Fuck. A Reflection Of Last Nights Events.

There are some times when I wish my life wasn’t like an episode of Neighbours, and right now would probably be one of them. Although my lucid love affairs with men are exciting and highly dramatic they are usually fleeting and leave me wondering why I even bother dating in the first place. This exact time a week ago I met a man who gave me all those great feelings that you get when you meet someone new. A week later it is as if we never met. Social media friendships terminated and a phone call saying loud and clear that this friendship will never progress. This is all the result of one ungodly night on the town.

These are the highlights of last night:

• A bottle of white
• A bottle of Red
• A bottle of Moet 
• Ramblings with an accountant, an architect and a limo driver
• An argument between myself and the guy who plays Cam of Modern Family
• A drunken cab ride to an address that is not mine
• a sudden disagreement with the guy I was seeing
•  Me walking away from his house with my dress unzipped and tears running down my face
• A cat in an alleyway
• A fall
• An even more drunken cab ride to an address of an ex boyfriend (who also happens to be the best mate of the guy I was dating).
• A drunken rant to my ex about how he has shit friends
• Waking up alone, devouring half a bottle of ice magic and a frozen pie and smashing two glasses in the process, which I swept under the table with my foot.

At 10 o’clock this morning I left his house in last nights outfit minus one bra, plus one massive cut on my foot and stood on the street, waiting for Queen K to rescue me from this nightmare. We all sat on Queen L’s bed like we usually do, I cried- they listened. We ate chocolate, laughed over pictures from last night and then we listened to Daryl Braithwaite “horses”.

Knowing I’d fucked up I sent the guy I was dating a message explaining to him that I was sorry and that I didn’t remember what happened last night but that I liked him. I picked my mum and brother up from the airport, we went for a walk and ate more chocolate and then at 1pm I passed out. I slept for five hours, It felt like the deepest sleep I’ve ever had.

When I woke up I had two messages, one from my ex saying that he couldn’t believe what I’d done and another from the guy I was dating saying that we shouldnt see each other again. I wanted to cry, I wanted to call the guy I was dating and try to make him give me another chance but instead I went down stairs and gave my mum a big hug- which is something that I haven’t done since moving to Sydney.

I sent them to go get dinner so I could write about it, so I could sit here for a moment alone and feel like absolute shit and then by putting pen to paper or fingers to the key board I wrote it down and slowly I started to feel better. Of course I’m still ashamed of my behavior and wonder if I’ll ever see either men again but somehow by reaching out to you…complete strangers/consolers/friends I feel less phased by the events of last night and more comforted that someone out there (whoever is reading this) knows the real me regardless of my drunken ways.

Below are the photos from last night, they are blurry like my memory, Enjoy. 

HAHAHA, staring us down. Sorry Cam.

Girls, Girls, Girls

Speaking of girls, here a few pictures I took over the weekend of Queen L and Gem. Pink Zimmerman dresses + dry gin & lime + Azealia Banks = Fun in the Dirthouse.

The Games Girls Play (With Themselves)

I’ve known myself for 20 years and I’d like to think that I now understand my body inside and out.  That distinct freckle on my right wrist, the small box shaped scare just above my knee, the way I hate the sound of nails being filed and how I've slowly learnt to control my anxiety when I feel it creeping on.

However there have been situations lately that have made me question how much control I actually have over myself, in particular my emotions. Meeting a new guy is a trigger that takes the cake. You see you think you’re in control of your life until you meet a shiny, brand-new guy because as far as you know he’s the most perfect person on the planet. He probably flosses without thinking about it, tells the most hilarious jokes, would get along famously with your girlfriends and your parents, he sure wouldn’t hesitate to buy you expensive jewellery for your birthday not to mention a pony for your first anniversary. A new guy is as flawless as Celine handbag filled with hand crafted praline and nude polaroid’s of Ryan Gosling.

Of course we know this isn’t true, because on the first date he forgot to walk you right to your door- not just the front gate. And his nose is slightly crooked and the his watch is a nock off but compared to the other men in your life he might as well be Paul Walker driving a Maserati with your initials in his number plate.

It is the hours that pass after the first date that can be the biggest test for any woman. In my experience, all the things that he did wrong the first time you met start to fade away and no matter what you do you cant help but wonder what he thinks about you. Did he notice that pimple on your face which you spent hours squeezing, soothing then suppressing under copious amounts of concealer? Could he barely contain himself as you walked away from him flicking your hair to the left in one swift motion? And the most painful, annoying and frustrating question of all is- if and when will he decide to contact you again? 

This is the part when I start to question if I know anything about myself at all. Did I literally just turn my phone on silent, put it in a sock and then transfer it into a box and hide it in my underwear draw- so that I would refrain from checking it? Did I actually just fabricate urgent plans within the vicinity of my house so I could leave my phone at home yet not feel that I was far enough away from my phone incase I witnessed a murder and had to call 000 off the phone which is wrapped in a sock inside a box deep in my underwear draw? And did I really just write that sentence which makes absolutely no sense because I was thinking about checking my phone instead of monitoring my sentence structure?

These are all questions that force me to ask if I am a driven, sophisticated and together career woman or a raging lunatic that needs to be put in a mental institution.

The important thing is that we realise at the end of the day, how brave we are as single women venturing into the unknown in the name of love, or lust. There is a great possibility that if we like someone we will lose our shit once or twice along the way. Ironically, the truth is that- the intensity of the feeling you get when he does actually send you a "grand gesture" is in exact proportion to the amount of times you nearly threw your phone into the street while waiting for it. And well if he doesn’t call, its his loss anyway. In the words of the great Morcheeba: It’s all part of the process. 

My Affair With A Mr. Gosling Look Alike- Part 1

Aren't I glad that I dressed up for what was meant to be only a couple of quiet drinks after work , I must have known I was about to meet the man of my dreams. Here is part 1 of my recount of last night...I'm still pinching myself! Enjoy.

Last night I travelled back in time to a 1920’s themed bar, Palmer & Co, sneakily located down an alleyway in Sydney’s CBD.  I’d been led to the secret location before by some suits eager to show my ladies and I a good time. Last night walking from Establishment (the adjacent not-so-discrete bar) I thought my memory had mistaken me when I was unable to find the entrance to the 1920s playground I remember so fondly. It was when we spotted a dapper young guy dressed in period attire that we knew we were on the right track. We handed him our identification and before we knew it we were being ushered down the stairs and into a bygone era with waitresses in flapper dresses and debonair bartenders in period apparel.

We immediately scanned the room for potential playmates, being a Thursday evening the sepia toned establishment was buzzing with businessmen and the occasional woman in corporate attire. As Queen L and Queen B had also just finished work they fit in perfectly, with the upper hand of being two of the youngest  and most attractive women present. We all know that I’m not a corporate girl, yet I fit in perfectly wearing my fitted white and tan dress with beige heels and freshly blow-dried hair. I was like a smart businesswoman with the advantage of having not been at work all day and donning a slightly smokier eye than acceptable in any regular office.

We each ordered a glass of bubbly and made our way to one of the only vacant tables at the back of the bar. As we sipped campaign from the fabulous ‘coupe’ style glasses we began to feel the heat of eyes wandering to our table. One man in particular instantly caught my attention…

He was sitting in the corner of the room with a small group of men and women, his profile strikingly resembled that of a famous actor. I immediately blushed as his eyes caught mine. The considerable amount of top shelf tequila I’d consumed at Establishment also started to take affect, generating warmth from the deepest part of my body. I quickly confided in the Queen L who was eye fucking a tall man in a grey suit. I wasn’t sure whether the guy I was playing peek a boo with was legitimately drop dead gorgeous or the alcohol had started to play its own type of game with me.

Both Queen L and Queen B snuck a glance at the sandy haired man, his lazy smile and cheeky eyes lighting up the dimly lit area him and his friends occupied. They soon became as excited as I was as they confirmed my wildest dreams…He looks like Ryan Gosling, Queen B gasped…and he’s look at you. We began to giggle like naughty school girls who’d stayed out past our curfew.

I began to get bored with the suits who would approach our table, each giving their best shot at impressing three girls who quite frankly had no interest in their money. A complimentary bottle of Moet later I was feeling confident enough to end this tension provoking game of glancing and eye lash batting between myself and Mr. Gosling lookalike.

To be continued...

  

Mardi Gras '13

There is one weekend of the year in old Sydney town that I particularly love and that my friends the annual lesbian gay bisexual transgender queer and intersex extravaganza otherwise known as Mardi Gras.

I think the best thing about Mardi Gras apart from the awesome parties and anything goes attitude is the chance to dress up (or down) in whatever you want as long as the statement you're making, is big, bold and fabulous. 

The look I was initially going for was Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, unfortunately the red jacket Lady B suggested I wear couldn't be found in the dingy depths of the dirthouse basement and I wasn't about to go treading around down there. So I ended up wearing Queen L's washed out denim vest, my mothers vintage lace leotard, some tiny tiny shorts and my sky high Mimco boots- for a small amount of time I was also allowed to parade around in Lady B's fabulous faux fur coat which resulted in me nearly sweating my dirty blonde wig off.

Lady B captured this shot of my blonde bob which was originally Farrah Fawcett style until TM tamed it with some poultry scissors I was still hoping to look like Julia Roberts from the neck up unfortunately I ended up looking a little more like Bob Irwin (the son of Australian icon Steve)...

Regardless of my controversial wig, we decided to pop a large bottle of Moet and drink our way into the night.

Dips, biccies and strawberries to line our stomachs.

Lady B made a statement with her Katy Perry inspired outfit, Queen L was going for the Madonna look with her pointy boobies, however she also made an incredibly convincing dominatrix.

 

Lady B's candy necklace ended up coming in very handy, every gay man and their handbag had a nibble. 

Unfortunately this is the only picture I captured of the parade...or of the sign pointing to the parade, but trust me it was spectacular and if you don't believe me look here: http://www.mardigras.org.au/gallery/

The night was a blur of air kisses, gyrating bodies and awful pop tunes. I met a sexy lady by the name of Nico D who had a massive following and a better body than any female i'd ever seen. We shared a flask of Grey Goose while complimenting each other on our faux blonde locks. Speaking of locks it was only a matter of time before my wig ended up down my pants, as well as the pants of Theodore, Harrison and Thomas- everyone lovessss a good pube show. 

I woke up in a sea of empty bottles, lingerie and glitter, the events of last night painting a cheeky little smile across my face. If you're ever in Sydney around this time I highly recommend checking out the Mardi Gras...its the largest most flamboyant parade in all the land. 

Bon Voyage

Ahoy there all you cocky captains and saucy sailors grab your most impractical leather skirt and hop aboard this not-too-shabby vessel!

Obviously I was the only one who got the "wear most impractical leather skirt" memo.

T'was a sight for sore eyes- Lucky we had our Ray-Bans on. 

In a place as gorgeous as this its important you share the love...

 Lying flat on my back as we sped underneath the Sydney Harbour Bridge was like making love to the largest, strongest most consuming man in the world. This bridge is undoubtedly the love of my life. 

She is also the love of my life

Crazy hair, crazy adventure...It was a hard day full of pirates and stylish yet restricting apparel but we somehow battled the elements, especially that hot australian sun and all had a great time. The best part was when we arrived at Darling Harbour, we gathered quite an audience. They definitely got a show as my ex-boss attempted to jump from the boat to the jetty and fell in the murky water wearing his pants and button up shirt. Lucky he came away relatively unscathed apart from a burnt forehead and a very sore leg. I'll definitely be hitting up the harbour again- especially with this crew. Xx

Vaginal Flactuance, Lip Syncing Transvestites & Other Late Night Tomfooleries

Now don't worry, I'm not trying to mimic any popular television show by referring to the characters in my life by the initial of their first names. As each girl entered the Dirthouse they were dubbed a fictitious name which I'll shorten in my stories out of consideration for your wary eyes. Just so you know i'm not full of shit I'll break them down for you now. 

Introducing...Queen L. 

Queen L was the second housemate to enter the Dirthouse, myself being the first. Queen L is a blonde bombshell who works for an ritzy interior design company in the city. From a boudoir decked out in Sheridan and Laura Ashley to a set of vintage mirrors which line her feature wall, Queen L has a desire for all things designer...however this sale savvy seductress has never paid full price for anything in her life. Who did you think taught me how to barter? Queen L loves the hipster scene and when she's not parading around in her corporate attire you'll most likely find her at Flinders or Shady Pines drinking whiskey in her cons. Although secretly in love with biker boy Queen L is currently dating a pro golfer who in my opinion is full of shit. You'll find most of my stories will be inspired by her shameless shenanigans.

Introducing...Queen Bernie.

Queen Bernie or Queen B is the third member of the wolf pack. Bernadette is her christian name and although i'd like to think some superior force inflicted that upon her, she sheepishly admits that she chose it herself. I understand that Bernadette was once noble name, however being gen y my conditioning has lead me to affiliate the name with that of a lip syncing transvestite (Priscilla Queen of The Desert). Regardless of her knowledge of exquisite Australian cinema Queen B is somewhat of a masterpiece herself. Barely out of her teens Queen B is already climbing to the top of the online magazine world. As the junior beauty editor of a multi-million dollar business Queen B has not only done a smashing job at setting herself up for a lengthy and profitable career but she gets to bring home heaps of free shit for everyone to enjoy. Queen B is also the only one in the Dirthouse with a boyfriend, it helps that Katy Perry is her dooplganger.  

Introducing...TM

TM stands for Token Man, who is also coincidently Lady Benie's boyfriend. TM is the reason why we can watch 'Girls' without the screen going fuzzy, he is the reason why the power doesn't go out every time we blow-dry our hair in the morning, he is the reason why we have a washer that washes and a freezer that freezes and because of his green thumb for the first time ever TM has actually enabled stuff to grow in our "garden". Now i'm not saying that we couldn't do any of this stuff ourselves, I'm just saying that TM does it better and faster which leaves more time for us to lie in the sun and watch the flowers grow.  

Last but not least I introduce to you...Queen Kimono 

Queen Kimono or Queen K is a dancer by trade, you'll usually find her in Lululemon or LJ. She's disciplined and determined to consume nothing and i mean NOTHING but Coles crunchy salad and fish oil (yes actual fish oil not even the capsules!). This rigerous regime generally works well for Queen K, that is until you get her on the wines. You know what they say...one wine is good for the heart, two wines are good for the soul and three wines on a stomach lined with nothing more than a lettuce leaf is when shit starts to get cray cray. Queen K who is usually very well mannered and composed is an animal on the piss and has a sneaky habit of not remembering anything the next day. Her name came after one of her late night tomfooleries (I've always wanted to use that word). After an absolutely MASSIVE evening Queen L had trouble finding her beloved Peter alexander robe. All of us including Queen K searched high and low for it but unfortunately no luck. We finally decided to postpone the search to make bacon and eggs and thats when we made the shocking discovery. Right between the vodka and the schnapps there is was, Queen L's beloved kimono folded neatly in the middle compartment of the fridge. Queen B was at home visiting her parents that weekend, TM was with Queen B, I didn't do it because I try to stay away from the kitchen when i'm drunk so as not to induce a junk food binge and Queen L is adamant that she didn't cold press her own robe so that left Queen K who was last seen passed out on the sofa adjacent to the kitchen. 

So now you know who i'm referring to when I say Queen B, Queen L, TM or Queen K...As for myself well you'll get to know about me as we go along. I guess you can say that i'm the documenter, the Dirthouse analyst and although I am the youngest of the bunch I am ruthless in my conquests. I have set out to make this an exciting and sometimes insightful journey for all of us. And of course I don't mean insightful in the sense that you're going to find out who you are by reading this blog but insightful in the way that after you read about our lives you'll probably value yours more. You get my drift.

For your eyes only, below are some pictures of us, all of course are blurry as to protect our integrity (whatever little we have left). You may now peruse...

Welcome To The Dirthouse

Welcome to the Dirthouse.

Its not dirty per-say in fact we like to keep this five bedroom town house in very good condition. It's the stories that are told under this roof that tend to be dirty...in fact more times than not they're absolute filth. What do you expect when you live with four girls in their early twenties, three of which are single.   

The thing is we never try to be outrageous, it just so happens that when you're telling the god honest truth things start to sound a little hairy. 

If our life was a 1920's sitcom you'd find us scattered around the living area, baking, dusting or painting our nails while talking about our idea of the perfect wedding/husband/family. 

If our life was like how girls are currently portrayed on television you'd find us all wearing hideous pyjamas, bitching about boys and throwing around the occasional swear word. 

However, if you were actually to walk into the dirthouse at right now to your dismay this is what you would find:  

Four girls scattered around the living room having a colourful conversation most likely recounting the events of last night. Two of the girls (usually Queen L and I) trying to out dirt each other with comments like "I'm not a whore i'm just whorney" or  "my abundance of pubic hair at the moment is like a chastedy belt". 

Sipping cold water out of wine glasses is as fancy as it gets as we casually flick through the pages of Australian Cosmo. The only thing that fuels any discussion is an insert about a busty blonde by the name Brooke Evers. Big boobied Brooke revealses that her beauty expenses includes a monthly colon hydrotherapy treatment. "It helps with detoxifying the body" Queen L mimics her direct quote in a hideously whiney voice. We all agree that anyone who willingly endures a monthly colonoscopy loves taking it up the a**. 

You see we're pretty similar to any other group of 20-something year old girls, our conversations are a permutation of crude and debunched statements. However most girls only reveal their true selves behind closed doors in the company of their closest allies. Well consider this your official welcome, the keys to the Dirthouse are all yours. Take a peak inside the lives of some very witty and honest women, we might be a slightly curvier, overwhelmingly outspoken, finically doomed lot but at the end of the day we're making it work one brazilian wax at a time.