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DAY 204: How to talk to boys

23 Mar

WHEN Dianne Todaro’s How to Talk to Boys landed on my desk, I immediately had a good fossick for some tips. Seeing as they’re all written in text-speak, I contacted Dianne directly to help me out with my own situations in grown-up sentences.

Sitch 1. Too many balls on the dance floor

When I’m attracted to a fella, I tend to ignore him in an angry fashion. This hasn’t progressed much since primary school, when I’d lob tennis balls at the heads of boys I liked. Since the relaxed, friendly approach doesn’t come naturally, what’s a more subtle option?

Dianne: You could always smile as you are lining up the balls. Being the ice queen will actually say more about you than it does about him. Knocking fellas over may work for a while, but you may get fed up with this approach, even bored.

Have you considered it may be time to let him throw the ball to you and take you off guard? Do you really have faith that your man will come and knock you out? If you don’t, let me believe it for you. And start looking in that mirror and telling yourself “I am enough”. Start simply by enjoying playing your own game and doing your own ‘thang’. Its just too hard doing back-flips to try and make ‘him’ appear in your life.

My thoughts: Di’s right, I do knock fellas over with my stupendous back-flips. I’m doing my thang pretty hard already, but I’m going to leave the mirror stuff out of it. NB: As positive affirmations go, “I am enough” seems a bit lacklustre. Especially in the age of:

Sitch 2. Keen as mustard

What’s a good way to hint that you’re ‘up for it’ without being too blunt?

Dianne: if you laugh at his jokes, you touch his hand when he offers you a drink, you gently get him to talk about himself and you have decided you have got that ‘zing’ tingling inside, say something like, “I am really enjoying your company. I wish I could stay longer but I really have to go right now.” If he says nothing, keep walking directly past this male species and don’t stop. Do you really want to be with someone that can’t pick up on your sexuality at its best? No. We don’t want that! You can do a whole lot better. The man who is into you will have no trouble at all reading your ‘flirting’ code of attraction. He will be so into you it will be so incredibly obvious. Men can be irresistible when they do the hunting. If you haven’t experienced this yet, be warned!

My thoughts: It’s suddenly got a bit hot in here. But about that “I really have to go right now”… presumably you waggle your eyebrows and tongue your cheek when you say that? Otherwise a bit subtle, no?

Sitch 3. Bring on the nubiles

When I was younger, I thought men preferred women to be lisping, knock-kneed and pliable. I can’t pull that off any more… but is it even true?

Dianne: No, that’s not true for all our men, but be aware, girls – a big percentage do love boobies. And if a girl is young and naïve, men can have more of what they’re naturally drawn towards.

Talking to boys will come naturally when you understand that you are totally the woman you want to be when you look at yourself in the mirror. Love is not a concept. It is actually a real thing. And each of us deserve to be loved and be able to love. That’s deep, but at the end of the day snuggling deep into his strong caressing arms wrapped around your hips feels a whole lot better than just dreaming about it. Leave the brains trust on hold till Monday when you get back to work, relax and enjoy being the girl.

My thoughts:

Keeper? I think I need to get outside again. Chop down some trees.

DAY 203: Forcing berets down people’s throats

22 Mar

TODAY I’m on a campaign to make berets fashionable. It’s a lonely crusade all right, but one I’ve been forging since primary school, when I published my daring debut, Girl’s Mag.

I count four berets and a disturbingly phallic post box.

And then there was the editor’s pic in my sophomore magazine aimed at sort-of adults, which earned me derision from the art editor and posturo-rockers Grinspoon alike – the latter after I simply remarked on the fact that one of their number was wearing socks and thongs in a national photo shoot.

Grinspoon "aren't about to take fashion advice from someone wearing a beret". But you would, wouldn't you?


Enough with the subtle leading-by-example – it’s time to step up my game and start forcing my rhetoric down throats. Haughty women in berets (it’s pronounced “be-rrr-AY”) are sexy, and I’ve got the pictures to prove it. What’s more, I’m sticking them up all over Melbourne’s lampposts and dunny doors in an insidious attempt to influence locals. Naturally I’m wearing a beret as I do so.

The propaganda.

Viva la resistance beret.

Keeper? Indeed. Winter approacheth, and with it, fashionable head gear.

DAY 190: Rating my undies

9 Mar

THERE are no dirty pictures of me in existence to the best of my knowledge, unless you count that arty shoot when I was 18.

I decide to end all that today and send someone a mid-morning, up-skirt shot, sort of like a nice break for elevenses.

Unfortunately, the picture won’t send at first, so I go outside and press send about 18 times. Eventually I get the response “ha ha”, which isn’t the reaction I had envisaged at all. Perhaps the text never arrived and he’s chortling at something I said earlier.

After that, though, I’m worried that my undies have failed to cut the mustard, which is hardly fair, as if I’d known I was going to do this I would have put on some lowest common denominator ones and Bob’s your uncle.

Rattled, I decide to email the shot to ‘Rate My Pantys’ (sic) to settle this once and for all. There are lots of ‘Rate My’ sites on the internet: rate my implants / vomit / life / ex-girlfriend / ink / wedgie / pecs / parking / kitten / wee / moustache / doodle… Oh, you name it.

My finger is poised when I’m afraid I start to have doubts. I dunno. I can’t help wondering if all the pics on ‘Rate My Pantys’ are sent by real women with a burning need to know if they’re on the right track, or if it’s just a butt portal for preteens. I rate my undies sacred. Abort mission.

Keeper? I’m not convinced this experiment is bettering my personal development.

DAY 159: Dancing go-go

6 Feb

“DANCE as though no one is watching you,” Alfred D’Souza once said. (He also said “life is a journey”, but I’ll let that one go.)

However, tonight there’s a whole saloon bar full of men watching, pressing their filthy noses up against the yellowed glass separating them from Anna’s Go-Go Academy class in the Bendigo Hotel. Still, let them wheeze into their schooners – us gals are having FUN.

These are nothing like my usual dance moves, I must say. We’re following a jerky routine of mashed patatas and James Brown-style gambits: thumbs up, knees out, knees in and bucking like the Duracell Bunny. Mine are a bit more… avant-garde. And injurious to third parties.

I’ve tried regulated dancing before; I’d occasionally swing dance in London pubs with grizzled rockabillies who were too cool to look at you, let alone catch you (wouldn’t want to spill their pints, would they?). Being unwieldly, I had a tendency to go bouncing off the walls when left unchecked, which, like I said, was most of the time.

Go-go’s all about the girls, though, and by the time our hour’s up, I’ve got it pegged. Basically, you have to act like a pony – swishing your ponytail, trotting with your hooves up and gurning for a sugar-lump – so all this horsemanship I’ve been plugging away at is going to pay off. Grouse!

Keeper? Sure. Great excuse to buy some white boots.

Check out for the story behind these way-out pics.

DAY 146: Picking up domestic skills at the Kyneton Museum

24 Jan

THIS is what I learned in the kitchen of this old goldfields bank in Kyneton – a town to which people in their middling years retire to play lawn bowls and potter:

* If you wrap a hot, carefully wrung-out napkin around sandwiches and then put them in a cool room, they won’t go stale.

* You can sponge stains out of silk with water you’ve boiled potatoes in.

* If you run hot water over plates you want to put in the oven, they’re less likely to crack.

Keeper? Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

DAY 137: Soft porn and hard landings

15 Jan

A prince. Credit should at least be given for the lack of fireman's helmet.

DAY after day I drum it into myself: no expectations, no expectations, no expectations… no expectations, and you won’t be disappointed. But with all-male revue Princes of the Night at Crown Casino’s Fusion club, I manage to keep those expectations at sea level without even trying.

I don’t wish to be harsh, but there are some hideous examples of humanity out here in the queue. I’m sandwiched by girls in LBDs and heels casually slagging off the bride-to-be they’re here to rally and the bride’s other gal pals.

“We’re so much younger than all of them,” the one behind me observes. “It’s strange, because you would have thought she would have wanted a more fun crowd tonight.” “I’m getting married, I’m getting married, I’m getting married,” another wails, like she’s just witnessed a horrible accident.

I’m here alone, markedly underdressed in jeans and only a few mm of foundation. (How is it my girlfriends willingly flocked along to see full gash-flashage at a strip club for men, while not one could be persuaded to accompany me to see male strippers? Should I be asking questions?) Thank god I’ve still got a couple of eyelash extensions left.

“Latecomer?” the doorman sympathises. “Your party must already be inside.”

“Er, no, I’m here checking it out for a… friend,” I blurt, totally fluffing my “scouting for a prospective hen night” story.

It’s icy cold inside, presumably to keep everyone’s nipples erect. I skulk at the back with my notebook like a pervert, and tuck into some stale nibblies, spilling humous all over me in the dark. An inflatable male doll is being tossed around the main arena and the girls are onto it like seagulls on a chip. Squawking starts in earnest when our compere, who sounds disquietingly like Yogi Bear, urges us to get excited. Right on!

Via a screen above the stage we get a bit of perfunctory plotline – there’s these medieval knights, right, all brothers, whose father made them become monks, but who now have risen and are quite keen to taste the pleasures of the flesh – before a swagger of dudes burst out in monk robes and start pulling flamboyant dance moves, grinning sheepishly.

Much ass swatting and manhandling of brides-to-be later (one poor girl has her knees pressed together so tightly they go white), it’s the interval, and I’m off. SixFtHick are playing at the Espy, which means proper stripping with actual pubes and real moving parts.

In between hurling themselves around and hauling people on stage so hard their clothes actually fall off*, the brothers Corbett get lewd in a way that makes a mockery of the day’s earlier gyratings. Ben, who must lose half his bodyweight in sweat down his arse-crack, unbuckles his pants and gobs down them, which is a gambit that ought to be trademarked, while Geoff rocks the Wolf Creek sex crim style to stunning effect.

Photographer Zo Gay reckons SixFtHick are "porn for women". She'd know.

Keeper? I doubt any of the small army of friends who suddenly recovered from hangovers/lethargy/leprosy in time for the second part of my evening would say no to a rerun.

* The band told me one girl has broken her nose twice at Six Ft Hick gigs, and I was half hoping that might be my new deed of the day.

DAY 132: Joining the Country Women’s Association

10 Jan

AN exciting development for a girl from the biggest industrial park in Europe. Watch this space for further action.

Keeper? Ooh! Lee Kernaghan’s playing soon!

DAY 99: Getting Bette Davis eyes, or at least Kim Kardashian’s

8 Dec

Not my head.

CONTINUING my efforts to be a proper girl, I decide to get falsies. I’m talking about eyelashes, of course (not being a fan of cricket ball boobies), and there’s a brow bar in the city that does everything from the Jezebel look to Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.

First, I have my eyebrows threaded, which is pretty clever, but feels like every hair in your body is being ripped out at once, from a two-inch-square patch of skin.

Then I lie flat and the beautician sets about glueing in 15 lashes per eye, which takes about forever and I’ll let you be the judge of whether I ended up with a full 15.

My head.

You wouldn’t want this job if you had anger management issues – it’s a painstaking process, all right. Eighty minutes! For my part, a combination of unexpected horizontalness and an endorphin rush from the threading has me falling into a semi-coma on the table and hallucinating like a good ’un.

I stagger back to work like a newborn, long-lashed colt and show the team what I’ve gone and done.

“What? They used your eyebrow hair for fake eyelashes?” gasps a confused Ben.

Now, on to the eyeballs themselves. I like the world blurry, but apparently that’s not the done thing when you’re learning to drive, so I finally get my eyes tested (yep, fucked), and get me some contact lenses.

Unfortunately, bringing things into focus also sharpens the effect of the head injury I got from an errant shopping trolley a few years back, which gave me double vision. Now, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I’ve got it again. You think you know where the ground is by now, but you don’t. I’m walking around like the Furry Freak Brothers, which just adds to today’s trippy feeling.

Keeper? The lenses are going to have to go, but how does one remove them without removing one’s falsies? Buggered if I know. And I’ve got a feeling I’ll have a right scare in the morning when I wake up with an eyelash spider on my pillow.

DAY 92: Being at the business end of a baby

1 Dec


“HE’S had two Weetbix, a banana, some avocado and stewed fruit,” beams Jenni, determined to make my induction into nappy changing a painful one. “More than me!”
And STILL she feeds him.

The joke’s on her though, as young Thomas hasn’t quite got around to offloading the morning’s haul, yet my job is done.


Keeper? No.

DAY 91: Giving my house a grown woman’s touch

30 Nov

MY teenage bedroom screamed: “I am not like you, and I assure you I never will be.” The shelves were piled pointedly with books on sex and aggressive art, while my most repugnant records (Rektum, Revolting Cocks, erm, Ratt) were always at the fore. Cuttings about angry young men and slutty young girls papered the walls – around a shrine to Gaye Bykers On Acid – and I was trying to start a line in acrylic-painted cigarette cases adorned with sickly babies, long before the government health warnings caught on. The eagle-eyed might spot some snot-nosed, middle-class rebellion going on here. Otherwise, why would Hanoi Rocks’ ‘Dead By Xmas’ be blared out on repeat every December?

I was always desperate to prove myself by going one harder than anyone else, which left me deflated and baffled when there was no approval forthcoming. But as a result, it was not a warm room. I was working on becoming warm and likeable, watching girls at school closely for the way they crinkled their eyes when they laughed, or touched your hand in sympathy. It’s taken a couple more decades but I’ve nearly nailed it.

It strikes me not a lot has changed in my decorating skills though. I’ve got the explosive styling of an angry teenager – gender undetermined – and the paint job of a child. I decide the place needs a woman’s touch, and so set about tarting up my unfathomably-purchased chandelier (because every chandelier needs further adornment, right?) and making a medical box, like a grown-up would do. Um, THERE.

Keeper? How about you just suspend your judgment if you come round? If your eyes hurt I can apply first aid.