Images

instant crush.

Image“Uhh, 18 yards. That’s my house there with the blue front door.”
– William Thacker, Notting Hill.

 

It’s that time of the year again. And by ‘that time of the year’ I mean ‘the time of the year when we get to vote in Triple J’s Hottest 100’. Obvs. 

I am yet to vote because I am still compiling My List, but something that I can say with surety is that I do have a particular soft spot for this song. (That’s “Instant Crush” by Daft Punk ft. Julian Casablancas if you couldn’t be bothered to look at the hyperlink.) It just makes me want to dance. No, actually, it just makes me dance. God, I love it.

It’s a funny notion the idea of instant attraction, isn’t it? I, being the romcom-loving cheese ball that I am, adore those moments in movies when the two characters who we all know are going to end up together meet each other for the first time. Hollywood has a way of making those moments – whatever they are – sparkle. The result of this for me is that I am always, secretly (well, no longer so secretly), on the hunt for these moments in my own life. And if I can’t find them sometimes I go ahead and create them. I don’t recommend trying that one at home. I am sure you can find something better to do with your time and plus, you end up looking and acting like a stalker. Cute!

I know there have been many scientific studies on attraction – dissecting it into factors, variables, chemicals, hormones, the symmetry of facial features, scent and body language. However, I am no scientist – sorry to disappoint – but I have done some of my own fieldwork, I guess…

 

A few weeks ago I decided I’d give Tinder another whirl. Yeah, I know. Again. My ego wanted a stroke and there’s something about that notification of another Tinder match that is disturbingly unparalleled, ok? Online dating of any sort is a funny thing. Expectations, hopes and reality can collide in such volatile and surprising ways. It becomes a particularly funny thing if and when you get around to meeting up with someone.

Their photo caught your eye. Their blurb made you smile. You start chatting. They seem nice. They ask if you want to meet up. You accept. (And then you stalk them on as many social media platforms as you can think of.)

You drive to the date with the vague comfort that you already know this person a little. Well, in a way. But as you’re sitting at the appointed bar/cafe/restaurant waiting for them to arrive it’s all a game of chance, isn’t it? They’re going to walk in. Say hi. Sit down in front of you. And then, within seconds, perhaps less, you’ll know. All of your online conversations and analyses of their profile pictures become irrelevant when you make eye contact for the first time.

There’s a pair of green eyes – clear sea green – staring back across at me. We fill the gaps in the conversation with glances in opposite directions, deliberately wasting seconds. I part with an “It was nice to meet you” as I give him a peck on the cheek and turn to walk across the road.

 

Then, on the other hand, attraction can catch you off guard, arriving with a thwack to the side of your head…

You have mutual friends and you happen to go up to the bar at the same time at a recent gathering. You haven’t spoken that much before, but you get chatting and then you end up sitting next to each other later on.

As it turns out they’re lovely, interesting and they have substance. Laughter intermingles with the Pimms. And then you turn to properly look at him. There’s a pair of eyes – a tie-dye of tropical waters bordering upon a reef, with a ribbon of golden sand winding its way between the aqua and turquoise – and they’re utterly mesmirising.

Later you’re lying upon the floor with your mutual friend and she happens to bring him up during the conversation. It is then that your brain starts to put the pieces together.

Really?
Perhaps.
Wait.
No.
I don’t think you are.
You can’t be.
It’s inconceivable.
Hold on a sec.
Actually… I think you could be.
What?!
Oh, man.

Here we go again. Perhaps. I think.

Oh, and Happy New Year, chipmunks.

Alex x

Advertisements

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.

meangirls

tumblr_ltvzuzBxFk1qjr8uwo1_500 

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):

 Image
“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:

Image  
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.

Im-a-mouse-duh

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