Month: October 2013

same same, but different.

“Kiss me, Ketut!”
– Rhonda.

For those darling readers who are not lucky enough to call Australia home (unbiased as ever, Alex), then you may have missed out on a series of ads by insurance company, AAMI. This absolute gem of a marketing campaign centres on Rhonda (your average safe driver) and Ketut (her Indonesian holiday-fling-turned-beau). If you haven’t had the pleasure of watching the ads yet, please skedaddle over to YouTube. Stat. They’re better than this blog post. Go on! I’ll wait here whilst you watch.

See. I told you they were good. 

Anyway. In the most recent installment of Rhonda and Ketut’s blossoming relationship Rhonda attends her high school reunion. She graduated in 1991. What a great year: Rhonda graduated from Year 12, Aung San Suu Kyi was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize and I entered the world. Good stuff all round. It’s not all about you, Alex. 

Now, as you may vaguely remember, a few weeks ago I was stressing about my own high school reunion. (You can get up to speed here.) So, how did it go?? And more importantly, how did it measure up in comparison to Rhonda’s?? Well, cuddly koalas, I should fill you in on the remainder of the lead up before diving into The Reunion, itself.

Refresher: when we last left off I was freaking out a bit.  Just slightly. The pressure! The expectations! What the expletive have I actually done with the past five years of my life! I don’t have anything to boast about! GAHHH.

Fun times.

Ironically enough, I stressed myself out so much about it in the lead-up that by the time it came to the week of the reunion I couldn’t have cared less about it. Oh, Alex. 

Ok, the preamble is over. Now, let’s get cracking and may the best high school reunion attendee win. Not sure what the prize is yet.

1. The Grand Entrance:

Rhonda: Our slightly jittery heroine tottered into her reunion to greet her BFF, Kate. Excitement ensued. Rhonda was quite glammed up, wearing a shimmery gunmetal dress with some peeptoe d’Orsay pumps of the same colour (her “brake-foot bling”) and hair curled to perfection. (PS, Rhonda: hair extensions??)

rhonda02 One day I will learn how to curl my hair like Rhonda.

Alex: Although I was chilled out about the reunion I still ended up running around like a headless chicken on the actual afternoon/evening due to a series of crazy logistics. In summary: I arrived a fashionably flustered 57 minutes into the two hour shindig.. and after talking to a handful of people, I made a bee-line for the bar. Priorities. My get up consisted of jeans, a top and some much-loved (read: old) heels. Plus the non-event of my semi-air-dried, already-going-flat hair. Woot. I’ve always been fairly hopeless at anything hair-related that extends beyond washing and brushing said mane.

Winner Round 1: Rhonda. (For the GHD mastery and brake-foot bling.)

2. The People You Would Rather Forget and Never See Again:

Look, I would love to make a Mean Girls reference right about now, but I think I’ve maxed out on my quota for October already. Apologies.

Rhonda: The poor thing had to encounter not one, but two b!tchcakes* in the form of Kylie and Danni. (Minogue reference much, AAMI?) Some people really don’t get over their school days, do they? And I guess this was what my reunion worst nightmare consisted of (with a touch less melodrama).. prof-ladies1B!tchcake No. 1 and No. 2 at your service!

Alex: I am delighted to report back that I, well, actually really enjoyed the reunion after all. Zing! Although the catching up was generally kept to a superficial level (“So, what are you up to these days?” being the predictable catchphrase of the evening), it was really lovely to see people. Everyone seemed really happy to be there and it felt surprisingly warm and genuine. In addition to this I didn’t encounter any b!tchcakes! (This could partly be due to the lack of b!tchcakes present.. from a grade which had very few to begin with..) And interestingly enough, the vast majority of people are still at uni and yet to get big kid jobs, too. See, you really didn’t have anything to worry about, you fruitcake.

Winner Round 2: Me! (For the lack of b!tchcakes.)

3. The Gents:
Ahh, the gents. It wouldn’t really be an Alex blog post without at least one reference to the comedy of errors that is my love life, would it?

Rhonda: OMG. Drama, peeps! Well, firstly Kylie and Danni make a gibe at Ketut suggesting that he’s “kaput”. Naww. Poor, Rhonda. But before Rhonda’s eyes well up over her absent Indonesian cocktail connoisseur Trent Toogood (aka The School Hottie, 1991) sidles on up to our safe driving heroine. Leaning in for a peck on the cheek, Rhonda slips, smearing lipstick all over her cheek, but Trent just grins as he wipes it off before leading her to the dance floor. #smitten.  

Then! The ad finishes with Ketut arriving at the reunion, bouquet in arm, to meet an empty school hall strewn with ripped streamers and empty disposable cups being tended to by a middle-aged cleaner. NOOO!! KETUT!!!!!!!!!!

838482-11b6728a-2c8e-11e3-8800-e6347622c0aaThe High School Hottie or the hot Balinese Loveboat. Tough choice, Rhonda.

Alex: Well, although my night panned out somewhat differently to Rhonda’s I still got my fair dose of drama. Unwanted drama, mind you. I really would have been quite fine without it.

So, after we were ushered off school property we all decided to continue on at a local bar. Fun and alcohol all round. What on earth could go wrong? In short, a guy who I had only recently met was texting me during the evening. (NB: A different guy to Hot Muso, for those who’ve read some of my recent posts.) And being non-sober I was a dingus enough to disclose my location to him. He wanted to meet up, but I didn’t want to see him, so I declined his invitation to rendez-vous later on. But some gents think that ‘No’ is a special chick code word for ‘Yes! Please! I WANT YOU! NOW!’ So, guess whose face I spotted over my friend’s shoulder 15 minutes later? Oh, yes, I did. Expletive! Oh, my expletive lord! What the expletive hell am I meant to do?!?! 

Cue: squealing in the bathroom with my close friend. Well, I was squealing and she was just smiling with a raised eyebrow whilst laughing and shaking her head in a ‘you-really-are-a-special-case’ kinda way.

Thankfully, I was able to successfully get rid of the rather persistent rapscallion with some moral support from some friends. Thanks, guys. You know who you are. As it turns out he ended up being quite a creep (read: it eventually got to the stage where I politely told him I was extremely close to dropping the police a line). Phew. Close shave.

Winner Round 3: Rhonda, hands down. (Because two comparably great gents vying for you is far better than one really dodgy one.)

Rhonda and Ketut in better times: “You look so hot today, Rhonda – like a sunrise” – Ketut. 

Despite the fact that Rhonda came away as the winner of the three rounds and I came away from my reunion with a stalker-in-the-making (bless!), I actually think that I had a far better reunion experience than our favourite safe driver.

My reunion was infinitely better than I had anticipated – and not just because I had anticipated the worst, nor just because of the novelty of free alcohol on school property (although we all know that that was what sealed the deal for me). No, rather, I was surprised by just how enjoyable it was to catch up with my old school friends and teachers, so much so that I wouldn’t have minded arriving a bit earlier after all.. What made this all even better was how refreshingly judgement-free the evening was.

So, basically that was a convoluted way of saying that I was a bit of an idiot and I should probably not stress out about hypotheticals going forward, right? Hmm.

Thus, I’m surprised to say it, but I’m actually kinda looking forward to our 10 year reunion. I’m sure there will be marriages, kids, mortgages and actual careers to talk about by that time. Until then, I’ll just continue to keep my eye out for someone who likes wearing turbans and is happy to deliver me cocktails whilst I bask on the beach in Bali. Should be a cinch.

Alex x

PS: #TeamTrent or #TeamKetut?

* Yeah, I made that one up all by myself. So proud.

trick or treat?

It’s that time of year again. And no, I’m not referring to Mole Day (which is today, in case you’re wondering. Not that I actually know what Mole Day is. I didn’t actually read that Wiki link). What was I saying again? Oh, yes. It’s nearly HALLOWEEN, you ghoulish gherkin!

As a kid I wasn’t ever allowed to participate in any Halloween-related activities. No scary costumes, trick-or-treating or sugar highs for the Alex or her Sibling. Oh, no, sirree. I’ve been brought up in a Christian family and my parents didn’t want to support Halloween because of its ‘evil undertones’. (As an aside, they don’t have a problem with people just using it as an excuse to dress up.) Although I understood where they were coming from I always felt really left out and embarrassed about not being allowed to join in all of the fun with my friends. Perhaps this is part of the reason why I have become such an enthusiastic Halloween-celebrator now that I’m in my twenties. In addition to this, I have loved dressing up and mucking around with makeup since my infancy. I love that sh!t. I’m like a pig in mud. So, Halloween (and frankly any dress-up party) is stupendously exciting for me.

Except Halloween can be tough for us chicks because every year come October we encounter a dilemma: scary or sexy? A DEEP, PHILOSOPHICAL QUANDARY. I think the default for most of my girlfriends and I is the latter.. mainly because no-one wants to have a Cady Herron moment. Also, just thinking out loud, how did dressing up as a sexy (insert any profession or animal or character) end up being associated with Halloween? Hmm. Anyway.

In times like these, it’s best to turn to the timeless fountain of wisdom which any respectable young lady knows to consult: Mean Girls. Duh.

Exhibit A: Regina and the art of the Playboy Bunny costume.

Exhibit B: Cady and a lesson in how not to do Halloween.



In previous years I went down the ‘cute costume which isn’t even vaguely scary’ route. And now to introduce the most versatile, foolproof costume in my wardrobe (Drum roll):

“I’m a mouse. Duh!” – Karen Smith, Mean Girls.

Despite it’s aforementioned versatility, this year I have decided that I am going to gently buck my trend and try to do something a little scarier, whilst still hopefully looking vaguely attractive.. Enter: the dark angel costume.

ImageSimilar to what I plan to sport come Saturday – except less Angel Face and a bit more Black Swan.

I think I have the costume ready to go, which just leaves the makeup – which, in the case of Halloween, I think is actually the harder of the two. How does one look scary and, well, Halloween-ey without oozing blood left, right and centre? Then we have the practicalities to negotiate: what happens if you happen to be in the company of some gorgeous gent at your Halloween party of choice and perhaps he’d quite like to kiss you (and you’d quite like to kiss him). However! you’re both a bit hesitant about your amazing, intricate Day of the Dead face paint getting a bit.. ahh.. smushed. Buzzz kill. Shame.
See why I said it was a dilemma? Now, because I am a makeup junkie, I have decided to see this as an exciting little challenge for myself. Yeah, ok, so maybe I was procrastinating a tad. This is a judgement-free zone, right?

Here’s what I came up with:

My Sibling literally jumped when he saw me.

Beauty note for those interested (if you think makeup is boring as batsh!t, please skip this paragraph): 

Face: I made my face lighter by mixing some white face paint with my foundation. Alternatively, you could use a foundation colour lighter than your skin tone. Remember to mix some of the face paint into your concealer, too.
Eyes: I began with a lilac eyeshadow base and then built the intensity by blending a darker purple, a dark charcoal and then a matte black into the eye socket crease as well as bringing a little bit of the colour down to the lower lash line. Blend. Then I lined both the top and bottom lash lines with some basic black eyeliner and used it to create a small cat-eye. Then mascara as per usual. I smudged a bit of the purple and charcoal eyeshadows lightly under my eyes to create that ‘I haven’t slept in years!’ look I’ve always wanted. It was a tad messy, but oh well – I think it kinda works. Lastly, I defined my brows, making them a bit darker than usual.
Cheeks: I used the the excess black eyeshadow on my eyeshadow brush to contour my cheekbones. Blenddddd.
Lips: I used a super dark lipstick and then ramped it up by adding some of the charcoal eyeshadow on the outer edges of my lips – to create added depth and volume.  Alternatively, you could put on the lipstick and then blot it off if you’d prefer a less intense look (which I’ll probably opt to do). Blah, blah, blah woman.

Ok, beauty rant over, cherubs!

If in doubt in regards to the whole Halloween thing, I guess we can always just refer back to Mean Girls:

Exhibit C: No caption necessary.


Happy trick or treating!

Alex x

An editorial aside in regards to the first Mean Girls image: Although it featured in that gif, I’d like to clarify that I’m not in favour of using the word ‘slut’ – mainly because I don’t think that slut-shaming is particularly helpful for any of us. Okay. I’ve dismantled from my high horse. Ax

the bachelorette: alex’s adventures in tinder-land (the epilogue)

“A simple hello could lead to a million things.”
– A quote I found on Pinterest.

Well, hey there. Believe it or not, it’s nearly time to wrap up this Tinder-land Saga fandango. Sorry to be a party pooper, but don’t worry – I’ll still tell you what happened.

So. Hot Muso and I went on a date. Woot! But before I get caught up in that we have the pre-date to discuss:

The Pre-Date: 

As you may or may not know by now, I have a slight tendency to completely freak out in the hour before going on a date. Up until then I’m chilled as, but as soon as there are less than 61 minutes before I see the gent I am going on a date with things get a tad untidy… Clothes get thrown around my room, I frantically scribble eyeliner across my face, a barrage of profanities are used, I invariably end up sprinting to the bus, I sweat like a neanderthal, oh, and I squeal hysterically on the phone to a friend. Yep, you get the idea: it’s not particularly pretty. Frankly, it’s always a bit of a miracle when I arrive at a date in one piece and then act like a relatively normal human being for the following few hours.

Except things were a bit different this time round because my hysteria kicked in not one, but two hours before the date.. and it wasn’t my regular kind of freak out. Oh, no. That’d be too easy. Instead, I became so irrationally nervous that I started having chest pains and mild heart palpitations. That’s right, kids! I was giving myself a baby heart attack! Why do you sound proud of that, you dingus? 

As I decided that arriving at the date alive was preferable I quickly adopted a mantra, “I am calm and collected and I have nothing to worry about”, which I repeated like a religious zealot until I was able to successfully trick myself into believing it was true. You already know that he’s a lovely guy, so you don’t have anything to worry about! Really? Ohh.. Yeah. You know what? I don’t actually have anything to worry about! I can’t believe I have to put up with this chick every single day. 

Once I’d calmed down I only had one more dilemma to solve before arriving at the date: determining how much cleavage was too much cleavage for a first date. Hmm. A dilemma, indeed. I consulted my friend on the issue, but discreetly taking photos of your cleavage whilst on a packed bus is actually less easy than it sounds. In the end I went with my gut (less is more) and my friend agreed. Phew. And by the way, please don’t go scrolling through my camera roll anytime soon.

The Date:

Now onto the actual date: Believe it or not, I actually made it there. In fact, I arrived there on time. Bravo, Alex!

It was a good date. God, Alex. Use some better adjectives. Ok. Sorry. The date was lovely. It felt comfortable and easy and it was filled with (more) great music. He is a muso, after all. We went to a bar in Darlinghurst that has live blues a couple of nights a week, which was great. It was a fun (and strategic) first date idea as the music was always there to fill any awkward gaps in the conversation (not that we had any). Good one, Hot Muso! 

On that note (oh, that was punny, Alex), some of you may remember that a few months ago I realised that I’m pretty crap at conversation on first dates.. mainly because I usually do anything within my power to not talk about myself. Handy, indeed. (You can read more about that debacle here). Anyway! So, I actually talked about myself rather than bombarding Hot Muso with questions! I’m sure I could have done better, but I was still SO damn proud of myself. Yes, that’s right: I was giving myself a mental high-five whilst on the date. Small achievements, amigos. Small achievements.

Rolls eyes, sighs audibly, continues typing.

My only complaint about the date was that I was hungry. I like eating, ok? And I don’t feel that I need to justify that to anyone. Originally the plan was for a (late) dinner and drinks, so I hadn’t eaten that much in preparation for dinner. Logical. It always annoys me when I rock up to a restaurant or cafe and my companion has already eaten, even though we have specifically organised to eat together. So, I didn’t want to be rude by having already eaten. But then we ended up meeting a bit later than planned and we just drank. So I ate sauvignon blanc for entree and main and had an amaretto on the rocks for dessert. It’s not that I don’t enjoy drinking (duh), but I was RAVENOUS by the time I got home.

To those who think that I could’ve easily fixed the situation by saying, “Hey, I think I’m going to get something to eat”, it’s not that simple – especially if you’re the chick.  It would have been awkward because:
a) it then reminds the gent (who organised the date) that he has been a mild dingus in giving your stomach mixed messages. Dinner. No dinner. I don’t mind – just tell me and then stick with it, dammit.
b) you may then end up with one person eating and the other not eating and just watching. My-mouth’s-full-I-can’t-speak-at-the-moment. Tumbleweed.
c) then the awkward ‘who-pays-thing’ gets exacerbated. I’m just as happy to pay for myself as I am for a gent to pay for me, but I wouldn’t want him to think that I expected him to pay for my dinner, especially if he hasn’t eaten, himself.

i.e. COMPLICATED. Thankfully, Jen gets what I’m talking about.

Lord, I love that girl. Anyway. The food thing really wasn’t a big deal. Sorry for getting worked up about it. I fixed it all by hitting the fridge big time when I got home.

Oh, yeah. So I went home. Read between those lines, kids. As the evening was winding up Hot Muso asked me what my plans were. Being the poor 20-something that I am I explained that as there was a smörgåsbord of bus stops nearby I’d catch a bus to Martin Place, then walk to Wynyard and then catch a bus home from there as per usual.

But Hot Muso wasn’t too keen on that idea.

Hot Muso: “It’s ok. What we’ll do is we’ll grab a taxi. I’ll drop you off at Wynyard and then I’ll take the taxi back to Surry Hills.” (which, as we were standing in Surry Hills, was a big unnecessary loop for him)
Alex: *Tries to politely protest, but instead falls over from swooning* Yeah, I need to stop doing that.

So we jumped into a taxi and made the journey to Wynyard. I got out – insert something about lips – and then proceeded to my bus.. whilst hysterially texting my BFF. I’m pretty cool like that. She, on the other hand, is an absolute saint. Sœur de cœur, I am talking about YOU.

The Post-Date:

Hot Muso concluded what was a very enjoyable evening with some more gentlemanly behaviour, messaging me when I got home to verify that I had indeed arrived home safely.

Either I have very low expectations of men or the taxi thing was just further evidence that he is one of the most lovely people I have met in a long while. I don’t think I’ve been on a date with anyone who has made that much of an effort to make sure that I got home safely before. Well, unless you count, “You can just crash at mine!” Men can be so selfless. All of this was made better by the fact that I was wearing heels which I didn’t feel like walking much further in. Yewww! Anyway, I was really very touched by how thoughtful he was. (With this logic I should definitely marry the first guy who pays for my $50 taxi home from the city, shouldn’t I?)

So, what happened next?! Sorry, I got distracted by despicably low criterion in men.

My friends thought that there would probably be a second date and I was definitely hoping there would be one. But life is not a fairytale, my sweet peaches. Hot Muso messaged me the following day and then again the next week. Nothing of significance, just stuff of the “how was your long weekend?” variety. Unfortunately I haven’t heard from him since, which is a shame, seeing as he seemed like such a wonderful guy… (Not that him not asking me on another date means that he isn’t as lovely as I thought he was). Anyway. It’s ok and I’m happy to say that I’m already 98.5% over him (which, for me, is pretty stellar). 

The Verdict:

So, what is my overall verdict in regards to Le Tinder? I’m surprised to say it, but I would actually recommend using Tinder – but only on the proviso that your expectations are low and that you have a clear idea of what you want from it before you embark on your Tinder-land adventure.

Although I am happily single as ever (which probably isn’t that much of a surprise to anyone), venturing into the bizarre contemporary realm that is Tinder was actually a much more enjoyable and fruitful adventure than I thought it would be. In the meantime, I guess it’s back out into the world of Singledom I go.

Perhaps I’ll log back onto Tinder..

Alex x

twenty-two signs you’re dating a hipster.

Q: How many hipsters does it take to change a light bulb?

A: It’s an obscure answer you’ve probably never heard of before.

Recently I’ve been dating some men (and by dating I mean, ‘going on dates with’ not ‘we’re Facebook official’) and I’ve realised that these men have generally been – how should I put this? – hipsters. Mmmm. Yeah.. Thanks for the supportive grimace on your face.

I find this rather perplexing considering the fact that I am categorically not a hipster. Some parts of my life are so mainstream they would make a hipster cry (#hipstertears).

It’s not that I’ve consciously gone out with the desire or intention to date this cool-before-it-was-cool species. No. Rather, it’s crept up on me slowly and then suddenly it dawns on me when I piece all of the signs together. Obviously he wouldn’t ever say that he is a hipster, because we all know that saying you’re a hipster means that you’re not a hipster and that not saying you’re hipster means that you could well be one. That was confusing.

tumblr_lye9x6GmBg1r7zct3o1_400 An Ariel meme? That’s so passé.

Anyway. Here are some indicators that you too could be dating hipsters which, believe it or not, have been taken from my own experiences this year. The warning signs (or celebratory checklist, depending on how you feel about hipster) may include, but are by no means limited to, the following:

  1. You met at a tiny, sweaty, secret venue. Or at a terrace house party. Or at Vinnies.
  2. In the case of gents, they have a beard. A large, manly one.
  3. Their push bike is their mode of transport of preference.
  4. After hours, they play in an indie band that is soon to release their first EP.
  5. They live in your local hipster commune. i.e. a gorgeous, hipster-infested suburb filled with tiny organic cafes.
  6. They runs pop-up food events in their spare time with the aim of promoting wholesome eating, community and local music. As you do. #boyfriendmaterial
  7. His jeans are skinnier than yours. His shirts are more floral than yours.
  8. When you’re insta-stalking him with your friends they all voluntarily comment, “Ohmygod! He’s such a hipster!”. You just nod.
  9. They grow their own herbs in their backyard.
  10. They collect vintage records.
  11. They listen to said records whilst cooking.
  12. Alternatively, they mainly listens to unsigned, local bands. Yes, that’s right: artists you haven’t even heard of yet.
  13. During their downtime they read the classics.
  14. On the weekends they can be found at hipster house parties in the hipster communes.
  15. You’ll go on dates to cool small bars that you haven’t been to before.
  16. They instagram more regularly than Miranda Kerr.
  17. Fair skin. Hipsters don’t tan. Hipsters are not summer birds. Duh.
  18. They’re obviously a caffeine connoisseur. One fairtrade organic, single origin double ristretto, please. Wait. Actually, I’ll have a Kopi Luwak instead.
  19. They have multiple cats.
  20. Losing their vintage wayfarers and beautiful old-school brogues is worse than losing their Macbook and Kindle. I empathise without sarcasm.
  21. They don’t mind that you’re mainstream because they think it’s deliberately ironic. But actually, you’re just mainstream.
  22. You have to discreetly consult Urban Dictionary in order to decipher that acronym they just used.

And, although I am embarrassed to admit it and it confuses me a bit, it’s all rather attractive to me. (Read: ‘very attractive’).

What are we going to do with you, woman?

Alex x

the bachelorette: alex’s adventures in tinder-land (part 3)

“You can’t start a fire without a spark”
– B. Springsteen, ‘Dancing in the Dark’.

This post comes with backing music by The Falls, The British Blues and Huckleberry Hastings.

It feels like it’s been a while since we started this free fall jump into Tinder-land, doesn’t it? Apologies for the silence – life’s been happening.

Now, where did we leave off? Oh, yes – I was trying to find a deep and meaningful angle to Tinder, wasn’t I? ‘Trying’ being the operative word. And then I mentioned that I actually met up with one of these rascals In Real Life, right?

Ok. Now let’s get going. You may want to strap yourselves in: I come close to out-doing myself in the idiot stakes this time.

I should start by introducing this gent to you. From his Tinder profile he looked pretty attractive and there was a bit of flirty banter between us (rather than the bog standard ‘so-what-do-you-do?’ conversation). Consequently, he knew nothing about me apart from having a semi-formed idea of what I looked like. I, on the other hand, was able to ascertain from our conversation and his profile that he was a muso of sorts. Thus, he shall be given the exceedingly creative fake name of ‘Hot Muso’.

So. Hot Muso asked me out for a drink (which I accepted), but we were yet to find a time that suited us both. In the meantime we exchanged surnames with the purpose of Facebook-stalking each other (so Gen Y). Then from his profile I saw that he was going to be playing at the same gig as another artist that I really like.

Guess which thought popped into my head next? Yep – you guessed it.

(Alex Brain) “I could go the gig and meet him there!” No, Alex! Are you expletive mad! You want to rock up to some gig and announce, “Hi! I’m that chick from Tinder!”?? Oh, you won’t seem like a stalker AT ALL. Then what happens if it’s really awkward or you don’t get along well or he’s the world’s biggest arse-hat? Have you considered how far you’re going to have to awkwardly shuffle in order to reach the door? Have you thought about that, princess?  Hmm. She makes a point.. But, wait! I love this artist and I want to go to the gig because of them. I would want to go regardless of Hot Muso, I promise. She raises her eyebrow.

So, what did I do? I bought tickets for my friend (who was willing to being roped in) and I. How I managed to reach this level of crazy still perplexes me.

Tinder 02 The sum total of our relationship prior to me crashing his gig. Yep. Deep.

Cut to the chase, Alex! What actually happened? Sorry, I got distracted.

So, I knew the venue would be pretty small, but I was hoping it’d be large enough that I’d be able to easily hide in the darkness and avoid meeting Hot Muso. Foolproof! Thus, I decided that I wouldn’t tell Hot Muso that I was going to be there because a) I could avoid him seeing me and b) I didn’t want to give off too many stalker vibes. So, in summary, he didn’t know I was coming to the gig.

As my friend and I were walking up the stairs of this Surry Hills venue we could hear some people warming up their voices. Dreading who could be at the top of the stairs I offered for my friend to go ahead of me. She politely declined, insisting that I go first. Damn it.

So, when we got to the right floor I walked through the door into the first of a small series of empty rooms and corridors. And on the opposite side of this empty room, facing towards and looking directly at me was Hot Muso. Ehrmagerd. Ehrmagerd. Expletive. Expletive. GAHHHHHH. Wait, Alex! Hold up. He’s pretty hot. But, although I wanted to, I couldn’t run away. I paid for that ticket, dammit. So, instead, I had to walk directly towards him in order to continue towards the venue, during which time our eye contact didn’t break. We were eye-contacting each other so much that I forgot about the whole ‘walking’ thing and tripped – Expletive! Bravo, Alex! – before rushing off as fast as my butt would carry me into the corridor.

Oh, god. Get me out of here.

Then, the gig. All three of the artists/groups were utterly sublime. Regardless of the fact that he I was interested in him, Hot Muso’s voice was breathtaking. Just mildly entranced.

Oh, yeah. And that large-enough-to-conceal-me venue I was hoping for? Yeah, that didn’t work out so well. It was tiny! There were about 100+ people packed into this minuscule room illuminated by candles. That’s right: no corners to hide in.

After the gig we were all milling around mingling and chatting. Now, here’s the thing: I knew that I recognised Hot Muso, but I had absolutely no clue whether he had recognised me. My friend insisted that I go and say hi – which I nervously agreed to – not that I had any idea how I was going to go about it. Was I just meant to butt into his conversation and say “Hi! I just wanted to say that I loved your music. Oh, and by the way, are you Hot Muso? Cos I’m Alex, that chick from Tinder”? What a smooth talker. Anyway. Hot Muso went to the bathroom, the exit of which we were fairly close to, so I formulated a Game Plan to intercept him on his way back to his friends. Easy enough, right? Inhale, Alex. Inhale.

Double Denim Double Denim Kim K

Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention that I had donned double denim à la Kim K.
Hmm. Well, at least I know that Kayne would have approved.

But when he emerged from the bathroom the plan quickly unraveled when Hot-Muso-whom-I’ve-never-met-before-in-my-whole-entire-life-and-didn’t-know-that-I-was-going-to-be-at-his-gig walked over to me and said “Hey, Alex”, as he lent in and kissed me on the cheek.

Let’s quickly cut to the Alex Brain to see what she had to say about this: Ehrmagerd. Ehrmagerd. Ohmylord. GAHH. Expletive. Expletive. Say something! Coherent! Be coherent, Alex!

Yeah, so just the regular from her.

As it turns out, Hot Muso is a lovely guy. We all got chatting and he introduced us to his friends and then we all ended up going out for drinks in Darlinghurst.

At the bar I chatted to one of the other musos who plays with Hot Muso (aka a bandmate) whom I’m pretty sure was flirting with me.. Anyway. Eventually I was able to properly chat with Hot Muso.

I’m not sure whether you’ve ever experienced this before, but once I started talking to Hot Muso it quickly became apparent to me that he had a heart of gold. He probably was and is one of the most kind, genuine, thoughtful and caring people I have met in a long, long time. And I checked that I wasn’t imagining it by asking his mates and they verified that he’s just a gorgeous person. All of the other gents of recent pale in comparison. Pastel pale.


I took advantage of every opportunity possible to ensure that he knew that I was from Crazytown. For example, I told him about how I have a tendency to freak out and categorically lose my sh!t before I go on dates. 10 points to Alex! My friend also quipped that I was going to blog about him.. which wasn’t exactly part of the Game Plan.. but, frankly, it didn’t matter considering that it was nothing compared to everything else from my performance that evening. And, as we all know, she was right. Predictive psychic power right there.

As we were chatting it turned out that he did in fact recognise me as soon as I walked into that empty room earlier in the evening. Oh, shucks. Then Something. Something. Lips. Something. Lips. Lips. Huh? What? Such rascals.

Hot Muso: “Hey, Alex. So do you actually like going on dates?”
Alex: “Yes, I think I secretly do.” Except I just have to tell myself that when I’m squealing with nervousness.
Hot Muso
: “So, would you like to go out on a date with me, Alex?”
Alex: “Yes. That’d be lovely.” *Falls over from swooning*

And so I skipped home (well, actually, I managed to get a lift. Boom! So lucky!) and promptly logged off Tinder indefinitely..

Alex x

parental guidance.

This is a little post dedicated to and written specifically for my darling parents.

Hi guys,

Thank you for being wonderful parents. Mum – thank you for your amazing cooking. Dad – thank you for your.. uhh.. endless supply of dad jokes. And hugs. Yeah, your hugs are great.

So, let’s cut to the chase: I’m pretttty sure that you’re reading this blog. Which is fine.. although I was kinda trying to keep it from you, but it is on the interweb, after all, so I didn’t ever intend or expect for this blog to be a private thing.

Anyway. Seeing as you’re now part of the readership I think we need to establish a few ground rules: I’m happy for you to read about what’s happening in my life and keeping up to date on all of the stuff that I don’t talk to you about. I’m also happy for you to pretend that you don’t know about this blog.

But from now on if there are any posts which I really don’t want you to read – and by ‘I really don’t want you to read’ I also mean ‘you really don’t want to read, either’ – I shall make sure that I write NSFF (Not Safe For Family) at the start of the post. I don’t imagine that I’ll use this all that often, but when I do it has been done for a reason. There are some things which you just will not want to know about your 22-year-old daughter’s life in the same way that there are some things which I don’t want to know about your 50 40-something lives.

All good? Great.

See you soon. Probably in the kitchen.

Love you, rascals.

CC x

ImageAlso. It’s October Third.

stepping back in time.

I’m going to my first high school reunion in ten days time and I haven’t watched Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion yet. (Isn’t that required viewing for attending a reunion or something? Or are you just meant to down a few shots before making your grand entrance?)

Oh lord. I don’t think I want to do this anymore.

Before I get carried away let’s backtrack for a minute.

It feels like it’s been many moons since I tearily left my school days behind me. It was a long time coming, seeing as I spent fourteen consecutive years in the one bubble (i.e. preschool, kindergarten and then Years 1-12). Despite it being a very lovely little bubble where I was happily set in my ways, I was also gasping for a change.

I feel like a lot has happened since school.. which I think is a good thing because it wouldn’t be that great to feel that nothing has happened in five years.. Awkward. I haven’t really kept in contact with many friends from school – I only see two of them on a regular basis these days. However, I’ve always been ok with the fact that the majority of my girlfriends and I have moved off in different directions – I think it’s natural and it has probably allowed us to grow much more than we would’ve otherwise.

Ever since it dawned on me that we’d be having our Five Year Reunion this year I felt torn: on the one hand I am really keen.. purely because I find the novelty of it rather hilarious. Free alcohol? On school property?! Heck, yes! (Yeah, heaps mature, Alex). Whilst, on the other hand, my brain is going into overdrive just thinking about what on earth to wear. This LBD or that LBD? Are people wearing heels?

Despite my love for ‘Mean Girls’, it’s times like these that I am particularly thankful that this was not my experience of high school.

One of my main reservations about going next week is the discreet judgement and blatant boasting which I expect will pervade the air. Isn’t that what high school reunions are about?: seeing people whom you haven’t seen in years and rattling off a one minute spiel about what you have achieved in that time and what you are doing with yourself now. Isn’t it about proving to everyone that they were wrong by showing them how far you’ve come from being the awkward one/ugly duckling/train-wreck-in-the-making? Or, alternatively, isn’t it about showing everyone that their expectations of your glorious, over-achieving future were spot on or, if anything, underestimated?

Regardless of what you’re doing, I feel that there is this pressure to be acing it – even if it’s at being a full-time hippy or hipster – and to have your sh!t together. But if those things fail, you can trump anything you’re lacking with a banging body. Yeah, ok, cool. I’ll just pull one of those I prepared earlier from behind me.

I’d feel more ok about this if had more to show for the past five years of my life. See, on paper I don’t feel that my recent life resumé is anything particularly boast-worthy: I took a gap year during which I lived freeloaded in France and the UK and since then I’ve been completing a lengthy and somewhat eclectic combined Commerce/Arts degree which, I am happy to say, I thoroughly enjoy. I’m also currently working as the nanny of one (nearly always) gorgeous 6-year-old, which I love. Blah, blah, blah. Nice, but not game-changing, stuff. 

Neville 04 If in doubt, just cast a Matthew Lewis-style transfiguration spell. Obviously. (Good lord).

On the other hand, I guess there are things which I am pretty proud of having achieved. For example, tackling the cocktail of an eating disorder, depression and anxiety which I’m still slurping the last of, the consumption of which has taken up a fair chunk of my time and energy. Although I feel that this is one of the most important and formative experiences of my past five years (and probably my little life thus far), it’s not really the sort of thing I am going to share with my classmates whom I haven’t seen in years over canapés, is it? 

And so, that’s the other issue I have with this whole reunion fandango: I’ve changed, but I guess everyone will just assume that I’m more or less the same as I was when I was 17 (which was a hardcore, uptight, goody-two-shoes perfectionist. Oh, yay.) It’s much easier to just make those assumptions, I guess, and on many levels we may not appear to have changed – we’ll mostly look like older versions of our teenage selves with jobs and/or student debts, right? – but I want people to allow me to be the person I have become rather than just seeing me as the girl whom I was… and I need to find a way of doing the same for them.

In the meantime, if everything goes belly-up I can either:
a) not go – it is free and non-compulsory, after all..
b) only pop in for 20 minutes, departing with the excuse that, as I am Very Busy and Important Now, I have (better) Places To Go and People To See. Ok. Please, do not be that twat, Alex. OR
c) start the pre-drinks early and take full advantage of the complimentary beverages (and perhaps supplement them with some BYO).

And because this wouldn’t be a freaking-out-about-going-to-my-high-school-reunion post without sharing some happy snaps of my last few days of school, here they are:

343_1045987383333_2943_n 343_1046002103701_8041_n
Naww. Nearly five years ago to the day. Man, saying that made me feel old. 

Wish me luck.. (if I RSVP with a ‘Yes’, that is..)

Alex x