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Lou Sanz



Last Updated: 3/20/2009

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Status: Single
City: /Melbourne/Sydney
Country: AU
Signup Date: 10/20/2006

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March 8, 2009 - Sunday 
While sitting at dinner last night, a plate of over cooked mushrooms
in front of me, nursing a can of luke warm lemonade, sitting opposite a
friend of mine and his friend next to him I came to the chilling
realisation that I might just have used up the last of my material, or
quite possibly be well on the way to never writing anything vaguely
original again, that my adventures were finally over - that I was never
ever going to have an affair with a young German teenager with a great
arse who embarks on an affair with an older woman only to find out that
she would later be tried for war crimes and would rather face a
lifetime in prison then admit her greatest weakness - the fact that she
couldn't read. Ok, I'd just seen The Reader and when put in a modern
day context my yearning for the above mentioned would just have been
plain ignorance, but the point was -  would I ever scrub a guy clean
before I had sex with him again and then write a film about it? (My
guess is at this point you really have to see the movie).
The telling moment that this realisation hit was when I recognised
the words coming out of my mouth were the very same words used in a
conversation with someone else 2 weeks earlier. This was not a cheeky
de-ja-vu like experience. This was more the oh my god you're 29 and if
you haven't realised it already, you're really rather boring Lou - lets
just say I would not have been surprised had my dining companion pulled
out a fork and stabbed himself in the eye and if the waitress were to
ask him if he was alright he would grin and genuinely reply 'oh me? I'm
fine - I always stab myself in the eye at this part of the story. You
should wait till she gets to end, that's the moment I start sawing off
my own leg - tell me are these the only butter knives you have?'
I had become an old person, and not the good sort with that twinkle
in their eye, the twinkle of cool little secrets like they knew they
were the real life inspiration for the song Jesse’s Girl or the colour
lilac was really named after them. No, I was the sort of old person
relatives apologised for before and after someone were to meet me and
then they might even call a week later to see how their new curtains
are going and then slip in another apology just before the final hang
up. I found myself recalling my so-called glory days with such gems as
' oh my breasts, oh my I could swing from chandeliers with those
babies, but now couldn’t even light a match on em in 38 degree heat
with petrol and kindling..' I might as well have boarded an exploratory
ocean vessel clasping an emerald jewel that represented my only true
moment of happiness and watch as it sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic
whilst reliving flashbacks on me on a che-lounge, naked, on board the
Titanic being drawn with charcoal by a lad from the lower classes who
was yet to go through puberty.
The problem was my contemporary self over the last few years had
become more restrained. Once where there were nights filled with boxes
of wine and getting dressed to theme to watch MASH with my friends, I
was now logging onto ABC iView to watch missed episodes of The Bill so
that when I stayed in on Saturday nights I wouldn't get confused by the
narrative through line. When I use to enjoy the destructive danger of
shagging friends of mine because 'well we're all subconsciously
attracted to each other on some level' and nothing's hotter or more
potentially devastating then an ambiguous and ill directed dalliance, I
was now going to Academy considered movies, sipping coffee and
contemplating attending over 28's nights without any sense of irony
with people who 6 years earlier would eat tuna and microwave broccoli
just in pants with me while I tried to patch up the hole in my
squat/house with masking tape and old copies of Smash Hits magazines.
There were no more nights of been woken at 4.30am by a friend who felt
a compulsion to drink Bloody Mary’s on the roof and watch the sun rise,
no now it was a case of no phone calls after 10pm and vitamin tablets
and treadmills at the crack of dawn.
Yep, I had lost my spark and this was further cemented when my
friends friend asked me when was the last time I'd ever been a trash
bag - not to be confused with the last time I felt treated like trash
(November 2007 - March 2008). My friend attempted to sum up his
definition in a 20 minute speech left on my voice mail, but to
paraphrase it's someone who involves themselves in trashy like
behaviour generally culminating in 'pashing, falling asleep, waking up
and pashing again'. Another friend of mine described a trash bag as a
girl who' flashes her vagina more times then she should when drunk and
scratches it '- for the purpose of this story I will refrain from using
that definition.
The problem was when posed that question myself I was too quick to
answer but then stumble as I couldn't even form the words 'well there
was …no, because before then…and then I was in a longer term
relationship…well there was the time I got drunk and made out with my
ex in a room with a disposable bath mat…nup, but it doesn't count cause
he was my ex, but I was drunk, but we both wore pants so guess it
doesn’t, nup….so if you wanted an exact date I'd say maybe 2001 -
2002..are we counting consecutive months?'
Both of them looked at me in that way that high school guys look at
their mate, the one with the chronic acne and flatulence who can't play
sport because of a plaque build-up that tells everyone he's been
f**king since he was like 12, like all the time and he's done your mum
and your sister and the teacher - that look that says please stop, we
understand, this is uncomfortable for all of us.
My friend leaned back, as if to offer advice, after all he was
rounding the corner into his second year of trash bag behaviour,
behaviour I warned him might result in a penile examination with a
stick and a swab at a sexual health clinic perhaps sooner rather than
later - as was his cause and affect in life he saw this as a positive
thing and this was a guy who had revealed earlier that night that he
bought girls pop corn at the movies in the hope it would fall down
their cleavage and he could watch them retrieve it - so it really was
my own fault if I was follow any of the advice that was about to come
tumbling out of his mouth.
'Lou, you just don't do trash bag' he said it in the way that your
mum tells you she doesn't think your boyfriend likes you as much as you
like him.

'I can totally do trash bag' I searched for some back up, any back up.

'Saturday night, I was trashy then.'

'No Lou, you were a little tipsy, but not trashy.'

'But I was covered in glitter and had a short skirt on.'

'We were all covered in glitter and if everyone who wore a skirt was a
trash bag, well I don't think I need to explain just how common the
idea of being a trash bag would become, it would lose it's meaning.'

I needed something anything; I was too full to cover up my inadequacies but finishing off my now cold and congealed mushrooms.

'I totally chatted with that guy from South America, in fact you could even say I flirted with him.'

I offered up my hand for a hi-five moment but as usual got nothing.

'If I remember correctly Lou you chatted to him about his wife and how their wedding was.'

‘Yep..like I said flirted my arse off....'

Even I was left wondering how in the past I had ever got to first base with a guy.
In my head I knew my last 18 months hadn't exactly been the
passionate faucet of life I would've liked it to be, but surely there
were stories I was yet to experience, surely my addiction to the drama
of it all had to manifest itself somehow...and then I remembered...

'Ok, I might not be a trash bag or sexual deviant but I like to think I'm trashy when it comes to other things.'

Picking up his friends discarded marshmallow he looked me straight in the eyes - there was no backing down now Lou.'

'Go on..'

'So I'm not trashy when it comes to men, but when it comes to the law that's another thing entirely.'

'You're saying you've broken the law?'

'Not exactly, but I certainly have some disregard for it.'

'Wow, disregard, sounds hot Lou - are you going to finish those mushrooms or can I..?'

I pushed the plate towards him.

'And how have you been trashy bout the law of late?'

'Umm...well I totally turned left when I was advised not to.'

'Advised?'

'There were workmen, they suggested going round them, but I didn't listen I turned left.'

'and?'

'In hindsight they were right, I should have gone around them, the traffic really backed up once you turned left.'

My clutching at straws was now starting to look like a monkey
attempting to open a plastic banana - more amusing for those watching
then the actually monkey desperate for food.

'And tonight I parked a little too close to a fire hydrant.'

'Really?'

'Yep, so much so I would be surprised if I hadn't been fined.'

'Wow..your social deviancy knows no bounds Lou, I mean if I wasn't a
man of common restraint I'd jump you right now at this table.'

He leaned back even further to clearly show he was mocking me.

I'd had enough.

'That's it, I'm going. I don't need this - my life is full of rich
moments, it's a like a tapestry, yep a really rich tapestry and I have
adventures, sure I don't have to give everyone I meet an oral exam like
you do but oh the fun I.... don’t answer your phone while I'm talking
to you!...oh isi it? ...say hi for me.'

And with that I left, hell bent on finding some drama for my life, some
material to get me through my formative comedy career years.

Sitting back in my car, waiting for the motor to warm up I received a text message from my movie companion.

It simply read 'Hey Renegade of common road laws - did you get a fine?'

I looked at my windshield and then at the fire hydrant I was parked a good 2 or metres away from.

‘No, no I did not ‘I replied.

That was it, I had said it, and I had conceded defeat. My phone beeped
again and for a moment I thought it was my friend telling me everything
was going to be alright, that I had the potential to be a trash bag,
that he believed in me, but it just read: lol - my life which now so
desperately lacked drama had now been summarised as a laugh out loud
moment -and so next time I decided things would be different, yes, next
time I saw him I wouldn't take that butter knife away from him, he
could saw his leg off if he wanted, who was I to fuck with natural
selection and after all I was desperate for material and really what’s
funny then someone nicking an artery…

11:46 PM 
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March 8, 2009 - Sunday 
Recently I was faced with the terrifying realisation that one day I
might run out of things to write about, and so in my misguided
completely self imposed panic I found myself attempting to convince an
ex boyfriend into getting back together with me, say only for 3 months,
you know just till he hit that bit where he could turn into a cheating
wanker and I could become an irrational thespian, shredding his prized
Pixies t-shirt by a freeway.

There’d be no hard feelings and after the 3 months we could simply
walk away, with just enough damage done to fuel my work for perhaps the
next 6-12 months. Of course if I were to benefit financially from any
of the drama that might unfold or be a result of our 3 months together
he would be generously rewarded for his efforts both financially and
with onscreen credits.
I sipped my coffee as I awaited a reply, pretty happy that I’d sold
him on it. I mean it was a win-win situation for him, or so I thought,
ok perhaps it might’ve sounded a touch desperate, some might even argue
pathetic, but come on, I was a writer and certain sacrifices had to be
made, I was young, I could earn my dignity back later on.
I watched him carefully as he rested his lemon on the side of his earl grey tea. He took

a brief sip and realising it was too hot, put it back down again and took a deep breath

instead.

“Ok, I’ll do it.’

‘Awesome’, but we both new this was not a hi-fi moment.

‘But some things are going to have to change.’ He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at the soul of his worn out Dunlop.

Suddenly I was concerned, this was not part of the plan. I was not here to negotiate.

‘But I don’t want things to change, I want us to get so caught up in this moment that

We think this is a good idea and then BAM – I call you one day and you tell you that

Dinner is not at 7 not 8 and then you tell me that you can’t make it
cause you’re inside someone else.’…I placed my hand on his,
encouragingly. ‘You know, just like the good old days.’

He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated.

‘But it won’t work between us if we repeat the mistakes of the past.’

‘It’s not meant to work out between us, it’s just meant to be something that holds us over for a bit.’

‘I’m not a rental property Lou, while you save up for a mortgage.’ He
tried his tea again, it was still too hot, or perhaps he had become
less tolerant of heated beverages with age.

‘I thought I made it pretty clear that what I proposed was more of a
research mission, you know like going diving for an old wreck, finding
some treasure but ultimately deciding to leave it at the bottom of the
ocean, rotting.’

Annoyed, he pushed his tea away, with me only just managing to save my Diet Coke from falling off the table.

‘So you’re ok with raping and pillaging my life for your little
stories, but not staying around to raise the child that might result in
your careless ways, is that what you’re saying Lou? Because it sounds
like you’re saying that.’
‘A child? – I don’t want a child with you, or anyone.’
‘Why Lou, because it might be the moment where you have to really confront the reality of your life?’
‘Um, what are you on about, this was just an idea – if you don’t want in, then I’ll find someone else’

A disconcerting smile broke out across his face. ‘Oh really Lou, you’ll
find another one just like me, another one of your men? Well I’ve got
news for you Lou, we talk, yes we do.’
‘You speak to no one!’ I spat back!
‘You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you Lou, that none of us know of each other, but we do..’
Surely he was bluffing – ‘but how?’
‘We all need our secrets, but if you must know – Facebook. I was
reluctant at first to join, to be honest I was more than happy with my
Myspace set up, but public opinion and social convention swayed me and
so I joined and at first I thought, and I’ll be honest Lou, I thought
it was bullshit, but slowly to opened itself to me, it’s wonderous
delights, its gardens of knowledge and I came to realise I wasn’t
alone, there were others like me, others that had at some point to
endure you Lou, others that understood.’
It would seem I had been check mated, and I never had been good at Scrabble.
This whole plan was not working out at all like I hoped it would, it
almost was beginning to feel like I had been set up, that sabotage was
upon me. I had walked into a self-fulfilling trap.
‘Why did you even agree to meet with me today?’ I leaned back in my chair, attempted to fake whatever power I might have left.
‘I was curious, I wanted to see after all these years what you were willing to lay on the table for me.’
‘Lay out on the table for you? There will be no laying’ I try to
banish away my cleavage, is was no longer my fall back plan. I was in
too deep now.
‘Perhaps that’s where we need to negotiate Lou.’
‘I don’t need this.’ I got up to leave.
‘Fine Lou, walk away, but I have what you want.’
I stopped for a moment.
‘You asked to see me today because you know that what I can offer in
terms of a tumultuous, unfulfilling and soul destroying relationship is
like none other.’
He was right. He offered destruction and drama on an unprecedented
level and with only 3 months in which to execute this mission he would
be pushed to the hilt, perhaps outdoing himself in a way neither of us
ever thought possible….
He smugly resumed sipping his tea.
‘I think you should sit back down Lou, you’ve created quite the little scene with your unprompted standing.’
He was right, people might have noticed.
I slumped back into my chair.
‘So Lou, like I said, things will have to change between us for this to work.’
This was not how I had planned this, it was just meant to be a quick
in and out, a clean explosion, no civilian causalities, and I could
clean up my own personal aftermath, perhaps write a show about it, but
now there I sat, about to be strong armed into a relationship that had
the appearance of being casual, but was really a committed tyrant
waiting to make me its slave…
‘Firstly’, he began ‘you will no longer address me as the ‘friend’
in those little blogs you write, you will refer to me by my birth
intended name – ‘
‘- No, I can’t do this, I interrupted.
‘What?’
‘It’s not worth it – your gloating, your bullshit, not even my drive for a decent story is enough to make me need to do this.’
‘But you need me Lou, without me you are nothing.’
‘Maybe I am, and maybe I will never write again because perhaps my
well has run dry, but maybe it is best to accept that fate instead of
this with you…’
‘I made you Lou, you know that.’
I stood up and he matched my standing intensity, but he was not going to win…


‘Perhaps you had something to do how I am today, I’ll give you that,
cause there’s only so many times you can walk in on your boyfriend
surrounded by candlelight and pulling himself off to Andre Renu without
that having some profound affect on you, but right now I’m better off
taking my chances by walking into on coming traffic – it has drama,
pain, anguish, another will she or won’t she survive moment that so
many of my readers have gotten use to  - it has it all – and you, you
have nothing.’
And with that I left, walking swiftly down the street, determined
not to look back and then I heard it, the quick pounding of feet on the
pavement, the calling of my name. He wanted me back, but on my
conditions now, I had won the war. I spun around to claim victory only
to be confronted by an out of breath waiter, waving an unpaid bill at
me.
I watched as just behind him my ex boyfriend disappeared into the
shadows…I’ll get you next time I muttered to myself as I handed over
the money…I’ll get you.

11:46 PM 
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March 8, 2009 - Sunday 

As
a little girl I always wanted to be a collector. I imagined growing old
surrounded by collections that would reflect the adventures and perhaps
even sometimes misadventures (that’s when I’d giggle to myself as my
grandchildren sat at my feet looking up in awe and confusion at my
self-deprecating, yet humble eccentricity), of my life.


The
problem was I grew bored with collecting and it took a long to time to
realise I could appreciate a good collection but lacked the talent for
creating and maintaining my own, well that, and I had convinced myself
that if I put all my self worth into a collection I would be dead, the
result of a self-inflicted gun shot wound by age 12.




My
best friend (from 1985 – 1992) had quite the outstanding My Little Pony
Collection, and I was not only jealous of it, but also obsessed by it.
I had the perfect arrangement - I could come and visit, take them off
their shelf, shower them with praise, take them for a walk outside,
whisper in their little plastic ears that I’d always be there for them,
and then when it was time to leave, put them back on their shelf and
give them a vague commitment of a time in the future when I might be
able to see them again – things were really hectic at work right now.


I
was only ever allowed to play with the ponies on the last two shelves,
not the prettiest ponies. But because of that the uglier ponies on the
ground floor only tried harder to please me. I’d be lying if I didn’t
admit that on occasion I often wondered what life would be like with a
top shelf pony, and sure sometimes when I've found myself making out
with the unattractive best friend of the hot guy, I imagined said hot
guy was like a top shelf pony, looking at me out of one eye, wondering
what it might be like to slum it…even if just for a moment.


Of
course it would be years later that I would realise that my friend's
pony collection was the closest thing she had to control in her life –
a life riddled with eating disorders, a father/daughter complex and an
overall sense of inadequacy, but I was never one for context.


My
brother was also an avid collector; of chocolate Easter eggs. For him
it was less about the beauty of his collection and more about spiting
those closest to him. He would wait and watch as my sister and I
devoured our eggs in the allocated time slot of Easter and then he
would line his up just outside his bedroom and just leave them, for
months until they started to rot. Then just as the mould would set in
he’d offer them as gifts to me and my sister – it was amazing how a
damp flannel and a butter knife could restore those eggs to almost
brand new.


But
myself, no I never could collect anything other then a festering
resentment towards my mother for never letting me watch the final
episode of the Wonder Years and then forcing my hand, leading to me a
fake a sicky, being sent to my neighbours to recuperate, only to tell
her I left my homework at home, go home and pull the secret video
recorder I hid under the couch and eject the Wonders Year tape, take it
back to the neighbours and watch it while she went to her daily yoga
class. However time heals all wounds, and much like all my other
collections before the one of resentment, this one fell by the wayside.


It
wasn’t until the other day, drinking with a friend and lamenting my
lack of enthusiasm for a collective of things that I was faced with the
realisation that I might have always been a collector, a sub conscious
collector…

‘Lou
you’re what we call in the collector’s trade – a passive collector’ she
qualified as she finished her latest coke and Bacardi.

‘I’m not passive aggressive.’

‘I didn’t say you were passive aggressive.’

‘But you implied it, there was the tone of implication there.’

‘Get your hand off it Lou.’

She was right; I wasn’t going to win this argument, so I took my hand off it.


‘You’
she retorted, pulling her skirt down over her undies and grabbing
another drink… ‘You my friend, are a man friend collector.’

‘That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard, lots of women have male friends.’

‘Yeah, you’re right, but I challenge any of them to be as discerning a collector as you Lou.’

‘You
sound like you’re challenging me to a duel’ I rebuked as a scraped the
last bit of hummus off the lid – only half a Weight Watchers point, I
was going to enjoy this.

‘Did I mention pistols at half moon?’

‘I think its pistols at half noon’ – I corrected her.

‘You’re
the only person I’ve ever known to call it quits on a friendship
because it was getting too intense – most people do that with
relationships, romantic relationships, you do that with guys you’re
friends with.’

‘Hey, we both wanted different things. It was a mutual decision.’

‘Yeah whatever Lou.’

‘I don’t care what you say, I don’t collect them – I just have a handful of close guy friends and it works for me.’

‘But they’re pretty collectable, because well most have a rather distinguishing feature.’

‘Don’t be gross.’ – one more hummus coated cracker wouldn’t kill me, only an extra 10 minutes on the treadmill.

‘Let’s
see shall we’ she began to list them off on her fingers ‘they’ve pretty
much all at one stage been involved with a friend of yours…’

‘Complete coincidence…’ I mumbled.

‘Lou just deal with it – you collect safe men.’

‘You’ve got me. That is what I asked for when I ordered them online – I quite clearly picked the do not rape and pillage option, but funnily enough did not pick gift wrapping as an extra.’ I laughed, she did not – we were having an argument.


My friend stood up and stumbled to my fridge – how heart broken she would be, I only had Pepsi Max left – score 1 Lou!

‘The
thing is most of us, at our age when we meet guys we at least have a
drink with them. You, you get crafted friendship bracelets and clean
each others shoes...’

‘We do not clean each other shoes.’

‘My point is Lou, you know what it makes you look like, and you know what people think?’

‘I don’t care what people think, it’s no ones business, two people can just be friends – look at Spaced.’

‘…it
makes you look frigid Lou, people think you’re frigid and don’t ever
reference an outstanding BBC comedy to your life again – I won’t stand
for it, none of us will.’

‘No one thinks I’m frigid.’

‘Some of us are concerned that you’ve lost the ability to put out.’

‘I don’t think it’s something you can lose.’

‘As your friends we beg to differ…I mean when was the last time someone even managed to slip a – ‘

‘Enough,
christ if you must know I met a guy on the weekend, and before you ask,
he has not been involved in any of my friends and I don’t particularly
like him as a person and we all know what that means – can anyone say
potential boyfriend?’


Taking the last Pepsi Max out the fridge, she made herself comfortable on the recliner.

‘He sounds like a catch.’

‘He’s definitely not a safe man.’

‘Well I wish you all the best, no really, I wish you all the best, so when’s the date?’

‘What date?’

‘The date you have with a guy you’re not friends with.’

‘I hate when you get all specific’ – I really wanted a Malteser.

‘I hardly think asking about a date is being specific.’

‘I wish you would hardly think more often!’ BAM – score 2 Lou.

‘You’re not going to sleep with him are you. You might elude to it but you’re not are you?’

‘That is none of your business.’

‘And how did you meet him?’

‘We met through a friend.’

‘Oh yeah, what friend?’

‘That’s not important.’

‘Humour me, unlike you Lou I crave context.’

‘Um…well he knows Ben.’

‘Like Ben, you’re ex boyfriend Ben?’

‘So?’

‘Nothing
– just let me get this straight – you met a guy who is friends with
your ex-boyfriend and you’re trying to convince me that you’d date him?’

‘I don’t need to convince you.’

‘I’m
afraid you do Lou, cause from where I sit all I’m hearing is that
you’ve made another man friend, a safe friend and you can sit there and
act all innocent because even if you wanted something to happen you’re
blocked by the mate code of never ever hooking up with your mates
ex-girl.’

‘Gee, I never thought about it like that.’

‘Bullshit Lou, you played me and everyone around you from the start.’


My shame hit me hard. She had caught me out.

‘Why Lou, why’d you do it this time?’


I took a moment – maybe she’d understand, maybe this time it would be different.


‘He was just so shiny and I only needed one more to complete the set.’


She finished her Pepsi and then stood to leave.


‘It’s like I said – frigid Lou.’

11:45 PM 
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March 8, 2009 - Sunday 

I’m
not sure when exactly Christmas got banned in my house. There was an
awkward stage where we pretended it didn’t really exist between 1993-95
following an incident involving my father dressed as Magnum PI dressed
as Santa after he was discovered under the Christmas tree in nothing
but his underpants, my mother and a simple keyboard dedication that he
was serenading her with on my new Yamaha keyboard. It returned for a
short while until 1997, when my mother upon getting yet another frying
pan banned Christmas until her family learnt not to buy ‘crap’
presents, and with that in mind, now looking back that perhaps the
moment the festive season ended in the Sanz house.




Personally
I agreed with mum. Our family ritual of Kris Kringle had been less than
spectacular and had been growing worse by the year. It started off with
potential; an indiscriminate statue I used to hold open my door from my
brother, but it was downhill from there –the next year I got that extra
bag of crisps you get when you buy a chocolate bar and a soft drink at
the petrol station and the year after that I got a film poster with the
‘Now Showing’ sticker still attached and the blue tack still firmly in
place on the back (just to clarify, my brother had recently taken a job
at a local picture theatre).


As
far as I was concerned Christmas was what other people did, much like
home buying, private health insurance and coffee grinders. Well that
was until I moved to London.


I
lived with a gay man, who didn’t go in much for Christmas, because
according to governing legislation at the time the cultural ideals
behind Christmas didn’t really go into him and anyway, Ibiza wasn’t
nearly as packed at this time of year, and a Jew. A Jew who was
surprisingly more into Christmas than any Christian I’d ever met, but
his logic was reasoned enough – given he didn’t believe in Christmas it
was easier for him to enjoy because it didn’t have to mean anything.


I’d
agreed to bunk down for Christmas at an Australian friend of mine’s
orphan’s lunch. She’d gone as far as to extend the invitation to my Jew
flatmate, who was on the verge anyway of becoming my long-term on and
off again better half (I use that term liberally, but hey it’s
Christmas) and even with my Grinch like ways I was kind of excited
about spending a white Christmas around people I actually liked, free
of movie posters and crap statues – I could hold my own doors open
thank you very much…and then of course everything pretty much went tits
up.


Four
days before Christmas, my friend rang, she was pregnant and feeling
rotten and there was ‘no f&*king way’ she was going to cook a full
Christmas lunch for people quite capable of cooking themselves – and
then she apologised, blamed hormones and hung up.


‘Merry Christmas to you to’ I mumbled into the dead phone as my flatmate came around the corner.


‘What’s up?’ He was so good at acting concerned; I knew now why I thought I might kinda like him.


‘Di’s cancelled Christmas.’


‘Oh…can she do that?’


‘Apparently so.’


‘But I didn’t see anything on the news about it.’


‘I was exaggerating.’


‘You’re a bit prone to that isn’t you Lou?’


I practised ignoring him and if I do say so myself I was getting very good at it.


‘Anyway, maybe I can just cook something here and we can grab some videos and just hang out together….’


‘Sure, sounds great.’ He agreed, as he grabbed his coat, going off to see her.


And
with that he left the flat. I was totally ok with him still being good
friends with his ex-girlfriend and if anything it was reassuring, I
mean we’d probably end up being exes one day and if we still hung out
and stuff that would be totally fine to and nothing at all to be
concerned about (hindsight has been something fundamentally lacking in
any decision making about my life from such an early point I never
thought to consult it in moments such as this one).


So
off he went and as if almost on cue the house phone rang. It was my
friend Lisa. She wanted to say good bye before her and a bunch of my
friends headed off to the country for the holiday.


‘It’s such a shame you can’t come Lou’


‘…well my Aussie Christmas just cancelled…’


‘Oh.’


‘Yep’.


‘Oh
Lou, I’d ask you to come with us, but only if we’d known sooner, like
when we asked you, cause there’s no room in the car and cottage, well
we don’t have a floorboard to spare…but if you’d told us earlier…’ her
guilt trailed off….


‘I’m ok really, Nathan and I are going to cook a turkey or something to that affect and just hang out.’


‘Nice
to see you’re shaking things up Lou, I mean you and Nathan hanging out
and doing nothing together is just so…what’s that word I’m looking
for……come on Lou, you’re good with words, help me out.’


‘Predictable?’


‘No.’


‘Sad, tragic…come on Lisa, I’m giving you gold here.’


‘It’s just so retired.’


‘You make it sound like an afternoon of canasta and self-defecation for two.’


‘I’m
sorry Lou, it sounds charming and remember darl if I could be bothered
agreeing to take both cars to the country like Marcus wants than we’d
be more than happy to have you tag along.’


‘What-?’


‘– anyway, must go Lou, drinking and merriment to be had you understand.’


She
hung up, leaving me perplexed as to why she even bothered to call. She
was so not getting an eCard this Christmas, maybe a text, but she’d be
out of range so what was the point? And I really couldn’t afford to
just be throwing money around.

It
was decided then, no text either. Lisa would have to resign herself to
having me ask her how her holiday was, as opposed to me wishing her a
happy one.


I
had plans anyway, I needed to decide if I was going to cook chicken or
turkey, or could I possible pull off a multi-bird lunch? But of course
the first thing to do was to get a tree, and living on Columbia Rd, the
home of the flower markets I was going to get the best tree ever.




…of
course, I’d left it rather late and so instead of a towering green
Christmassy foliage decorating my living room, I was sold a stick in a
pot, that looked like it might be related to Christmas in the way that
Anthony LaPaglia’s younger brother kinda looks like him, but isn’t
really him. I tried not to cry, I could make it look pretty, nothing
some tinsel and self denial couldn’t fix.


I
was just about finished with the decorations when Nathan came home. He
took one look at our Christmas tree and commented that maybe I should
throw last nights left-over’s out as opposed to decorating them – I
told him it was our brand new Christmas tree. He told me my tree was
why Jews didn’t celebrate Christmas.


‘I’m trying to make Christmas special.’


‘You know what happens when you try Lou.’


‘I succeed in bringing the spirit of Christmas right to your doorstep?’


‘Now you know that’s not true LouLou.’


He took his scarf off and plonked on the couch. The uncomfortable couch – why was he punishing himself….


‘Lou…I don’t think I’m going to be here for Christmas.’


‘What?
I’m cooking, I even got a retarded stick in a pot that God knows I’m
trying to convince myself is a Christmas tree – look I even stuck up
stockings!’


I pointed at two odd little socketts I’d sticky taped to the mantle, and as if on cue one fell to the ground – mine.


‘Yeah,
it’s just that Carrie, well she’s had a bad year and she wants me to
come with her and her family to the country and I’m her friend…’


‘…you’re her ex boyfriend…’


‘Yes, and with that comes certain obligations…’


I
looked at my little sockett; thought of my multi bird feast I’d just
ordered online at Tesco’s and did the only thing left that I could.


‘You’re right, you should go, and I’ll be fine here alone on my own.’


‘Really?’


He jumped on to the comfortable couch, self imposed punishment over.


‘You’re
tops Lou, I thought you’d say that, you’re much better at being alone
then anyone I know, you can do some of your writing stuff.’


He flicked over the channel to watch some carollers singing with Mariah Carey.


‘Yep, I’m great at the alone…and writing stuff…’


I
glared at the telly, trying not to cry. Shut the cock up Mariah,
bullshit you don’t ask a lot for Christmas, stop with your lies and
just leave me alone.


Christmas
day arrived; I woke up, decided not to wash, scratched myself and
looked out the window. London town was completely empty, not a soul in
site, except for the occasional mini cab driver and prostitute who’s
kids were with dad on his dad day.


My
phone rang, it was Nathan. He was feeling bad, and had decided to
return on Boxing Day, I pointed out no trains were running that day, he
fell silent before adding ‘it’s the thought that counts’…or the lack of
thought in your case I joked to myself, glad I could still make funnies
on a day I wasn’t entirely sure I’d make it to the end of.


There
was nothing on the tellie except for floats, God and good will to all.
I decided 9am was not too early to start the celebrations and so I
opened a bottle of champagne, sat under my stick in a pot and opened my
Christmas presents. Mum had sent me a card saying my present was her
renewing my car insurance so my sister could drive around, or as she
phrased it ‘your dad and I thought peace of mind was what you needed
this Christmas.’ My brother had sent nothing, and Nathan had left me a
plastic tomato to put ketchup in – that was it! Christmas was
officially over!


I packed up my stick and pot, ripped the socketts from the wall, washed myself with a flannel and decided to go for a walk.


The
air was cold and brittle as I looked up and down the length of my
street. I was excited, this was liberating. I wasn’t going to be sucked
into feeling sorry for myself. Nothing was going to make me feel any
worse, not my sister driving my car, not Nathan maybe or maybe not
fingering his ex girlfriend by a warm lit fire, not this strange man
looking at from across the street…the empty street…the completely empty
street.


Great,
I was going to be offended sexually and it was going to all be my fault
because I was so unloved I was spending Christmas on my own that the
attentions of a would be rapist was my Christmas present to myself
(Note to self: stop spoiling yourself so much Lou, it’s just got to
stop.)


He wandered over as I searched for my flat key – I just had it, where the hell was it?


‘Hi’ he spoke in a clipped English accent.


I didn’t reply.


‘You don’t speak English?’


He was the politest potential sex offender ever, but hey it was Christmas.


‘..Um I’m just trying to find my key.’


‘We could go to my car if you like; I mean if that would be more efficient?’


Oh,
I smiled to myself…he wasn’t a sex offender, he was just a regular old
punter looking for sex on Christmas day…his family probably waiting for
him to return from the Indian off-licence with much needed Worcestershire
sauce that he was sent out for – and him thinking while he was out he
could get his end in, after all as I kept reminding myself, it was
Christmas.


‘I’m not a prostitute.’


‘Oh, it’s just you were on your on your own.’


‘And so you assumed I was soliciting?’


‘When you say it like that it sounds dirty.’


‘Don’t you have a family to be with?’


‘I could say the same of you.’


And
so there I was locked in a stale mate with a man looking to pay for sex
on Christmas day and me, an Australian expat standing alone in the
middle of London trying to convince herself she didn’t care.


‘Listen,
maybe we can grab a drink’ I remarked – after all aren’t all men who
are looking to pay for sex really just wanting companionship?


‘As lovely an offer as it is, I’m really just looking for a decent hand job before the in laws come over.’


‘Fair enough.’


He looked down at his shoes, as he fumbled with his car keys.


‘I better be off than, might try round the corner.’


He started off down the street and then suddenly turned around.


‘Merry Christmas strange Australian girl.’


‘Merry
Christmas to you to’ I shouted back and then smiled to myself – I still
had that Christmas spirit and at the end of the day that was the most
important thing.

11:44 PM 
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March 8, 2009 - Sunday 

Confiding in me over a hot chocolate in a small
tucked away café a few days ago, my friend Agnes had barely touched her
earl grey tea with a dash of cream and honey when she pouted and
declared

‘I hate myself Lou, I just hate myself.’

I didn’t say anything, I knew there was more to come, there always was.

‘I just don’t understand why you can’t just be born the way you want to end up?’

‘You are asking an awful lot from the universe’ I
surmised as I eyed off a marshmallow that wasn’t mine, but had been
left on a nearby table.

‘No Lou, I don’t think I am. We put all this money
into obesity research, diabetes this and diabetes that and don’t even
get me started on early stage genetic predisposition testing and yet if
we could just be born thin and beautiful, not necessarily smart but
cluey, I could make do with cluey, well then you know what Lou?’

‘What’ …surely if it was just left there it was really MY marshmallow….

‘There’d be no war or famine.’

‘And how do you reckon that?’

‘Because it’s simple – they’d be born full.’

She squeezed more lemon into her tea and winced at
the taste, which led me to this point – can you divorce your friends?
Or at least if anything ask for a trial separation?

I thought this as I watched her straighten out her
skirt, looking around, frustrated with the world, unaware of her
complete lack of depth – why couldn’t I be completely unaware of her
lack of depth too?

‘I think maybe darl, you just need to learn to
accept yourself – you know a little self acceptance can go a long way.’
I remarked

…it’s my marshmallow, all mine and boy did it taste good…

‘Lou, I’m not giving up sex.’

‘Acceptance is not the same as abstinence Agnes,’

‘Don’t get tricky Lou.’

‘I wasn’t being tricky; I was going more for clarification really.’

Suddenly her nose screwed up.

‘Did you just eat that manky marshmallow off someone else’s table?’

‘I think manky is too liberal a use of such a negative word.’

‘You just ate garbage Lou.’

‘Are abandoned children garbage Agnes?’

‘Wards of the state are not marshmallows’ are they Lou.’…more a statement than a question really…

I picked a loose hair out of my teeth; she was
right, it probably had been garbage, but her judgment wasn’t my
punishment for little did she know that later that night in the privacy
of my own home I would stand naked in front a mirror and ask myself
‘would you touch yourself?’ and my answer would be yes and thus eating
garbage made me edgy and that was hot.

‘I just wish I could be more like you Lou’ she let out a long breath as she checked her iPhone for the time.

‘Grass is always greener on the other side my friend.’

‘You’re short; one might even describe you as homely and unkempt – almost like that character in House.’

‘What character in House?’

‘Oh you know, the eccentric aunt who collects
newspapers and rides the trains, rather than just being normal and
going on a diet.’

‘It’s called Housekeeping and it’s a
book and I think you’ve missed the entire point of the story – it’s
about Housekeeping in the spiritual sense, in the face of great loss.’

‘My point exactly – if we were born the way we wanted than she wouldn’t have become a hobo.’

‘You do realize you’re whole argument is derailed if say she wanted to be born a hobo.’

‘You honestly think she’d pick being born Kate Moss over being born homeless?’

‘No, you’re right Agnes, why find your own path
and sense of identity when you can just claim someone else’s – cloning
is much underrated.’

‘Don’t do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘That.’ – I really felt like a biscuit, but maybe
that was too much. I found myself lamenting an incident earlier that
day when I’d dropped and stepped on my biscuit – there was no saving it
at the time I thought, but looking back now, I knew the truth, I hadn’t
even tried.

‘Listen Lou, I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.’

‘Come to what?’

‘I need a time out – from this, from you.’

…what was going on...this wasn’t meant to end this
way, we had plans together, great plans, the Kinki Gerlinki garage sale
was only a week away…

‘I don’t think I’ve got room for you in my life,
I’ve already got a stereotypical over achieving, blatantly sarcastic,
bordering on compensating for an amazing amount of insecurity - brunette taking up too much room.’

‘Who? Who’s that?’ I demanded to know.

‘a little tabloid princess I like to call Katie Holmes.’

‘But you don’t even know her and please prey tell when if ever has displayed irreverent wit?

‘Just because I don’t know her personally Lou, doesn’t mean that we haven’t connected.’

‘She’s a celebrity, if this is the Matrix than she’s not even real.’

‘But she understands me Lou and quite frankly you don’t; in fact half the time I just feel like you’re taking the piss.’

‘No, that’s not true, entirely.’

‘See, you can’t even not do it now, even while we’re in the middle of breaking up – do I mean that little to you?’

‘I don’t know what you want from me.’

She paused.

‘Maybe the problem is I don’t know either.’

I held back my already restrained emotions on the matter.

‘Hey Lou, don’t get upset, we can still be Facebook friends.’

‘Really?’ – it wasn’t the end of us.

‘Restricted access of course.’ And with that she stabbed me in the ovaries.

‘What’s the point?’ I spat back.

She got up to leave.

‘Can I ask why?’

I did desperate well.

She turned and for a moment I thought she might
sit back down and tell me this was all a dream, or a test, something
other than blatant abandonment.

‘Listen Lou – oh how do I explain this… ?’

I saw her eyes search for words.

‘…you know that marshmallow you ate, the abandoned one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well you’re like my marshmallow, on the floor,
hair all over you, and sure if I wiped you down or hosed you off I
might for a moment get that sweet sensation only a marshmallow can give
me as it touches my lips, but than the guilt would set in, the self
hate, that yearning for something more in my life – do you understand?’

‘I’m not a marshmallow.’

She took a long breath.

‘You’re not my marshmallow Lou.’

And with that she left…and for me it was time to go home and stand in front of the mirror – I was going to treat myself tonight.

11:43 PM 
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December 4, 2008 - Thursday 
..........................

.. ..



I’m really
going to stop walking home. Sure I need the exercise but for the sake of my
sanity and at the risk of exacerbating my already impotent nature when it comes
to relating to the average person, I really think I must stop.....



.. ..



To be
honest though, this is not something that has gradually been eating away at me,
adding to my state of restless sleep and unsatisfying daily minutiae; it has
it’s nexus firmly rooted in an encounter I had on Tuesday, and before you judge
me with me with your judging hats (I should know, I own 3 in various colours)
this is not an over reaction, well 3 days later it isn’t, but possibly on
retrospect it might be seen as a slightly over zealous and ill thought out move
on my part.....



.. ..



Her name
was Betty. She was, and is one of my on-and-off again friends. The sort that
always seem like a good idea at the time, but 20 minutes into a lecture from
them on how cork shoes never really got a fair run, not to mention Espadrilles
and it’s all Jennifer Aniston’s fault, you can understand why Brad left her for
Angelina – you stare at them with all the hatred you can muster and then come
to the crushing realisation that being with them only makes you hate yourself
more.....



.. ..



But my
Betty was worse than that; spending more then an Australia Day lunch with her
made me want to do things to myself, bad things to myself. Like the time I
actually contemplated going home, foraging around my clutter cupboard for my
tennis racket, far from it’s glory days of Under 15 Round Robin matches and
immersing it in a bath of rust and lime scales for 24-48 hours, where upon
immersion complete I would de-string it, leave it in the rain and then after a
couple of whiskeys insert it either orally or otherwise into myself and
scraping my insides out.....



.. ..



And yet
here I was now, walking in the middle of the city, unaware that she was right
behind me – that is until she yanked my iPod ear phones out of my ear, and then
in front of everyone I screamed ‘I’m being assaulted’ which was not only
humiliating to myself, but a point of great concern to everyone walking past
who really quite clearly didn’t give a toss – I felt comforted in the knowledge
that had I been being assaulted the most I could hope for was a couple testing
out their new iPhone posting yet another urban stereotype on YouTube with the
tag line ‘the girl who got over excited when her friend touched her.’....



.. ..



Now, here’s
the thing, I’ve only recently surrendered my Sony Discman because after
scratching my forth copy of Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation and then
being informed it is no longer available to purchase in any other format than
Mp3 (yes, I felt like chaining myself to a Sanity Christmas display stand as
well) I conceded defeat and got an iPod, nothing fancy, you can’t touch the
screen, but it’s mine and I’ll be damned if anyone other than myself or a
mugger yank it out of my ears…....



.. ..



‘What the
hell?’ I spun around only to come face to face with Betty.....



.. ..



‘Hey’ she
offered back – no apology, no nothing, as I struggled to pick up my head set
and stuff it in my hand bag.....



.. ..



‘That kinda
hurt’ I muttered…....



.. ..



‘Hurt –
what hurt?’....



.. ..



‘When you
pulled my head back via my earphones just now’....



.. ..



‘Did I?’
she stated – it wasn’t a question, she knew what she had done – let the dance
begin I thought. Let us dance.....



.. ..



‘I haven’t
seen you since Australia Day – you never call, why is it you never call Lou?’....



.. ..



‘I invited
you to my birthday’ ....



.. ..



‘Ahh, yes,
Sex and the City was on at the IMAX the next night and I really needed to rest
my eyes.’....



.. ..



‘Fair
enough.’....



.. ..



‘Yep’....



.. ..



‘And I
invited you to my show’.....



.. ..



‘Oh…well
Andrew didn’t want to go.’....



.. ..



‘Andrew?....



.. ..



‘I got a
new boyfriend, well he really started out a f**k buddy but than I thought come
on Betty you’re over 25 and you have to start getting serious about your life,
like what if the world ends and you have no one to get on the Arc with, like
I’m sure they’ll be a boat for the singles, but really what would God get of
saving them, I mean really – how committed are you in saving humanity if you
aren’t willing to breed for existence right? And anyway, Andrews doesn’t really
like funny girls, which has really kept me in check, I can tell you.’....



.. ..



‘Fair
enough’....



.. ..



‘You know
Andrew anyway; you went to high school together’....



.. ..



‘Yep.’ – we
never spoke, most of our interaction coming to down to him coming up with a
scoring system of how many things the boys in class could get down my top
without me noticing.....



.. ..



‘So what’s
new with you Lou?’....



.. ..



‘Not much.’....



.. ..



‘Still
living with your parents?’....



.. ..



‘Yep.’....



.. ..



‘That’s not
very good is it? – Not very good for your ‘life’ hey?’....



.. ..



‘I don’t
have a ‘life’ so it suits me just fine. I’m actually very busy.’....



.. ..



‘You just
said you weren’t doing much.’....



.. ..



‘Well its
just stuff, like I have (oh please Lou, don’t stoop this low) – I have a couple
of scripts I’m developing.’....



.. ..



‘That’s
great Lou, just great. I tend to think screenwriting is like how everyone was
in a band in the 90’s won’t you agree?’....



.. ..



‘Not
really, I think there’s a lot more to it –‘....



.. ..



‘– I’m just
trying to say that isn’t everyone developing a screenplay? Like my autistic
cousin Benji could have something development if he was so inclined – surely
you agree Lou?’  - Again, not a question,
more a statement.....



.. ..



‘I guess if
he was motivated that way’....



.. ..



‘Don’t be
cruel Lou, for god sake he’s autistic.’....



.. ..



I had
nothing to say, she was right, I had been cruel – cruel for thinking that at
right that very moment she was talking to me I was thinking that I really
wanted to be home self-harming myself live on the web.....



.. ..



‘What you
listening to anyway?’ she grabbed at my iPod and examined for evidence of
music.....



.. ..



‘Danni Minogue?’
she quipped, reluctant to give it back to me like a mother who just discovered
her toddler was playing with laundry detergent.....



.. ..



‘Yes,
Danni’ – judging hats on!....



.. ..



And she
scrolled through my selection I could see her face despair – but that was cool,
I was ready for this, and I’d been waiting for this moment all my life.....



.. ..



Her head
shot up ‘You’ve got her entire back catalogue Lou.’....



.. ..



‘Yeah, lots
of people do.’....



.. ..



‘That’s not
true, is it Lou?’....



.. ..



‘As a
matter of fact there are a lot of us out there who think Danni has done a lot
more for modern music than anyone is willing to give her credit for.’....



.. ..



I knew it
was a bold statement, yes, I also know there wasn’t much to back it up and her
ill fated marriage to Julian McMahon and her slight dalliance with being a
darling of the Right in 2002 following a poorly interpreted magazine interview
about the French fascist president at the time did tear at her credibility –
but I wasn’t backing down.....



I snatched
my iPod back.....



.. ..



‘How soon
we forget how important she is culturally to us! – I mean what? Have we all
forgotten Secrets! Or how she made every frumpy brunette in ....Australia....
actually think they too could be on Young Talent Time! Or how she was nominated
for a Gold Logie! And yes, we’d all like to forget ‘This is It’ but you can’t
honestly say that Neon Nights did not have some well earned party anthem
highlights, and sure she looks a little strange now in the flesh and slightly
out of proportion – but she’s the accessible Minogue and for that, and that
reason alone I will always go to bat for her and so Betty if you want to make
something of this go right ahead, but her music gives me a much needed spring
to my step as I walk home and no one is going to take that away from me – no
one….especially not the likes of you.’....



.. ..



For a
moment she said nothing, nor did the crowd that had gathered for my rousing
‘Pro Danni’ speech. For a moment I expected a slow clap to start rumbling up
through the crowd of 5 or so, I expected Betty to look at me with tears in her
eyes and thank me for finally making it ok to like Danni, something so many of
us have been seeking permission for, for years…....



.. ..



…but as the
crowd left to go and watch a guy talk to himself on the other side of Bourke St
Mall, I was not left with a liberated and admiring Betty  but was faced instead with a Betty who know
longer knew the person that stood before her.....



.. ..



‘Listen
Lou…’....



.. ..



She reached
her arm up to my shoulder, but quickly pulled away, as if correcting herself.....



.. ..



‘I - it’s
just don’t think we can be friends anymore, well not for now anyway….you seem a
little lost and I’ve made a promise to myself to only surround myself with
people who have direction and a firm grasp on what is right and wrong, and from
what I’ve just witnessed Lou, you can no longer tell the difference. Take care
Lou.’....



.. ..



And with
that she looked at me one last time, clutching my iPod and started to walk
away…but it was ok, I had Danni and you know what that’s all I needed.....



.. ..



And so,
looking back and with the kindness of hindsight it would be wrong of me to stop
walking home, sure it reaffirms that my talent lies almost exclusively in
alienating people and losing friends (to misquote a book) but more importantly
because if no ones actually listening to Danni does she really exist?....



.. ..



.. ..



.. ..



.. ..



.. ..





5:19 AM 
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December 1, 2008 - Monday 

Category: Blogging
I was hanging out with a guy I’d been seeing for about a month, when he
suggested that I should give ‘OK.Computer’ a listen. Apparently he was
really struggling with my apathy towards to Radiohead. I tried
explaining to him that my indifference to Radiohead had nothing to do
with him and how he thought he was struggling to satisfy me as a lover,
but more to do with that fact that in 1997 I was revelling in the fact
that I could get away with tartan hot pants and sate my love of pop and
lust with the Spice Girls, Bjork, Black Sambuca, apprentice chefs and
hammocks.

‘I just can’t see myself with someone who doesn’t
appreciate a fine indie melody’ he complained as looked solemnly at his
ice-cream for which he no longer had the appetite.

‘Oh for the love of god – I’ll listen to it – you win.’ I snapped.

‘You make it sound like I’m forcing you – you’re making listening to Radiohead sound like rape.’

‘Can you spell over dramatic…’ I remarked, rolling my eyes.

‘Don’t get tricky Lou, that’s two words’

‘Oh and therein lie’s the challenge?’ I laughed, trying desperately to lighten the mood.

He leaned into me, ‘I want you do something for me Lou, will you do something for me Lou?’

He
was being serious, so probably not the best time to bring up that last
Friday nights ‘let’s try something new evening’ involving a Bill Hick’s
spoken word album, and his dad’s tie was not something I wanted to do
again.

‘Yep’ I gritted ‘Anything, you name it.’

‘I’m
going to lend you OK.Computer and I want you to take it home and listen
to it, really listen to it and then maybe jot down a few keys words and
we can talk about it. I think if we can do that, together, than maybe
you and me, we might just work out.’

I looked him deep in the
eyes and thought ‘I’m going to end up hating you, but first I’ll hate
myself for dating a man who might very well wake up one day with
inverted genitals’…and to be honest that self-abuse was at least a week
or two away.

‘Why don’t we go back to yours and I can grab the
CD – get this party started so to speak?’ I went to grab his hand and
for a moment he looked like he would surrender it gladly, but he pulled
back suddenly.

‘Um, probably not the best idea.’ He casually remarked, as he rubbed some mint ice-cream from his chin.

‘You’re
flat’s just around the corner, it’ll only take a sec.’ I smiled,
thinking how much I hated that he tucked his shirt into this cords with
no sense of irony whatsoever.

‘It’s just that, my girlfriend’s back from Queensland and she’s working from home today.’

And just like that, me not being a massive Radiohead fan, well that seemed like the least of our worries.

‘Your girlfriend?’

‘Oh, here we go, you’re really going to labour the point on this aren’t you Lou?’

‘No, well yes, I mean when did you get this girlfriend?’

‘Gee,
you make it sound like I bought her in a store; I think you’re over
simplifying things Lou – I mean you didn’t really think that someone
like me wouldn’t have a girlfriend did you? – did I get you wrong Lou,
that you’re not as smart as you’d like everyone to think you are?’

I watched as he brushed his hair back out of his eyes and adjusted his belt.

‘I think you’re a lying, cheating bastard.’ I quipped.

He rolled his eyes and reached got his cardigan as if to make exit.

‘Oh that’s it Lou, label me if you think it helps.’

I was at a loss – he not so much, he was attempting finish his ice-cream.

‘Well you know what…?’ I stammered.

‘What?’ he inquired with an incredulous tone.

‘You
know how I told you, that you kinda reminded me of Thom Yorke on an
angle…’ (still stammering)…’well I was lying, you’re more like Ali G
seen through the leaking nipple of an 84 year old scabies sufferer!’

He looked at me with a look of disappointment.

‘I thought you were an adult Lou, but clearly my estimation of you was wrong.’

He was right; by scabies comment was not one of my finest moments.

‘Well
you know what! – So you didn’t tell me about your girlfriend – fine! My
fault, I really should learn to ask around the time I find out how many
brothers and sisters you have after I’ve shagged you at movies in the
park! – But you know what you’re not the only with a secret! I have
secrets too!’

He looked at me, as a paused for dramatic affect.

‘I hate Radiohead.’

And with that I sunk to all time low.

He turned to me quietly.

‘I hoped I wasn’t right Lou, that your opinion of Radiohead wouldn’t be the end of us, but…’

‘But?’

‘But,
you’re hatred of Thom and the boys, well it just makes me think that I
was right in sticking with you as a reserve girlfriend and not a
permanent fixture – because quite frankly this lampooning of the most
iconic band of our generation, well it scares me Lou, it scares me.’

‘I don’t think being indifferent so some indie pop outfit is the reason we’re breaking up-‘

He interrupted –

‘–
yes, it is Lou. Sure you can convince yourself it’s because I have a
girlfriend and I never got around to telling you – but at the end of
the day we both know it’s your inability, your frigid reluctance to
admit that you can’t identify with the zeitgeist that has destroyed us,
and personally I think there’s no going back from this point.’

He dropped the remainder of his ice cream in the bin and gently brushed my hair away from my eyes.

‘You know what…’

‘What…’ he murmured in that tone, the tone of a relationship coming to an end.

‘I think The Kooks are the Radiohead of today.’

He lowered his eyes…

‘I don’t even know who you are anymore Lou – you’re only hurting yourself’

And with that he walked away.


Note
to self: find less destructive ways of ending relationships from now
on, and don’t use apathy towards certain bands as leverage, it only
reflects badly on you.

Ps. Sorry Thom, nothing personal.

http://lousanz.com



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November 21, 2008 - Friday 

Category: Blogging

In my lifetime I’ve seen more vagina then frankly I’ve ever needed to see. I have my own you see, and so from where I stand my dance card is full so to speak – I do not need to yours, little miss ‘my boyfriend left me at the races after fingering me near the starters gates, and I think I’ve vomited on my shoes and that’s why I’m sitting with my legs spread and talking on my iPhone and now it’s itchy and so now she starts scratching it…’ – oh for the love of god, this recent popularity in minge flashing has to stop!

Now look, it’s not like I seek vagina out, it just happens to find me – like that kid in school who always picked his nose and ate what he didn’t smear on the seat and farted all day long, who always ended up sitting next to me on the school bus and somehow manages to clean himself without the use of tissues or a hankey, because oh no, my David Jones kids section colleted shorts would just have to do because ‘oh my god Lou, there’s blood in my snot! Blood in my snot! I can’t eat that!’ – and so like I took issue to the nose picking kid who once asked me out after farting his name under his arm, my relationship with vagina is also steeped in friction – namely my relationship with other peoples vaginas.

Not that I’d never had an issue with my own. There was one time when I was five years old when my mother spotted a small ‘lump’ on my groin. After an unsuccessful attempt at getting the fire department to come and check it out, my mother, conceding defeat, drove me to the nearest emergency room, where upon arrival she declared to the triage nurse that it looked like I had ovarian cancer. After a quick glance at my intimate region the nurse debunked my mothers theories on ovarian cancer in favour of a nice warm flannel – to wipe away the hardened yoghurt my mother had mistaken for a lump. As you can imagine my mother was furious, driving home in almost silence until finally I perked up the courage to ask her what was wrong. She took a deep breath and rolled down the window ‘an illness I could’ve handled, but to think they think I have a filthy child, a child who does not wash – well if I wanted that I would’ve married a transient Louise, a transient.’

My complicated relationship with (I think we know what I’m talking bout by now) continued well up to my early teens, when at the age of 13, and not yet cool enough to secure a birthday party invitation without an in from my parents, I found myself relegated to the kitchen of my on-again, off-again best friends, on my own, away from the fun party times. You see, it turned out that I’d worn the same rose coloured dress and sash combination as the birthday girl. I thought we looked different enough though – I mean I had two separate eyebrows – she didn’t see the humour and so it was decided I’d spend the rest of the party out of site. If anyone asked, we told her it was a mutual decision.

Alone with nothing but a chocolate cake to keep me company as I pondered my impending ascent into my thirties teens, I was startled to find my friends sister staring at me from the doorway, quietly staring. She was the older sister, and when I say older I mean of the stepsister, first marriage variety. She was 16, wore 8-ups, watched Press Gang before it was ironic and above all she was the only person around my age that saw a psychiatrist and not because she had an eating disorder – she was an exhibitionist, and given I still got dressed in the privacy of my own room with a towel wrapped around me and away from the mirror – well all of the afore mentioned made her better than me, and as a young girl on the brink of puberty, I was like a moth to a flame (thank you Janet Jackson).

life-is-a-highway
She leaned on the counter and fingered my chocolate cake, smearing it on her white shirt.

‘I’ve got something to show you’ she murmured.

I grabbed my cake – great, dinner and show!

When we got to her room I was struck with awe – Sarah McLachlan and Take That posters everywhere – she obviously didn’t have a BluTak quota like I did – there was barely any wall, and to top it all off she had a Fresh Prince of Bel Air bedspread (years from that very moment she would fashion that bed spread into her high school valedictorian dress, but by that stage with her reputation firmly cemented, going dressed as a bed would be seen as literal, lacking any sort of irony whatsoever).

She went to over to what I only could’ve have imagined at the time was a brand new CD/ Cassette player and slipped in Tom Petty’s Life is a Highway, and began to dance around the room. I stood there. Sure I was a good dancer, but I knew better then to upstage her and then suddenly she took off all her clothes and stood very still in front of me. I didn’t know what to do – I wasn’t the right audience, I hated interpretative dance, yes, even naked interpretative dance, but I couldn’t tell her – ‘that was great’ I stated. She took my hand and started to push it down ‘touch it’ she said, and before I even had time to tell her how funny this situation was because it was the exact same thing I did with her brother the other week – my parents burst in – and lets just say from that moment onwards there were two girls in the neighbourhood who saw therapists and not for eating disorders – as my mum told my Nan over a shared cigarette one day ‘she likes vagina’s which is cool, but I can’t help but think it’s just greedy, I mean she has her own and if she gets curious she’s got her grandma or me to go to – there’s no need to go outside the family- I just don’t want it to get to the stage where’s she getting arrested for peaking through windows.’

And so now even in my twenties I still find myself subjected to the vagina. Take for example last Tuesday. I was minding my own business in a public bathroom when two young ladies of orange persuasion trolloped in. I quickly ascertained with their misuse of hair extensions and polyester that they’d been at the races that day, one had even managed to get her hair caught in her zipper, but she didn’t care, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t hers. I think her name was Nanessa, and her friend who taking centre stage and blocking me from drying my hands was called Chantelle, and Chantelle had a problem – her undies were really uncomfortable – she wasn’t use to wearing full briefs and from the looks of Nanessa telling some third party on her mobile phone –the whole situation was rather distressing.

According to Nanessa though, the solution was simple:

‘Just take em off Chanty’

‘But don’t you think my dress is too short?’

‘Nah, it’s not as short as mine and I’m not wearing any,’

‘F**k off!’

‘Yeah, see, and we’re going dancing, not like anyone can tell’

And with that, Nanessa bent over  - she was right, you couldn’t see her c**t, primarily due being distracted by finally seeing someone who appeared to bleach their anus – it sounds wrong, it looks wrong.

I pushed past to get to the dryer, trying not to stare, desperately trying not to stare.

‘Ok’ exclaimed Chantelle and took her own knickers off and started to shimmy around, like she was on that very dance floor where no one cared if you were wore undies or nor.

‘Arms up’ commanded Nanessa as she pulled out some lip gloss and a cigarette.

Chantelle raised her arms, as Nanessa studied her carefully.

‘Nup, your fine, just don’t stand in front of any lights or the sun’, words from an old pro I thought, but I spoke to late as I turned around in time to come face to face with Chantelle as she came to the realisation she still had her tampon in…

Trying not to cry, I grabbed my handbag and headed for the door when someone tapped me on the shoulder – it was Nanessa.

‘You’ve got something stuck to the bottom of your shoe’

‘I’m fine’ I barked back and looked down to find a condom wrapper stuck to my shoe.

I had never felt so embarrassed and unaware – who was I to judge these girls, they helped me, perhaps vaginas weren’t so bad after all – maybe I just needed to brush up on the etiquette and really learn to stop staring – or maybe they could just wear underpants- for the love of god – and then I slipped on the condom wrapper and fell over, arse over tits.

‘Oh my god!’ Chantelle shouted ‘she wears her undies on the outside of her stockings – that’s disgusting.’ And with that they both stepped over me, sans undies, and left me lying on the floor. They were right, I was disgusting - don’t look at me.

2:59 AM 
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October 19, 2008 - Sunday 

Category: Blogging
For years my relationship with my self-esteem has been fraught with friction, none of it helped by my self-esteems amazing ability to fuck off when I quite obviously need it the most.  Such famous incidences include:

1.    The time that in the middle of sex a guy told me he fancied someone else and without the guidance of ‘self-esteem’ I thought what the hell ‘let’s finish what we started, I mean he had to like me to get this far.’

2.    The time I set my boyfriend up with my friend because she was blonde because as he told me ‘come on Lou, you know this isn’t going to work out, like I don’t even like you much, well not as much as I like your friend – come on help a fella out.’ And with my self-esteem nowhere in sight I did.

3.    The time I closed my eyes and let an old boyfriend of mine pretend I was a man, my self-esteem more then likely watched from a gallery seat.

4.    The time I got back together with an ex based on this conversation ‘so I was in San Fran trying to tap… well, let’s just call them someone, and… let’s just say their tits weren’t real and then I thought ‘you know what… Lou’s tits are real’ and so then I thought about it some more and thought ‘yeah, I quite like Lou’s tits’, so deep down in my subconscious that meant that some part of me was attracted to you, and is probably still attracted to you – so what do you say we give it another shot? – and I did.

Now I’m not sure what when my self-esteem decided to leave me, but if I had to guestimate I’d say it was around the time I needed to get my first bra. I was about 14 and after my mothers comments of ‘I can see your crumpets’ and ‘someone’s been invited to party at bolder mountain!’ I agreed to go and get fitted for a bra. As my mum grabbed the car keys and rounded up my father and younger brother for another Sanz family adventure I excused myself to the bathroom only to discover that to coincide with ‘Lou gets her first bra’ I also had been visited for the first time by ‘Aunt Flo’.

Now. I’m not sure how most of you purchase your feminine hygiene products, but on that day my mother decided we should stop into ‘Campbell’s Cash’n’Carry’ to stock up; but she didn’t come in with me, couldn’t find a car park – no she sent my dad and I in together and just before we stepped inside the building she wound the window down and shouted ‘get super  - I’ve run out of mattress protectors.’

The department store wasn’t much better, as mum had ordered my brother to walk behind me on ‘spot patrol’. A lovely woman named Irene approached us to help out – I think she saw the large jumper tied around my waste as a sign that perhaps this was the first time out of the house without my polio support unit. She offered my mother one of those bras that does up at the front – my mother was not impressed ‘gotta make the boys or girls work for their crumpet – hey Lou? Hey? Hi five!’ I watched in horror as my mother and Irene shared skin.

Finally I convinced my mum that the dignity of a changing room was much needed, especially after that cute Xavier boy walked past me as my mother fitted a bra on the outside of my Sportsgirl t-shirt and just as he was in ear shot spoke the irretrievable words ‘and smells like someone’s going need deodorant too – this is a big day for you Lou – if you’re lucky it’ll be boys next.’ Following that remark I knew I was going to be lucky to be fingered by a cousin in later years.

Now it’s rather hard to hang yourself in a department store change room, but fuck I gave it a right go and if you look at the little stool they give you to rest your clothes on as your jumping off point then you’re well on your way to success, that is until your little brother crawls under the door but only enough to see you putting a bra around your neck and screams out ‘mum, dad! Lou’s doing that thing that Michael Hutchinson did to have an origami!’.

Suddenly the door burst open, my father hurtling towards me before I could jump off the stool and my mother sternly standing in front me taking the scene in – me in my undies and a bra around my neck, my brother still lying on the floor and all she could think to do was offer up more advice ‘now is not the time to start a life of self pleasure Lou – first things first let’s get you some supportive underwear and then what you do behind the privacy of closed doors is up to you.’ She then turned to my brother ‘now who wants milkshakes?’ and then to my father 'I think your daughter might like your opinion on the whole front or back clasp debate Michael.'

I didn’t think it could get much worse but as the years went on my self-esteem became more of absence in my life rather than an active participant – such as last Friday night when I ended up at Billboard nightclub.

I could end this story on that above line alone but then I wouldn’t get to the bit where inside the nightclub and with my friend telling me I looked like a mother searching for her wayward daughter and almost being overwhelmed by the amount of pussy that one can glance based entirely on the knowledge that Friday nights at Billboard appear to be underwear free nights, I had a man approach me – ‘a man of the one eyebrow, I sweat a lot and probably chaff variety’- and what happened next was entirely my self-esteems fault – rather than think I was too good for him, what went through my mind was this ‘that guy looked around this nightclub spotted me and thought I can tap that – oh my god he thought I was achievable; I have become achievable for men who fit the profile of a sex offender – fuck me, does this mean I’ve finally decided on a type?

My friends laughed at me, pointing out that maybe tonight I could find if sex-offenders spooned after that act and so I escaped off into the bathroom hoping to just take a moment to find my confidence in the bottom of my handbag when I walked in on two girls helping each other adjust their g-strings and in the middle of a conversation entitled ‘if you don’t get Brazilian waxes you shouldn’t be allowed to have sex.’

It was then I realised I couldn’t hate my self-esteem – because unlike those two girls in that bathroom that night, well at least I knew what self-esteem was (well that’s what I told myself as I removed the toilet paper from the bottom of my shoe that both girls were kind enough to point out – they could probably tell I was one of those girls now banned from sex according to their new rules) – Score one for Lou! Hi-five….anyone?...anyone?...anyone at all….

12:24 PM 
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October 18, 2008 - Saturday 
New Blog...for that special someone....

'YOU'RE A BAD GIRL LOU, BAD GIRL...NOW PICK UP YOUR SHOE AND GO!'

Exiting the David Jones food court use to be one of my greatest thrills (understand, I spend most of my day typing words into an inanimate object that fails to engage me in any sort of conversation and no, it’s a not a boy – BAM!) and it was upon making this exit that I ran into a guy called Gareth (yep, let’s call him that cause it’s his real name ☺)

He was a guy I’d met through friends about 18 months back when I relocated to Melbourne. We got on, he was cute, had brown hair and made me laugh and so we agreed to go and have a drink together. Nothing too formal, just a casual get to know you better inner city drink.

But as luck would have it I needed to fly to Sydney that weekend, so we rescheduled – he then had a sudden deadline, we rescheduled. He rang me for that drink; I was going to London for a week but would call when I got back. I did, but he was relocating to New York indefinitely. It was just one of those things…and yet, now here he was standing before me in his cords and tussled hair, maybe it was fate, him catching me just as I was in the middle of gorging on DJ’s fresh baked cookies.

‘Hello’ I smiled as we enviably crossed paths.
‘Oh hi’ he smiled back.
‘You’re back!’ I proclaimed.
‘I’m back’ he too proclaimed!
‘Wow’ I surmised.
‘You look great’ he observed.
‘So do you’ I offered back.
‘What have you been up to?’ he enquired.
‘Oh you know the usual…deadlines and stuff.’ I surrended.
‘Yep, don’t I know it’ he casually laughed back.
‘Yeah’ I nodded.

And then silence befell us both.

‘So maybe we should catch up for that drink?’ I coyishly asked.

Pause.

‘I don’t think so.’ He said.

(Note to self: this is why you don’t ask people out Lou, you see what happens! Sure, you might be a sure thing Lou, but that doesn’t mean everyone else is – BAD GIRL! BAD GIRL!)

‘Oh ok then…’ the words stumbled out of my mouth, as some random biscuit crumbs escaped down my cleavage; a once sexy calling card now functioning as a tragic catchment area.

As I started to schlep away my shoe decided to fall off (don’t look back Lou, keep walking, you don’t need that shoe, you’re a one shoe kinda gal, just keep walking…you’re almost out of site…) and then came a tap on my shoulder.

It was Gareth – I means how many times did I have to run into that guy today!!!!!!!!!

‘You? What do you want?’
‘I wanted to ask you a question?’ he asserted.
‘Yeah, sure whatever…’ I mumbled back.
‘Why would you want to have a drink with a guy that obviously can’t stand the site of?’
‘What?’
‘Well you kept cancelling, and I’m not great with hints but I get there…eventually.’
‘So did you! You cancelled all the time!’
‘I had things come up – you told me you understood Lou.’
‘I had things come up too.’
‘Writing a blog is not a ‘thing’.
‘Yeah, well writing for the…. what it is you wrote for?’
‘The New Yorker Louise.’
‘Yeah, well writing for the New Yorker is not a thing either.’
‘I’ll think you find it is Lou’
“I know you are, but what am I?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing – Belle Jour made money from her blog.’
‘The prostitute?’
‘Yeah, but she was high end.’
‘You’re not high end are you Lou, you have stumpy legs.’
‘Don’t you think I know that!’?

I turned to walk away…’Hey not so fast lady, you didn’t answer my question.’
‘I liked you – I wanted that drink and now I’m back in Melbourne, I can’t say much more than that.’ I spat out, now wishing I’d picked up my other shoe.
‘And you’re committed to Melbourne now?’
‘Yes’ I replied

Now as soon as I said that word I should’ve frozen time, stepped out and gone and got a tattoo in my forehead that read: ‘everything I say from this point in will sound desperate.’

‘I was only asking you out for a drink’ – translated as ‘I’d drink petrol to be with you.’
‘So, are you seeing anyone right now?’ – translated as ‘I’m fertile, there’s an alley round back, lets go make babies – HI FIVE!’
‘I’m staying with my parents’ – translated as ‘It’s a been a while….’

So you can imagine it came as quite a shock to young Gareth after he leaned in and whispered in my ear ‘Ok, I’ll give you another chance’ -that my response might be ‘thanks, but no thanks.’

‘I knew it!’ he exclaimed! ‘You never liked me and you know how I know? You never even tried to track me down on Facebook!’
‘What? – I didn’t even know your surname!’
‘LIAR!’
‘What is your trauma?’
‘Oh I know all about you Ms Sanz – your comedy, your lesbian group for comics, you’re little blog…and yet you know nothing about me.’
‘Oh believe me Gareth I’m learning a lot right now.’
‘I kept waiting for your friendship request, but nothing…day after day, month after month…’
‘You’re kidding me…you could’ve requested me you know, Facebook is a two way street.’
‘You’d like that wouldn’t you Lou, some guy crawling to you. Back to you.’
‘Back to me? We were never together.’
‘Well that’s news to me Lou.’

(Note to self: buy that house in the country and begin a life of solitude, buy a pug, call him Ned – he will be the only companion you never need.)

‘Listen Gareth I was only suggesting we have a drink to be polite, I’m actually seeing someone right now…sure it’s new and every – ‘
‘LIAR!!!! LOU! LIAR!’

‘Ok, I’m going to go…’

‘What you fail to realise Lou is I read your blogs, your little stories. I know the truth.’

I walked away, his voice fading into the distance…so you read my blogs to you Gareth? Well I hoped you enjoyed this one!!!!
11:41 AM 
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