My Island Home

I know this blog is meant to about a working girl in New York City, but I have to tell you, it's nice to be home.

I actually haven't even left the airport yet and still have another hour long flight before I make it to my special place, old Melbourne town but already I feel understood. Like, I just spoke to the lady at Gloria Jeans in a muffled voice, with my hand covering my mouth and she still understood my order. She didn't try to up sell me or ask me if knew about the holiday promotion. There was just the one person in front of me and even they smiled at me. I almost had a stroke, almost made me want to get crazy and throw around a few napkins and fake a bout of turrets just get a normal reaction.

I think it might be time for a bit of a break from the city for a little while. I almost had a nervous breakdown on the flight home (snow on the tarmac, crying babies, orange juice concentrate- why me?). And the moving man in front of me with his relentless rocking back and forth and back and forth and touching of things and sighing and wriggling around. I wanted to stab him in the back of a neck with a Qantas pen.

I say a silent prayer for the man now and for Gods' best invention, Xanax, which, once again has saved a life tonight. Ahhhhhhhh...pretty birds dancing in the sky.....

But now the sun is shining (for real) over the big blanket blue ocean of my island home and I'm almost ready to board QF439 and I can see the big white aeroplane now and on the side she has clearly marked "Town of Bendigo" and I know I'm coming home.

Enough Already

I can't bear it.... please stop.

Two words.....

Meet the best two words you will hear today.

"Fanny Pack".

The rest of world refers to the fanny pack as a "bum bag". I wish we wouldn't refer to it all.

The fanny pack is only ever worn by Americans (and only ever outside of New York naturally) or by the Germans. It should be illegal in all countries.

This lady, featured in the photo above, is wearing a dog fanny pack.

Seriously.

Date Me..I'm Free

When it comes to finding the perfect man, there are many theories. First there was the infamous "Rules" which told women to 'never, ever call a man'. Next, the "Secret" spoke to the law of attraction and suggested that just by writing down our inner desires and really, really wanting them, the universe will provide.

Then, years later, it seems women had become over zealous in their quest for the perfect man, and suddenly, literature surfaced that told us to read the signs and not try so hard because, maybe, just maybe, "He's just not that into you". Mmm. what to do..what to do...
Well, look no further Ladies, for I have uncovered a entire planet of available men. Men who are well travelled and mysterious: always keeping you on your toes. Men who never rest for a second, always moving forward. Men who are grateful for the very thing we take for granted so often: freedom.

Ladies, meet the boys from the FBI most wanted list and you tell me whether these guys are HOT or not?

Manhattan Subway Art

Nobody does it better than a disgruntled street goon with a spray can.

I heart NYC.

Never, Ever Go Back....

There are two rules to dating, or so the age old story goes.

1) Never, ever call a boy

2) Never, ever go back.

I always like to go back, to revisit the once tried, now broken relationship.

Take this blog for instance. It was all hot and heavy to begin with, I was thinking about it during the day where I should've focusing at work, I would laugh to myself at the jokes we had shared, I mean, we were so in sync for those 2 weeks and I thought it would never end. But it did, abruptly, like it always does. I soured. I do that. I switched off, became bored, restless- it became a chore to even think about the blog. The blog became, well, blah and so I dismissed it, ignored it, didn't want to share it or introduce it to my friends. I moved on, not to Twitter, not even back to Facebook.

I just moved on....

But now I'm back.

I usually throw the life line out again with a cute little text message, something with a self deprecating tone, maybe recycle one of our little jokes, suggest a drink (insert shoulder shrug here) and we begin again.

So, cheers. I missed you. x

SEE-HEAR-WEAR-HAIR: Danni

SEE-HEAR-WEAR-HAIR: Danni’s picks

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The year of the Bobcat

It was the great Drew Barrymore (schlooo awesome) who coined the phrase "Puma" as a means of circumventing the gap between what is at one end an eligible, hot, available woman to the (strike an attacking pose with hands and make a rrrrooooaaarrrwwww sound) merciless land of Cougarville USA.

Now, before reaching the veritable dark pit of Cougarville, that not even Courtney Cox's hit new TV show can make desirable, if you are an eligible, hot, available woman on the other side of 30, you get to be another kind of stressed out cat that eats people: you get to be a Puma. I $^*( hate cats.

Now, I love Drew Barrymore ,as my Facebook profile will attest, but C'mon dude- A Puma? Why couldn't we merge with the Penguin family or take the lead from things that fly in the sky and soar like a freaking Eagle up high and above the rest of the world? I'd take a golden retriever before a Puma any day of the week- friendly and fun, always up for it, good for a laugh. Let's sell the good things about being a woman, our honesty and loyalty and ability to change our minds 10 times a day and be right every single time.

No, we're Puma's, bigger than run of the mill house cats (who are the unspoken, long suffering pet of the single woman), dark and mysterious, on the verge of instinction: only by virtue of denial and friends with Cameron Diaz and Lucy Lui.

Well, I take your Puma, Drew Barrymore and I raise you a Bobcat for I am as at yesterday officially Puma status and in and effort to reacquaint myself with my new status, I did some research.

Behold the Bobcat:

The Bobcat (Lynx rufus) is a North American mammal of the cat family, Felidae (tweedle dee and felidae dumb) With twelve recognized subspecies, it ranges from southern Canada to northern Mexico, including most of the continental United States. The Bobcat is an adaptable predator (Roger that) that inhabits wooded areas (bars) , as well as semi-desert (shopping malls post recession) urban edge (bars) , forest edges (yoga retreats) and swampland environments (New York City) It persists in much of its original range and populations are healthy (we're freaking everywhere).

God, I hate cats, but I still love you, Drew.

Pop Quiz

What was the verdict here, does anybody know?

Already Over It...

I've soured already.  I knew I would.  I barely ever get past the 2nd date and this is no exception. I think I hate this blog. Do I really need another thing to add to my to do list? Am I going to get anything out of this relationship, just me and the screen, punching away at the keyboard, 0 followers staring down at me, reminding me I am desperately alone, with no TV. 

I wouldn't marry me either.  "must have TV" is a prerequisite to any relationship, surely. Girls say they like funny guys but I bet if they really thought hard about it, they would join me in the chorus that sings,  "must have TV".

I think the TV repair guy from GeekSquad (the single best thing I have discovered about America this week, second only to Netflix) is coming on Friday, so maybe I'll blog until then.  I wonder if the GeekSquad guy will be cute.  The plant delivery guy on Sunday was hot.  Tipped him $10 and didn't even get his name.  I think it's better that way, don't you?

You always remember your first blog....

I wasn't ready for my first time.  It happened quite unexpectedly and took me completely by surprise.

Looking back, I'm not sure that any of us are ever really prepared for the first one.  It's one of those things you talk about doing, everyone else around you is doing it and you know you should get around to doing it, but when it happens, it's never how you imagined.

Take this, my first blog.  It shouldn't be happening now but it was as if the universe had willed it to be. The universe being my new plasma TV, that is.  It just stopped..suddenly Susan. Went black, with no vision, just Neil Patrick Harris comparing the Emmy's. It was like listening to the radio again and it was awful.  I reach for my laptop, one slow, tender movement after the next and I begin tapping away at the keyboard, slow at first, then faster. One thing leads to another and wham, here I am, breaking another vow, and losing my virginity all over again.

So how did my first time feel, you might ask?  It's nothing to write home about, that's for sure. It felt a bit weird to start with but got much easier as it went along.  I'll probably do it again.  I might be better prepared for the next one, now I have this first one under my belt.

I wonder if I'll be any good at it, because they say you can't really tell the first time.

We'll see.

But more importantly, what the $%^& am I going to do about this TV?