Wax On, Wax Off

I've been waiting for something interesting to happen to give me something new to blog about. And just when I thought I’d have to resort to regaling you, dear reader(s), with stories of oil well production figures (I hate myself for this) BAM! Something relatively interesting happened. A few entries ago I wrote about my Friend, the miner. It’s now been decided that he’s been downgraded to friend. I had been half-expecting it, as lately we had entered that very grey zone of Friendship where you’re not entirely sure what is going on anymore. Do I like him? Do I Like him? Does that mean I can’t like anyone else? Would I be mad if he was with someone else? Would he be mad if I was with someone else? And on and on and on. So friends it is, and I've surprised even myself with how rational and calm I've been about it all. I might actually be turning into a man. Which would be both disturbing and amazing.

You see, this is how the record usually plays: I meet a boy, quite by accident. We start chatting and go on a date. We sleep together and then the magical spell of my lady parts is cast, and we basically start dating. Two weeks to twelve months later we start fighting like a pair of crazy alley cats and it all starts to fall apart. This has happened 5 times since I was 17. Cumulatively I have been single for about 1.5 years since graduating high school. What is that about??? Until I recently did the math I could actually say with a straight face that I was not a relationship person. But I now know that would be akin to Taylor Swift saying that she is not a relationship person. On the bright side, I don’t write whiny irritating songs about my exes. Yet…

My last so-called relationship spanned almost a year and a half, with countless nights of tears, dozens of emotional emails and three or four breakups. My friends have long-since learned to tune out my declarations of “it’s over! For realz this time”. Letting go has never been my forte. I think it goes back to my previously-admitted weakness of needing to be needed. Even if I was in a terrible relationship, I would be afraid to cut and run because hey, what if No One Ever For The Rest Of My Entire Life Wants Me Again? I have vague recollections of making lists of potential interests in case a current relationship ended. Not to sound conceited, but this kind of thinking is totally insane. At the peak of this behavior I was only 22! Who is a 22 year old spinster? In this electronic age I have access to billions of people, surely I could have let go on the faith that worst case scenario I could get really good at online gaming and meet that special someone? But that’s not how I saw it. Somewhere in my mind I believed I was lucky to be getting any attention from ‘him’, even if it didn't make me feel good about myself. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, a lot of girls feel this way.

Going on the central thesis of “He’s Just Not That Into You”, if a boy pushes you away, it’s because he doesn't want to be with you. So maybe he has trust issues and is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and keeps a gun under his bed and doesn't answer your calls and drives by your house at night to spy on you. Maybe in some twisted corner of his mind, he does want to be with you. But that absolutely does not mean that he deserves to be with you. And I have learned from unfortunate first-hand experience that you cannot change this boy.

I’m not 100% sure what my issue with having an intense desire to be in a relationship was about for all those years, but I finally know that I’m getting over it. Dare I say, that I am over it. What I can comfortably call my first down-under-fling was a very positive experience, with only a tiny amount of drama that was - if you can believe this - not caused by me. It truly is an Easter Miracle. And I head off into the weekend with a generally clear head and a light heart...who knows what will happen next? 

Further Insights and Revelations

I cut my hair. Again. I’m going to have to be on My Strange Addiction soon. Of course by that point I would probably have just shaved my head and would have no hair left and then it would be a very boring show. Well I decided to switch it up this time and color it as well. I did it myself, with one of those new-fangled foam dyes. The frugal joys of travelling are forcing me to find new ways to do old things, like red hair foam in my bathroom instead of salon treatment. But I don’t mind, because it’s fun to put on those plastic gloves that come with the box dyes. Which always reminds me of a day back in 21 Jump Street when Kelsie spent a heap on money on getting her hair done with highlights and lowlights etc., and then decided three days later she hated it. She asked me to dye it a rich chocolate brown using a box dye she picked up, and I said of course! I used to dye my roomates’ hair all the time! (I wonder if the landlords ever got that stain off the floor…) So I went over to 21JS after work one day and patiently waited for her to be ready. Anyone who knows Kelsie will know that she does everything in her own time, so to keep occupied Jo and I hung out with the always lovely Mary Jane. Kelsie was skeptical about my hair-styling abilities after that, but I assured her it was completely fine and went about getting everything ready. I mixed the colors and then put on the gloves, but apparently the manufacturer was using children's sizing because my hands were too big and they ripped the gloves (ok, also I have big hands) leaving them useless. Naturally, we decided it would be best to tape plastic grocery bags over my hands, which would give me more freedom and dexterity anyway. The end result was, of course, pretty terrible. And because of the patchy nature of her hair for the next few weeks, I called her Calico Kitty. I later found out that in Australia calico is a kind of burlap sack and she had had no idea why I was calling her a burlap cat all this time. (I explained that calico is a type of patchy, multicolored coat that stray cats tend to have). The moral of the story is, do your hair when you’re sober. And always have extra gloves. And my hair looks really good. I have the word of a random man on the dance floor to back me up on that. They never lie.

So anyway I have reached the elusive three months in my time away in a distant land. I’m slightly disappointed to report no major changes. I did not become a new person in a new country. Though people keep telling me I look like Ashley Greene so maybe I could become a celebrity impersonator, which is kind of like a new person. Except the only thing she’s famous for is Twilight and I don’t even want to pretend to have any involvement with that. What I have noticed in my time here, Perth especially, are the differences in other people. Specifically males. Specifically in relationships. Because I’m obsessed with interpersonal connections and if you haven’t picked up on that by now you probably can’t read.

I am constantly observing the male interactions that are happening around and with me. Sometimes I feel like Jane Goodall in amongst the gorillas. But Jane probably didn't get really drunk with the gorillas and end up kissing some of them (I really hope not anyway). Anyway, male bonding is a big thing here. Which is great, because I think it’s important for boys to be with other boys to discuss boy things, just like girls should have girly time. BUT it’s different here. Male friendships, some call them bromances, supersede pretty much every other bond. Maybe it’s because the last boy I was with was in a deep and dedicated bromance, that I am more sensitive to these things. But it seems to me, an outsider of course, that boys generally get away with a lot more nonsense. Take the [admittedly very attractive] man I met last week at a music festival. We hit it off immediately by talking American politics (which I’m 100% sure was utter nonsense on my part), and I was doing my best to smyze at him (which probably looked crazy because I was off my head). All was going well. Until he started draping his arm around my neck (impeding my dancing – big no no) and telling me that he didn't want me talking to any other boys if he was going to hang out with me that day. I am not exactly sure of what I said, but I’m fairly confident that it was something along the lines of waving my arms in the air and yelling “I belong to no one!” Another example would be me, mopping the floor behind the bar at work the other day. In the space of 5 minutes two male staff made wifey comments to me, which I found more silly than irritating, but still.

When I meet someone I think could be nice, I like to chat and get to know them. I do not like to be put into a box or a stereotype because I’m a girl. Gender roles are quite clearly defined over here (perhaps the biggest example of this is that gay marriage is still illegal), which grinds my feminist gears. I’m finding it difficult to connect on a personal level with guys here. Conversely, never before in my life have I had so many female friends. Maybe it’s a Perth thing. Maybe it’s a me thing. Maybe I need to just have fun girly times and not fret about the strange gorillas. Not that I have ever really worried about it since I was 21, but it is nice to go out to a bar and really not be bothered about catching anyone’s eye. I guess it also helps that after I've been dancing for an hour or so I sweat off all my makeup and look strikingly similar to my brother.

Half-baked social observations aside, I’m continuing to have a great time. Even though there are no startling personal revelations I’m getting a huge amount of satisfaction from coming to a foreign country and taking care of myself. I work temp office jobs during the day when they come up (currently on a three week contract, which makes my bank account happy) and enjoy random shifts at the pub some evenings. I’m always meeting new people and I’m less shy than I used to be. I’m not bothered by a lot of things that used to stress me out (possibly because I’m single for the first time in about 10 years. But that could be purely coincidental). Last night I went out to a pub with some friends and only had one drink, as I was driving and I need all my wits about me with the strange noises Holly Holden has been making lately. So I wasn't drunk but I was laughing and I was chatting and I was bouncing from person to person and dancing and I realized that my face hurt from smiling, which is a very good feeling indeed.

Working Girl

I arrived at the pub (let me clarify that basically any drinking establishment in Australia is a pub or a hotel, even if there are no rooms to rent and it is clearly not a hotel at all), barely on time for my trial shift thanks to some parking lot confusion ie. me, driving around the parking lot, confused. I was slightly nervous but there was something else that was a bit odd. I ran a mental checklist. Hair and makeup were done, closed-toe shoes were on (I've taken up the local habit of not wearing shoes whenever I can get away with it. I first found this practice alarming and upsetting, but now I enjoy it immensely), I was wearing black pants as per my instructions. Suddenly it hit me! I felt weird because I was wearing pants! I started thinking about it and after all my years of on-again-off-again serving work I had never, not even once, arrived ready to go on the floor in clothes that covered more than 67% of my body. Except that time I wore leggings and thigh high pleather boots...Anyway. My trial went well, despite my nerves and slight struggles with pouring pints, and I was offered a job. Along with that job offer I received an apron and a shirt that fits and buttons up and I am not expected to cut it or tie it up in any way. Amazing.

Some readers may know this, but in certain parts of Canada and America the bar industry is for people who are 'hot'. The first, and by far most insane, place I worked was a nightclub called The Back Alley. My previous experience with nightclubs included wearing a black dress, hot rollering my hair, pre-drinking as much gin as possible and then dancing (sometimes pashing) with my friend while we pretended not to notice people staring at us. She taught me not to accept drinks from strangers and to ignore any man who had the gall to talk to us (I say us, but it was really her). So I stepped in to my new place of employment, lovingly referred to as The Alley, without a clue. I was given $350 in cash and over $500 of alcohol in pre-made shots, a beat up tin tray that looked as if it came from an auto shop, and was told to 'sell everything, don't steal anything and if you lose it you pay for it'. I remember walking around with my tray, silently praying for a fire or some other disaster that would give me an excuse to run away.

Of course, I caught on eventually. I learned that I would sell more by drinking with the patrons, which often led to me counting my cash out three or four times (I'm not the quickest with math on a good day). I became quite skilled at walking in 4 inch heels with my tray balanced on my head, to win bets with people on slow nights. Eventually I got promoted to beer tub, which was easier because I could wear flat shoes and there was a barrier between my body and the friendly hands of strangers. There was a time when it was fun, when it felt good to know I was desired. But it quickly got old. Theme nights that required ridiculous costumes, wearing two push-up bras to compete with the girls who had implants, tension with boyfriends over why I had to dress/dance/flirt/smile this way. The sense of empowerment faded and a disdainful attitude of grin and bear it settled in.

I quit and worked in offices, which was somewhat boring but much better for my liver and self-confidence. Every so often a job would come up, bottle service, cocktail server, etc that would tempt me back to the industry. The money is amazing, the work isn't demanding, the hours are flexible. Until you're actually working and your manager is trying to sleep with you, the other girls are bitchy and you're scheduled every weekend. I know that not everyone has experiences like this. My brother has been bar tending for years and loves it. That said, I'm pretty sure his boss has never bought him a shot and leeringly complimented his legs.

Hence my utter elation with my new place of employment. There are proper training programs, the computer is alphabetized, and they don't hire beautiful girls who ask what's in a rum and coke. I'm quite excited to work in a place where people frown at me when I screw up an order, because I look like everyone else and they are here to hit on girls on the other side of the bar.

Care Less

I've been holding back. A lot. For some reason I have gotten it into my head that I am supposed to be polished and not too personal with this blog. Which is completely stupid because what is a blog called Senseless Ramblings about if not weird personal details. I also know that because of my holding back, this blog has become rather boring. And then I feel bad for being boring, which makes me put off writing posts which is even more boring!

Enough is enough. When I think about what's been going on with me lately the thing that first comes to mind is employment. For a while I was doing office temp work, which I swore I wouldn't do because I'm sick of it. But hey, the money is good so why not. Then I have dreams in which I ingest a cup of slick, black oil, and then spew it back up and cry about how I'm a sellout. I may be alone here on this, but I take a lot of cues from my dreams. Do other people do this? Anyway, my sub-concious can relax because my temp contract ran out and I am currently jobless. The obvious solution would be to get a job doing something else, so I waltzed in to a couple places (literally two places - I might be a job snob) and dropped off my resume. Despite my less than positive attitude, I have a trial shift tomorrow. I think it's mostly due to my 'charming' accent and my talent for smyzing (smiling with your eyes).

And what else? Well the boy I've been 'hanging out with' (if we were in Canada I would say 'the boy I've been seeing' but things are different here, and terminology seems to matter quite a bit. Though sleeping around within friend groups not so much.) has gone away to work in the coal mines or something. No, he is not a dwarf or an old man, that's just what is done 'round these parts. I could become involved with someone else if I so chose, but frankly I can't really be bothered at the moment. I have a bad history when it comes to sexual entanglements, from one-night-stands that somehow turn into long dysfuntional relationships, to one-night-stands who turn out to have criminal records (thank you Google). Besides that, as a pen-pal has so timely brought up, it's said that Aussie guys never need a hotel room, "they can just sleep their way around because they are so attractive and emotionally detached." I am actually not sure which I prefer, a boy who instantly falls in love with me or a boy who instantly forgets about me. Either way, I seem to have found a happy medium with the miner so I'm not too concerned. As my brother has so kindly put it, with my boy-ish haircut it's amazing I've been able to attract anyone at all (it's the smyzing I tell you!!!)

As far as friends are concerned I seem to have lucked out. If I was right about anything in my Australian predictions (immediately meeting my soul mate and having passionate beach sex didn't really pan out. Unless you count being viciously attacked by sand mites. Which I do not.) it is that I greatly enjoy Aussies as people. My problem these days is not that I am lonely, but conversely that I know too many people who are always inviting me to different things (half of which I can't afford to do, but no matter, such are the trials of travelling). There is a fantastic grouping of houses (two in Perth and one down south) who call themselves the Brogarden, the Hoegarden and the Progarden. Everyone who lives in these dwellings is delightful, and through them I've met many other fun people. Then there are the friends of my Aussie/Canadia friends, who are always welcoming when we hang out. The only person I wish I was closer to is Denton, who selfishly refuses to leave Sydney. I am scheming a trip to Asia for us in a few months time however, which we will surely not survive.

So after all this, last night I was still a bit glum. Which is rather silly because here I am living in one of the most beautiful countries in the world, with heaps of friends and ample opportunity if I just get out of my comfort zone...and yet I am afraid. You'd think that getting on a plane and coming halfway around the world with no real idea of what I was doing would be the scariest part. Nope; turns out it's walking into a bar/cafe/pub and saying "hi! I'd like a job!" which terrifies me. Ridiculous? I think so too. I suppose it all boils down to my fear of rejection. Also, according to my friend Jo, I put too much pressure on myself to have a plan and know what I'm doing. There is a real freedom in just letting go and trusting that things will work out. It's why I came here, really, so I could stop stressing about all the little things. I must remember, at the end of the day, to give myself a break, to care less. A dear friend (who, also rather selfishly, refuses to leave Canada) keeps saying it takes three months living somewhere else to really change you. Time is flying and three months is coming up fast. I guess we'll see!