Footsteps On Concrete

Text I sent to a fellow author tonight in reference to the book I am going to write.

“You should do it!!!! One sentence at a time…and you’re there!”

It clearly hasn’t written itself yet…

Later on, I stumbled across this quote:

Interesting timing, I thought.
My life, I thought.
I know I have a rough outline and a couple chapters ideas sketched out in Dropbox, but the great computer crash of 2013 has left me unable to access Microsoft Office on my laptop and $200 for another product key is not in the budget. How do I square that circle…?

Continue reading →

But that’s not the point because I just read this and it is perfect:

I find myself in that awkward predicament where I actually really like being recognized as pretty. But I realize that “prettiness” in and of itself is a useless category. But then it’s not because I’m a woman and prettiness is viewed as a major point of me being alive, pretty much on the same level as being smart or successful.
–Danielle

I find myself battling with this a lot. As a former ugly duckling, I pretty much had to arm myself with things that allowed me to gain some kind of recognition and respect. So I developed a sense of humor and was really smart and treated everyone kindly. I was quick to be everyone’s best friend and since I was totally invaluable when it came to attractiveness, I developed skills to supplement it that made me worth being around, socially. But now that I’ve entered a phase where I’m recognized for being good looking, I get very uncomfortable and critical of it sometimes. I hate that prettiness matters so much to me and so much to other people but I can’t deny that it does. I like being pretty and viewed as pretty but I know that I shouldn’t need that, that I have all these other things working for me as well. It sucks to feel like all that shit combined doesn’t even measure up all that much against the currency of beauty.
–Curvella

DUDE.

Things Google can tell me: You share a name and geographic location with a tour guide, photographer, professor, and jazz musician.

Things Google cannot tell me: Do you remember me…secretly?

This has been a publicly private post.

Me: Another member wants to meet me.
Coworker 1: What??

Me: That’s only 4!
Coworker 1: You’ve been here a month!
Me: I’m really good?

Coworker 2: Slut!
Me: Haha, you can’t insult me with that. You can’t insult me with “you do something you enjoy a lot.”

And, for the record, I’ve only actually met one…so far.

She is originally from Istanbul and moved to Oz when she was 33 with her now deceased husband and 2 children. 

Her: How old are you, dear?
Me: 30
Her: And are you married?
Me: Nope. Not even remotely close.
Her: That’s okay. You have plenty of time. Women in America are having babies in their 40s. 

And I thought, “This is what I have to look forward to the rest of my single life: well-meaning strangers reassuring me about the viability of my ova, when all my eggs could fall out tomorrow and I’d just be upset about having to buy a new pair of pants.”  

Saturday night was DMC, a huge international DJ competition, which I had been invited to because I’m friends with last year’s winner.

Clockwerk and I after his win at Wax Wars on 15.Aug

But then, as is often the case with me since I’ve been here, plans changed, and I found myself…

Me. With my chipped nail polish, $2 thrift store necklace and Target shoes seeing my first ever opera at THE SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE, 10th row, on a comped ticket.
Sure.
Yeah.
Okay, that’s fine.

Like the first time I saw Wicked for my 25th when Megan Hilty was G(a)linda and she got me four 10th row seats and then, when I met her the next day, she sang me happy birthday.

Except more dying of tuberculosis. Continue reading →

Standing in front of my back door, keys in hand, I see the neighbour from 2 doors down come out to put something in her trash.

Me: Hi.
Her: Hi.
Me: What’s your name?
Her: *Stares with a pasted smile*
Me: *A little louder* Your name?
Her: Oh, I don’t tell people my name who I don’t know. *ducks quickly back into her place*

Two thoughts came to me:

But that’s how you meet people…

and

She’s gonna regret that when I’m famous…

• A Brit dressed like a gladiator (or was it a Viking?) stopped me as I was walking on the dance floor to give me a 5 minute back and neck massage, because he could look at me and just tell I needed it.
• Then we danced on a couch to “I Love Rock & Roll.”
• During which, he let me hold his sword (that is not a metaphor) and later called me gorgeous.
• I kissed the pommie warrior because it was a really good massage and, more so, because he was cute–and hot people are rewarded for behavior that non-hot people are reviled for.
  
• I made really unfortunate eye contact with a sexagenarian during “Pony.”
  
  I am not horny. We will never do it. Excuse me while I go jump into a volcano.

• Had the #awkwardblackperson moment of being surrounded by non-Black people saying “nigga” because rap music gave our word away like secondhand electronics that no longer have the user manual attached.
• Danced something like an Irish jig with an Irish lad who tried to twirl me, unbeknownst to him, in a puddle of the tears of fermented grains, turning me into Tai when she meets Cher at the party.
  
  Except not on my butt. Flat on my front.
  Security came over.
  We had a laugh about it.
• A guy and his friend danced circles around me–not better than me, LITERALLY circles until I called them out for being weird.
• Another guy and his friends formed a circle around me because I was the best dancer they’d ever seen. You hear that, parents? Who says my dance degree is worthless?
• Tried to eavesdrop on the Brasileiras I heard in the bathroom with me, but quickly realized que minha compreensão auditiva tinha ido para a merda.

Bonus: stumbled upon a drag queen karaoke night on my way home, which the security guard let me into, where I witnessed a “lady” alternate between lip synching for her life and playing the recorder to “My Heart Will Go On” because sure.

Teach your daughter how to cook kale.

Teach your daughter how to bake chocolate cake made with six sticks of butter.

Pass on your own mom’s recipe for Christmas morning coffee cake. Pass on your love of being outside.

Maybe you and your daughter both have thick thighs or wide ribcages. It’s easy to hate these non-size zero body parts. Don’t. Tell your daughter that with her legs she can run a marathon if she wants to, and her ribcage is nothing but a carrying case for strong lungs. She can scream and she can sing and she can lift up the world, if she wants.

Remind your daughter that the best thing she can do with her body is to use it to mobilize her beautiful soul.

Every word of this is amazing and makes me want to be a parent because this is how I would raise a kid–but then I remember that I am DEEPLY self-absorbed and had nutella for dinner so, never mind.

How to talk to your daughter about her body | Hope Avenue.