Heaven On Bourke: December 2014

Monday, 29 December 2014

DIRTHOUSE FOR SALE

I've tried to write this post many times to no avail...

So for a moment I need you to pretend I'm that guy off Love Actually, standing at the door to your Dirthouse with picture cards and music.

Are you ready my twinkly eyed Keira Knightley? Let's go.

2014

Shhh Say it’s carol singers…

Remember Noosa boy? Life Lesson No. 1 You can indeed find Mc Dreamy in the small town you grew up in and Life Lesson No. 2 Men should never shave their chests.

The Dirthouse Queens finally visited Noosa to get 'loosa' and pose under my mother's Bali inspired cabana that every second woman in Noosa has. "Smile Sweeeeetiessss".

Anddd Back to the city…

Ms P short for Ms Protractor moves into the Dirthouse. Like a bunch of 12 year old boys we instantly fall for her long blonde locks and stealth drunken antics.

I manage to lose my only form of photo ID and as a result am forced to spend Valentines Day alone when my ex boyfriend cancels on me. HOB Trivia: Who’s more pathetic him or me? Him, him, him!

From part time blogger to full time #girlboss, I take on my first legit full time job at saucy lingerie brand, Maple HQ.

Ms L & Ms B announced their departure from the Dirthouse to travel around the world.

And I have small breakdown.

Discover that the Shangri-La solves all of life’s problems except for financial ones.

POOF! 'The delicate Art of Dragoning a Man' was born

More life lessons of a career gal kind. Life Lesson No. 3 It's easy to lose 3 kgs when you first start a full time job & Life Lesson No. 4 It's Much easier to gain 5 kgs when you get comfortable in a full time job.

Spend close to a week's rent on a trendy juice cleanse...learn the hard way that 'Green 3' is code for mower grass clippings and purified dissatisfaction.

Revert back to drinking cocktails and eating multiple bar snacks.

Meet Mr P.S and inner monologue begins in my head “He’s so dangerous yet so delicious” “Let’s start planning your future with this man”.

See picture of the Dirthouse Queens in Paris, which makes me want to slide down the wall crying.

Roof falls in at the Dirthouse and Landlord puts half a pool fence across my balcony and DO NOT ENTER sign.

Decide instantly that this will not deter me.

Psycho killer breaks into the Dirthouse and threatens to kill us all (true story). Move out the next day.

Find a new house, move everything onto the street and watch people sift through our history. Have a quarter life crisis all in the span of 1 week.

Flee the country on a direct flight to London.

Exhaust 10 years worth of annual leave trying to be Gary Pepper Girl or Tullula Vintage.

Fail miserably and block the toilet in Saint Germain Des Pres with small yet powerful tampon.

Somewhere between the Love Lock Bridge & the Louvre, Ms P sends me an email which reads “Dirthouse up for sale, pic of your room on the sign out the front.”

Cry in the line for the public toilets.

Short Italian getaway interlude…

Fly 24 hours back to Australia with broken TV and small baby next to me. Consider slipping quietly out the emergency exit. Remember that I still have 2 out of 4 things every girl wants in the city: a career & a handsome lover. But what is life without A Dirthouse and your Queens?

We all arrive back in Sydney at the same time and reunite in the Dirthouse one last time to sign the bond release form. And drink lots of cheap champagne.

Realise that after 3 years, a dozen dating horror stories between us, countless memories and 1 blog, that this is the end.

Spend the first night in my new, freshly painted secure apartment with Ms P.

Have a Heaven on Bourke identity crisis and ask myself the question: If it’s not a food blog, fashion blog or an I’ve got a hot bod blog then what is it?

Well my dear reader...

It's a i'm-learning-how-to-do-this-thing-called-life blog with a touch of please-don't-let-this-be-another-bad-date blog and a whole lot of how-do-I-make-a-career-for-myself without the turning-into-a-bitch-and-forgetting-about-the-people-who-really-matter.

Yes it's a work in progress but show me one 20-something gal in Sydney who isn't.

2014, I couldn't have done it without the mysterious Mr. P.S,

My magnificent muses...

And of course you.

What's on the menu for 2015? Who knows.

But universe if you can hear me, I'd like to put in a simple request for a web developer, an idea that will make me a million dollars and some more chest hair for the men of Australia.

I'd also like to lose 5 kg...for real this time.

Here's to the next chapter, whatever it may hold...

Paige xx

Sunday, 14 December 2014

Bellissima!

Don’t get me wrong holidays are great, but they’re not real.

What’s real is the money you spend, the time you waste getting lost on the Metro and the handsome man back in Sydney who is or is not waiting for your return.

Not to mention the life back in Surry Hills. Does it still exist? Of course it does. But I’d be a fool to believe that it isn’t more than a little bit fractured due to my time in lieu.

There’s the slightly too ambitious Maple girl who has been covering my role, no doubt she’s blitzed it by churning out not one but two columns a week.

Are they witty? Not really but in a rapidly expanding business does anyone notice a few absent adjectives.

Maybe the booming and spectacularly glamorous lingerie industry isn’t my thing anyway. Since being in Paris I’ve found that my thing is indeed bread.

Croissants eaten at 8 am, ham and cheese baguettes and tiny toasts best served with cured meats, little fish and cream. Cream is also my thing. Fancy that.

Anyway enough of this realness. For the next 48 hours I’m in the floating city of love, Venice.

Time to find a selfie stick, some nice light and a pizza to sink my teeth into.

My life is but a fabulous European vacay. Bellissima!

How very Versace of this man to smoke a cigarette while holding his wife's handbag as she strays off into one of the many Italian boutiques to find another.

Unfortunately the 7 years of Italian I did in primary school did not prepare me for ordering Italian cuisine. Apparently a Capricciosa pizza is different to a Caipiroska pizza. In fact for all of you wine snobs out there you'll know perfectly well that a Caipiroska isn't a pizza at all, it's a highly alcoholic Brazilian cocktail. Well waiter you can stop laughing at me and bring over two of each!

In all honesty Venice gave me the heady dose of escapism that I needed. I let the city's maze like streets lead me to flee markets, hidden cathedrals and a cute Italian boys selling knock off Prada bags.

Maybe that's a little too far away from real for me.

And so that concludes my time in Europe.

Sure there are many things I haven't told you about my time abroad but I have a feeling that perfect pictures and Prada handbags aren't what you come to Heaven on Bourke to see.

So, get ready!

We will resume our regular scheduled programs of girls, filth and dating in Sydney in 5...

4...

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