everyonebutsix.com

The Scene: ACTION bus, Route no.3. Tuesday mid-morning - late enough for the bus to be generally free of schoolchildren and commuters, with plenty of space for all.

Me: Recently dressed, showered, breakfasted, plugged into my iPod and cheerily oblivious of the horror to come.

The Incident: I take a seat on the bus towards the back, as is the custom for a badass like myself.
About 2 seat rows ahead and across the aisle, there are two men sitting together, tightly squeezed together, as one of them is on the large side. They are oddly dressed. The one closest to me has thinning Tin-Tin hair, an oversized suit jacket and is talking quite loudly on a battered mobile phone. The one nearest the window is wearing a navy polar fleece vest, with nothing underneath. His substantial arms, hairy, pale and pimply, are displayed for all to see.

It’s a cold day and all the bus windows are closed and the heaters are on. This means that the air is somewhat stuffy and the smell of unwashed people soon becomes apparent. People gradually get off the bus until no-one is left except myself and the two men. The smell is still hanging around and I’ve come to believe it’s emanating from one, or both of them. I try and breathe through my mouth (but I’ve never been convinced of the merits of this method - is it better to just smell the odour, or kind of eat it?).

We pull up to the National Museum and the two men get up to get off. As the man with the vest gets up off the seat, he appears to have a wardrobe malfunction and his sweatpants end up around his ankles.

He’s not wearing underpants. The image sears itself into the back of my eyeballs for all eternity.

My jaw literally drops as he casually pulls them up, gets off the bus, then kind of leers at me through the window.

Now, I’m aware that I have to share public transport with those citizens who, for one reason or another, the state does not allow to drive. But, honestly, is there some kind of compensation fund set up to help people like myself? How will I ever recover from this? Is there a therapist qualified enough? Is there a medication strong enough?

Is this the universe gently urging me to carry on with my driving practice?

The Scene: Saturday night, dingy British-themed pub, complete with sticky floors and bad cover band belting out Maroon 5.

Me: More sober than I need to be and ever so slightly unimpressed and somewhat perturbed to find myself in the company of a number of Woo Girls.

The Incident: Our company is happened upon by a duo of drunken man-children, replete with popped-collar polo shirts and much hair product. They enquire of our group’s marital status, drink ingredients and invite us to partake in mutual shuffling on a tightly-packed dancefloor. We all have the sense to decline and ask them to move along.

But just before they do, one of them, who has been giving me the benefit of his slightly unfocused gaze for the last 7 seconds, leans clumsily in towards me.

“Hey, whas ya name?”

“Maude”

“Thassa funny name. D’ya know who you look like, Mauve?”

“Uh, no?”

“Audrey Hepburn. You look jush like Audrey Hepburnsssh.”

“Really? ……………Um, thanks. That’s a very nice thing to say.”

I am stunned, drunken gentleman, stunned. How do you know who Audrey Hepburn is, much less remember her name in your current state? I’m going to overlook the fact that your vision is most likely blurred and accept your lovely compliment anyway.

Cheers!

I try to say what I mean. Or at least, I mean what I say…

But I was having a conversation recently wherein the idea was mentioned of having a day set aside where people could say what they liked to each other. It would go like this - you’d think of all the things you want to say to people but for various reasons never get around to saying out loud. You would write these things down on small pieces of paper (maybe note cards or something so they’d fit in your pocket) and when the day came, you’d walk around passing them out like Valentines, or the opposite of Valentines, whatever they are.

You’d get to know what people think about you and perhaps more importantly, you could get some things off your chest too.

It seems like a good idea in theory, but I suppose there would be a few issues to work out first.

Like, would you be allowed to say anything you wanted? If we only limited ourselves to saying nice things, it could turn into some sappy Hallmark-card type event quite easily and it wouldn’t have the cathartic effect intended for such a day. Then again, I might not like to get a notecard that said, “I’ve always thought that your skin would look nice as a lampshade in my house.” But is that actually a compliment?  How do we decide what’s appropriate? It seems to me that once you begin to censor something, a myriad of complexity ensues. But if we entirely forgo any censorship, things could get just as messy.

And would there be a word limit? Would it be better to stick to a Twitter-ish 150 words or less? Or would you appreciate a few 5,000 word essays on your various merits from a few borderline strangers? It might be nice to have a box of such things for when you’re feeling a bit average.

What if you didn’t have anything to say? What if you’re one of those rare people who more or less say whatever’s on their mind at a given moment? Would it make everyone else feel awkward to be nervously handing out cards when you’re smugly tucked up in your apartment with a clear conscience? It seems like people might only do something potentially embarrassing if they could be assured that everyone was doing it and there was a good chance of a get-together at the pub later on to laugh about it.

Most importantly, would the recipient of a notecard be forced to then enter into a dialogue with the giver about the subject matter on the card?  Say you received a card notifying you of the amorous intentions of your next-door neighbour, would you be obligated to respond that you’re very flattered but don’t really feel a connection to married men with a passion for the films of Steven Seagal? Maybe it would be easier to also include a clause that you’re never allowed to discuss the notecards, but you could choose an appropiate action in response, if you wish to do so. Like an impromptu makeout session or a golf club inserted through the windshield of a car.

It turns out that there already is a National Honesty Day , so there’s a day set aside and waiting for us already, albeit a poorly advertised one. Should we take this idea and run with it? Who’s with me? What would you say?

Three weeks ago, tragedy struck and my boyfriend was struck by a rare and aggressive virus, which left him with the ability to speak only verbs. The change in tone that came from his only being able to use ‘doing’ words deeply irked me and I took it to be a judgement on my own inactivity. Eventually, we were forced to part ways.

Either that, or he left for Japan to begin phd research. I forget which.

This means, until I’m able to save up enough money (either to get to Japan or cure the virus - again, I forget which), I’ve embarked upon a solitary period in my life. Over the next few months I’m going to have to get used to doing what my mother always told me to do - to ‘make my own fun’. Which is almost as bad as playing the waiting game. Which is nowhere near as much fun as playing a board game involving near-starved semi-aquatic mammals.

I’ve always thought being on your own is only fun if you’re in charge of making the decision - like, if you have a few other options to choose from, but you really just feel like staying in and watching America’s Next Top Model.  And while my friends and housemates have been pretty good at making sure I’m nice and distracted, I’ve come to accept the fact that I’m not ever going to be the type of person described in hushed tones as a “Lone Wolf”. I’m better at cooking for two, don’t mind sharing a bed and need someone to laugh at my hilarious commentary during various television programs.

But, for sanity’s sake, I’ve been forced to look on the bright side and I’ve realised that being on your own does have its benefits. Here are some, for your perusal -

1.) Dinner

While cooking for one is always a pain, when dinnertime rolls around I now only have to consider the wishes of one person. Me. This means that whatever I feel like eating, gets eaten. If I feel like a piece of fruit, or scrambled eggs on toast every night or a dinner entirely consisting of crispy bacon, and I want to eat it at 3pm, or 11pm, that’s okay. Sure, my shopping list has gotten a bit weird, but who’s there to mock me?

2.) Learning to trust my own judgement

As great as my housemates are, I feel like I’d be trying their patience were I to continually ask them if I looked o.k in something or if my red shoes looked better with this skirt than the black shoes. So, I’ve had to suck it up a bit and figure out these things on my own. So far, I haven’t had anyone coming up on the street and chiding me for a recent slip in fashion standards.

3.) Being my own chaffeur

That’s right bishes. I’m learning to drive!

Living where I do, I’ve no idea how I got this far with no driving skills. But I’ve finally arrived at the point where I’d like to pick up my own dry-cleaning and Thai food. It’s so hard to find good help these days. Now I can find the clutch point, drive around in 1st, switch to 2nd, sometimes turn a corner and brake more or less at an appropriate time. Driving is more fun than I thought. And my the picture on my licence is nice, so there’s that too.

4.) Answering my phone

Previously, when people wanted to get hold of me, they called Jamie. He kept his phone in his pocket, kept it charged, checked his voicemail and always remembered to take it when he left the house. Me, on the other hand…

But now I’m faced with a choice. I either make an effort to answer my phone, or I stay home watching Dr.Phil until the end of winter. So, I made a concerted effort to charge my phone and got a loud ringtone that scares the absolute Beejesus out of me whenever it rings (Galvanise - by the Chemical Brothers, in case you’re interested). My missed calls list has shrunk considerably, I’m pleased to say. However, I’m still not going to answer the phone when I’m on the toilet.

Feel free to add your own to the list. I’ll need them when I’m sobbing alone in a cold bed at night.