Mirror mirror - what am I?

I have had cause of late to think about how I am viewed by others, and its comparison to how I view myself. More than once in the last 24 hours I have been told that I am a "girly-girl". I find this more than a little amusing, since I think quite differently.

I will admit to having a great predilection for red lipstick, shoes and, of course, handbags. But is that what makes one a "girly-girl"?

When I was little, I think I may have been about 6 or 7 at the time, I thought I was a boy. Why I thought this I am not quite sure. But I distinctly remember standing in front of the mirror, and noted that I had no breasts, and my voice seemed rather lower than my female friends. So I put my great analytical skills to the task and came to the conclusion that I was obviously not quite a girl. I felt that breasts were the most obvious sign of womanhood, and since I was quite clearly without, then, it was apparent that I could really be a boy.

It goes without saying that I was always a strange child.

I grew up in a neighbourhood amongst only boys and did all that they did. I rode my bike, burnt ants with a magnifying glass, and would punch back when hit. But then things changed. One summer holidays I turned up at the neighbour's house, ready to go swimming with the "other boys", only to find my (male) friend looking at me weird. It seemed from nowhere, the breasts had arrived and so had his hormones. I thought it quite amusing but ignored it all.

At high school, I matriculated with only women, and as a consequence was not distracted by the male flesh until university. By this time, the boys were quite used to the presence of women, and paid me no heed (or at least it seemed that way). Studying a predominantly male course, being female seemed only to mean that my notes from class would be neater - and therefore, I spent my university years catalogued as the person who lends their notes, and not as a girl.

But it would appear that somewhere along the way I become a little girly. So now in my adulthood I am a combination of contrasts. I swear like a wharfy and will talk on any subject that might make grown men blush, but then expect a door opened for me. I don't necessarily want a man of mine to talk vulgar, but expect that I can, when I feel like it.

So back to the original concept - what makes a woman a "girly-girl"? Genes, state of mind, attitude or the way she is treated? Or is it a combination of all this and more? I could think on this more but I think I really should file my nails before I change the oil in the car.......

I know that one theory of reincarnation is that with each life, you progress up the evolutionary scale. But despite this, I want to come back in my next life as a man.

S and I went shopping yesterday for clothes for him. He desired some more "mojo" clothes and went out with a specific mission. Not only did he know what he wanted, but could describe the article down to the specific colour and pattern of fabric that he desired. And what shit me was the fact that he found them. And they looked hot. So not fair.

This does not happen in my world, or that of ANY women I know. Damn you X chromosome.

Two very different meanings

Last night I had dinner with a former work colleague of mine, R, who is visiting on the pretext of professional development. After a delightful meal and many shochus, the conversation took a turn towards a more intimate nature.

We began comparing first kisses, when you knew you were either straight or gay, and in my case, inappropriate sexual offers that I have made (to a gentleman that R currently works with). This gentleman in question is quite attractive (well, to me anyhow) and possesses are large nose. At the point of mentioning this, I just raised my eyebrows quizzically to let R infer my meaning. R responded with a comment along the lines of "Lesbian friends of mine have told me about the virtue of a large nose."

I must admit at this point to being a little naive in the world of lesbian sex. Since I am straight, I have not had the great pleasure of pleasuring or being pleasured by a woman. So, when a gay male friend is telling me that lesbians have a theory on large noses - I must admit to being confused.

At great embarrassment to both R and I, he then went on to explain that apparently a large nose is of great advantage when performing cunnilingus. While the tongue is engaged in one locale, the proboscis can attend further up the pleasure centre.

After telling me this juicy snippet of information, R looked back down towards his meal with a blush colouring his collar. My only response was a mumbled, "Oh".

I thought it might mean that a woman with a large nose has a large clitoris, since that is what I was thinking of in reference to our large-nosed friend. Apparently not. Another faux pas for me!

So blue... funny how it seems...

For Pear: Since you knew it would end up here.

L, Pear and I went to a movie premiere this evening for "Wimbledon". It has been described by some as a "Good date movie" by a fellow blogger. This would mean to me that it is generally inoffensive to all and will give any women a general glow of satisfaction.

On the way home from the movie, we were discussing movies that stir our emotions for good or ill. But then we settled on the classic tear-jerkers that always work for us. "Truly, Madly, Deeply" got high reviews from this select group. The crowd was split when it came to "Bridges of Madison County", "Out of Africa" and "Working Girl". What works for some, seems lame for another.

But the general consensus was that sometimes you really just have to have a really good cry, and for those moments one has that favourite movie that can always be relied upon. Slip it on, get comfy on the couch with tissues at the ready, and be prepared to drown your sorrows.

Men may get blue balls, and need a jolly good wank to relieve the tension. I get a blue heart and need a good cry. Either way, the tissue companies do well out of us all.

To the mouth of hell and back

I popped by my own version of Hell on the weekend.

Saturday afternoon, a colleague of mine had organised what I thought was to be an afternoon tea, but somehow morphed into "dinner". It was designed as a gathering of some of the women-folk from work (and one token set of testicles) to get together. Lovely bunch of ladies during the working week - although giving over a Saturday night was more than I could bear. I decided that an afternoon ale was more than enough for me.

So I made my way out there with my humble food offerings in tow. I realised as I got closer that this was a venture into an alternate universe for me. It has been a long time since I have lived in Suburbia, and quite happily so. This Suburbia is of the variety that was designed and built with every house resembling the next-door neighbours (a little touch of "The Truman Show"). Every house was constructed from a fetching dark brick, coordinated with white columns adorning every staircase.

It was an Italian middle-class nightmare.

Visions of neat gardens, kids playing in the streets and large blocks of land really should make one feel more cosy and a lot less nauseous. The stress only alleviated when I could once again return to the comfortable confines of inner-city parking dilemmas, homeless people and billowing mounds of rubbish - aaahhh, Home Sweet Home.

Would you very much mind fucking off?

Everyone has habits that people find annoying. Perhaps they are a little facial tic. Maybe an oft-used phrase that begins to grate on the nerves.

My flatmate T has a few little things that annoy me and if I was dating him (not in a million years!), would drive me over the edge. He eats terribly. He has a tendency to eat with his mouth open, thus giving me both an auditory and visual enjoyment of his meal that I would rather go without. N used to jiggle his feet in bed. B clicks his nails together (hard to describe). A very good girlfriend of mine, M, always checks herself out in any reflective surface - slightly disconcerting when you are talking to her and her eyes stray over your shoulder to find that she is ascertaining her visage in some surface behind you.

But apparently I drive a work colleague crazy with things I do - without even knowing it. She is in a separate office to me, which adjoins mine by a wall. Apparently this wall does little to dampen any noise generated in my office. As a consequence, I am constantly on edge about any conversation that I have in my office - for fear that it will annoy her. She is not shy of complaining about noise. But today things reached a new low.

I have been busily analysing data using Excel. Generating squillions of tables and graphs and generally "doing my job". It would appear that my jewelry is now a source of angst for my colleague. I wear a bangle on my right hand - a gift from my parents and a much beloved item. I never take it off. (Well, except at airports when I am forced to - and there is sometimes soap required for that feat). Apparently the "banging" of my bangle on the desk, as a consequence of me moving the mouse around is "driving her crazy".

So should I continue to "bang the bangle", let her go postal and leave me alone? Usually people find me annoying by the things I say - this is a whole new level to come to where I am able to cause distress by being productive!

Anniversaries and contemplations

I have been surfing through a few favourite blogs this afternoon (including those listed at right), as well as random ones via the blog arrow in the top right-hand corner. Quite a few have posted blogs with musings on the anniversary of the twin towers. I must admit that at this time of year, my thoughts do not tend towards that episode of recent history. I had no real personal connection with the tragedy that befell New York and as such, can only have limited empathy.

In contrast, my thoughts from early September to early October are far more personal. I contemplate my ex-husband (Pubes from previous posts)and the demise of my marriage. It was at this time five years ago, just prior to our wedding anniversary, he left me.

I was showing B some photos last night from days of old and happened upon photos of me and Pubes in happier times (well, at least I was). And it felt wrong. It felt wrong to be sitting there with photos of the most significant relationship of my life, a man who hurt me beyond my comprehension, with B leaning in close listening attentively. B was physically close, but my mind was many miles (and years) away.

I thought of the way that I was once loved, and the promises made for everlasting love. I remembered the pain, and the thought of never being touched by him again. I yearned for the way he would call to me, and the way that we would know what each other was thinking. I remembered our very first kiss, and struggled with the memory of our last.

But as time has passed, I can now also remember other things. The way that I could never stand sleeping in his arms, and now I feel the most comfortable with B's arms around me at night. I recall the insecurities that I felt, whether due to him, or me, it no longer matters. I think of those times, and don't like myself that much. I remember the self-doubt I had. I can reminisce on the fact that before Pubes and after Pubes, I have lived so much more life and achieved so much more personal growth than in the time with him.

I think I must have stopped talking and just sat holding the photos in my hands, when B asked if I wanted a cup of tea. I looked at him, nodded, and packed away the photos (and the melancholy) until another time.

A vast amount of scientific research exists about the link between smell and memory. And many people who have been through the process of either buying and/or selling a home know about the age-old trick of putting a pot of coffee on when having an open house of the house for sale. I know if I smell my mother's spaghetti sauce, my brain goes to some happy place of simple times and a slight umbilical dependence.

There is also some research about the link between smells and the propagation of the species. Apparently women are more sensitive to smells when ovulating, and will seek out a mate whose smell is different to our own. Our smell is determined by a number of things (putting my Dolce and Gabbana to the side for one moment!), and one of these factors is our immunity.

Now all of this sounds very technical, but comes down simply to the fact that we prefer the smells of some people over others.

My ex, Pubes, had a bodily odour that I adored. On the demise of our relationship, I desperately wanted to keep something of his that he had worn, just to hold on to that smell. If I smelt him now, many years later, I am unsure as to what reaction I would have. I fear that I would still find the smell alluring.

N, on the other hand, had a smell that was not bad per se, but just never gave me a complete sense of comfort. I don't know why, but the fact that we have broken up (amicably at that), imbues me with a sense of relief on the heart, and the nose.

Other men I have dated have had distinct odours also. D smelled beautifully of a combination of soap and dewy rain. A bizarre thing, but he felt "clean" to be near. Shame he was a prick to me really.

B does wear a divine scent, but many hours after its application, by which time I expect its effects to have diminished, I begin to smell the real "him". And it is intoxicating. I love lying beside him in bed, "spooning" if you will, drinking in the smell of him. It feels comforting, beautiful and right.

It is nearing that time of the cycle when I need to make hair appointments. Not for the unsightly mess that is atop my head, but for other regions. Regular follicular maintenance is one unexpected consequence of acquiring a new beau - the need to "keep myself neat and tidy" becomes an onerous task, but necessary nonetheless.

A few years ago, whilst still seeing N, I decided to surprise him for St Valentine's Day with a Brazillian wax - me, not him, that is. I believe at this time, the concept of Brazillian waxes in this country, or at least in my home city, were still in their infancy. So finding a salon willing to perform this procedure was a little challenging. I perused my locale and found an establishment that proudly declared them "experts" in the art. So up I fronted for my first ever Brazillian wax.

Now I have had MANY bikini waxes in my life, but never decided to completely denude the area. So this was somewhat of a turning point in my life. I was willing to pay premium price for a quality service. Unfortunately, this was not to be a happy experience - but certainly memorable.

I entered the establishment, which appeared to be a rather poor state. There were boxes piled around the "treatment" room, and a general state of dishevelment. My therapist, whose name I have blocked out due to trauma, handed me a packet of something and asked me to change into the proffered item. It turned out to be a pair of disposable underpants - very attractive. I climbed atop the bed, and waited for her to return.

On entering the room, she immediately whisked the paper-pants aside to reveal her workspace, which she took to with great vigour. She began manouevring my legs in all manner of positions to reach any and all hairs that dared to lurk near my pubic region. She was quite adept at ignoring my grimaces of both pain and some embarrassment. Being straight, I am not used to having a woman in very close proximity, let alone examining my nether regions. It was more than a little confronting.

This alone, would have been disturbing, but the piece-de-resistance came when she decided to take to my pubic mound with tweezers to fine-tune the hair removal process. She reached for a set of tweezers that were suspended in some sort of liquid - it resembled window-cleaner, but I prayed it possessed some sort of antiseptic properties. But these proved to be inadequate for her purposes. So she endeavoured to find a pair which would prove satisfactory. It was at this point that she reached into her handbag (handily located nearby), and retrieved a favourite set of tweezers, proceeded to wipe them on her denim skirt, and plunge headforth into my near-vulvul regions.

I nearly felt sick, and prayed to any and all Gods that would have me that no infection would be-fall me.

Needless to say, I survived the experience, vulva in tact, but it took a while to brave the Brazillian experience again. Not long after this experience, I passed by the window of the establishment, to find that they had long since closed down - perhaps due to health regulations I am not sure!?

As a side note, N LOVED the wax. We went out for dinner, and over the meal I explained what I had had done. We left rather quickly at that point.

In answer to a recent request....

R recently commented to me that there were not enough entries here devoted to discussing bodily functions. So in answer to that.... here we go.

With all the class that B exudes, you can imagine my shock when he first allowed some gas to pass through his rectum in my presence. Nothing too earth-shattering about his emittance, but just its mere occurrence was enough to remind me that he is after all human. Don't be mistaken for one moment to think that I am immune to such happenings myself. I was brought up on a healthy dose of my father approaching with a digit extended and declaring "Pull my finger!". After such training, is it no wonder that I can break wind at near Olympic standards. But so far with B, I have pursed my rectum and kept everything hush-hush. I know that as soon as I cross that line of public farting - the relationship begins to morph into something a little less cosmopolitan.

But this does bring up the other kinds of farting. Fanny farts are most embarrassing and seem to defy control (well at least any sort of control that I seem to have). And it does sort of take the gleam off that post-coital glow when one settles back in the arms of one's beloved, only to emit strange and frightening noises from beneath the covers. I have tried to ignore it, but really, that can prove difficult when there is a perceptible halt in conversation. So I say, from now on, I will celebrate my bodily expulsions! Hail the mighty Fanny Fart, the Anal Aeration and the Gust of Gullet!

Differences of Opinion

With the initial wooing phase well and truly past, B and I have now slipped into some sort of domestic routine. At least once a week he will come over, banish me from my kitchen (not an easy task I can assure you), and proceeds to cook me dinner. He is a very good cook, and not just by boy standards, but in the style of most men - he is incredibly slow. I find I need sustenance to sustain me just to get to the dinner table. But I digress. Often on these nights, we follow up dinner with watching a DVD. This is proving to me most stressful for me.

Like any new relationship (with a beloved one or otherwise), it is part of the experience to find where there is common ground and where there are differences of opinion or taste. When it comes to entertainment, B and I are often poles apart. We agreed on the merits of "Reservoir Dogs" which kept us happily entertained the other eve. [On a side note, for viewers of the DVD version, you must catch the "Reservoir Dolls" featurette - not a little disturbing I have to say.] We also both enjoyed the Japanese classic "Seven Samurai". But from here we seem to part the ways.

I have no shame in admitting to some sort of unnatural admiration, nay, love, for Buffy and the Slayerettes. I own all the DVD's, her visage features prominently on my monitors (home and work), and a "Buffy" watch adorned my wrist during my most recent job interview. B thinks the show is "silly". This comment cut deep. How do I tolerate a man who does not worship the best female role model yet devised (although the Bride in "Kill Bill" comes close)?

Last night we again attempted to watch a movie together. My choice. This gave me much cause for concern, but I decided to bite the proverbial bullet and take a risk for a documentary that I was intrigued to see. The movie in question is "The Corporation". The wonderful Pear recently reviewed as part of the most recent Melbourne International Film Festival and I would recommend you read her review for another opinion. I quite enjoyed parts of it, and indeed it did make me feel guilty about being a shareholder in large corporations and for ever rubbing my hands with glee when another dividend is paid to me. A guilt I can assure that will quickly pass - after all I am essentially a capitalist at heart. But B did not find it quite as entertaining, and indeed felt that it should have been more "balanced". More than once over dinner after the movie, I winced thinking that maybe our opinions on these things are incredibly different as to be insurmountable. Maybe not. Where does healthy debate begin and volatile differences begin?