Clare

Taken from my novel - 'Jesus, Boys and Life In Between'. This short story is called 'Clare' - not my Thought of the Week this week :)

David Coleman was my first. No, not the first guy I had sex with – the first of many of my future loves who would turn out to be a raging homo. I say that with love, of course. How can you not love the gays? They make the best boyfriends. They talk to you, they shop with you, they talk hair, fashion, drink martinis with you. But then they leave you on the dance floor alone to grind up a sweaty man in a tank top. Every Saturday night.

         
No #2 didn’t know he was gay straight away (pun intended). We dated for about three months until he burst into tears on my couch one Sunday afternoon confessing he’d had a sex dream about my brother. Of course many years later he would move in with my brother and I returned to my comfortable position as least favourite child and least likely to procreate. How does a gay brother become more likely to parent than his younger, more attractive hetero sister? Simple: she has a biological predisposition to repel straight men. 

         
Number #3 hurt the most, because I was convinced I’d chosen wiser this time. We met at a pub. He was drinking beer, watching footy with mates. He goes for Collingwood for Christ’s sake. He didn’t care for hair gum, he didn’t find Judith Lucy funny, he’d never even watched Are You Being Served? But after six months I felt him drifting away from me. First it was the dropping of the hand. Then the spontaneous cuddles. Then he stopped staying over all together. At dinner one night he confessed he’d been cheating on me with men. I forgave him, because I am a sucker, and we continue to be the best of friends. I’m even best man in his wedding in NYC next year. But as happy as I am for him, there’s a huge part of me that hates him too.

         
My brother reckons it gets easier as you get older; people are more aware of, more comfortable with their own sexuality. There’s less margin of error. I’m know I’m ‘still young’ – but I’m in my prime, and if I don’t shack up soon I’ll have to settle and that isn’t the stuff fairy tales are made of. I want my prince charming. I want him to be kind, and handsome, and dashing, and ride a white horse, and sing and dance with woodland creatures, and wear leather boots, and hell. I want a gay straight man.

         
He has to exist. A wonderful man with fabulous gay qualities but no desire at all for some hot male on male action. He’s all about the boobs. And beauty. And brains, of course.

  
So eligible men, form an orderly cue. Because with me, you never have to pretend the Veet cream in your toiletry bag is your sister’s, you never have to be responsible for the ethical re-movement of spiders and you can drink all the vodka cruisers you desire – because they are delicious. And we should all stop pretending that they’re not. 

Advice to my eighteen year old self

People don't always believe me when I tell them, but I'm a very shy person. I am incredibly nervous meeting new people and I suffer horrible anxiety going to new places.

Most people don't see this side of me, they see the Lucy who's 'been coming here for years', or the Lucy who you've 'known since high school'. I'm not at all shy once I'm comfortable. But the anxiety I experience in new places can be crippling.

I talk a lot about preferring to stay home on a Saturday night and that's not because I don't like to have fun with friends, or get dressed up, or watch live music. It's because I'm terrified at the thought of being somewhere I'm yet to establish myself as comfortable. So I say home, where I can be myself and I'm not at all worried about what anyone thinks of me.

Something has changed for me in the last six months quite dramatically. I'm not sure if it's an age thing, if it's a new group of friends, or just because I'm finally accepting I am who I am, but the anxiety that made me sneak out of pubs and wait in the car for two hours for my boyfriend, is going away.

I went to the Swinburne Aviation Society trivia bonanza last night, and I didn't hate it.  I wasn't nervous. I went with two of my closest friends, and we had to join up with some pilots (so we didn't fail miserably) and I was okay with that - in fact, I quite liked it. I had to expose my 'I'm actually really awful at general knowledge, especially geography' shame to new people, and I wasn't afraid of being judged. You know what, I spent the whole night not even worrying about how people were feeling about my new haircut.

I couldn't help but wonder how different my Uni years would have been if I could have attended the Entrepreneurship society functions with the same level of confidence I felt last night. If I would have been able to approach the people I wanted to be in group assignments with, instead of forming that group with whoever was left.

I don't live life with regrets, but if I could have the chance to talk to my eighteen year old self, I'd tell her she's fabulous, just as she is, right now. Even with those few extra kilos she hates, with the pimples on her forehead, and with the chest that none of the boys are talking about. I'd tell her the best way to make friends, the best way to meet boys and the best way to get what you want is to be confident.

I think I finally figured out what confidence was last night. It's called - don't give a shit. Because if people don't like you exactly how you are, don't worry - somebody else will. And I promise, you'll like them better too.

I also speak from experience when I say I've had some pretty wonderful loves in my life, and not one of them has ever cared about the few extra kilos I hate, the pimples on my forehead, or been disappointed in the chest that none of the other boys are talking about.

Oh, and we won the trivia night.

~

$14.94

I got paid today. I paid my rent, put some petrol in the car, donated some money to my friends fundraiser and bought some groceries. Got home, checked the balance.

I've got $14.94 left.

I figured I had two choices. One, transfer some money from my hard earned, very small savings account. Or two, see how far I can make my $14.94 go. I chose two.

It's going to be tough. I can't even remove that amount from an ATM. But I'm up for the challenge. 

Hell, my house is full of things I've previously spent money on. Food, clothes, entertainment. Tea bags, red lentils, tissues.

So I'm spending the next 7 nights making the most of my previous spendings. Anyone want to come watch DVD's with me this weekend? Or take the dog for a long walk?

Challenge set. Stay tuned.

PS I have the beginnings of a cold. I think the majority of the $14.94 will go on lozenges.

nineteen eighty-five

*This blog is dedicated to my boy, Shaun, who turns two on Tuesday. You've taught me more about unconditional love than any person I've ever met. And I love you.*

On Saturday morning I had the fabulous opportunity to spend some quality time with some old, dear friends. You absolutely take old friends for granted until you move away from the place you grew up, and its simply marvelous when two people you have known for over 15 years marry and live in the same city you do now. I'm so grateful for my friends Robb and Phillipa, because they know me. I never have to justify myself, excuse myself. They know me, they know my intentions, and they trust me. And on Saturday, I carpooled with two very precious new friends to Yarraville, for brunch.

But I haven't even got to the truly wonderful bit yet. Phillipa's parents were visiting from Tasmania, and would be joining us for raspberry and white chocolate muffins, fruit salad, sourdough and mercy valley cheese.

I can't explain how special it was to eat, drink tea, and talk with this amazing collection of people. People that I feel safe around. People I feel connected to, loved by. And as I was giving Phillipa's mum a big kiss goodbye, I shared something with her that I'd only just realised to be true:

I am absolutely loving everything about getting older. Not for one minute do I wish I was fourteen again. Or eighteen again. Or 21 again. Especially not 23 again. I've discovered an age where you feel confident, loved, respected. Where you are challenged, needed, and important.

I love having a little guy in my life who truly needs me. Shaun and I are best friends, we are family. And if I don't come home he shits on the carpet. Because he needs me.

But also he wants me.

Family is an incredible institution, and I'm lucky to have some amazing relationships with people in my family. I also spend time heartbroken for the cousins that are growing up so fast and if I'm lucky, I get to play lego with once a year. But my family is unique. If we don't like you, there's a pretty good chance we probably just won't talk to you. We don't have an overwhelming bond of 'family' that forces us to love each other unconditionally. And while sometimes I wish for that - there is something to be said for the fact that every person who is in my life is there because they want to be.

And so, this sappy blog comes to you from one very loved up, very happy girl. Because this weekend I was able to spend time with special friends, old and new, celebrate my baby boy's second birthday, and see Tom Ballard live at the MICF.

I'm not sure when I realised I was living the life I had always hoped for, living the life I wanted for myself. I have it. And I'm not even afraid to jinx it.

Also, wisdom and experience tells me life isn't perfect. And it won't be. But I'm not scared of imperfection. Of heartbreak. Of pain. Because everything I have experienced so far in my life has brought me to this point.

Also I have an incredible safety net. The wonderful people, who after knowing me for 15 years, still want to know how my week was. And the people I've just met - who want to come to the beach for my dog's second birthday.

~

Ignorance is bliss - so don't read this blog.

Tonight I'm going to tell you something so bleedingly obvious, you'll wonder why you haven't known it all along. And I'm going to tell you why you haven't known - you didn't want to know. In fact, you still don't.

Indonesian abattoirs aren't the only ones treating animals cruelly. Honest. Simply type 'Australian abattoir cruelty' into google and see for yourself.

*I don't recommend watching any related YouTube videos. You can imagine well enough from the journalism. The videos will make you wonder about the people we share our world with. They will change you. They will hurt you.

I know you don't want to. Because then you know the price of your dinner. But nothing makes me angrier than Australians getting all self-righteous about Indonesian practises when we refuse to look in the mirror.

Paul McCartney famously said 'If abattoirs had glass walls, everyone would be vegetarian.'

So why aren't we seeing news reports about Australian abattoirs on TV?

Well, for one, we're not dumb enough to let people with cameras in. We leave that to the Indonesians, and the Americans.

Two - remember how the beef industry got up in arms when their live export business got suspended? Imagine if their entire organisation was shut down. We can't handle that level of political fall out.

And thirdly, we like eating meat. And we like paying as little for it as possible.

Yes, I'm a vegetarian. It's 'easy for me' to say these things. Because I'm not being hypocritical complaining about the treatment of animals while munching on my pork crackling. But I'm not writing this blog to promote vegetarianism, or judge anyone for their personal choices. I believe in the circle of life; if you need it, take it. But if you don't need it, how about you leave it alone?

I'm writing this to promote education. To encourage people to research that little bit further. Because you have values, and ignorance isn't an excuse. It's hard. It's hard to shop ethically, to read the back of every item you pick up in the supermarket to check for palm oil, to investigate the factories where your clothes, your iPhone, are manufactured. It's exhausting, and completely un-rewarding.

But we are what we eat. We live and die by the choices we make. So isn't it best to know exactly what we're choosing?

~

I'm sorry I wasn't good enough

I wonder if I wasn't there for you - if I wasn't actively involved in your life. I didn't appreciate your memories, your adventures, your witty one-liners. Your opinion on politics, on current affairs.

Maybe I was too quiet. I didn't say enough, didn't respond enough. I wasn't excited enough about your dinner plans, your new job, the movie you went and saw. Maybe I didn't listen when you complained about the traffic, didn't offer enough support in regards to your noisy neighbours. Maybe I forgot your birthday.

Facebook friend 689, I'll miss you. And I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that the events leading up to my deletion were so severe you didn't feel you could simply remove me from your feed - you had to remove me from your profile all together. I'm sorry you were no longer interested in the latest photos of my dog, my most recent holiday, my constant links to animal welfare organisations. I'm sorry if I didn't update my status enough - if I updated too often. I'm sorry if my check-ins made you want to smash your iPhone on the ground in a jealous rage because I was doing the locomotion with @Lainey Fitzpatrick and @Will Tremayne and you were home alone watching The Big Bang Theory.

Maybe it wasn't even about me. Maybe you're so hipster you simply have to keep your numbers down, you can't have too many friends. Maybe you deleted me because I am a Facebook junkie, and my decision to add @Akmar Ramasavarga from Turkey offended you. I'm sorry I thought my non-rejection of him, a man who has never done anything wrong by me that I am aware of, would be more offensive to you than my blatant disregard to the very definition of the term 'friend'.

Mostly I'm sorry I don't know who you are. But I'll miss you. Because now I'll likely never get to 700 friends.