sundog

January 29, 2009

I have no self control.

Filed under: My Life — happychick @ 6.38p01

I am so bad.

I saw the Irishman again. I gave him my phone number. I couldn’t help myself. He was so charming and Irish.

I almost hope he doesn’t call. What the hell am I going to say? Thank God I’m leaving in 12 days. At least I can pull the “I’m sorry but I’m moving away” excuse.

Then again, if he does call. I get to hear that accent again. *drool

I don’t even know his name! I’m expecting something really Irish like “Seamus”, but no doubt I’ll be disapointed. Oh my God what if he’s like 30?

Mum’ll kill me if she finds out. I mentioned him in passing in the car, se was all “The Irishman who is waaay too old for you?”. No Mum, the other amazing Irishman who, for some reason, thinks I’m kinda cute. SLAP.

Sigh. It’s so hard being me.

January 19, 2009

Cate’s 18th

Filed under: My Life — happychick @ 6.38p01

When I go back there now, I’m just “one of the boys”. There’s Matty and Jon, my geeky-but-popular cousins, Chris, Tom, and on occasion, crazy Ben. We play Guitar Hero (they make me sing), eat McDonalds, drive around in Matt’s tiny car which can’t cope with our weight, watch foreign movies and talk about people we went to school with.

They are the only people left there who accept me for both who I was and who I’ve become. With everyone else it’s different.

I was scared of going back. I generally like to think of myself as a pretty brave, hardy person (though this isn’t always the case). But for as much as I was dreading facing those girls, I knew in my heart I had to go- Cate was going to be 18. She, other than the boys, still loved me. And I was going crazy hanging out with my parents in this boring lame town.

So I went. I caught the bus (usually reserved for the homeless, derelict people), which gave me an extra incentive to pass my driving test this Thursday. Matty and Chris picked me up and we went back to Matt’s house to chill. The thing I love most about the boys (or perhaps “loved” is the right word, in light of the story to follow), is that they all just think I’m one of the guys- like a little sister. And the boys who aren’t related to me know the rules about hitting on your mate’s cousins- Don’t. So we played Guitar Hero Band, I was the worst singer who ever attempted 30 Seconds From Mars’ “The Kill”, and had a hoarse voice for about an hour afterward. We watched Transporter 3, which was a massive disappointment after the awesomeness of the second movie (and the female lead was the randomest, most unattractive weirdo I’ve ever seen), and we helped our Uncle Scott move into his new house.

They all laughed at me when we were getting ready for the party. At the time they were watching Dr. Who and I was ducking in and out of the room so I wouldn’t miss the exciting part (it turned out to be a crap episode anyway). Chris ended up yelling at me. “What the hell are you doing in the bathroom for so long?” Boys just don’t understand. I had to look good for tonight- not “look good” like you normally do when you go out, but “look extra good”, because it would be the first time in a long time that I would see everyone- and immaturely, I wanted to prove them wrong about me.

In short, the party was fricken awesome. I got a bit drunk (but not as drunk as my Mother seems to think- more on that shortly), but that was totally not my fault- everywhere I looked people were handing me beer and this one girl kept giving me Vodka Cruisers claiming “My Mum will kill me if I go home with full bottles”…

I met this totally adorable guy from South Africa who I was quite certain I would rape if no one stopped me. Actually the story is that I was talking to an old workmate Demetry, when Jarred (the South African) came in, and (unnecessarily loudly) I told Demetry “Demetry, get me one of those”. It was highly amusing but it seemed to do the trick. Jarred and I got on really well. He was pretty shy though, which I am not used to from guys, so I think, in the end, he thought I was either too drunk to hook up with or too full-on. But he will probably be at Gorgi’s going away party next weekend so I’ll see what happens there.

Chris was actually more smashed than I’d ever seen anyone in my whole life (that includes the time I found my Mum asleep in her own spew in our front garden). The older boys (Matt, Tom, Chris and Ben) had gone to the pub beforehand, and whatever they were drinking had completely floored Chris, who, as it turns out, can’t remember much of anything that happened. Which I’m glad of. Now, I understand that when people get drunk they do things that normally they wouldn’t, and I like to apply this theory to Chris’ actions. “You know Ash, you’re really hot and sexy” he said with a slur, sidling up to me. I kinda cocked my head and laughed, telling him that he was really drunk, which he agreed to, and we left it at that. But things are never really the same after someone says that to you, and unfortunately Cate must’ve heard the exchange too (more on that soon).

I met another guy a bit later on whose name, I think, was Blake. There are about 50 photos of him on my camera but I can’t really remember saying all that much to him (he’s photo 36 On). Anyway, he was very good looking and I was a little overwhelmed when he started talking to me. It kinda symbolized, for me, the whole night- I’d never been the pretty girl but suddenly here were all these boys wanting to talk to me. Matty would later put that feeling into words for me.

The biggest surprise of the night was Rach. It’s no secret that there was a lot of bad blood there after what happened between me and Travis and then her and Travis. For almost three years she’s pretty much wanted me dead. At first, in that awkward half-hour when you first get to a party, she ignored me, as I’d expected. Later on though, we were talking and laughing like old friends. I was so relieved. I’d actually been half afraid that she would bottle me before the end of the night. I later asked Cate if she’d put Rach up to being nice to me, and she denied it wholeheartedly, which was even better.

So at the end of the night I gave Demetry and Gerald my number and told them to sort out what was going on next weekend because I’d be back in town with my olds, and the boys and I stumbled home at 2am. We sat about in Jon’s room drinking water in an attempt to reduce hangovers and just talking about shit. Eventually Chris had passed out and Tom was very close, and Matt said to me “You know, I’m really glad that you’re my cousin.” I was tempted to laugh, but he went on. “Everyone thinks you’re really cool and then they think we’re really cool coz we’re related to you. You know how all the guys at a party sit around talking about one girl? That girl was you. You were like, the cream of the crop. They kept saying “yo, hook me up with your cousin, put in a good word”.” It reminded me of something he’d said to me years ago- “Ash, you’ve got something that makes people want to be around you”, at which point I’d laughed and said “they’re boobs”. What Matty was saying was obviously drunken ramble about nothing very important at all, but it really showed me how much things- how much I, had changed. Cate said Demetry referred to me as a “model”. I couldn’t help but think about my fat days, and the time when I had really horrific acne. And for as much as I was flattered for all the attention I got, which I can only assume was a result of the amount of booze that was consumed, and the sheer deficit of pretty girls, I thought about what that girl- the chubby one, with the acne, socially awkward and tactless- what she would say to me now. And I knew that she’d tell me not to forget where I came from. I knew she’d tell me to remember how all these people treated me, and to think about just why they’d suddenly changed their tune.

Mum saw the photos. She was mad. She told me I hadn’t asked her if I could drink, and every time she saw a photo of me with a different drink in my hand she’d growl a bit more. She gave me the lecture on drink-spiking and how dangerous a place that town was, about taking advantage of her trust in me etc etc. I don’t want to undermine her concern for my safety, but I truly think it wasn’t the booze, but the boys that her concerned. I’m actually a good girl, contrary to what many think, but my Mum thinks I have a very great potential to become a slut.

On a separate note, Cate messaged me the day after and asked, point-blank “Does Chris like you?” I shrugged it off, of course- “He was just so drunk”. Later on, Matty would tell me that he thought Cate might have a bit of a crush on Chris- I asked her, and to this she replied “The jury’s still out”.

That’s all for now, really. I’m looking forward to the weekend because a mate of mine, Gorgi, is having a going away party, and it should be pretty good. If Mum lets me go, that is. After this weekend she’ll probably only let me go if she escorts me and I only drink water all night.

x

January 16, 2009

Fuck I hate working.

Filed under: My Life — happychick @ 6.38p01

The only thing working as a check-out chick has confirmed for me is that I do NOT want to be stuck serving pain-in-the-arse customers all day every day for the rest of my life. Fingers crossed that will not be my fate.

There are lots of things that annoy me about work, but predominantly it’s that I could be doing something better. Standing about all day talking to people I don’t know and/or don’t care about is such a gigantic and utter waste of my time- for every minute I stand there, leant up against the frigging self-serve machine, I can feel myself getting older and ultimately, getting closer to dying. I know how morbid that seems, but it’s the God-honest truth.

It’s not as if my job actually has any positive ramifications. Working on self-serve, all I do is repeat the same instructions to every painful person who comes through- “Just wait until the green lights come on”, “You have to scan it and then put it in the bagging area”, “No, the GREEN lights”, “It’s not my fault, it’s a machine”. That place is turning me into a robot. I’m like a hotter version of R2D2.

Looking over what I’ve just written, it’s all a bit pessimistic and whiny. I guess everyone hates working, but it’s a necessary evil- you need money to survive, and unless you’re Paris Hilton, you need a job to earn money. (Sorry I just referenced Paris Hilton, the mere mention of her makes me feel like I need a bath).

And besides, not everything about my job is 100% sucky. Some of the people who work there are nice, or at worst, intriguing. And I’m pretty sure all guys have a secret sexual fetish about check-out workers. But by far, the biggest incentive to work is obviously money- I’m going to need every cent when I move out, and this fact has been playing on my mind a lot recently. Moving out means I have to pay rent, buy food, pay bills, buy petrol (the price for which is completely exuberant), and I’m going back to dancing, so God knows how I’m going to pay for all the costumes and makeup and whatever else.

Gah, I’m still complaining!

 

On the positive side, I’m going to be a Mum!

 

My dog’s having another litter of puppies and my folks have agreed that I can have one as a housewarming present. I’m thinking of calling her Luca, as a bit of a joke between my Mum and I. I have this Pawpaw ointment that I use as lipbalm, from a brand called “Lucas”. I have really dry lips because of my medication, so I never go anywhere without it. Whenever we go out, I’m like “Wait Kelso, where the heck is my Lucas?” Because I’m getting a female dog (I couldn’t handle a male like our male dog now, he’s so full-on), I couldn’t call her anything cricket-related, like Gilly or Punter or Roy, so I think I’ll settle on Luca.

 

Going to do some ironing (Gah I’m such a little old lady stuck in a 17-year-old body). Later x

January 14, 2009

I’m going to Uni :)

Filed under: My Life — happychick @ 6.38p01

I’ve already posted today so I’ll keep this one short. I got into University, accepted straight up by the Uni of my choice. I’m lost for words, which is, as you might know, a very rare occurrence for yours truly. I cried, actually, from emotion and from relief.

Of course, I’m thrilled- this has been my goal, the one thing I have striven for, for five years. Five long years of hard work and sacrifice so that I could see those words; “First Round Offer”. I’m so excited as to what the future holds, and I’m determined to make the most of my Uni life. I suppose I’m just a little overwhelmed, is all. I’ve finally achieved what once seemed so elusive, something that, for so long, I’ve focused on single-mindedly. I guess I’m stuck on the old question of once you’ve conquered Everest, what more is there to achieve? It’s time, now, to sit down and reassess my goals, to set new ones and to move forward into what is going to be a very exciting chapter in my life.

New things are happening to me every day- new people, new experiences. I’m deeply blessed to be in the position I am and I can’t wait to get on with it. I’m a Uni girl now.

My Mum will be the death of me

Filed under: My Life — happychick @ 6.38p01

I’ve come to the conclusion that my parents really are lunatics. Going to boarding school meant that I only had to see them a couple of times a year, which was great, but now, having finished school, I’m forced to live with them for a couple of months before University, and they are driving me INSANE.

I guess I’m no different to a lot of other teenagers, whose parents are a bit eccentric and, like mine, can be overwhelming, but seriously- will it never end? My Mum is the worst- can Alzheimer’s set in at 41? She’s lost her marbles, and it’s enough to make you cut your wrists (not really, self mutilation=BAD). Figuratively speaking.

 

But I love her all the same. She’s a lunatic, for sure- she’s unpredictable and at times undesirable, but she’s kind and loyal and always up for a laugh. I think that’s where I get it from- because for sure, I’m just the same. I’m as eccentric as they come, a little crazy, a little moody, a little outspoken. But I’m not a bad person. I honestly think (and this might just be my ignorance talking) that people misunderstand me because I just don’t think the same way other girls do. I’m honest- sometimes brutally so, and people can be affronted by that. Similarly, I’m not overly vain- I don’t post photos on my Facebook because they’re taken from a good angle and make me look super hot- I post them because they reflect my personality, or they’re symbolic as to what I was doing at the time, or they’re just plain funny. I’ve got a lot of friends and I get along with almost everyone, but I’ve never been “popular”. I’ve had my share of boyfriends and what have you but I’ve never considered myself “hot”. I’m not even sure I know where all this is going but I’m in a ranting, confessional mood and I think I’m entitled to waffle on aimlessly every once in a while (or more often than not).

 

LOL. I saw the Irishman again today (refer a couple of posts below for full story)- it was pretty awkward, he was all cute and Irish and I was trying to stop myself drooling and start thinking straight before I ended up in his car with my shirt off.

I might digress as we progress- when we were in England, Casey, Cheese and I made a point of talking to other foreigners we met in elevators. We figured “we’re from Australia, they don’t know us here”. So each time I’d step into the lift I’d flash a smile and ask “where are you from?”, and the next time I saw my mates I’d say “Oh my God I just met China/Spain/Mexico!”. It was actually really cool meeting so many different people, but a lot of them (like this family from Barcelona) didn’t speak English so it was awkward but funny. It also gave us a chance to suss out which countries we’d like to visit because they had hot boys. For example, we decided boys from Macedonia were cute but rude, English boys were adorable but mostly had bad teeth, and Spain was definitely where we were headed next because the guys were, on the whole, totally hot and really nice! (except these two guys who we sat with on the bus- they spent the whole time talking in Spanish and making fun of us! L)

Anyway, it became a bit of a running joke so I messaged the girls the other night after the incident with the Irishman and said “Oh my God I just got asked out by Ireland!”. They thought it was pretty funny in light of my new obsession with all things Irish (again, refer below).

 

Ok that was super long and I can only assume super boring, I’ve got the rest of the arvo off work (it’s 1.30pm here in Aus), I’m going to wrap my friends birthday present (she’s 18 tomorrow!) and probably watch a Bruce Willis movie. Later x x x

 

P.S. Nitaro- Heck yes I have Facebook, I searched your email and added you, let me know if it worked!

 

P.P.S Keeping with my count-down until I’m 18, there are only 260 days to go!!

 

P.P.P.S I find out if I got into University tomorrow. Pray for me, if you’re into that, if not, keep me in your thoughts!

January 11, 2009

New Years Resolutions

Filed under: My Life — happychick @ 6.38p01

New Years Resolutions

 

I was thinking today about New Years Resolutions- why people make them, where it all started and, most importantly, what resolutions I would make this year that would help me to become a better person. When I say “a better person”, I don’t mean it in a corny, rose-coloured glasses sort of way- I mean it in a Justin Langer, always-strive-to-be-more-than-you-are kind of way.

Sure enough, the ever-reliable Wikipedia has the answers- “A New Year’s resolution is a commitment that an individual makes to a project or the reforming of a habit, often a lifestyle change that is generally interpreted as advantageous.”

I thought that this year I’d think of something a little bit different- I don’t need to lose weight, I haven’t got any debt to free myself of, I don’t smoke or drink to excess, and I’m not in a bad relationship that I need to get out of.

So here it is, my revised list of 2009 New Years Resolutions:

 

         Look after my teeth. It sounds a little unusual, but what, I ask you, is more attractive than a clean, toothy smile? I’d like to keep my teeth for as long as possible and avoid falsies, and if that means flossing and drinking less Fanta then it’s the least I can do, right?

         Volunteer. There’s a Soup Patrol run in the city, where soup and bread is given to the disadvantaged. I’ve done it once before and found it really very rewarding. Giving back to our society should be in the forefront of everyone’s minds.

         Be more environmentally friendly. That’s not to say I’m going to boycott lightglobes and walk the ten kilometres to University, but it doesn’t take much to turn off the aircon of read a book rather than watch the TV.

 

That’s it, really. I’m not going to make goals that aren’t plausible- there’s no better self-esteem killer than setting goals you never reach. Things are going pretty well and I don’t need to make any lifestyle changes that are “generally interpreted as advantageous”. I do have one rhetorical question, though- have you ever been afraid that things have to get worse, because they can’t possibly get any better? X x

 

P.S. Nitaro- thankyou for your comment. It means more to me than you will ever know.

January 10, 2009

Oh, she’s only 17

Filed under: My Life — happychick @ 6.38p01

The Followill brothers of Kings of Leon had it right. I’m officially over being underage and can’t say the word “seventeen” without distaste.

It all started with the Irishman. Now, my love affair with the Irish- the land, the people, the accent, really only came to prominence over the past year, whilst studying the poetry of Seamus Heaney (arguably the greatest Irish poet who ever lived). It was like when you hear a term or a phrase for the first time, and suddenly you’re noticing it everywhere. I watched the movie P.S. I Love You with great delight, had extensive talks with the Irish priest at my school, and started meeting Irish people everywhere. It’s uncanny, and it’s the sort of occurrence that makes me believe a little in the paranormal.

So the town my parents live in now is home to a whole heap of immigrants, working in the harsh Australian climate for residency and very good money.

A lot of these immigrants are Irish.

The Irish accent is a lot to me like heaven. For anyone who’s seen the crackpot British comedy Black Books (starring Dylan Moran, who is, coincidentally, Irish), I react to the Irish accent much in the same way Fran Katzenjammer reacts to the voice of her old university acquaintance- it can “melt me at 20 paces”.

To put it crudely, if you’re Irish, I’m yours.

So, the encounter with the Irishman (don’t lie, you’re dying to know). Let me put it to you in detail, a kind of Happychick Mills and Boon style thing. I work the self serve at the local supermarket, right? The Irishman comes along, good looking enough to make you look twice but not enough to make you drop your underwear, I start up a conversation (I get paid to, ok??). We talk about Ireland (what else?), and that I’m going to University in March. The Irishman, in his Irish-accent makes-me-drool kind of way makes an offhand comment about March being “far enough away”. He asks me if, in Uni, I’m going to take lots of drugs (is that what they do in Ireland?), and, laughingly, with what I think was a flirty but was probably just creepy hair-flick, tell him of course, “and I’ll have lots of orgies too”. Hahaha Happychick you’re so funny- and lame. Surprisingly, he still thought I was kinda cool (or maybe he was just horny). He asks me, so close I can smell his Irish cologne, when I’m going to go for a drink with him.

I can only think of three things;

1). How hot the irish accent makes me

2). The Kings of Leon song, “17”

3). How, if any Australian/English/American/Egyptian guy with teeth as crooked as his had hit on me, I’d be gone like a bullet

 

And I say, with another creepy hair-flick (I should really pin that fringe), “I’m a bit young”. It was like saying “I’m actually a man and have three kids”. Very awkward. He did this weird thing where he cocked his head to one side and asked me if I was 17. I nodded with a grimace. He recovered, asked for my number anyway (still horny? I think so.), and I dismissed him with “Maybe next time”. He laughed, did that cute irish thing with the nose wrinkle and said “Yeah, maybe next year”.

 

And that was that. I decided then and there to make a count-down calender until the day I can accept offers from guys (preferably Irish ones) for a drink, until the day I will no longer receive the grimace and apologetic step backwards that accompanies the phrase “underage”. Guys are scared of that, and I get it- to them, I’m still a child. A child they want to have sex with, but a child all the same. And no guy is that horny. (Take that back- a lot of guys are.)

 

I recognise that this is becoming a very long post but I’m still only halfway through my story.

 

The same sort of thing happened in the lunchroom at work today with Sam, the guy that works in the liquor store next door. I told him I couldn’t wait until my brithday, that I was going to have a huge party and it was going to be absolutely legendary. He said, “20 or 21?”. I, being the slow-on-the-uptake bimbo individual I am, cocked my head with what I can imagine was a really stupid expression. The woman across from me snorted her chicken back into her salad. “She’s only 17”- Gah! Very awkward. Sam gave me a stunned look, as though he’d been slapped with a dildo. I just laughed it off and went back to work.

 

In the end, being 17 SUCKS. I love being young and having all these years ahead of me, but let’s face it- I can’t drive, can’t buy my own booze, can’t go out to pubs or clubs- my age is like leprocy. I know I’m overreacting- I’ll be the first to admit it. But I’m OVER IT. I want an Irishman, dammit! X x x

 

P.S. As a footnote, whatever this thing is between me and Sam is a bit weird and confusing, and I’m not really sure how to handle it. Maybe I’m really lonely, lusting for a boyfriend, not just a guy. He’s nice, really nice, kind and funny and a bit of a goofball. He’s the sort of guy my parents would make fun of for being uncool, but would ultimately approve of because they wouldn’t think he’d make a move. Maybe I just go for the nerds, the “losers” (God knows my dating history shows that). Maybe he’s just the sort of guy I’d really really like to be good mates with. Who knows? Certainly not me.

January 2, 2009

TEE

Filed under: My Life — happychick @ 6.38p01

Sitting my final school exams was more stressful than almost anything that has ever happened to me. For more than a year the inescapable reality of having to sit the TEE loomed over my head, forever getting closer. Looking back now, I can still feel the tightening in my stomach that accompanied any talk of the TEE (Tertiary Entrance Exams). I was absolutely terrified. And for as much as I knew I wasn’t alone, that was little consolation. I felt alone. I felt underprepared. I had all these grand plans to start studying early so that cramming wouldn’t be necessary in the weeks prior to the exams. Grand plans which got lost amongst the endless homework, assignments and tasks that had to be completed before I even thought about studying for TEE.

 

I remember walking out of my final exam with mixed emotions. I was relieved, of course- I wouldn’t have to sit another exam until University, and that was a whole four months away. I was sad, too- this would be the last time I’d be standing out the front of my school as a student. Effectively, I was free, but also nostalgic for the days when you knew that, whatever else happened, tomorrow there would be school. I was also a little bit angry, for reasons I couldn’t, at the time, come to grips with. I was angry because, in my heart, I knew it hadn’t been worth it. I knew that I’d spent the past two years of my life slogging it out for those 6 exams- so I could get a good TER, so I could go to University and pursue my dream of becoming a journalist. I’d known all along that this was my one chance of making something of my life that so many people I knew missed out on. But leaving that exam I was kicking myself, knowing that I’d worked myself up for something that in the end, meant absolutely squat. Whatever TER I got, it didn’t define me, it didn’t tell anyone anything about me.

 

My TER was 96.75. That’s a fairly decent score, and one I deserved. My parents were thrilled, my friends were jealous, the guy who conducted my job interview yesterday was stunned because he’d initially thought I was a bimbo. My teacher emailed me, “very proud” of my “splendid results”. But I didn’t care as much as I think I should have. I should have been proud- and I was, to some extent. I should have felt victorious- I’d spent most of the past 12 months gearing myself up to beat the other girls in my graduating class, but once I did, I didn’t really feel superior. I did feel grateful though. Grateful to myself for having achieved something that no one really thought I could. I was grateful to my Dad, because every time I would feel stuck or alone or overwhelmed I would look up at him or visit his grave and tell myself that I had to achieve for his sake. And I was grateful to the Universe, or God, or whomever it is who pulls the strings on this earth- grateful that I now had a pathway I could follow, grateful that hard work and determination actually did pay off sometimes, and grateful that I didn’t care enough about my TER score to make it my whole world, to let it define me and tell me who I was in relation to those around me. I was proud of my TER but I can’t wait to be rid of it when I begin University.

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