I am the cutting edge of fashion.

There are some fashionable items that I am very sad to see returned to the magazines and on the streets again. White shoes is one very sad trend that has resurfaced. I remember them the first time - and need not relive that trauma. Mullets, puff-ball skirts and bubble-jeans, are also trends I wish never to see again, but fear that they too will inevitably return. Make-up too has trends, some far more noticeable than others. I remember when everyone of my lipsticks seemed to be a variation of brown, in an effort to look "natural", but instead made me look jaundiced. Now, they are all simply variations of red, in an effort to make me look sultry, but I think probably make me look slutty.

Of course, good taste and refined make-up go out the window when I am made up for a tap-dancing performance. As our teacher says, "Too much is never enough!" Extra long-lashes, extra bright rouge, and of course, extra bright eyeshadow in the ONLY colour for the stage - BLUE! I applied as much was indecent, and then some, and was promptly told that I wasn't wearing enough!

Last night I was shopping with PSD and decided to purchase some eyeshadows (in a naff little case for ease of my frequent travel). The item to be purchased came with pre-selected eyeshadows, one of which was blue. I gasped in horror, and exclaimed that apparently I had heard Blue was making a come-back. The sales assistant confirmed this and assured me that Blue eyeshadow would "bring out the colour of my eyes". To my shame, I fell for this lame line, and purchased the product.

I assured PSD that I had indeed heard this, but I was reticent to wear the shadow since the last time I wore it was for my tap show. I commented that I wore it for the stage, but strangely liked the look of the shadow. He agreed and said, "You looked like a drag queen - but a really feminine one!"

Chrysalis

Apparently the Christmas season is a time of increased suicides. In part due to having to spend time with one’s family which for the remainder of the year you can successfully avoid. But also, probably in part to the overwhelming sense of loneliness that can result if you are single, or apart from those you love. I often feel a great melancholia overtake me due to being single. I never chose to be this way, but when people ask “So why aren’t you seeing someone?”, one wonders how it came to be like this.

But something that has been playing on my mind of late is something far more pervasive, and certainly not directly related to the festive season. I have a great sense of my mediocrity. And I hate it.

I am a mediocre singer. I am a mediocre dancer. I am a mediocre Physicist. I can do an average job of cooking and creative endeavours. I can make a plausible attempt at appearing well-rounded in my education. I can be moderately funny, and moderately interesting.

But deep, deep down, I feel like I am teetering on something more. I can’t help but think that there is something waiting just out of reach for me.

When I get stuck in traffic, I want to scream, as I realize that I am JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE. I hate public transport since it seems so average and normal. I am one of hundreds of thousands of women in their thirties wondering why they are alone. I am one of millions of people putting their little life out into cyber-space every day. I am an insignificant piece of carbon-based life form on one obscure corner of one obscure little planet in an unimportant solar system.

But one day, I hope, that like the butterfly in Chaos theory, I will make a big tornado somewhere.

Secrets and lies

I had a date on Sunday night with a gentleman from the internet. It goes without saying that we had never met before and this was to be our first encounter. It started slowly, with probably much hesitation on both our parts. There is that tendency to hold back one’s true character for at least a little while on such a first meeting. All that we knew of each other is what we had put into our rather two-dimensional profiles. A brief email and phone call had been used as merely an instrument to meet face to face. After a drink, he proposed a meal, an idea that I am rather averse to for first meetings. But, I decided to plunge on regardless.

We shared a reasonable pub meal, and a glass or two of wine. Definitely had some laughs, and probably checked each other out, as subtly as one can. During the course of the dinner, he said “This has been really nice - A lovely meal and lovely company.” All signs were looking good for date number two.

But then it came. As we said goodnight, he said, “I’ll call you.” It was then that I knew that he wouldn’t and true to form – he hasn’t. I am getting better at this dating thing – well not at the actual dating – but certainly, I know when they aren’t going to ring and don’t have to feel so disappointed!

The following night, I went out to dinner again with a lovely gentleman. He of the aforementioned languorous eyes and admiring glances. As per usual, we had a delightful time, with some giggling over my “skills” and hushed inferences of his own particular abilities. But then the waiter came over to clear plates, and my date asked him as to his country of origin. The waiter eagerly responded, to which my date said, “Oh yes, my girlfriend is from that region.”

Now I knew about the girlfriend. I have always known about her – hell, I have Googled her. But we have never talked about her. At his statement, I felt no need to comment or add to the moment. When the waiter took leave of us, my date (hmmm… really got to give him a name) looked awkwardly at the table and said, “I shouldn’t have said that.” Probably an understatement. Nevertheless, I decided to again keep silent, which then of course forced him to break the silence by continuing his monologue. “I don’t know why I still persist with it: we never see each other”, he said, almost apologetically. Externally I remained aloof, but in my head I was screaming, “Oh God… the next thing he is going to say is ‘My wife/girlfriend doesn’t understand me’, and then how will I stop from guffawing with laughter at the cheesiness!”

To my disappointment, and probably in his best interests, he did not continue in this vain. Although I did feel the need to add, “Well, it is clear that you aren’t as faithful to her as you probably should be.” He nodded and fell quiet for a moment. Soon enough, our conversation returned to its usual cheery banter.

And then before we said good night, he said he would call me. And, despite the far-off presence of a girlfriend, I know he will call. He is reliable like that.

Not quite 101 things

I have been thinking a lot about a recent "trend" in blogging. It seems that a lot of people have jumped on the "101 things in 1001 days" bandwagon - Google it and you will see what I mean. I have been contemplating undertaking such a task: perhaps to give my life purpose, perhaps for focus, or simply because it would often nice to have a reason to keep going.

Perusing others lists for motivations and ideas that I would put into my own; I have been somewhat less than impressed. I suppose I thought that some of the things that people would put on their lists would be things that at least required some effort. Sadly, no. When people are listing things akin to "Go to bed early" and "Clean up kitchen", I fear that I may be reading too much into life goals. I imagined some things that required a challenge and therefore a sense of great accomplishment. Or, I imagined things that would provide some significant life-enhancing experience.

I have never been one to make resolutions. Rather I am more about achieving things that interest and intrigue me. So the idea of a time frame and a list of goals to accomplish, really appealed to me. Of course, I could also be setting myself up for failure by choosing 101 incredibly difficult things.

There are a few things I have thought of that I am interested in completing - list or no. So far these are;
(i) Watch all the Academy Award winning Best Pictures
(ii) Memorise every episode title for "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and a synopsis of the storyline
(iii) Finish (successfully) up to Grade 8 AMEB Singing exams
(iv) Buy a house/unit/apartment
(v) Attend more operas than in the previous 12 months

OK… I think I am tapped for the moment – suggestions will be gratefully received!

Even I know when enough is enough!

I am addicted to very few things. None of which are illegal, but that doesn't make them any less disturbing. I adore Buffy. I love handbags. Red lipstick constitutes a passion. But the most worrying addiction of all I think is my unnatural reverence for Christmas.

I revel in all parts of the holiday season. I love the decorations and lights. I adore the wrapping of presents. But, most of all, I love the music. I listen to Christmas music year round. It lifts a mood, it imbues a sense of good cheer and attempts to capture some of that magical time leading up to Christmas time. Christmas morning I always find myself feeling a little flat. Reality seems to fall short of the romanticised mark that I have setup in my mind. My imagined Christmas is Capra-esque in spirit, with chilly weather and warm hearts. An enormous tree laden with lights and decorations is the ideal in my mind, with stockings and presents for all.

I really don't know where my notion of the ideal Christmas came from. One too many Christmas television specials from northern hemispheres perhaps? Christmas reality has in fact often been bereft of any of the romance I imagine. Tacky trees and decorations, meager presents, and sweltering days of sunshine.

So now with the festive season upon us I once again start playing Christmas carols. I sing joyously of snow-laden days and mangers in far-off lands. My imagined halls are decked and my nights are ever silent and holy.

But I do have my limits. I am always on the lookout for yet another Christmas CD -
over 300 songs on the iPod devoted to Christmas and counting. But NOTHING will lower me to ever purchase the David Hasselhoff Christmas CD. A girl has got to have standards!

I'm just a girl.

I freely admit that I am a woman whose ego needs constant stroking. Actually, stroking doesn't quite cut it on occasion, abrasive friction is probably more like it.

For my work Christmas party last year, I spent over two hours getting my hair preened into an amazing coif. I left the salon feeling no less than striking. I came home, and finished my preparations. False eye-lashes. Exquisitely applied make-up. Stunning dress. The look was all glamour, and hopefully, shaggable. B arrived, looking suitably dapper, as per usual. I opened the door, and awaited his praises.

Nothing. Not a sausage. Nada. Zip. Understandably, this made me pretty pissed.

By contrast, I was out tonight with PSD and a couple of his friends, who extol flattery with charm, grace, and don't even sound like they are sucking up that much! Still, it is little comfort when these accolades come from people, delightful as these men are, who have no sexual desire for me (or my gender for that matter) whatsoever.

So pathetic as I am, when recently talking with a gentleman, I found myself near blushing. He is dashing and charming. Witty and talented. Sexy, with a commanding presence, and a little famous. I stood with him chatting briefly, and his eyes langourously took me in. His gaze didn't linger, certainly didn't leer, but seemed to caress. When he realised I had gone quiet, watching him watching me, he returned to look at my face, and said, "You look fantastic. Absolutely hot."

I think I floated home.

Here he comes like Don Ju-an...It's better than an o-per-a!

Ms Fits recently offered some suggestions of things to get up to this weekend, especially if you want to avoid the vigils and tears surrounding Van Nguyen's execution. I concur with her support of La Boheme currently playing at the Arts Centre. It is a fine production, modernised beautifully, and featuring a fine cast of singers. Of course, it is a trifle depressing, but you have been warned.

There is a tendency when you say you are going to the opera, that people affect an accent. The word "Opera" becomes "O-pair-rah" with a tinge of faux upper-class British plum. I have always felt it undeserved insult.

But yesterday evening, when at the opera, prior to the start, prior even to the tuning, I attempted a trifle idle chit-chat with my neighbour. I was greeted, if that could be the word used for my reception, with the aforementioned faux accent. And worse still, the misplaced arrogance associated with it. I recently purchased my subscription for next year's season, and as is often the case, you have the same seats for the entire season. As a consequence, I may be sitting beside these "delightful" people once again.

I do hope that I can give them the shits with my middle class boorishness in the coming year!