To catch a lip kiss thief

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As the years pass on by, I’m still often surprised by how much I have to learn about myself.

It’s almost like I’m some type of human onion with layers that are slowly being peeled back to reveal who I truly am after decades of being on this earth. What’s that all about? Some of this information would have been helpful much earlier than middle age, don’t you think?

For me, I recently had an epiphany that while I like sex as much as the next red-blooded, horny Scorpio, I actually don’t really care for relationships much at all. This is perhaps why I’ve always been crap at them for my entire life – what a big waste of energy. But that’s a blog for another time because I’m still trying to get my head around that fairly important observation about myself.

What’s almost as important is a moment of personality transparency that occurred a few months back and one which I’ve been “researching” via asking my friends about it every since.

Here’s the thing: when I was visiting my dad and step-mum back in the homeland before Christmas, one night the topic turned into a discussion about how affectionate our family is. You know, we’re the huggy, kissy type who probably touch people (not in a sexy way) too often, too, I said to them both. We even kiss everyone on the lips, I exclaimed.

Then, my parents told me something about myself that I never knew before. Well, they said, it’s not a family thing. It’s a “you thing”. A you thing, what do you mean by that, I asked? It’s you, you’re the one who kisses everyone on the lips and we in turn have learned how to kiss you back that way, they told me.

I sat there in silence and may have had a swig of beer to take it all in.

So, you’re telling me, I said, that I go around and kiss all and sundry fair on the lips and generally, what, just get away with it?

Yes, they said.

Shit, I said.

How long has this been happening, I asked?

Forever, they said.

Shit, I said.

And that, my friends, was the moment when I learned that I am a lip kiss thief.

Until then, I’d just presumed that my family was overly familiar and that I’d surrounded myself with friends who also liked a bit of “kiss on the lips” action every time we saw each other.

On my return to Australia a few weeks later, not truly believing this overly affectionate revelation about myself, I tested this information with two of my best friends.

Now this part is important because I have many female and male friends. Some of these male friends are my female friend’s husbands and we’ve been having a big of a hello “friendship snog” for years and no one seemed perturbed by it at all. I just presumed that’s how my tribe greeted each other.

So, when I posed the question to my friends – who are wife and husband – that my parents had just informed me that I’m a lip kiss stealer, the bloody (but lovely) bastards agreed with their assessment.

What are you saying, I asked?

That you go for the lips every time and we don’t really have time to out-manoeuvre you,  they said.

Shit, I said.

How long has this been going on, I asked?

For decades, they said.

Shit, I said.

My friend, let’s call him Blair because that is his name, said he’s not a lip kisser much at all (apart from with his awesome wife) so my over-the-top kissy greetings had been a bit of a struggle in the beginning of our friendship. Now, he intimated, he just knew that I’d go for the lips every time and he’d made a kind of peace with it.

When I saw them yesterday, in jest, he actually turned his cheek at the last moment so I just sat there with my lips pursed and waited for him to say hello “properly”. Then I said, I must write about this – and so I am.

Since this disclosure, I’ve talked about my “kiss issue” with a few more friends, who’ve all agreed, plus I’ve tried to be better at assessing whether a lip kiss is appropriate or not.  Although, let me be clear, I don’t kiss professional contacts, well, until they become friends and then it’s lip action all the way.

Lord know what this says about me. Perhaps, my statement at the start of this blog about not being good at relationships means that I’m starved of affection so I just go around planting platonic kisses on anyone who I’m close to – and for all these years they’ve let me.

I’m hoping that means that there’s really no problem with me being a lip kiss thief and I don’t have to do something radical like change my behaviour because I fear it’s far too late, and much too entrenched, for that.

Plus, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to.

24 reasons why a vibrator is better than a man (for me at the moment)

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For my birthday last month, two of my best friends conspired behind my “innocent” back to buy a vibrator for me.

While the thought of them giggling around a sex shop while asking numerous (and varied I’m sure) questions of the sales assistant was nearly as funny as the gift itself, the motivation behind the gesture was perhaps less so.

That night, after quite a few beers and with my dad, step-mum and numerous guests safely ensconced in the courtyard downstairs, they presented my new friend (which I guessed beforehand – in all fairness, it does have quite a recognisable shape) with the serious intonation that they bought it for me so I would stop sleeping with the wrong men. Roger that.

I think they meant one man in particular, whom I’ve only made scant reference to in this blog, and whom I haven’t slept with – let alone seen – for more than 100 days or so now anyway. Not that I’m counting or anything.

The reason I haven’t written more about him, and the mess that I temporarily became when our love affair abruptly obliterated after promises of a future that I know now he could never commit too, is because some days I love him still.

And other days, well, I wish and wish and wish for so many different things that writing about my schizophrenic feelings would likely make me seem more unhinged than usual.

So, the appearance of a vibrator, who was instantly christened Victor, was about much more than a potentially lonely vagina. It was about a potentially broken heart.

Of course, before anyone comes up with a list of reasons why a living, breathing man is better than Victor, the point is for me at this moment in my life, a vibrator is better than falling (again) for a broken dude who couldn’t love me – or anyone else.

But I do sometimes wonder if I’m a sadist or perhaps I just have a fetish for fractured human beings because they make me look more sane?

Whatever my deep-seated issues are, which no doubt have been lingering around since I was five, Victor’s entrance into my life has inspired me to come up with this helpful list so he knows why he’s so much better for me than men at this moment in time – not that he can read of course.

24 reasons why a vibrator is better than a man (for me at the moment)

  1. A vibrator always knows where your clitoris is – always.
  2. You don’t have to make small talk with a vibrator or compliment them on their appendage size (ditto, you’re never surprised by aforementioned appendage size the first time you get naked together).
  3. A vibrator never finishes before you do and then promptly falls asleep.
  4. You never have to watch sport with a vibrator.
  5. You never have to meet your vibrator’s mother.
  6. You don’t have to put up with a human jackhammer, racing to an orgasm finish-line of their own secret choosing, with a vibrator because the speed control is literally in your own hands.
  7. A vibrator will never try to come on your face, your boobs or literally anywhere at all.
  8. A vibrator will never “accidentally” confuse anal sex with dog-style.
  9. If you’re too tired for sex, a vibrator will never sulk around the house for days at a time.
  10. After you’re finished with your vibrator they don’t mind being coldly shut in the sock drawer – unlike most men I would presume.
  11. A vibrator is loyal and always finds you sexy, even if you’re wearing your ancient, holey, undies in bed.
  12. A vibrator never takes up most of the bed, hogs the blanket in winter, or tries to give you a Dutch Oven.
  13. You don’t care what your friends think of your vibrator.
  14. It would be supremely weird to introduce your vibrator to your parents – even if they were downstairs when you first met.
  15. If your vibrator gets a bit worn out, you just callously buy a new one and neither of them will care.
  16. A vibrator will never lie to you.
  17. A vibrator never gets performance anxiety.
  18. A vibrator never wants to come before you.
  19. A vibrator never complains that you’ve drunk too much.
  20. You never have to wonder where a vibrator is and whether they will call you because, well, it doesn’t have a phone or hands for that matter.
  21. A vibrator never gets too tired to finish the job – unless it runs out of batteries and then you just buy some more from down the corner shop.
  22. A vibrator never wants to sit around talking about their, or your, feelings.
  23. A vibrator will never spend every day of the best part of a month with you, tell you all their secrets, make promises, and then promptly disappear like it was     all some type of magical movie mirage.
  24. A vibrator will never ever break your heart.

Ikea and me

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Today I spent five hours attempting to assemble Ikea furniture while also drinking beer.

I decided to document it because, well, I knew it probably wouldn’t end well (at least for the furniture). It’s a departure from my normal blogs in that it’s mainly photos and maybe the “odd” video of me fighting a losing battle, so here goes…

imageIt’s surprising how much you can fit into a Fiat 500 and please note the six pack of beer because I had a sneaky suspicion that I might need it.

imageI had to carry this box, which weighed more than 30 kilograms, up a flight stairs to get to my new “writing room”. It was 30-plus degrees today with high humidity so that was really fun. I also am so awesome that I didn’t ask anyone to help me. What a superstar.
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This was the moment I realised that the instruction booklet for my new writing desk ran to more than 20 pages and I didn’t own a flat head screwdriver. So I decided to have a beer.

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Even though the instructions are in English they might as well have been in Swedish and I soon realised that I’d put the “sidey, rolley bits” for the desk drawers on backwards.

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One of the top moments of the day was surely realising that I had put the top of the desk on backwards and would need to de-construct almost the whole fucken thing. So, here I am pondering whether my life has any meaning, and whether I am in fact a dumbass.

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After “successfully” assembling my new writing table, from which a plethora of Pultizer and Oscar-winning stories will no doubt be created, I see that the drawers are a little off-kilter and I am a victim of premature celebration. So, after nearly three hours, because I was clearly winning, I decide I might as well assemble the book-shelf. Here’s what happened not long after…

I’d had about four beers by this stage so I decided to take an Ikea “Kallax”  reflection selfie.

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I must admit that having beers makes the whole Ikea process much more enjoyable but you also get a little distracted. Such as this photo when I realised that my lady-bird was on a precarious lean. I knew the feeling.

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While listening to some very good, and increasingly loud, tunes I had a moment when I thought I was the Ikea Queen. This is a piece of piss I thought while simultaneously dancing in my study. Then I realised that my joy was about to be curtailed by the dreaded Ikea hinges.

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And then this. I mean, what the fuck is this supposed to mean?

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So the “ghost hand” freaked me out so much I had to do this.
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Then I spent an hour trying to decipher how to turn two of the empty spaces in my book shelf into cupboards and, well, seriously fucked it up. I have never been so confused in my life. So here is the denouement of my efforts. What a glorious victory!

Sure beats the blog I was going to write about my ex coming around to pick up his furniture.