the personal ad experiment

Today, in an effort to prove myself as the world’s biggest geek I made home made croatian donuts. It was an age old recipe handed down from …the internet, but mum used to make them back in the day so I remember how good they were. KK aren’t all that flash I tells ya. Of course, since I also happen to the world’s most pathetic cook they only sort of turned out. By “sort of” I mean..they were a bit err.. chewy. Not to worry, I’m sure the next batch will be right on track.

Then I got to thinking about how crap I am at cooking and how I’ve really degraded every single woman in my ancestry to shameful lows with my inability to cook. After all, I come from a long line of fabulous cooks, amazing, wonderful grade A cooking machines! I actually love trying things out in the kitchen frontier, but those dishes don’t always work (and sometimes it involves the fire department). What if (according to psychic) I actually do meet Mr. Wow and he is is wonderful (..don’t really believe her on this) and then I poison him with my food and he DIES?! This would be a tragedy. I hope Mr. Wow can cook for himself and is just looking for a normal (err) girl with other qualities (that I’m sure I will develop later..when I actually find out if I have any). Gee, men! What the hell do they want anyway? Cooking, cleaning, sex pots who can talk about sports? okay, yep.

So I’m, sitting at the table next to a bunch of donuts that are too chewy and mulling over my tea about how I can find out exactly what appeals to most men (as a common denominator) and come up with the most craptastic idea that I’ve ever had!

POST TWO DIFFERENT PERSONAL ADS ON THE INTERNET AND SEE WHICH ONE GETS MOST POSITIVE RESPONSES FROM MEN!

I am an evil genius. People tend to be less inhibited on the internet because they don’t have a fear of getting bitch slapped for having some sort of deviant point of view, so it’s really the perfect plan to see what men respond to…at least a certain subsection of men anyway.

So, I posted two ads. One was pretty much a true representation of me – in that it was just like any of the normal everyday drivel you’d see on here. A bit funny, a bit dorky, a bit dumb etc. Normal girl was asking for a “romantic relationship” and the ad had the word “soulmate” in there. Yes, these are words that have been known to make wheelchair bound men get up and run a country mile. BUT, it was a really sweet ad and also so many women out there really are looking for something nice and romantic and fun – so the ad happened to be true of most “normal” women I’d say. The other ad was your basic naughty vixen ad: begging for a spanking and asking in no uncertain terms to be “looked after” financially in return for sexual favours. Neither ad had pictures. Neither ad had any personal descriptions (though I *did* say that normal girl had ’squishy bits’ and that vixen girl was ‘avg weight/height’). I thought this was important because actually, normal women do have squishy bits and don’t all go to the gym every day because duh, they have normal lazy lives just like normal men.

I posted the goodies and then went off to do a load of washing.

When I came back to the computer (20 mins later?) I had something like 45 replies. Boy did I have fun reading through them. About 18 were for normal girl and the rest were for naughty vixen girl.

Normal girl, although intially the ‘loser’ (we’ll give it a few days) recieved some lovely posts from men who responded to the romantic side of things she wanted. One said “don’t worry, I’ve never cheated on a girl!” – obviously this is something that has been a worry for most women that he has been around. Many complimented her on her wit and congratulated her on being so personable and “real” (well, it was real – even though I don’t have any inclination to reply). One particular male responded to her post that said I’m looking for a guy who is honest, caring, hilarious and fun who doesn’t smash beer cans on his head or farts the alphabet. with “you are asking for too much” – which would have been funny except it wasn’t a joke. The guy was serious! I can tell that normal girl isn’t impressed by men who tell women that they are looking for too much. Normal girl is willing to take these kind of men down..to chinatown and beat them silly until they understand that looking for someone who is caring and nice actually isn’t asking for very much at all!

Naughty girl gets the initial win – she also got some very, very interesting proposals including I would tame you and make you feel like you never felt before. I know how to please a women and I love to tame wild animals too (hello tiger!) And other assorted x-rated stories that would be guarranteed to make your hair curl. The amount of men who actually responded to being a ‘benefactor’ to a young vixen is amazing though! All of them wanted a no strings arrangement whereby they were willing to “put vixen through college” just as they’ve helped numerous other young women. wow (not Mr. Wow though). It’s sort of like prostitution really. Normal girl is a bit perplexed that so many men would and do give money in place of love and devotion. Normal girl wonders why women accept this willingly.

I wonder about this for a while and so I take the whole experiment further, maybe naughty vixen has too much personality and that’s why she gets so much attention? So I post another message – no age, no description only this;

bottom line – I’ll do anything.
I want to be degraded

Anyone in their right mind wouldn’t answer this mail.
7 responses in 1 minute after midnight somewhere in the US before the message is removed as “spam”
3 with phone numbers!

oh.

So then I post my original idea – who knows?
I’m a cooking, cleaning, sex pot who loves to talk about sports.
interested?

I get one mail that asks seriously, do guys really want a women that cooks and cleans for them….thats so outdated, I dont think men even think like that anymore….i’m I wrong?

au contraire my naive friend.
cooking, cleaning sex pot who talks about sports gets 14 mails in 5 mintues before she too is flagged and removed from the site. “Spam” is the reason given.

In conclusion, I find this whole mess highly perplexing*, though I am as confused as ever. I need to learn how to cook. STAT!

Since it’s already out there, I’ll keep you posted on the progress of Naughty and Nice

*normal girl feels really guilty for leading the nice guys on btw. It was a consequence she hadn’t thought of before she pressed the ’send’ button.

nonna

When I was a little girl my nonna lived with us. She had blue/green eyes and powdery white hair. My dad had green eyes too. Sometimes in the light my eyes go green as well – but only two people in my whole life have ever noticed it. They are both people who have bothered to really look. I think a lot about that, looking and really looking. Sometimes I am surprised by the things that people don’t notice about eachother.

My nonna had these amazing fingers. They were long and spindly and she was able to twist and manipulate them to make amazing things. She could crochet anything. Mostly she used cotton to crochet little round doilies and long thin table runners. I used to sit by her side watching the needle stab its way in and out quickly and effortlessly while she told me stories of her homeland in hushed whispers. She could also knitt and used to make me little tops I could wear. Once I went to the yarn store and was told I could pick any ball of wool I wanted and she would make a top for me out of it for my birthday. I picked a bright pink one with threads of silver sparkle running through it. The top was sleeveless and scratchy (because of the sparkle) but I wore it anyway. After I got too big for it I unravelled the work and kept the wool. I still have it somewhere. I plaited a whole bunch of it together and used it as shoelaces for my docs once upon a time.

At night, before dinner she would go into her little room and get out the rosary and pray on her knees. I used to get on my knees too, but I didn’t know the words so I’d look up at the portrait of my grandfather instead and wonder who he was. Then I’d slide over her bed and play with the items on her bedside table. Little trinkets from her past. Pieces of jewellery, a lamp with a silky hanging fringe that I’d run my fingers over, back and forth until my mind went numb and all I knew was the tickles of silken thread across my fingertips.

My favourite piece was this little china jewellery box in the shape of a piano. Since I was piano girl, I loved that thing so much. My nonna said I could have it, but after she died my older cousins came and took everything, Everything. My little jewellery box was gone and all I had left were my memories of it. I can hardly write this without getting sad about it, even now. It was highly unfair, children have no power.

One of my earliest childhood memories is going on long walks with her. Long sunny day walks through the back streets commenting on the houses and naughtily picking flowers from the front gardens. Picked flowers from front gardens and wildflowers are my favourites, imperfect but sweeter smelling. Flowers are for more than just looking – people are too. I loved coming up with a posey of my very own and holding it up to my nose cherishing the sweetness as I skipped along beside nonna.

She used to spend hours making fresh pasta and I would be there beside her helping make the shapes of the orecchiette. My fingers were slow and clumsy next to her fast and adept ones. There was always flour everywhere. She wore a flowery large apron that went right over the top of everything, like an art smock. I wore a little white lacey one that didn’t cover anything but looked fun. My impracticality meant that I always ended up with flicks of flour all over me, not unlike now – except with paint.

She didn’t get on well with my mother. They didn’t fight, not really – but there was a mutal dislike under the top layer of niceness, simmering. I don’t really know why they didn’t like eachother – except that they were both strong women with strong ideas about how things should be done. I guess that’s what I can say for a lot of things in my life – underneath the surface the bubbles are dancing. They both liked pottering in the garden though and that probably was the only thing they shared, apart from my dad and us. I was often torn between loyalty towards my mother and loyalty towards my nonna. Sometimes she would use my brother and I to manipulate situations to her favour. I knew what was happening and I hated that. I can’t even imagine how my dad felt about it all – or whether he even noticed. As we’ve already established, not everyone notices everything they should…or could.

Later on in her life and when I was nearing the end of my primary school years – my nonna had a stroke. She wasn’t allowed to go on her long walks very often because I was too young to look out for her properly and my parents were always too busy to take the time to take her. I remember her frustration at being so old and treated like a child. She used to walk along my Billie Jean hallway instead – working out her discontended resentfulness up the length of the hallway and back again. It was sad.

After she died I used to hear her slippers shuffling up and down the cold tile hallway for a long time. When I’d check, there was never anybody there. There were other things too, perfumed smells where there was no perfume around, sounds in empty corridors. After a month it stopped and everything went back to normal.

just a bit of niceness please.

the right kind of man

Firstly, ugh. ARGHH! What the hell was THAT? Penalty kick? Oh please! Now, I know that soccer is this game where sooking it up in order to get a free kick is what you just do. I understand this because the kids do it at school when they want to get out of doing something or want a little sympathy but the refs really need to handle it like we at school do “aww, just splash some water on it and it’ll be right”. I feel the “just splash some water on it” way of dealing with things should be introduced into the game of soccer – and perhaps in the gaza strip too. Maybe then we could have avoided a crappy end to a game that should have come to a more organic end. Now this isn’t sore losing talking. Oh no, given we had gone to golden goal time I think we would have lost anyway. It was just a crappy way to go.

I have been de-flowered, so to speak and had my first Krispy Kreme. I agreed to “go with” to FountainGate as long as I didn’t have to wait in line. I have a bit of a problem waiting. I’ve never been to FG before so I thought I could go do some shopping instead. Shopping is fun. Um, no. Talk about a festering hole in the middle of a festering hole. I sort of trudged around looking lost and forlorn while the crowd outside stood in line like a bunch of freakos. Why on earth did I agree to this anyway? Never again folks. In the end I think waiting in line would have been preferable. Anyway the donuts were donuty and yum. Unless they move to civilisation though I won’t be partaking further. Bye bye KK.

F had her baby. It’s a boy! I can’t wait to see him. Maybe we can raise him, communal style to be the right kind of man and he can bring joy to some lady! God knows something needs to be done about the state of men in the world! #2 used to wait until her brother was asleep and sneak into his bedroom and whisper “pot bellies on women are hot, pot bellies on women are hot” into his ears while he slumbered. I have sat bro down and given him the low down on treating women nice. We see it as community service. It really is.

At #2’s wedding, her groom got up and gave this heartfelt speech about becoming a man and how lucky he was to be surrounded by so many good role models that helped him to become not only a man, but the right kind of man – and that help is what he attributes to being able to find the woman that would make him happy for the rest of his life (yep, awesome right? Where *are* these guys?).

What makes a man the right kind of man anyway? The list I’ve come up with is the kind of man that knows how to be kind, how to love both women and men (ie: with respect), how to give, how to keep peace, how to be honourable, how to fix mistakes graciously, how to look beyond the superficial, how to cherish, how to be a good role model for their own sons, how to protect/provide and not only knows the difference between right and wrong but is able to face up to the responsibility of living by that. I really want to stress, this is not about being picky. This is just what I think makes a man something worthy of being called a man. All the other stuff that goes along with that is personality based and quite individual – that’s what changes the right kind of man into the perfect man for a particular woman. I don’t know, maybe I got the wrong end of the stick. It’s food for thought anyway.

woo!

For me Musical Monday isn’t really about introducing new music, I won’t even pretend to be so knowledgeable about music – for certainly I’m not. I just assume that at least 70% of people who read this journal know or have heard of the artists I drone on about. The music I feature is usually stuff that’s been on high rotation that week in the car or the stereo or has a personal history behind it.

Today, both. And I assume that 100% of people already know of this song and 99% of people should have this album. I say should because the album is bloody awesome.

Oh yes.
Thriller – Michael Jackson
Which I have been listening to pretty much exclusively for about a week and a bit. I play it and then I play it again and then just when I think I’m sick of it, I change my mind and it comes on again.

I know the images of him are less than impressive but before he became a crazy white lady who molests young children Michael Jackson was a cool black cat with awesome hair, killer dance moves and excellent music. The moral of the story is that you can take the boy out of childhood but you can’t take the childhood out of the boy apparently. Let’s all be very afraid for our own futures eh?

Obviously I’m too young to actually remember this album coming out. I don’t think I was quite that in tune with the pop culture world when I was 4, but the impact of the album stayed around for years and in school we were all absolutely obsessed with Michael Jackson (and Madonna…let’s not forget Madonna). It’s been about 24 years since Thriller made it’s debut and the songs are still fresh – especially the big hits. That, kids is what we call a CLASSIC. Pretty much every song on this album is a winner – even the craptastic The Girl is Mine is okay in an whimiscal, amusing kind of way. The opening track Wanna Be Startin’ Something is one of my all time favourite first tracks on an album, ever and the trio of Thriller followed by Beat It and Billie Jean all in a row is genius.

My association with Thriller stems mostly from my cousin MT, who is about 12 years older than me and quite possibly the coolest person I knew while growing up. In the 80s she looked like Kate Bush with the dark curly hair flying about everywhere and the red, red lipstick. She actually influenced a lot of my musical beginnings – Michael Jackson, Madonna, Kate Bush, Donna Summer etc, just by playing these artists constantly. She knew I loved Michael Jackson but that I was scared shitless of the song Thriller. I had seen the video clip and that was bad enough – but it was more the sound of the screeching gate, followed by footsteps and howling in the opening minute of the song that made me go into hysterics. I mean screaming, running around with my hands over my ears and begging for it to stop, hysterics. Of course she’d trick me by getting me to sit down on “good couch” in the living room and tell me she was going to play a really cool song and then crank out Thriller – to which I wouldn’t dissapoint by screaming my head off. Once the beat actually started I was fine but cue in Vincent Price and I would run out of the room again. Secretly, I loved it.

The song that really did it for me was Billie Jean though. I don’t think I can love this song more than I do. It is absolute genius from the bass line to orchestration and it’s smooth. The song is just really smooth. It refers to a woman who was stalking Michael Jackson, claiming that he fathered one of her children. I love the lines:

People always told me be careful of what you do
And don’t go around breaking young girls’ hearts
And mother always told me be careful of who you love
And be careful of what you do ’cause the lie becomes the truth

Words to live by.

I know I have told this story a million times, but when I saw the video clip to Billie Jean all I did was practise walking up and down the tiled hallway stepping inside the tiles and pretending I was Michael Jackson. I did it for years, I even brought out the lacey gloves I wore for my first communion and put them (one) on for the performance. When it was proposed that we change the hallway tiles I pleaded and begged my parents to install ones that light up when you walk on them. I brought them into the hallway and outlined exactly my plan to have glowing tiles in the hallway and how they would work you see, you step on them and then they glow! You can see where you’re going and it looks really …cool!

No dice!

Billie Jean is the song imortilised for debuting Michael Jackson’s famous moonwalk via the Motown (25 years) music concert. That is one magical performance! I think everyone has attempted the moonwalk at least once. I attempted it about 25,000 times (I’m not ashamed to admit) down the said hallway until I wore a hole in my socks. I got good at it. Judging by #2’s wedding on Saturday and the playing of Billie Jean there, many people from age 25 – 40 have been practising doing the moonwalk too.

So, Musical Monday – an oldie but a goodie. My personal favourite from Thriller: Billie Jean.

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note to self – the wedding edition

church

note to self – chinese foot binding shoes, like hysterectomy pants aren’t going to hold up past hour 2.

note to self – cleavage top bad, bad, bad! I thought we figured this out last time! ugh.

note to self – clean out closet at some point these holidays – looking for stockings and coming up with chiffon scarf from the 80s isn’t ideal.

note to self – no stockings in subzero temperatures sucks.

note to self – when handing out wedding programs to guests, do not attempt to make small talk and end up with programs on the floor.

note to self – when handing out wedding programs to guests, do attempt to be there on time.

note to self – boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.

note to self – only have a sook when wearing waterproof mascara.

note to self – don’t ask the girl who is out on day release from the “hospital” whether she’s “been doing okay?” Chances are …uh no.

note to self – next time don’t advise someone on giving the happy couple the boring card and to save the exciting Kylie and Jason “Especially for You” card for your wedding instead because you’d “appreciate it more”.

note to self – chinese foot binding shoes + parking too far from the church = sooking while wearing non waterproof mascara.

*edit*: The Reception

note to self – champagne on an empty stomach is bad

note to other – 2 bottles of red and 2 bottles of beer to yourself is worse.

note to self – the robot may look cool in your head, but probably does not on the dancefloor.

note to other – yep keep on doing that moonwalk..riiiight out the door baby.

note to self – chinese footbinding shoes will kill you on the dancefloor.

note to other – hi I’m a girl I have soft bits..don’t elbow me in them.

note to self – moving away from designated table in order to participate in discussion on other table about embarrassing famous crushes (hello! am I an expert or what?) will mean that when you get back to your table your porterhouse will be cold.

note to DJ – black betty…probably not a good song for any GIRLS to dance to. What the hell kind of moves can you do to that anyway?

note to self – taking “the scenic route” at midnight probably isn’t the best idea.

note to guy who works at my school who surprisingly ended up at the wedding – I’ve now seen you breakdance and twist around on the floor using your head as leverage. You are sooo busted.

message to my…

identity

The news on the street is that Krispy Kreme donuts is finally coming to Melbourne. What has been happening up until now is that small corporations have been sending their staff on “business trips” to Sydney and these staff members happen to come back with about 5 dozen KK for the rest of the office. Clever, but I’m on to you. Of course schools can’t afford to send anyone on a business trip anywhere (excursions to the zoo don’t count) so I’ve never tried them but I ask how good can they really be? I refuse to believe that they are better than any other normal donut out there. Do they even sell the hot jam or cinnamon variety? These are, of course, the king and queen of all donuts – anything else is simply a “cake”.

Anyway, the fact that KK is opening tomorrow has prompted everyone to start planning their orders (I have been invited to partake in several “Krispy runs” already). I’m curious as hell. The store is opening at Fountain Gate shopping centre. This is where Kath and Kim hang out, for those not in the know …and that somehow seems quite appropriate.

Everyone who isn’t talking about KC is talking about the Croatia/Australia match. Somehow like everything else this has renewed the “what is Australian?” debate. Half the Australian team are of Croatian descent – some of the Croatian team are Australian/Croatian – so who do you follow if you’re Australian and you’re Croatian too? (love the last line of that article btw, VERY Australian. heh). And why are we seeing so much vox pop about it?

It’s interesting how these sorts of questions are always asked from a typically fair dinkum Australian to the core except when they were English/Irish (yep) point of view. So, I guess the question is But you were born here, so why don’t you follow your country? I guess it’s hard to know what it’s really like in this situation when you only have one heritage. There is nothing to compare your Australianess to if you are millionth generation Australian and so the question can come across as patronising. Comparrison is important here.

I knew this person, once upon a time who was partially deaf. Being partially deaf affected every aspect of his life. It affected his mood and even how he interacted with his children and wife. When he wore a hearing aid and turned it all the way up the sounds he heard were both muffled and strange like as if he was swimming underwater. Yet, he knew how lucky he was to be able to hear even that. But despite the freedom that the hearing aid gave him, it also annoyed him. He knew himself to be a deaf man. He had spent much of his life before the hearing aid as a deaf man, interacting with other deaf people and living a life that he had fashioned and comes to terms with as a deaf person. And so, he was happy much of the time to leave the hearing aid out and be enveloped in a blanket of silence. He also loved the idea that he could put it in and become a “hearing person” as well – this suited him too. He was okay with being a dual personality but his family was not. They never understood why he wouldn’t wear the hearing aid all the time and learn how to hear “properly” with it and interact “properly” with them. The problem was, they didn’t know that “properly” meant something completely different to him than it did to them. What is properly in this situation anyway?

When you are a first generation Australian born from Euro parents you grow up with a typically fractured identity – you are always torn between who you are and what you feel you should be. You are constantly called apon to behave properly whether it be properly European or properly Australian. What is right anyway? What is proper? Loyalties are stretched because you are constantly flirting your way between home and outside life which are usually as different as you can get. Even something as straight forward as a school cut lunch turns into a debate about fitting in and questioning ‘who am I?’ When it comes to events such as soccer, which is a game not appreciated here in the same way as it is overseas, you might be caught in between identities in a different way than if you are following the Olympics, cricket or commgames. Sometimes you take the hearing aid out and sometimes you put it back in. You do it because you can. You do it because you are afforded the luxury and depravity of being both. Personally, I’m a socceroos girl all the way – but I wouldn’t be opposed to a couple of other countries getting up there. You don’t put all your eggs in one basket, that’s all – that bet was never a safe one anyway.

Completely unrelated: a question that arose from a discussion I had about men and their need to be protective: Do you sleep with a baseball/cricket bat or some other protection under the bed? In speaking to L we came out with some weird stories about the men we know and the lengths they will go to in order to ensure that there is adequate protection under the bed. I, for one have no protection. Maybe I should get some, but to be honest I proved many years ago how useless I am with a softball bat (swinging must be an art I think) – I wouldn’t know how to use it anyway. I’m looking around the room at the moment and wondering whether a spray of perfume followed by a smack to the head with the lamp will buy me some time if I were ambushed by some freako.

Lastly, to the person who found my journal by typing in “advice about marital affairs” – it’s your lucky day. How about this for advice? Don’t shit where you eat.

Today is..

It’s a blue icy day. I love these mornings, with the sun streaming down in cold ribbons, everybody rugged up but happy. I text my friend in qld – and she comes back with blue skies and warm stories. I tell her my cold happy ones and we go on our merry separate ways. Another text from the teacher who found god (and a psychologist) – hugs and well wishes for my “future”. I laugh and send her back warm wishes with hugs like bookends beginning and completing the message. Then another and another – all sweet messages. I feel loved today, someone really wants me to finally “get it”. Maybe I do …for a second.

#1 and I pile into the car and we make our way out to what we affectionately term “the bloody sticks” much to the annoyance of F, who we are visiting (at her house) because she’s too pregnant to leave it. Any day now..any second.

The route takes us up Sydney Road – with its crowded Turkish establishments, car doors hanging on by a thread and Mafia (..funny that we all know it’s there but noone does anything about it). It is always a rush of raw energy, this place. The corporations haven’t moved in yet, and so the food is still good and cheap and the people are still rough around the edges as demonstrated by the man covered in spray paint whistling as he walks merrily back into the local supermarket. Dodge city, but in a lovable way. I try to imagine what the faded stores signs would look like all done up and bohemianised like they are on Brunswick Street. I give it 10 years before we’re all paying way too much for Kebabs on Sydney Road.

Leaving behind the bustle of the dodge, we move onto the Hume, a flat stretch of road crowded with red-eyed drivers manning oversized trucks. I swerve, cut through, yell, get annoyed, and just plain give up. I’d much rather be the passenger if I’m going on a trip – too much pressure. Otherwise I’m happy to drive alone because I can turn up the radio and just sing crap songs (Believe it or not it’s just meeee) without anyone minding too much. By the time we get there, we’ve taken a few wrong turns (or “taken the scenic route” as we like to call it) we’re such city slickers, we laugh.

F is all belly, in that adorable way that pregnant women are a few days before birth, but she is still somehow able to curl up into a ball and sit demurely in the armchair. I am amazed at her. We can’t wait for bubs to be born. F, of course will be a fabulous mother but is already worried about the isolation of being a mother who doesn’t want to be a typical “mummy”. I understand – no mother’s group for her. Who wants that anyway? Can’t think of a worse way to go insane actually. I suggest she start her own renegade group of misfit mothers who talk about other things like…life, books, philosophy…Oprah, you know – normal stuff. Baby talk and vital information about fingernail growth kept only to the first 10 minutes. I am met with a rousing applause. There could be something in this.

By the time we leave the sun is low in the sky – a violet hue over the horizon. I am reminded of a line in a song Pink ribbon skies that never forget. Our friend is producing her own – this is a very cool thing.

reconciliation