls, no emails, no links to home. Just the road before her.

It’s a statement of this age that we feel the need to broadcast every inane thought, every photo, every opinion to a wider audience. Because we are that special. And interesting. And clever. And it’s our fifteen minutes. I wanted to avoid Facebook while I was away but the siren song of exhibitionism lured me back.

Social media has taken over our lives. Don’t even deny it. For many, life is a blur of selfies, check-ins and status updates. We tag our friends along for the ride. No judgement- I’m guilty, too. I tell myself that I’m just sharing my experiences with ‘back home’, in much the same way this blog does.

I think that while the digital age has given us some incredible possibilities, it should be treated with respect. Like anything in life, really. Pulling myself away from social media for the rest of the trip would do me the world of good. Like a junkie, I didn’t think I had a problem. I could quit at any time.

Not true.

I tried to not check Facebook, I logged myself out, I even deleted the app from my phone. But then: Hmm, that picture would make an awesome profile pic. And I really want to put the video of me shooting the AK-47 up there, too…I’ll log in just this once.

I couldn’t avoid Facebook for two days.

That’s shocking.

And when I wasn’t checking Facebook I was keeping tabs on my WordPress stats and likes. Seeking validation from people I have never met.

There were a few things that I wanted to accomplish for myself on this trip, things that are important for me. One of them is the ability to live in and enjoy the moment.

When you travel, you have to be in the present. You have to do it now because the opportunity won’t be in front of you again. You have to carpe diem your joie de vivre on a daily basis. When I’m speeding through Cambodia on the back of a motorcycle, I don’t want to be wondering how to put it on Facebook without sounding smug. I want to be speeding through Cambodia on the back of a motorcycle (!!) because I may never get that opportunity again.

Not only will life pass you by as you have your head stuck in a status update, but people will too. Would you approach the person with their head buried in their phone? I wouldn’t. It’s isolating. It’s time wasting. It’s mind numbing.

Plus, an interesting thing happened. Between Europe and Asia I went home for two days. The people who I managed to see had heard all my stories. Why? They read the blog. It made conversations interesting, there was a lot of, ‘but, yeah, you read about that’. I was robbed of the ability to bore people shitless with endless discussions about myself. And I can’t strap people to a chair to show them my amateur travel photography because it is all over social media.

So, this will be the last post I write for a while.

Oh my, how melodramatic.

I’m writing this to make myself accountable.

Not sure how I’ll go. But wish me luck anyway.


Ah yes, the disgusting, vain, obligatory social media selfie.

But…if we can’t TELL everybody how fabulous our life is, how can we really enjoy it?

20 Nov

After visiting the Louvre, I can only come to one conclusion: nobody appreciates The Mona Lisa.

It’s true.

It’s constantly surrounded by tourists. Tourists who inch their way to the front, quickly snap an iPhone picture, turn, then leave.

Seriously, what’s the fucking point in that?!

That’s the equivalent of going to a concert and spending all your time filming the show on your phone instead of actually enjoying it. It’s going to a stand up comedy show and tweeting your way through it- ‘OMG, PMSL rite now! :D’

If you ever make it there, please don’t take a shoddy selfie of you smiling awkwardly before her. Your smile is nowhere near as enigmatic. The blank fear that the tour bus of people of going to squish you to death can be seen in your eyes. And for God sakes, the kitschy photos of you doing the same pose with a stupid look on your face? Just stop. You should have been a blow-job, you are a waste of a shag you stupid Contiki bimbo. Yes, red-haired Yankie girl, I’m talking about you. Nobody appreciated your greasy ass blocking the view, or your constant, “Nooo, I look chubby in that one. Try it again.”

Anyway, upon seeing it across the room, I made a beeline for her, knocking a small woman with a walking stick over in the process. The air seemed charged with electricity: Finally, I’m about to clap eyes on it- for realsies, ooooooooh! Joygasm! It’s an odd feeling when you finally see it. Seeing something so iconic that its image is almost burnt into your retinas can be a surreal reality.

When I got to the front I stood there. For about ten minutes. I had a huge goofy grin on my face. The look I gave that painting was not entirely dissimilar to the look I give the cute boys I’m crushing on. My pupils were dilated. A small string of saliva hung from my bottom lip. I was rubbing my chest slowly, mouthing ‘oh yes, that’s right…’.

Okay, maybe not.

But I did give it my best slack-jawed stare for a long time. It’s beautiful. It’s amazing, and I’m thankful that I am lucky enough to have travelled across the world to see it.

So, my rant is: can we not just experience things? Do we have to leave a footprint on social media? Do we have to check-in through life? What on earth did people do before Facebook status updates? Did they enjoy what was going on around them? How can you enjoy something if you can’t brag about it to everyone with poorly used emoticons?

(Says the girl who begs people to like her Facebook page to seek some validation that obsessively checking her WordPress stats won’t give anymore.)

Actually, don’t listen to me. I’m drunk on cheap French red wine, writing this in a red beret. My face is smeared with mille-feuille and red L’Occitane lipstick and there are baguette crumbs in my lap. I’m a mess. And a cliché.

OMG, I kno rite? LOL.

Seriously though, like my page on Facebook 🙂

The Charisma Effect

13 Oct

A few weeks back, I was out with two friends, Bestie and Mr Charisma. We were at a Breaking Bad farewell party. I was at the bar with them both, chatting happily to the young bartender as he made our cocktails. As part of the evening, we were given cute little promotional things, such as “Better call Saul!” business cards. The bartender handed my two friends their cards, then wrote a number on the third and handed it to me. “This is my number,” he said with a grin. “I’d like you to give me a call sometime.” I never did call- he was a kid! Early twenties, maybe? What on earth is a 23 year old going to do with me? Honestly. I’d probably frighten the poor thing off women forever- but it did boost my ego. I swanned around feeling like a Kardashian for five minutes, until I tripped over my feet and came crashing back to reality.

This never happens to me. Ever. The phone number part, that is. Not tripping over, I manage that quite well with, or without, colourful cocktails. I certainly wasn’t dressed to pick up. I was in jeans and a t-shirt, my ever present Batman Converse strapped securely to my feet, very little make up, hair the standard wavy mess. The only concession that I was on a night out with the boys instead of doing my grocery shopping was a dangly pair of earrings. I’ve been at that pub dressed like a female instead of a teenage boy before and gotten nary a second glance.

Looking back, I can only think of one explanation: we were all under The Charisma Spell.

Mr Charisma is a textbook extrovert. He flits from one situation to the next like an out of control spinning top. He’s very charming and likeable, being in his presence boosts people. We feed off his never ending energy. My usual interaction with bartenders is polite but constrained. Under the Charisma Spell, the three of us had a conversation with this lad that encompassed Finding Nemo, Peru, Neon Tetra fish, and crystal meth, punctuated by selfies that were promptly posted to Facebook.

During the night we met several new people under the influence of Mr C. One was a fifty year old woman who looked ready to bear his children, even after he explained the difference between a vagina and a “mut” to her, with judicious and cringeworthy use of the latter. When I’m out with my Bestie we usually sit by ourselves and drink, talking animatedly to each other. During the course of this night we both came out of our shell: “You’re gluten intolerant?” I exclaimed to a young man dressed as Walter White, “So am I!”

No idea how- or even why- that conversation started or, since it was towards the end of the night, how it finished.

One of my exes was also incredibly charismatic. His personality was so intoxicating that it infected every situation he was in. This was fun, unless he was in a bad mood. When I first met him I didn’t think much of him. He chased me and I eventually agreed to a date. You could ask about the exact turn of events that led me from saying, “he’s nice, but no,” to me making out with him for two hours on his couch, but I’m not sure myself. His karaoke version of Last Goodbye may have been a factor. Somehow, he literally charmed the pants off me (sorry, that was dreadful, I know) and when he broke up with me my nineteen year old heart pined for him for longer than I’m comfortable admitting. Not bad for someone who started out in my ‘I’m not interested in you’ box.

According to the Susan Cain scale, I’m an ambivert. In actual fact, most of us are. The whole introvert/ extrovert thing was coined by Carl Jung, who said, “There is no such thing as a pure introvert or extrovert. Such a person would be in a lunatic asylum.” Which I am, technically, but I have keys and they let me go home at the end of each working day.

Around my friends and family I’m quite extroverted. It seems the better I know someone the louder I am, but I do consider myself an introvert. For me, it doesn’t count that I’m a crazy little nut job around my mates, because they know me. I have let my guard down around these people, I trust them and I love them. I have no problems standing up for myself or expressing my opinion, but I would never spark up a conversation with a stranger. I wouldn’t know where to begin. If someone starts one with me I’m friendly, but I am just as happy listening to my iPod and dreaming up idiotic shit to write about.

Introverts are undervalued in society. They are seen as boring, meek. We aren’t. If you place a drop of lemon juice on the tongue of an introvert they will salivate more than an extrovert. Introverts aren’t quiet losers, we just have a lower threshold for stimuli. I love being out with people, but retreating to the blissful solitude of my tiny flat at the end is a soothing relief. It’s like a slipping into a warm mental bath. Introverts get their energy from connecting within, whereas extroverts feed off the energy of others. I used to regularly encourage my ex husband to go on nights out with the boys: ‘Go! Drink, play poker, watch a strip show, gamble, watch porn, I don’t care, do whatever it is that you do when I’m not around, just give me a night with a bad movie and a glass of wine.’

The world is geared towards the extroverted, from classroom situations where everyone has to contribute, to job interviews where the most charming get hired, to eventually getting the girl you have chased incessantly; it seems that introverted people are often left behind.

In a few days, I am heading to Europe by myself. If I don’t want to spend 6 weeks in solitude, I am going to have to pull my head out of my ass and communicate with strangers. I’m terrified. Absolutely terrified. Seriously. The fear won’t stop me going, but I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have nightmares where I am sitting alone at a bar, watching other people have fun. I have cold dread in my stomach that I may have to dream up some imaginary friends to share my adventures with. If I do, I will call them Polly, Shaun and Agamemnon.

I think that it will do me good to get out of my comfort zone. It will either force me out of my shell, or into insanity. If you hear of a purple haired girl being arrested in Paris after discussing Marxism with thin air, you can assume it’s the latter.

I caught up with Bestie recently. He stayed the night at my place, leaving early the following morning. I woke up to find a note. He wished me the best of luck for my trip and gave some sage advice: “Remember, you can be anyone you want to be in Europe!”

Maybe I will try being an extrovert. See if it fits me.

National FANG Day

13 Jul

Years back, I may, or may not, have worked with someone who rubbed a person’s toothbrush under the rim of the toilet as payback. While I’m not explicitly admitting to it, I’m not denying it…actually, I’m not at liberty to say who did it…but I can categorically state that the victim deserved it.

I’m not generally a vindictive person, and half of the time I can’t be bothered holding a grudge. It takes a lot of effort to hate, you know. But there is something irresistible about taking the karmic balance into your own hands every now and then. I was working in a bar when I was 19 and a group of bullies from high school came in. I made sure I served them all night. I wound up overcharging them about $70 in total for their drinks- a pretty good effort, I think. Despite the fact that the “jocks” usually wind up fat and unfulfilled while the “nerds” go on to create Facebook, there is something I still find delicious about that story. It warms me on a cold day. I may have no world changing computer program lurking in the dark corners of my brain, but I can scam a small amount of cash out of a dickhead years later. Score. Hey, you were a douchebag! Remember? No? Well, thanks for the new shoes, buddy. Sunrise. Sunset.

Besides, I’m not that bad. I once knew a chef who jerked off into someone’s béarnaise. See, you always thought that was an urban legend, didn’t you? Nope, it happens. I’ve met him. And in the decade that has passed since that conversation, I’m sure many more sauces have been contaminated. Possibly some soups, too. Cream jokes aside, I learnt two important things that night- there is no such thing as constructive criticism to a chef, and if you upset the waitress, she will tell the chef to fuck with you. This is especially true for closed kitchens. Heed my word, or you may have some extra protein in your next meal.

I used to work for a hotel that was so shitty, 7 out of the 8 hours of my shift was spent repeating the mantra, “On behalf of the hotel I would like to apologise for…” The other hour was spent ignoring incoming calls whilst poring over The Sartorialist and stealing stationary supplies. The rest of the time was shit. I apologised more than the Catholic Church. I apologised more than the premature ejaculator. I apologised more than John Howard didn’t. Eventually, after intoning the phrase, feeling the last vestiges of my soul seep through my glazed eyes, something in my head snapped, and I decided to go rogue. If a customer was rude, I would smile through gritted teeth, and then, I would fuck with them. It was often just random, petty stuff, setting wakeup calls for 3am, cancelling their pay per view movie in the last fifteen minutes, pretty tame, really. Staying in that hotel was like walking into my dank little lair of revenge, a lair which often smelt like the dizzying mix of sewerage and garbage frying gently in the sun.

Actually the worst, or possibly best, thing I did was to a British lady who stayed there. This woman is, to this day, possibly the biggest bitch I have ever encountered- and I’ve worked in P.R, ZING! She came up from the gym one night and was greeted by the usual sight which lay in the lobby: a lone flustered receptionist, three phone lines ringing simultaneously, two on hold, and a small queue of people. She breezed past the people, slapped the counter three times to get my attention, and demanded fresh linen to be sent to her room. When I told her I would bring them up in a minute, she slapped the desk again and said- still managing to sound dignified- that she didn’t want them in a fucking minute, she wanted them now. *click click* Like right *click* now. Did I get that? Did I under-fucking-stand?! Fucking Australian’s.

So I farted on the towels. And I rubbed my ass over her face washers. Truly, I did. I hope I gave the bitch conjunctivitis.

I mean, aren’t workouts meant to give you an endorphin buzz? I don’t know what her fucking problem was. Who clicks their fingers at service staff, anyway? Please don’t do it. You will always look like a wanker, I promise you. You are no better than the ass clown who yells “TAXI!” when someone drops something in a pub. And while I’m on the subject: Garçon. Seriously? We have only heard it a couple of gajillion times already, and it just keeps getting funnier each time! Honestly, do you think the word garçon is a magical phrase that can be intoned in order to hypnotise someone into making the ultimately tragic decision to shag a completely unimaginative, generic, unamusing, and boring toad pole? No, really, please don’t say it. Loser.

As a waitress, you have to deal with rudeness a lot. I served one yuppie scumbag, who was obviously on a date. He was a rude, dismissive prick to me, but fawningly loquacious to his lady friend. Funnily enough, I still remember his order of, “the steak, exactly medium rare, with twice cooked chips and fresh sliced tomato covering only the steak, not the chips, and put on last so they don’t warm up.” No, that wasn’t on the menu. When I told him that I would have to check with the kitchen, he reminded me that as a paying customer he was not only allowed to order anything he wanted, but he was also always right. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t always right. I’d walked up as he was telling his date that Australia avoided the GFC because we weren’t in the United Nations. I’m pretty sure he was thinking of the European Union, which, I suppose, is an easy mistake to make when you are a self important moron. I pondered correcting him, but then figured that a far greater punishment would be to look like an idiot around people more important than the outspoken waitress with the messy hair. I almost suggested a side of béarnaise, or perhaps a warm towel, but decided to be professional. And I didn’t work with that chef at this place.

After complaining about the wine, the service and the music, his meal was finally ready. In between trying to send his date subliminal ‘run now, you fool’ messages, I was busily fantasising about slapping him in the face with his medium rare steak, covering his eyes with his cool, sliced tomatoes, and sticking twice cooked chips in each and every orifice. Yes, every orifice. My head is a scary place at times…but it would have been the best restaurant scene since that guy exploded in The Meaning of Life. Later, he called me back to tell me the steak was putrid, something that only became apparent after consuming eighty percent of it. Shortly after this, his date excused herself, approached me, apologised for him, generously tipped me, and ran. I may be telepathic.

You see, when I’m on a date, I can tell almost everything I need to know about the person by how they treat the workers. It’s true. You see, he HAS to be nice to me, he’s trying to prise my legs apart, but does this make him a nice guy? You don’t know, do you? You just don’t know. BUT if he’s rude to the waitress… See you don’t often get nuggets of wisdom amongst the vulgar outpourings of this blog, but ladies, take that one with you. It works.

Also, fuck a nice guy every once in a while. Really, you should. The bastards of this world get plenty of minge. Put out for a good guy every now and then. I campaign on behalf of all of my nice, single male friends. Thank me later, guys. There should be National Fuck a Nice Guy Day. I’m writing to Rudd after I post this.

And fellas, Fuck a Nice Guy Day will fall immediately after National Eat a Girl Out Day. Just so you know.


Peacock Feathers

7 Jul

As a general rule, I try and avoid social media during times of emotional turmoil. I detest emotion fuelled Facebook rants. I don’t judge anyone who does it, because we have all been there. I just hate when I do it. In all honesty, I would rather drunkenly attack my status and describe the contents of my sex drawer, complete with pictorial diagrams. I hate talking about my feelings on there. It makes me feel icky and vulnerable. I liken it to handing out flyers to strangers promoting your recent herpes diagnosis. They don’t need to know about it, you will certainly regret telling them, and you are guaranteed to not get a shag after it. Instead of putting it on Facebook I usually just shout it at myself in the mirror, naked, and covered in red lipstick and Vaseline. You will find your own way, this just works for me.

Perhaps this is why I stay away from social media when I lose my shit over something. My verbal diahorrea frequently infects my fingers and I have been guilty of more than a few temperamental, irrational, overzealous and plain awkward exchanges during the times when my brain goes into red alert and stops thinking logically. I do tend to lose my shit a bit when an issue has an emotional core for me. I hate it. It’s so female. Usually I can go to a select group of people who are lucky enough to have seen me at my absolute worst. My Dad in particular is quite adept at calling the histrionic banshee down from the ledge. He thinks like I do usually, very pragmatic, reasonable and rational, and as a result can usually shed light on an issue. Our conversations usually begin with him saying “Now calm down CC, take a deep breath, light another cigarette if you have to…wait, is that red lipstick on your arm?” Through the snot and tears that inevitably flow, he can usually sum up my dramas quite succinctly. He often points out that this isn’t the end of the world, and nothing ever is. There is cyclicality to life which is quite beautiful when you consider it. Nothing is ever shit forever, but of course nothing is ever good forever, either. As a result, almost anything can be summed up with a neat greeting card-esque slogan. Friend betrayed you? There are billions of people in the world and mathematically, at least one other will be able to stand your ass. They will then betray you, too. Girl Troubles? They will be replaced by the next on the production line of life. Then she will break your fragile heart, as well. Ex-something giving you grief? One day, they will be dead, and if you don’t want to wait, you can always hire a hit man.

But, um, while we are on the subject of exes…uh, you know that video on the Internet that looks like me? It’s not. That hotel room is dim, and that could be any cat. And um, the pictures are photoshopped. I know this sort of thing got the Kardashian’s famous but, um, yeah. Well, no, actually. No. It’s not me. Everyone has a doppelganger. My doppelganger just likes chicken feathers, cake batter and spatulas.

That was a complete joke, by the way. I feel obligated to point that out. I personally prefer peacock feathers.

Anyway, the point of this post has to come eventually. When the revoltingly upbeat music and wise words have pulled me out of my funk, I usually hit the anger stage. I love the anger stage. There is something exquisite about being self righteously cranky. In anger lies action and movement. Anger lights the firework that blows away the stagnancy of sadness. Many may fear anger, but I don’t. I usually put on the most chaotic, angry metal I can find and feel it. I embrace it. It’s pure and progressive. The exception to this is anger directed at people. I don’t see the point wasting my anger on this. Most of us are walking around with our heads shoved up our own ass anyway, our own problems drown out the noise of the world, and our own insecurities speak to us louder than the screaming person before us. The beautiful complexity of anger gets diluted by our own shit. I want to feel mine, use it to do constructive things, it’s already gotten me out of my funk, what else can it do for me?

Plus, having a Snappy Tom moment can be fun. During my most recent fuck-the-planet moment, I had to ring the bank. I’m standing on my soapbox, smoking furiously, Strapping Young Lad drowning out the hold music. When the lady comes on the line I confirm my details, and she asks if I mind if she called me CC. What was my response?

“No. I would really rather being called Captain-fucking-Fantastic, if you don’t mind.”

I think the fact that she did really speaks about their commitment to customer service. Admittedly she called me “Captain-uh-Fantastic”, but I don’t think she liked swearing. Anyway, this was exactly the thing to defuse my anger and get me giggling again. Until it cycles back around, anyway.

A big blue-and-white box of social media debates

14 Jun

I am in the midst of an almost Facebook war.

I say ‘almost’ because I am waiting for a response to my last punchy and snappy comment.

It has been a long, long time since I have found myself stirring any sort of pot on Facebook. The last time was when I posted the following to my wall: “Why is it, when a woman accuses a Muslim man of rape we have the Cronulla riots, but when a woman accuses Andrew Johns [NRL player, for those who don’t know] we get nothing but support for him and condemnation of her?”
I then sat back and gleefully watched as my old school friends put feminism back five hundred years.
“People please,” one girl wrote, “the woman who accused him is obviously just a dirty slag who likes to be fucked but doesn’t like people knowing about it.”
“This girl is a liar. Andrew Johns seems like a nice guy and he has a wife and kids and I doubt he would do something like that.”
“When are women going to realise that when they go home with a football player they have one thing in mind. Girls shouldn’t go home with them if they aren’t prepared to fuck them.”

It was this last comment that stuck in my craw the most. Partially because it came from a woman: a woman who once considered herself to be a forward thinking girl-power-esque young lass, and not from a beer bellied right wing mysoginist, as one would imagine.

As the respectful owner of my very own vagine, I believe- crazily so- that its my right to stick whatever I want in it (be it football player, cute boy at the bus stop, or heated zucchini) and say no to anything that I don’t want put in it (be it football player, cute boy at the bus stop, or unheated zucchini). Call me wacky. But it is, you know, MY vagina and all.

I don’t want to get into a big in depth, Germaine Greer style feminist debate here. It will only leave me slobbering like a Rottweiler at my computer while my fingers fly over the keyboard, spelling indignant ‘how dare you, I am woman hear me roar’ phrases. Besides, this debate was neaty cut on my Facebook page by my half sister, who dismissed them as a bunch of puritanical women, then pointed out that what they were getting their cottontails all in a twist over was not the matter at hand.

The current Facebook saga has exploded after my dear old Dad put up a comment about a recent Liberal Party Fundraiser menu, which mocked Julia Gillard by likening her to a quail. “Julia Gillard Kentucky Fried Quail — Small breasts, huge thighs & a big red box.” My dad pointed out that “if Julia Gillard has small breasts and big thighs, then Tony Abbott is a big prick with no balls”, neatly stating without a shadow of a doubt where my fathers political leanings lie. Arguably, not an overly offensive comment. I believe that with a few glasses of wine I could have come up with something that would widen the eyes and curl the toes of the prim Right Wing of Australia.

However, Dad’s comment seemed to bother someone: “That is just as stupid as the original comment/ menu which all fair people despised- you are as stupid as the original author for adding your revenge /hate / – The words were disgraceful, your reply is equally so.”

Now, a little word about me. I adore my family. When anyone says anything against them I have the tendency to go a bit angry bird, and I generally swoop down like a mother magpie, all talons and beady eyes, without giving it much thought. I have done it before, time and time again. I’m not saying this for you to think that I’m some incredibly righteous type. More often than not it’s quite stupid because I, you know, am sticking my nose in other people’s business. Bad CC.

This fellow calling my dad stupid bothered me for two reasons. Firstly, my dad is not stupid. He is actually very smart. Freakishly smart. Especially about the Israel and Palestine conflict. Don’t even get him started on that. Seriously. Don’t bring up the Bilderbergs either. Don’t know who the Bilderbergs are? Don’t. Ask. Him. Please. For the love of all that is holy. Trust me. You will regret it. Secondly, if you are going to accuse someone of being stupid, I think that you should look smart when you do it. Makes sense to me. Also, calling the menu “stupid” is a bit of an understatement. It’s true that politically, the menu was not a smart move. However it was also chauvinistic, offensive, immature, baffling (its Kentucky Fried chicken, not quail, right?), sexist, ill timed, derogatory, tacky, common, banal, insipid, and just a little bit bogan (I’m sure the phrase “big red box” would not be out of place at the crappy pub I used to work at in Redneck Street, Western Sydney). This twit could have used anyone of those words that I threw out with only minimal consultation of a thesaurus.

I read his comment and got mad. Very mad. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m mad. I started to turn green, then realised I was wearing my favourite jeans that I wold be disappointed if I ripped. I de-hulked and calmly pointed out the following. “If we are going to take the ‘bigger person’ approach, I think that calling someone stupid on Facebook is not the best way to do it.”

It worked. I just excitedly checked for a rebuttal to find that his comment had been deleted. CC-1, Facebook Fellow-0. And I did it without creating an offensive menu.