21 Feb 2004
More on our ballroom dancing classes. Decided to wear my own pair of strappy heels – twice – even with the knowledge that I’d be constantly moving for over two hours each time. My feet were screaming indignities by the end of the night but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Heels make your calf muscles look so damn good.
I have been making a conscious effort to remember the names of as many guys as possible – or at least the hot ones anyway … it is really nice when the hot/sweet ones (mmm, hot and sweet chilli sauce) remember your name! And then you feel really guilty because you’ve managed to forget theirs. Ten minutes later. By now I think all the ones I know are all the ones I am going to get to know. The rest have basically given up trying to remember who everyone is. J and I have decided that we basically know all the interesting ones and the plain ones we vowed to remember because they knew our names and the reason we don’t remember the others is that they’re the loserish ones…
And the alarming thought struck me that that theory applied to the guys as well and I started panicking until I realised most of them knew who I was anyway. So hopefully they’re not remembering me as one of the ugly chicks but the other way round (though there’s enough of the former for me not to get short-listed if you’ll excuse me for being catty).
Hot Wog scares me. I mean I can understand why he would appeal a lot to certain girls (J… aHEM) but he is just totally not my type. I thought otherwise at first, but he’s stopped talking to me so I changed my mind. Another disappointment would have to be R, Mediterranean looks and hot with a capital H, but alas, he’s pretty much ignoring me too. Ah well, plenty more fish in the sea, or otherwise plenty more hotties at dancing …
I was dancing with one of the not so hot guys and all of a sudden his mother pops up with a camera and urges us to ‘get closer’ and she takes like three photos. Complete and utter mortification! I’m going to like, end up in some dusty photo album looking like a complete nong: “Oh look, here’s Jimmy and his partner from ballroom dancing that time!” and then there was the time I was dancing with this other dude and suddenly he winks at me really sleazily as he’s about to twirl me around and I’m like ahahaha … oookay, and it was just so creepy!
Uh oh. Have I been twitching again?
I think M might kinda like me. I was talking to A, another guy, and he’s like see M over there? I think he likes you. A seems pretty perceptive or at least truthful (one of the starry-eyed chicks was totally all over Peter every opportunity she got and he did decide to state the obvious to her so hey, at least he was right that time) and I suspected as much but for someone with my level of self-esteem (currently at battered and struggling to nurse it back to life) confirmation is always a good thing! Too bad he’s not my type of guy.
What I’m really disappointed with is that I haven’t been asked for a phone number yet. Granted I’m not just going to give it out to anyone, but an offer would’ve been nice. Even if it wasn’t from one of the really hot ones. Some of the other girls got asked for theirs. I mean come on; don’t I get kudos for being a ‘hot Oriental woman’?? Well maybe not exactly, but you get my drift…
18 Feb 2004
Was going home on the train last night. It was an absolutely crowded carriage, and everyone was hot and sweaty and bothered because – surprise, surprise – we got one of the un-air-conditioned ones. And this is after our normal train was delayed, then delayed even more, then cancelled altogether so we had about three trips worth of people squished into one train. Now that wouldn’t be so bad if it was during the easy day when there’s hardly anyone going on the trains, but keep in mind that it was the after-school peak hour. And we’re all royally pissed.
So we’re rolling along (ka-thunk, ka-thunk) and it stops at the next station. This is a station where all the guys from the local state school get on (and the girls … but I’m only interested in the guys as you may have already figured out – although Angelina Jolie is a whole different ballgame for EVERYONE but we won’t get into that right now). I always keep a lookout for any of the hot guys who occasionally get on this at this station, (there’s this one who works at my supermarket – but I’m pretty sure he’s already got a girlfriend – bugger) so any bets what I was doing …
Seeing none, I return to my conversation with J (who I suspect knows exactly what I have been doing – and would probably do so herself…). It’s hot and stuffy and not a great conversation-inducer so I end up looking out the window at the road I’ve seen a thousand times before. Which led my eye to lazily survey the standing travellers (suckers) of the rolling beast and gloat over the fact that I got a seat and they didn’t. Then I see this guy’s arm dangling from one of those leather straps they put near the ceiling to hold on to when the vehicle careens to a jerky stop, and it’s ringed with shag bands (geeze we catch on slow down here) and hair ties. One of which is pink. And I’m thinking hmmm, a guy with pink hair ties around his wrist, that’s a bit worrying…
Suddenly the girl standing in front of him obscuring him leans over to talk with her friend and I’m presented with a full-on view of his face. Holy shit it’s Mark from primary school! Which makes it even more disturbing because he so was not the kind to wear pink bracelets way back when. And the haircut! It’s the angel hair, the haircut that half the guys I see these days are sporting. The angel hair, with the messy fringe and long curling wisps floating around the nape of the neck. I find it really ironic because it is such a girly haircut and then all the guys who would balk at seeming girly in any way all have it because everyone else is. (SHEEP!!!) To their credit though, it does look good. Take Matchbox Twenty’s Rob Thomas – arrrrrr…
Why do all the guys I used to know have to be so hot?
13 Feb 2004
Went to school-organised ballroom dancing lessons with older guys from Catholic boys’ school. By J’s reckoning, most of the guys from the school who caught her train were hot, so I figured a little investigating myself wouldn’t hurt… DD was complaining that it was too late and no one would end up getting any sleep blahdiblahdiblah and only let me go after I threw a hissy fit and slammed the door. MD and DD have this freakishly old-fashioned point of view where they’d probably be happiest if I started dating in my mid-twenties and only then to find a suitable husband, (and be a virginal bride – HA) so I think they reckon I’m not interested in guys and am wanting to go to the ‘ballroom dancing classes’ specifically for the ‘ballroom dancing’. Thank God for the little things, eh?
There are about twenty-five of us, and we’re told to wear comfortable clothes and shoes we can dance in. So we all rock up in our denim miniskirts and tank tops and Converse sneakers, and then we realise that along with the gals from our school, they’ve also got about fifty other girls from the Catholic boys’ sister school (let’s call them the starry-eyed chicks for now). And they’re all a year older than us, wearing full-on makeup, party outfits and teetering around on their fuck me shoes. And they all seemed to know the Catholic boys. Great. Add that to traditional ‘gels school’ rivalry and the fact that theirs is a school that thrashes us every time we play interschool sport with them and the night began to look like it was going downhill.
However, on closer inspection the Catholic boys looked preeeetty promising… The ratio of hot to not was about 3:1 so must I say our flirting opportunities were taken to the max? And how hot (and TALL!) were the hot ones… They lined the girls up in a row and the guys in another and partnered us all up to teach us the three-step. And did I get a spunk! TALL. Tanned. Blue eyes and ruffled messy blond hair (raked through with gel and must’ve taken ages to perfect but hey, it sure as hell pays off). And an absolutely gorgeous smile to top it off. Totally my kind of guy. Imagine my disappointment when I realised he already had a girlfriend, one of the starry-eyed chicks there on the night in fact. Bummer.
I did get to dance with most of the other really hot guys though, and some unhot ones thrown into the mix as well. And J and I both noticed that it was the hot guys who could dance and the others who… well, couldn’t. Most of the guys would smile and say hi, I’m Daniel/John/Michael/whatever, but there were some really unsociable ones who looked like their mother forced them to go and did not make any effort whatsoever to make the experience an enjoyable one. There was this one skinny little blond shit with spiked hair and sunglasses (indoors – never a good sign) who spent his whole time trying to come on to the starry-eyed chick next to me and totally ignored me, so that was really pissing me off. And you know what the scary thing is? Three years ago he would’ve been my type of guy.
And then there was the hot wog who could dance! As I saw what he was wearing (gold chain, pinkie ring, T-shirt opened to reveal chest hair – hmm) I was a bit apprehensive that he would be one of the ones who are completely up themselves. But you know what? He was really nice, which just goes to prove that you should never judge someone by what they’re wearing. (Like G from our school who always seems to look not quite right; she turned up to the class in grandmother slacks and a top that revealed two-thirds of her cleavage – ew) And when we were doing the cha-cha, he was actually dancing instead of just shifting his feet back and forth in rhythm. And guys who can dance are incredibly sexy in my books.
Can you tell I’m looking forward to next week’s class?
11 Feb 2004
I absolutely adore the atmosphere of those über-hip cafés in the city. You know, the kind where there’s promotional posters for local music events and arts programs on the wall, laid-back music emanating from hidden speakers, a totally funky colour scheme and the daily specials scrawled oh-so-stylishly on wall-mounted blackboards. The kind where the goateed owner would make small talk about the day with you as he fixes you an iced coffee with lashings of whipped cream.
And the food there is such a guilty pleasure! You’d be hard-pressed to find a tasteless double chocolate fudge brownie or a boring blueberry muffin in one of those places (do I even have to mention why my waistline is rapidly widening?). The whole feel is so different from one of those impersonal fast food chains like McDonald’s manned by minimum waged, disaffected youths or one of them new-fangled juice bars ‘round these areas. Sure sometimes they do that thing where they take down your name and call it out when they’ve got your order, but it’s just not the same.
Today I discovered this great little place by the train station with the smell of Belgian waffles and coffee beans wafting irresistibly out of the open store door. The cheerful French owner greeted me with a “bonjour, mademoiselle” and proceeded to ask me three times about my order (an iced ‘chocolat’). Which was kind of funny. He then asked me about my day, and it was quite a nice change from “Quarter Pounder with fries, hold the cheese” yelled to some harried guy working frantically at the back. My cold drink was ready in the time it took me to look at all the posters on the wall and casual scribblings on the mirror running across one side. He handed me my order with a smile and a good-natured “merci” and bade me farewell. It’s these kind of places that restore my faith that the world hasn’t been altogether taken over by mass-produced food franchises.
Next time, I think I’ll greet him with a few ‘s’il vous plait’s and ‘au revoir’s of my own.
9 Feb 2004
Went to see this classical music concert with my parents. There was this guy playing a Chopin concerto on the piano. With his face. Well, not actually playing with his face. But he was really funny to watch, his eyes and mouth was contorting into a multitude of different expressions as he played each note. And his eyebrows were crawling all over his forehead! And you could see him silently mouthing along to the melody when he wasn’t playing! He really did look like he was having fun…
And the conductor was wearing this funky (well, perhaps not funky, maybe just quaint) Dickensian waistcoat. Well, I think it’s funky anyway. You know, the kind of old-fashioned coat with a short jacket thing at the front and long tails (modified, they weren’t as pointy) at the back. The thing is, the conductor actually had the broad shoulders and narrow hips to fill it out properly so he looked really good. I just wanted to hand him white gloves and a top hat and stick him in a nineteenth century novel! The bunch of teenage girls behind me were absolutely going crazy when he came on stage (what the hell is a bunch of teenage girls doing voluntarily at a classical music concert anyway? A stranger sight I have never seen. I guess you could ask the same of moi but I have an excuse – the oldies made me go…). So anyway, he gets up on stage and they’re all like oh my god, look at the conductor, oh my god he’s so hot. That really cracked me up. Only from teenage girls, eh? Although I do confess I did think he was kind of spunky…
And then at the end when he’s coming back the second time after the encore one of the girls were like oh my god, oh my god! And then she started wolf whistling. The girl next to her goes, “Contain yourself!” and at this point I totally give up trying to keep my smiles to myself and burst out laughing. Ah, God bless them.
8 Feb 2004
I think I may have found someone more rant-worthy than Ditz herself. (Gasp shock horror.) Having read all that I have expressed about Ditz, I bet you are dying to know just who this person is. Well actually, to tell you the truth Ditz isn’t that bad because I am smarter and more talented than her any day which means she is tolerable and what passes for insults from her mostly rolls right off my back.
But this is not the case with a certain Jodie Pratt. (Not her real name. Not that I am particularly concerned about having her name aired out for all of cyberspace to see, but what, do you really think I’m going to divulge my identity that easily?) I’ll say it once and I’ll say it again: Jodie Pratt is an ugly, stuck-up talentless bitch who has no foreseeable future. And she’s not even popular! I know that makes me sound bitchy and jealous, but it’s the truth. She thinks she’s so good because she’s a jock which in some primary schools would make you popular but hello??? This is high school, a sheltered one at that, and the social hierarchy is totally different. And so it follows that she, like Ditz, is a labeller. Now I would be totally hypocritical if I said that I don’t label people myself, but my excuse is that I don’t give people stereotypes until I get to know them or have at least seen them ‘in action’. Therefore I would be justified in calling Jodie Pratt a jock because I know for a fact she is very big on sport and not so big on education, and I would also be justified in calling the Ditz people the Slut Group because of their propensity to wear lots of makeup, revealing clothes and dirty dance for the sake of attracting guys. But Jodie Pratt…
Jodie Pratt’s extent of snobbery is that she has stopped talking to essential drifter Madison because she has been hanging out with the ‘losers’. Namely, us. Ah, you think, so that’s why she’s so worked up about this Jodie Pratt person, because she’s part of the loser group and is in serious denial. And yes, so part of the reason I am pissed is because she called me a loser indirectly. You’d be pissed too, if Superbitch had insulted you. But that’s not all. She treats anyone who is not in her group (and are therefore classified as ‘losers’) as if they are a particularly persistent species head lice. Even if she has never really said more than two words to them! And THAT is the reason I dislike her so much.
To Jodie: be careful who you’re calling a loser, sista, coz today’s losers are tomorrow’s Bill Gates’.
6 Feb 2004
So I guess the school year has gotten off without much of a hitch. Except for the fact that most of my friends aren’t in my class and I’ve been lumped in with the one and only Ditz. Lovely. Coming back drunk and dazed from the summer holidays means that most of your teachers are prepared to cut you some slack. Lucky for me. Speaking of which, the Tim Tam people have started to make alcoholic biscuits. Along with the chocolate slice people. Only in the twenty-first century …
Anyway, wasn’t I talking about school? Ah yes, the daily monotony of waking up three hours before you really want to and eating skyrocketing overpriced canteen food (even the plastic forks cost 20 cents, for God’s sake) before rushing off to a class you know you’re going to be late for even if you tried. Don’t get me wrong, though. It’s not like I don’t enjoy every minute of it. And you can interpret that comment any way you want to.
So here’s a low-down on what promises to be an interesting year:
Science. Remember those class sets of educational books from way back when that they still keep in schools because they’re too mean to buy new ones? Yeah, well our teacher looks like he hopped out of one of those books. Thick-framed coke-bottle glasses, mousy patterned sweatshirts and longish, thinning hair that’s bald on top. Yes folks, our science teacher is an eighties throwback.
French. First day back and she makes us get straight to work learning irregular verbs. Come on woman, who makes students actually work on their first day back?? Any bets that French this year will not be the designated bludge class.
Maths. The novelty of our graphic calculators still hasn’t worn off. Which I guess says a lot about what kind of maths class I’m in this year. As much as I hate to admit it.
We had our first class in this year’s first aid course. Besides making us fill out a ‘get to know you’ survey that not only keeps us occupied but also gives the teacher some cushy free time while we do it (double whammy) they showed us a first aid motor vehicle accident video – “Number one: protect yourself. You can’t help others if you’re dead.”
Geography. Our geography teacher is evil! I mean it! Dana happens to be writing in her notebook while our teacher is talking. “Girls, please don’t write while I’m talking or I will come over and rip your work up and you’ll have to start it all over again. That won’t be very nice, will it?” And all that with a manic smile plastered on her face and a crazy look in her eyes.
Now as I’ve reiterated many times before, I don’t like to stereotype because the labelled are theoretically very nice people. But seriously, I’m struggling here. This is my computer teacher … “Now girls, our new operating system Mac OS ten – well actually it says Mac OS X but it’s uncool to call it that so I call it Mac OS ten.” Enough said.
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"This is Not Porn"? - okay, so I'm thinking that's pretty damn obvious. If you were wondering, the title arose after one too many strange and... unusual web searches generated a link to this blog. The things people will Google when they think nobody's watching...
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