the cookie incident

There are a certain number of truths I carry around with me in life to help me maintain my sense of equilibrium in this crazy world - the kind of comforts I can lay my head on at night.  Things like 'the Kardashians are mostly made of plastic', 'chocolate is good', 'baby pink does not suit my colouring' and 'you can never have too many pairs of earrings', so on and so forth.

FACT: I can cook a kick-ass choc-chip and pecan nut cookie. Anyone who tries aforementioned cookie, loves it, and me - by way of the heart route via stomach phenomenon.  I could hang my hat on that certainty.

I recently had my first year anniversary at my not-so-new job. Baking seemed appropriate, it seemed like the kind of thing Jesus might do if he had earned his one year badge with an employer. I went to the recipe - I carefully, perhaps even lovingly sifted, chopped, weighed, measured, mixed, spooned, baked and packed, to perfection, said kick-ass choc-chip and pecan nut cookies. This morning I took them in; I even hand wrote a kooky-yet-charming sign inviting my co-workers to partake in the cookie eating.  I didn't expect a fanfare, I just wanted to say, you know "thanks" (read: "thanks, for not being complete assholes all of the time") and perhaps hope they would enjoy them as much as every other human who has ever encountered them before.

Tasting got off to a VERY slow start.  None of this pre-10am business.  "Pussies" I thought. Pfft - I had one at 7.25am. My boss finally tried one, and seemingly loved it, reaction was baseline kick-ass cookie - grateful and kind. Someone else tried one, after I suggested it a couple of times, said nothing - may as well have been eating dirt I guess. Someone else tried one, told me I did "well" (like - what the fuck?) and kept moving on. Someone else gave them a go on her lunch-break and also indicated her enjoyment, even went back for a second in quick succession. By the end of the day, there was one lonely cookie left. As I walked out the door, picking up my box with it's single lonely kick-ass cookie, I asked my old supervisor, knowing she hadn't tried one yet, if she wanted it, "No thanks" she said. Then, I turned to the only dude that works in my department and asked if he would have the last one. "No thanks, I already had one". "Fuck you" I said (in my head). I'm not a pretty face, by no means can I sway and seduce with any form of charm or charisma - but no man - no man has ever declined my fucking cookie before.  It hurt. It hurt real bad.

Maybe I expected too much. My previous bunch of coworkers loved the absolute shit out of these cookies.  I'd get baking requests, recipe sharing requests.  The damn container was always empty at the end of the day, and if there happened to be one morsel left out of politeness, I wouldn't have to ask more than once before a taker or two quickly appeared.

Had I lost my baking prowess?

Had my faithful recipe betrayed me?

Had I asked too much of the great cookie Gods?

I've been trying really hard not to hate the people I work with. (It's really challenging some days). I've had some frustrating setbacks, and experiences this past year and I've just been wanting to accept, and carry on like the good soldier I can be. Sometimes there are tears, sometimes there is sniping and there is always swearing - but Jesus, I try! And I made these people my prize fucking cookies!

I smoldered on the drive home. What is wrong with these people? What did I do to deserve this? How DARE they? I just couldn't reconcile the days cookie intake, or reaction. By the end of my short drive, I concluded that they simply must be queer.  It also occurred to me after some venting, that it had been quite important, that they like my offering. This result did not meet my expectations, and I must own my part in wanting that acceptance to transfer to me. The person, not the kick-ass cookie.

It shits me to tears, but it is an undeniable truth that, right or no, all I ever want of people is for them to like me, accept me, appreciate me. Learning that this isn't always possible, is a lesson hard-won.

But seriously, who in their right mind says "no" to food offered by a half-blood Sicilian? It's unheard of. Work dude better watch out. He's going to have to work seriously hard for my throwaway laughs now. Fucker. And just as I was starting to like him too.

a cautionary tale

I still live at home with my parents (I know, I know!) and as such, am able to observe them in rather close quarters.  When 2014 knocked at our collective door, we hesitantly answered its call and since then so much has happened within the family, that it's been difficult to come out unscathed.

Unbeknownst to them, my parents have been teaching me invaluable lessons.  Lessons in how not to conduct your life.

My Father is a conventional man.  If ever there was a person that contemplated their own navel into political-geographical-socioeconomic significance - it would be him.  He's a classic overthinker, stubborn and fixed in the logical realm. He can't buy anything without researching its intricacies. He doesn't believe in anything you can't prove, see or test and he doesn't like anything made in China. Conversation. End. In fact, anything shit that ever broke - it's China's fault.  He is the Godfather of preparedness, consideration, hand-on-chin, forehead rubbing, deep problem thinking. He'll think and wait, until his dreams are invaded by the metaphors of his inaction.  From my Father, I learn: don't think so fucking much.

All this, and he's the last one to see that people can be devious and self serving.  He is loyal to an absolute fault, and lives his life thinking people are generally nice, and logical - like him.  He'd have to be stabbed in the front by someone, before believing anything really ill about them. He's booksmart, but incredibly naive. Because his world is full of good people - good things happen, patience is rewarded and loyalty is highly regarded, which is why he's also so shocked when things don't work out that way.  From my Father, I learn: don't be so fucking stupid. The things you want are not going to tap you on the shoulder politely and announce excitedly "weee...here I am" - they are more likely to run over your foot and cause you injury as they speed past you in their red sports car, on their way to somewhere else.

My Mother is a basket of contradictions.  Fist-wielding impatient and stubborn she will sometimes scream for change, excitement and opportunity and then cower in the corner beneath a blanket when it threatens to visit.  She is completely immobilised by change. She is suspicious of everything. She can kill good intention with the power of her mind and converts ideas to apathy effortlessly.   In stark contrast to my Dad, she is reactive, negative and completely unpredictable. From my Mother, I learn: evolve or erupt.

My Mum is also completely unaware of her internal environment.  I fear she is so out of touch with who she is, or what she wants, that the things she grabs for, she only does so because they are there. There's no 'inside' voice; she doesn't give any real thought to forming her own opinion on most things - she exists to serve her family, and she doesn't seem to want an identity removed from that.  I wish I could go back in time, and know my Mum, before she was 'Mum'.  From my Mother, I learn: know yourself; and to thine own self, be true.

I've been learning these lessons for a long time, but cruelly, it was only today, when they all came crashing down to consciousness.  And, when I put them altogether, I think about the sadness of lives led in the shadow of these non-rules.  The remnants of hopes, desires and dreams that are trimmed and discarded out of fear and the unknown. I hate today, I just hate it.

When I learnt some disappointing news this afternoon, I had to leave the confines of the house, for fear of combusting.  I went outside to our 'spare room', the place in our home where Christmas decorations, and exercise equipment goes to die.  After some hysterical laugh/crying, I tried to calm myself down with some basic yoga breathing. Afterwards I lay on the mat, listening to Tuesday afternoon tracks of tweeting birds, barking dogs and cooling breeze, I look upon my view which was completely encased in corrugated iron, aside from one small square of blue sky.  I looked at that tiny square, and I was thankful for it, but I couldn't help feeling like everyday that square gets smaller and smaller. I'm shrinking into this horrible existence, when what I want to do is burn the roof down.

secret sickness

They say that you're only as sick as your secrets.  I have a few in my closet - but there is just one making me really unwell right now.

And it is this:

I've never been anybody's girlfriend.

30 years on this Earth, and romantically, on my own that whole time.

I have literally been waiting my whole life to find someone to break through.

Try to imagine how much shame I feel just admitting that, and know I only do this, because here I am StrangeBird. And here I'm free to admit that I'm a mess, that I'm insecure and completely mortified. I get to leave this computer and this persona behind, but I always carry this secret with me - down the street, at work, around the dinner table, as I lay in the dark trying to get to sleep, and nobody knows how much it's stripping me, of self worth, hope, humor. It's a bit of a joke, except there's no punchline.

And this, this is why online dating is so completely mind-fucking to me. It was such a big decision to sign up - to think about chatting with people, talking about myself, 'selling' me, meeting up with someone in real life? Not liking them? Or worse, liking them? I have had to confront almost every fear about myself that I possess with this ridiculous ritual.

Some days, I can approach it with curiosity, and sometimes with humor.  But lately it just leaves me with an overwhelming sense of shit-ness.

I must be the problem... The almost-meet-up guy is now ignoring me, even after I wrote a vulnerable explanation and apology for being confusing.  At first it made me sad and bitter, but now it just kind of shits me off.  That even behind the protection of a computer screen, he hasn't got the balls to say the real reason why he lied about being "busy", or the guts to simply say "I don't want to talk to you anymore".

Seriously dude - WHAT. THE. FUCK?

Of course, he would have no idea that I angst-ed over troubling him for almost an entire weekend.  That I kicked myself for thinking too much, for panicking and knee-jerking.

Depending upon my level of confidence and ignited-wog-passion - I bounce from feeling violently rejected, angry, all the way to sunny indifference.  His loss, right?

I don't know what's so wrong with me?  I know I'm not perfect.  I'm not terribly pretty, I have curves in the wrong places, a mind-field of internal dialogue and edges.  Rough, obtrusive bumps on the exterior of my complicated package.  But I know, I know, inside there are parts that are pure gold. But nobody seems to want to scratch beneath the surface to see that.

Is it just a waiting game?  Is it timing? Do I just need for the right species of butterfly to flap its wings in the town of Shitsville, at a certain point of planetary alignment? Can I really be such an unusual case, that my time, place, person have to match up just so?

I don't know.  I prayed not to be lonely forever, and the next morning on the music lottery of my iPod, Bon Jovi told me it was my life, that it was now or never and then Shania Twain immediately followed by telling me that the thing about love is that there ain't no particular way. (Yes, I have these songs on my iPod... seems to be the post for hideous secrets).

You can listen to a song dozens of times, and never really 'hear' it. Maybe people are the same that way.

breaking up with Facebook

Dear Facebook,

We've been dancing around this issue for a while, but I finally have the courage to say.... it's over between us.  I just don't like you anymore.  Truth be told, I'm not sure I ever really did.

Yes, to start with you made me feel more included, more connected - you used to be fun.  Pictures of people I hadn't seen in years were enlightening, inspiring even. Travels could be tracked, virtual catch-ups were heartwarming, and even the stalking came in handy... once in a while.

But then, it became about numbers.. how many 'friends' did I have, who requested me, who didn't?
Who dumped me as their 'friend'?
Who wished me happy birthday this year?
Who 'liked' my photo?
Who commented? What did they say? What did they really mean?
Who is that?!
Who cares?

With so many 'whos' I've been asking myself why. All you do is bring self doubt and frustration to my fingertips.  For every legitimate good thing you've given me, I've scrolled through dozens, and dozens of bullshit posts, adverts and 'selfies' oh, how I hate the selfies.

And then there's the way you crept into my conversations.  Something innocent I had learnt on Facebook, would escape my consciousness and in answer to "where did you hear that?" I had to confess: I saw it on Facebook. Urrrgh I feel dirty.

You kept gnawing at my time; anytime I sat idle for long enough to reach for my phone, all I had to do was tap that little blue icon - for that 'just in case' look.  I couldn't help it, I'd become dependent on knowing everything, anything.  It has become a sickness, the desire to know things that I don't really need to know - I'd become torn between acceptance and freedom.

For I'm sure that all the 'good' reasons Facebook started, have now long since faded away.  Now we're all right back where we never wanted to be - high school.  All the cool kids who still don't want to be your 'friend', watching assholes continue to be assholes via their pictures, bullies with endless rants, and the bad spelling - so much bad spelling.

You are an enabler Facebook - you have allowed every wank-fest, whinge-fest, aren't I so funny/clever/ironic/hot/sad/happy-fest to go on, and on, and on.  And I won't take any more of it. You are a terrible 'friend' Facebook. And don't think I don't know you're using my likes and preferences as a way to shove more marketing and rubbish down my throat!

Now you see, I just don't care. I've always had one foot out of the 'normal' world anyway, the way I see it I may as well step through and get comfortable where I'm standing.

As 2013 rapidly draws to a close, a year which has been choc-full of rubbish - I'm finally cleaning up.  I'm simplifying my existence.  Who knows how long it will last?  When that first pang of guilt or fear hits, will I be tempted to rejoin the masses?  Whatever happens, just know Facebook - that in this dysfunctional relationship, it's not me, it is most definitely you.

I hate public pools

As part of my foot 'rehab' my only form of exercise at the moment is almost entirely limited to that which can be executed in a large body of water. I don't have a pool at home, or have access to an ocean, so I am forced to slum it at the local sports centre.

As if it's not bad enough I have to wear a ridiculous bright blue foam belt that makes me look like a giant she-child while "water-jogging" [read: doggie paddle and/or furiously thrash limbs in deep water]. Nope, nothing remotely dignified about it.  In fact, I could arrange my hair into a delightful french roll (no, that's not true, I can't actually do that, but I could pay someone to) while parading a string of pearls atop my rashie, and the only thing that could make that scene more graceful would be me submerging my entire body under the water, and never resurfacing again.

I didn't realise the intensity of my hatred for public swimming pools until just recently.  Of course, every time I walk through the doors, the heavy air hits my skin and that unmistakable scent of chlorine violates my nose. All those old anxieties and fears born of being a poor swimmer, turns me to my former eight year old self and I actually have to stop and think "no, it's ok, you're an adult now".  But even as an adult, pool-etiquette is fraught with potential anxiety.  There's the fight for space and small shreds of privacy, and then the fact that without lane ropes, people become savages.  Straight lines people - what have you got against swimming/walking/ogling in straight fucking lines?

really? what's the point here?

Poise is not easily achieved at 7am on a Sunday morning, especially after learning all the lanes are occupied, or empty but signposted "Closed to Public" and therefore off-limits.  Today I had to share the small heated pool with 'extremely hairy man', and his sidekick (who can only be distinguished from his 'friend' purely by the lack of excessive back hair).  I had applied my "fuck-off" face, because, I don't know, I just don't want to 'chat' when I'm trying to exercise; I don't feel like smiling politely that early in the morning, I don't even want to acknowledge that I'm really here, because in my mind, I am trying very hard to be far, far away.

For the second weekend in a row, I had a lifeguard do his best to casually approach me, before cutting straight to the hard hitting question...
lifeguard: excuse me - is that a-
me: NO, it's a rashie!
lifeguard: oh yeah.... cool
You can't get eye contact from them any other time.  No, God-forbid someone was actually drowning, they'd be too busy stalking someone they suspect is wearing street clothes in the pool. Dumb-asses.

Sure, they'll let hairy, sweaty, inconsiderate people in - but they'll shit their pants if you're found to be wearing 'street clothes'.  I tell you, they could do with letting some people wear ordinary shirts into the pool - I'm probably one of them, but 'extremely hairy man' is definitely a strong candidate.  I am thinking about getting some paint, or bleach and etching into the back of my rashie "yes, this is a rashie". Dumb-asses.

Mostly, on days like these, I hate public pools because it is so glaringly obvious that I have submerged my [clean] body into a large cocktail comprised of water, probably snot, definitely at least a little pee, almost certainly shit, without a doubt sweat, hair, dirt, chemicals and a band-aide - there is always one band-aide.

these days just go on and on

I've had some truly shitty moments this weekend.  Like the time my bank card got swallowed by that fucker ATM - not through any fault of my own, but because my card's edge didn't quite align with the plastic liner surrounding the card slot. Because I had to show up at just that precise moment, use the ATM on the left, instead of the right (when in doubt 'to the left to left' thanks again Beyonce)... because the man before me and the lady after me had no problemo at all - I have to deduce that the issue here was me.

Or then at 5.30 this morning, as the birds started greeting the new day with their chirpy chirps, and the cool leaves were being warmed by touches of the sun, while sleepily attempting that tricky manoeuvre from my left side lying position, to my back, I somehow managed to crack my neck and spend the next hour sobbing into my sheets, and the remainder of my day almost exclusively attached to my home made wheat bag. Say it with me now... mother fucker.

Yet, I will not crumble, I will not succumb, because it is an absolute necessity for me to believe that these things are happening to me for a specific reason that I cannot yet identify. 

the sign

There's 'temporary' sign at my work that I keep having to re-make because a variety of someones are a) too cheap to pay for a proper one and b) don't care to make it their problem.  It is made from paper, lamination, sticky tape and time, and it is strung to a fence with twine, double knots and sticky-back velcro. The sign is placed in a vulnerable spot - weathered by whatever the four seasons can deliver, so it doesn't tend to last beyond a few months.

The last time I made one of these signs, I declared inwardly that this would be the final sign I would make.  That I would let this new sign wither and die without care, and that before its final passing I would be gone, and this sign would no longer be my problem.  Every day I pass this sign, I watch the paper soak with rain, the sticky-tape begin to yellow (and I curse myself for using that new type of tape); the knots begin to lose their tightness and the velcro slips its hold. Today the sign looks particularly beaten. That sign is me. Some days, that sign knows more about me than anyone else in the whole world.

Let me tell you, it is possible to hate inanimate objects.

Some days I want to rip that sign off and tear it into a dozen pieces, I want to kick down the splintered wooden fence that it clings to, and then I want to scream - Tarzan style.  I want to do all of these things because no one cares that I have to spend a lot of my time making the fucking thing, because everyone just expects the sign to always be there, just like they expect me to always be there making it.  What I really want is for my boss to have to make it.  I want her to print out the eight sheets of A4 paper, stand idly by waiting for the laminator to heat up, align the paper into the laminating pouches 'just so' and then put them into the machine.  Then I'd like to see her trim the paper just right, line up the letters, and the arrows, creating two lines and sticking them together with long lengths of sticky tape. Then she'd have to brace the whole sign with strapping tape - but not let it overlap the edge of the sign so it looks messy.  Then she'll turn it over and find that despite her best intentions, some of the sheets won't have perfectly matched up, and dejected, she'll think it looks a bit shit and wish she wouldn't have to 'make do' with paper and tape. She'd punch holes in the corners, prepare the twine and cut lengths upon lengths of double sided velcro - just long enough to fit the fence pickets and no more.  Then she'd go out on her own, pull down the old sign and using every limb extended, would attempt to hold up the heavy new sign as she secures it with small bits of velcro. She'll get the splinters and scratches from the old wooden fence - she'll have to juggle the scissors and rubbish and trim the ties, and then she will step back, thinking it's not too bad but wishing we could just get a 'real sign' and hoping she'd never need to make another one ever again. Wondering, if she was gone, would anyone care to make a new one when this one finally decays?

The time is coming when a new sign will be needed, and I'm. Still. Here. 

Fuck.

freedom on my mind

My boss has what she calls "intolerant days".  Days where seemingly anything and anyone can be the instigator of her intolerance - depending upon the way she feels about the animal/vegetable/mineral at any given time.

Every now and then, I get hit with a shard of her intolerance, and not only does it confuse and insult me - it also makes me feel a bit crap. It gets to me mostly because I'm forever trying to do my best to function and move and talk and engage when all I really want to do is none of those things. Most of the time, I don't feel like being the shit-kicker in the organisation, but I'll be sure to receive a swift reminder at those times I fail to remember my place.

I don't necessarily want to be the highest paid person in the building, the one with the biggest title, or the greatest sway - but what I would like is respect. Not to be second guessed, and not to be the target of someones frustration just because she's having a momentary lapse of tolerance.

not today Louise L. Hay

A few weeks ago, I purchased myself a Louise L. Hay book, in an effort to pull myself out of this funk I find myself in. Frustrated with work, life and myself; frightened by uncertainties and general stuck-ness - I thought she might have some wisdom for me.  I'm sure she's very clever, and positive, I don't imagine she even has cause to swear or raise her voice - but today Louise L. Hay - you just can't help me.  Today I'd like to smack Louise L. Hay over the head with her own book.

Sorry Louise L. Hay.. it's not you, really, it's just the whole sad sight of self-help books swallowing my shelves and desk.  And.. maybe a little you... mostly because I'm suspicious of eternally positive people.

I'm annoyed - 3-year-old style annoyed; stomp my feet, fall to the floor, pound my fists on the ground - frustrated. I DON'T WANT to do anything I don't want to do - I don't want to go to work, I don't want to be at home, I don't want to be alone but I don't want to be around people either. I don't want to feel grateful for a job I am growing to hate... mostly I don't want to feel like this any more.

I know adults can't behave this way. I know all of the above is silly, self-absorbed and petty.  I know once all is said and done, I can't bury my head in my hands and cry for my mother because:
a) that would be weird, and
b) it would get me nowhere.
As an adult, we have to come to the realisation that there is no one to blame for our situations; we can yell and scream and sulk all we want, but there's no one to hear us.  Somehow we have to pick ourselves up.

I don't have the answer on how to successfully do this without the drama. But I know we each just have to figure it out as best we can.  We have to be courageous to walk towards the things we don't want to face - work, a doctors appointment, an uncomfortable conversation, a foe, a decision...

I'm not perfect, I spent much of the day groaning and biting at my family if they dared approach, and I frequently revert to my depressive/anxiety driven habits - but I do know that the time we want to run away, is precisely the time we have to roll out of bed and face the new day - come what may.

strategies for working with stupid people

Every now and then you meet a person, who on every conceivable level annoys the complete shit out of you. It's as if your aura's clash and repel like charged magnets, or batteries, or whatever the laws of science say. I have one of these people in my wider work team, and I'm really struggling to deal with him. From this moment on, he shall be referred to as 'Beet-Boy'.

I used to consider myself a 'nice' person, but the longer I spend in the approximate company of Beet-Boy - the more nasty and horrible I become.  I am unable to hide my disdain for Beet-Boy - I verbally, passive aggressively assault him whenever the opportunity presents itself. I know this isn't right - it's a poor reflection of me and it's mean to him - but I just seem to lose control of my face and mouth where he is concerned.

He's like an eight year old in a forty year olds awkward body - he has zero social skills, is lazy, nonsensical and arrogant.  He wears inappropriately short-shorts, eats cold baked beans from the can and likes beetroot way too much. He has googly eyes which pierce (and not the good kind of piercing), and overall I just can't stand the sight of him without my face hardening and my words turning venomous.

Admittedly I don't have a lot of tolerance for stupidity - but I really do need to feign some form of respect for Beet-Boy, who is technically my 'elder' and my work superior.  I hate feeling like a bad person, and just wish I was able to rise above all the shit at work that brings me down like a sinking stone.

Until that lotto win happens, I might have to grow accustomed to keeping my mouth shut - or biting my tongue, turning the other cheek, twisting my own arm, pulling someone elses leg.... wahhhhh!  I thought nature was supposed to 'natural select' the stupid out of a species.

violently declaim Friday

Thing that pains me deep inside:
When I read (yet another) Facebook status from that annoying 'friend' in which she likes to be vague about a situation or individual, or some deeply personal event that only really important people are privy to.  Tonight some blah, blah... "Thank you to that special person who just knows how to fix everything.  You are so special to me, you know who you are."  Hey, hows about you fuck off and tell the person you are actually talking about, that you appreciate them, and spare the rest of us from having to experience your visual spew! Blurgh!

Some people are just so, underwhelming, and stupid.

Rant end.