And itchy

I now have the ultimate proof to support my long held view that there are far too many Michaels in the world.

I am dating a Michael, and today is the one year anniversary of the “Michael-is-dating-another-guy-named-Michael” hilarity.

So how did I end up with someone who has the same frekkin’ name as me? The same name that I hear, called out in the doctors waiting room, shouted at a misbehaving kid in the street, and announced as I wait for my morning coffee- usually referring to some other guy with whom I’ll share a knowing glance... “you too?”.

What are the chances of this happening? Well, perhaps a little higher considering my preference for those of my own gender, but still fairly slim I imagine.

To make matters worse, yet thoroughly more entertaining for our friends, family, and shared hairdresser (yes we are that gay) Michael and I also have the same middle name. Surely the chances of that are slimmer again.

Thankfully we have different surnames. If not I think this is the point where you could have safely assumed that I had invented an imaginary boyfriend and given him the exact same name to reduce the chance of forgetting it and revealing my fraud. That is crazy person logic I know, but don’t worry, I’m still on the “fun” side of insanity. He is  real.

The fact that I initially thought Michael’s name was actually Matt presents another “What are the chances?” moment in this story. I’m not entirely sure how that misunderstanding happened as my tequila consumption during the proceeding period was somewhere between ‘High’ and ‘Liver Disease’. The important detail here is that if had I realised that I was about to go on a first date with another Michael it may never have actually happened, what are the chances           

Praise [insert name of deity here] that I’m such a moron. I almost missed the opportunity to meet another Michael who makes this Michael so happy to be a Michael in a pair of Michaels. Yep, sappy and confusing.

This whole thing seems so unlikely, especially the part where my idiocy actually saved the day. But the most unlikely part is the fact that Michael has put up with my non-stop-crazy for a whole year.

I’m not very good at relationships, just ask any of my ex-boyfriends, and I have always had the somewhat unromantic belief that relationships don’t have to last “for eternity” to be meaningful. I still hold that view, but the difference is that now I’m in a relationship that I want to last- and for me that is wonderful and terrifying, and exhilarating, and tiring, and confusing, and astonishing. And itchy.

For the record Michael and I have not come up with a Mick, Mike, Micky, M1/M2 or other nickname solution to the multiple Michaels confusion. To be honest I really enjoy messing with you all.

Happy anniversary Michael.


Post script (15 May 2013): I just signed a lease for a new apartment. On Michael Street. The next logical step is an eponymous sitcom.

This post was brought to you by Coke. A Cola.

Personal

26 year old introvert with extroverted tendencies and low self esteem seeks same (or different) for hand holding and inappropriate displays of humanity.

Random acts of violence

People might think it’s strange that I have so much love and admiration for a person who has spent a considerable part of the last 26 years hitting me across the back of the head. However these random acts of violence were just my Nonna’s strange way of saying “I love you”. Or more specifically, ”I love you- now do what I say.”

Nonna’s reasons for delivering this swift justice varied. Sometimes I would be mid conversation with an uncle or auntie and suddenly... thud. Her heavily bejewelled hand would strike the back of my head and I’d involuntarily lunge forward in an all too familiar motion. And what was my crime? I had spoken to other relatives before saying hello to her. On other occasions a whack might be prompted by the decision to wear a pair of ripped jeans or waking in to family dinner with newly bleached hair. Regardless of the motivation for the swipe one thing was always the same, the brutal force. This unassuming five foot nothing Sicilian signorina was a powerful lady, and that is precisely why I loved her.

Nonna passed away a few days ago and I already miss her.

Her feisty personality began to fade towards the end of her life but I will always remember a strong willed woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to make it happen. She valued family above all else, raising eight children and revelling in her position as the matriarch of a big Italian family.

A lot of my favourite memories of time spent with Nonna took place at Footscray Market and Forges of Footscray, two of her favourite stomping grounds. She was practically a celebrity at

Forges and I remember countless lunch times spent at the cafeteria with my brother and sister where Nonna point out random people in the store and tell us that they were undercover policeman who would take us away if we misbehaved. We believed her. And I can proudly say that my siblings and I have never been arrested. I choose to believe these are not unrelated facts.

At one stage or another I’m sure each of her eight children, 18 grandchildren and, 22 great grandchildren have been on the receiving end of a disapproving look or some angry words from Nonna, she certainly wasn’t reserved in her opinions, another reason I admire her. And truth be told we probably deserved it more often than not.

I will miss her secretive handshakes- not because of the five dollars she would covertly hand me, but because of the cheeky grin and sly wink she would deliver with the crumpled note.

Thanks for making me feel so loved Nonna.

Francesca Caminiti

27^th February 1922 – 28^th February 2010

An excessive portion of cheese

My primary source of physical activity over the last year has been typing.

I’m no health expert but fingers tapping away at the keyboard isn’t exactly a well rounded exercise regime.

As my exercise levels decreased my food intake has increased. A large part of this increase is due to my new habit of eating two dinners per night. Typically I eat my first ‘conventional’ dinner at 7pm and then at 10pm I go for another round.

Dinner number two usually consists of something that involves a drive-thru, or alternatively the combination of a random ingredient from my pantry and an excessive portion of cheese.

Needless to say there has been a complete change in my body shape over the last three months, and it’s not pretty.

I’ve always described my body type as ‘pre-pubescent female gymnast.’ I’ve tried unsuccessfully to get a laugh out of this lame self deprecating joke for at least the last five years, and while it is clearly not funny- it was the truth. Aside from a little meat on my legs (genetics, thanks mum) I was always a skinny bitch. Now I’m just a bitch.

My slim frame was incredibly annoying at times, but it was one of my only genetic advantages. I could eat anything I wanted and there were no visible signs of my gluttony, although I’m sure my arteries have probably seen better days.

As someone who is defective in practically every way, (read past posts RE: defective lungs, eyes, skin, jaw, ears, teeth,) I generally appreciated not having to count calories or exercise.

I had an understanding with my body that although the decision not to exercise meant I would never have muscles or a particularly ‘desirable’ body- my laziness would not result in me getting fat.

Alas this paradigm of indulgent guilt free deep fried contentment has ended.

I have put on weight in the most hideous fashion possible, and my body is now a mismatched disproportionate mess.

I’ll let the dot points do the talking.

- My face maintains a gaunt look that is reminiscent of a 90s crack whore. (Think Whitney during the bad ol’ days)

- My legs are chunky (My knees may actually disappear any day now)

- My ass is beyond chunky, it’s actually fat (For someone who invested way too much money in slim/skinny jeans this is a real problem)

- I now have muffin top and blobs of back fat. (I like muffins, not such a big fan of muffin-top)

- My arms are still twig shaped appendages that would send anorexic girls into fits of jealous rage (I may have crossed the line- but it’s so far back that I can’t actually see it)

- I have a gut! (This is very distressing because I used to have abs, and they were the one thing I didn’t hate about my body, THEY WERE ALL I HAD AND NOW THEY ARE GONE DAMN YOU!)

If more than two people actually read this blog I’d probably have to brace myself for a barrage of criticism from people battling weight issues.

Of course I know I’m not actually fat, but the flabby truth is that I’m not comfortable in my skin, I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been, the majority of my pants don’t fit me, (even my non-skinny pants don’t do up at the waist) and for my body type, I’m overweight.

So what now? According to a friend it’s a simple case of calories in and energy out. I think I’ll focus on the calories in part of that equation and when I am comfortable with that I’ll start to consider the energy out part.

On the plus side, I’ve always wanted to buy a moo-moo.

Good muffin.

The Girl From Tomorrow

The following email conversation takes place in two separate offices on separate sides of Melbourne’s CBD.

Names and places have not been changed because the editor is too lazy.

Despite taking place during ‘office hours’ the editor would like to point out that both parties involved are dedicated, hard working employees. Both were very productive on the day of the exchange included below.

The editor has chosen to upload this post comprised predominantly of emails because he feels it gives a little glimpse into an odd yet enduring friendship- and because it is easier than coming up with new material.

The editor has mixed feelings about writing in the third person.

Read on.

------------------------------

Michael – 7:34am
I’m so emotional today. I started crying in front of my boss without realising I was doing it.
I think I have a man hormone cycle.
Help.

Mona – 9:25am
HHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! You're so funny!
By the by I was in the middle of writing you an email!!
Please Michael control yourself... why the hell did you start crying? Are you deranged?
You need booze. Fast.

Michael – 9:27am
Just out of curiosity… when did you get that email? I sent it before at 7:30.
Think we might be having tech problems.

Mona – 9:30am
I got it just after 9am.

Michael -9:33am
All that talk of my cycle must have raised the eyebrow of our mail marshal and delayed it getting to you.

Mona – 9:36am
I’m hungry. Is it too early for lunch?

Michael – 9:37am
I just ate three chocolate biscuits, and I’m on to my third coffee for the day.
Clearly I have no food boundaries anymore.

Mona – 9:40am
I’m seriously worried about you. Maybe you have Prader-Willie* syndrome.

*Prader-Willie Syndrome: Characteristics include hypotonia, insatiable appetite, obesity if food intake is uncontrolled, mild mental retardation and incomplete sexual development.

Michael – 9:42am
Prader-Willie, haven’t heard a reference to that in a while

Mona 9:50am
Thought you'd enjoy.
But I’m actually serious.

Michael – 9:54am
Did you know beside the obesity issue another symptom of Prader-Willie is incomplete sexual development?
I’m not sure I like this disease. Can’t I have something more trendy like bulimia?
bxcg gtgnjfb
That was actually me typing with my face. That’s right I just bashed my head on the keyboard in the middle of the office.
Not even 10am yet. Cowabunga.

Mona – 10:12am
Is it alarming that rather than be concerned for my dear friend who appears to be having some sort of breakdown, I sit at my computer laughing my head off at the email. Do you have to be so funny in your craziness?
I love you. Cowabunga.

Michael – 11:10am
In a desperate effort to make his work day go faster Michael decided to drink as many cups of coffee as humanly possible between the hours of 8 and 6. His next decision was to detail the effects of this excessive coffee consumption in an email to his dear friend Mona, all the while referring to himself only in the third person.
As this is being written Michael is not shaking uncontrollably or bouncing off the walls as one might have expected given the steady caffeine intake. Having consumed one take away latte, two instant coffees and two small cups of strongly brewed percolated joy, the only noticeable effect is a well worn path between Michael’s desk and the bathroom.
Will our hero make it through the day without irreparable damage to his bladder? Will he disprove common logic and fall asleep at his desk? Will anyone notice that the office coffee supply is rapidly depleting? Will Mona tell Michael to shut the f*ck up and stop sending her emails?
All these questions and more will probably never be answered because Michael needs to do some work, as soon as he makes another coffee.
Is it home time yet?
P.S- Your lack of concern for Michael’s mental health has been noted. In response you will not be invited to the ‘Girl from Tomorrow’ DVD marathon planned for late June.

Mona – 11:56am
Mona's response to Michael's rather deranged email is again quite simply to laugh out loud. Who would have thought?
Mona is this time actually concerned about Michael's caffeine intake. It reminds her of the time he burned himself with the cigarette and it got infected. *Michael may now be getting Mona's drift*
Mona is most definitely amused by Michael's reference to The Girl from Tomorrow and will do anything, absolutely anything (even fake concern) to get invited to said DVD marathon.
Mona loves Michael but he REALLY NEEDS TO STOP DRINKING COFFEE!!!!!!!!

Michael – 2:47pm
Apologies for my delayed response. I have been very busy injecting coffee directly into my eyeball as well as attending classes to give up my ‘third person’ addiction. So far so good.
Your last email made me laugh, I knew you hadn’t completely lost your ability to be funny. Here’s hoping you’ll be back to 100% soon because I need a good laugh and your husband’s jokes don’t make any sense. Bless him for trying though.
I think I’m done with the coffee thing. It’s becoming more tiring than my actual work. Which might I say is actually getting done today. It seems I’m having a highly functioning breakdown. Manic depression and rewriting client case studies seem to go hand in hand.
How are you travelling today? I’m guessing that you are about to indulge in a lunch of lettuce leaves and shredded carrot. Please consider something more substantial because I want to drink irresponsibly tonight.
Quick lawyer question - if I change the time on my computer so it says 6:00pm do I have legal recourse to leave work now?
Feel free to bill me for the time it takes you to answer this question. In turn I will be billing all the time I’ve spent emailing you to some large evil company who deserves some Michael flavoured karma.

Mona – 3:15pmI don’t think I want to answer that question.

Michael – 3:55pm
The person you have dialled cannot answer his phone because he is busy making a collage out of chocolate bar wrappers and saliva. Please check the number and try again.

------------------------------

I love that I don’t have to hold back the crazy with you Mono.

Seven years, no itch.

Happy unhealthy relationship anniversary.

x

Pikel.

Catch

The most annoying thing about being single is the comments people make when I show even the slightest displeasure with my current status. My perpetual status. Singledom.

I am fully aware that no one wants to hear me whinge about crawling into a cold bed every night crying myself to sleep with nothing to keep me warm. If at this point you are thinking to yourself, “Buy an electric blanket loser!’ then congratulations. Comments like this constitute a well measured and appropriate response to any remarks a single person might make that include the term or terms:-

- Cold beds
- Empty hearts
- Aching of any kind
- Long nights
- Long days
- Longing
- Being lonely even when surrounded by people
- Tears on/ tear soaked, pillows (or tears associated with any soft furnishings)

I have at one stage or another used all of these phrases, and no doubt on occasion I have used such unashamedly painful combinations of the above terms that could land a job writing for ‘The Bold & the Beautiful’.

**Brief pause while I update my resume**

So please, feel free to call me a fool when these words fall out of my mouth without being filtered through the proper self censoring parts of my brain. Hell- you can even slap me if you like, but please, I beg you, don’t join the pity party. Don't try to make me feel better with a sappy sympathetic remark. This will prompt one of two disastrous outcomes. I will spiral quickly into a melodramatic tirade about how horrible it is being all alone in the world, I will cry uncontrollably- probably in public, and the person stupid enough to attempt a sympathetic reply will be a party to my humiliating outburst and henceforth never be able to look me in the eyes again. The other, more likely option, is an irrational violent outburst from me in response to a well intentioned clichéd comment. For example…

“Don’t worry Michael, when you least expect it someone will come along and sweep you off your feet.”

Response. “Really? When I least expect it. Gee thanks. I’m always expecting it fucktard.” This would be followed by me literally sweeping that person off their feet, preferably with a deck chair.

Or...

“I don’t know why you are still single Michael, you are funny and nice. Such a CATCH.”

Response.

“I’m not 7 years old you condescending shit-for-brains. I understand that funny and nice is code for hella ugly.” This would be followed by me shouting ‘catch’ and throwing a lamp at their head. Preferably an art deco lamp, lots of glass.

So please, on behalf of myself, I beg you. don't do it. I am not your typical single person, I do not want your sympathy. I want a cold hard reality check. When I’m having a depressing moment do not put your arm around my shoulders, unless you want some time off work and can put up with the pain of a broken collarbone.

Ah, bitterness in the evening.

I feel better having that off my chest. But I'm still all alone in this horrible, horrible world.

Woe is me.

Oh sorry, did that heavy lamp shatter in your face? Let me get you a band aid.

Wallpaper*

Booking a flight to Sydney that involved a stopover in Canberra was the beginning of a yet another less than stellar New Years Eve experience for seasoned cynic and all round pessimist Michael Who?.

Travelling to Sydney for the dreaded eve was a decision brought on by a combination of ambivalence on my part and three days of constant nagging from my dear friend Mona. It was a last minute decision so I knew flights were not going to be cheap, however in a cost cutting option that begs the question, “Canberra?”, I chose to make the short Melbourne to Sydney trip via our nations capital. Effectively saving myself $80, an amount that could also be saved if I refrained from drinking six tequila shots every Saturday night. That reminds me of another story, I’ll tell it another time. After I have six tequila shots.

Resigned to my fate, I left home in the wee hours of December 29, fully prepared for a needlessly long 4 hour journey to Sydney. I arrived at the airport to find a monstrous queue of people winding around the check in area, looping back on itself so many times that I was having trouble finding the end. (This may have had less to do with the size of the queue and more to do with the repercussions of my unhealthy relationship with tequila.) So after an exhaustive check in process I was still in fairly good spirits, I had made friends with two people in the queue and decided that I would start this trip, and in turn 2009, with a positive outlook.

It all went wrong as I boarded the plane, the expressions of the flight attendants should have alerted me to the trouble ahead. As I stepped into the cabin I noted a pungent stench, the airplane smelt like poo, there was no mistaking it. While it was not unbearable, it was definitely noticeable. I decided that I could put up with it for the short flight; I just wanted to get this show on the road.

No such luck.

The captain informed us that we would have to get off the plane due to the “mystery” odour. My reaction was immediate; it’s not a mystery, the plane smells like shit, poo, number two, crap, whatever you want to call it. Mystery solved morons.

In what I thought was a humorous and completely implausible solution to the problem the customer service manager (AKA bitchy flight attendant) announced to the passengers that Qantas was trying to find another aircraft for us to travel on. Yeah, just wheel out one of those other aircrafts you keep on standby ready to fly, I’m sure it’s that simple. Not surprisingly after about an hour we reboarded the same plane, only now it smelt like shit and ammonia, delightful.
Desperately clinging to my last fragments of optimism I convinced myself that there are far worse things in life than having to tolerate an unpleasant smell on a short flight, and I was right.

It’s much worse to be wedged in between two well fed travellers who don’t understand the concept of personal space. To a certain degree there is nothing they can do- we were in economy class- its not exactly roomy and they were not exactly small people, but for the love of Oprah- stop elbowing me. Stop moving your seat up and down. Don’t knock over my drink. Don’t do your morning stretches at thirty thousand feet!

Touch down in Canberra, I peel myself out from between the biggest losers, take a moment regain composure and head to the boarding lounge for flight number two. As I wait for the tiny tiny, and I mean really tiny, plane to start boarding I noticed a cool indie musician type sitting across from me, a bit scruffy but undoubtedly attractive, and undoubtedly gay. Usually this would induce pangs of self hate and depression but at this point I was still trying to keep the snide cynicism at bay, so I smiled to myself and took a second look at the guy and returned my gaze to the pages of Wallpaper magazine, (Wallpaper* magazine is my new god. I have not been paid for this indorsement.)

Fast forward. I take my seat. Next to cute muso. Who I shall henceforth refer to as Dylan because I think that name suits him. While some guys would consider this a lucky break I do not, I really don’t respond well to being in the company of extremely attractive people, but I managed to repress the insanity, that was until Lucifer got involved. Lucifer is how I shall refer to the evil flight attendant because I think that name suits him. I was avoiding eye contact with Dylan and happily reading my magazine (Do yourself a favour, pick up a copy of Wallpaper* magazine, you wont regret it.) I did not ask to be involved in the emerging love story of Dylan and Lucifer. But there I was, trapped in my aisle seat, the only physical barrier between Lucifers groping hands and Dylan’s gropable body. I witnessed some horror on that flight. Lucifer worked hard to brush up against Dylan’s arms at every chance possible, which is not exactly subtle when there is someone (ME!) sitting in the way. By the end of the flight they had planned a first date and I had planned their accidental deaths.

Needless to say I arrived in Sydney as bitter and twisted as ever. After taking two trains and walking uphill for 20 minutes in searing heat to find my accommodation optimism was a meaningless word.

The rest of my stay in Sydney was tainted by my mood so the highlights don’t read like fond holiday memories. This brings me to a section I like to call,

“Things I learned while I was in Sydney”

People in Sydney really like tanning, to the point of achieving an unnatural shade of 70’s style mission brown.

The harbour is really beautiful. It doesn’t compensate for the rest of Sydney’s ugliness.

It’s hard to find a restaurant that isn’t designed to rob tourists of their life savings while serving average food. Although Thai-Foon is officially one of my favourite restaurant names ever.

Sydneysiders enjoy being rude and obnoxious to visitors from Melbourne.

In turn- I enjoy littering on the streets of Sydney.

The overwhelming majority of people on Oxford St and at Bondi beach are gorgeous. The normal people must be too scared to visit these places and the ugly people must be living in their basements.

Drinking won’t raise my self esteem but it will stop me thinking about self esteem.

New Years Eve fireworks are pretty but after 10 minutes of colourful explosions you can’t help but wonder if spending five and a half million dollars on fireworks is a bit frivolous.
So much for a positive and optimistic outlook on 2009.

Wait, wait… there was a positive aspect to this trip. I read the new issue of Wallpaper magazine, it was really good. Seriously I really enjoyed it. I think I’m going to subscribe. You can also experience the life altering wonders of Wallpaper magazine, simply follow the link below and start your subscription today!

http://www.magazinesubscriptionsipc.com/ipc/subs/subsorder_XWP.asp?promcode=I8JB

Completely unrelated image.

"Hotshot"

Just over a month ago I took advantage of a momentary imbalance in the universe and managed to con someone into giving me a full time job.

It’s now been a month since I started this job and I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to paint an impressive picture of myself as a “young corporate hotshot” at the beginning of a successful career, but the words just wouldn’t come to me. It seems that describing myself as a young corporate hotshot is so far of base that even a well seasoned “creative writer” like me can’t pull off that kind of hyperbole. Not that I didn’t try.

So as I reach this remarkably unremarkable one month milestone what do I have to say for myself?

Honestly?

I smell like piss.

No strange metaphor, no attempt at humour.

I’m sitting in my office and at this very moment I smell like piss. Don’t know why, don’t know how but I smell like a urinal at the MCG after half time.

It’s disturbing enough walking around the office smelling like I’ve been rolling around in a urinal but what really makes me mad is that I didn’t actually pee myself this morning, if I had I’d at least know who to blame. Maybe I stepped in a funky piss puddle this morning, maybe I unconsciously rubbed up against a homeless person, who knows. So I’m going to assume that all my efforts to make a good impression in the workplace have gone down the toilet. Embarrassing pun not intended. In all honesty suppose the smell it isn’t actually noticeable, but it’s still devastating.

I should try not to worry. This is nowhere near as embarrassing as spending the last year having to tell to people that after years of university I was working in retail- or as I sometimes described it the “fashion industry.”

EDITORS NOTE: At this point I would like to apologise for the overuse of “quotation marks.” Obviously Michael Who? is one of those infuriating people who always uses “air quotes” and makes those annoying gestures with his fingers. Idiot.

After months of rejection, which is the theme of my year for so many reasons, I somehow landed a great job. I’m working at a consultancy firm that specialises in public and corporate affairs, but I just say it’s a PR company. That way I avoid awkward conversations where I ramble ad nauseam about my job and people give me that blank stare usually reserved for conversations with the crazy uncle who tells you the same story every time you see him.

After the first week of being plagued by panic attacks and insomnia I think I’ve settled in quite well. The people I work with are all down to earth and treat me really well, especially when you take into consideration the fact that I immediately lose 80% of my social skills when I walk into the office, and subsequently make the most awkward, unfunny, cringe worthy small talk. I attribute my diminished social capacity to the amount of effort it takes to keep up a façade that I’m actually qualified for the job. It’s hard work.

It’s just hit home time o’clock. I’m going to tidy up my office and wrap up this urine drenched story at home.

The biggest problem with public trasnport is the public.

So I’m home, and I’ve discovered the source of the unfortunate smell. I clearly stepped in something funky this morning. As I type this my shoes have been sent to the furnace and my feet are soaking in a bucket of ammonia.

I’m feeling a lot better about myself now that the stench has been dealt with, I almost feel good enough to rewrite this and try and fool everyone into thinking that I am indeed a young corporate hotshot, (sans quotation marks), but I think I should focus on trying to figure out how to casually slip the following monologue into conversation at work on Monday morning…

“Hi all how was your weekend? Good, great. Mine too. So I stepped in piss on Friday morning, sorry if you happened to smell it. Just to clarify- I STEPPED in it, I did NOT lose control of my bladder, no sir, not adult diapers for me. Glad we could clear that up, and I’m sure we can all agree that there is no need to speak of this ever again. Ever. Again. Thanks.”

Subtle enough?