Quick Catch Up

I’m getting told off for not having written something in a while…so sorry…lol…

The reason being is that I have been on holidays in Cannes. Scuba diving the Great Barrier Reef. I WAS going to post photos and stuff but, me not having a camera (it drowned…not in the sea but in Rum), means I have to wait for other people’s happy snaps. Though I did have a flick through my Dad’s photos and I seem to always be fascinated by my dive computer. Almost every photo of me is snapped while staring at my wrist…never had one before, I was intrigued.

I’ll hopefully make a post on my holiday some time soon.

On my return my boots were waiting for me…I whipped those babies on as fast as…well, as fast as I could, I mean their thigh highs with laces and buckles…does take some time. And though I could get them on and had a little personal parade they were too small…so they were sent back and I’m waiting, once again…though wearing them to work might be questionable. I mean, in the photos they pass the knees but don’t go much further, once I put them on I realised that, for the photos, they use tall women…something I’m not…and a mate mentioned that a bigger size might mean travelling further up the leg…this could be very interesting. So outfit selection could be semi stressful. I was given one good idea that I want to try out, though, no point until the boots arrive...again.

Other than dealing with my fantasy footwear, I’ve re-done my hair (a week in salt water lead to interesting results)…insert photo taking, time wasting moment…

Ta-Dar!

The hairdresser convinced me that all over pink was not the way to go...something about re-growth which I did have issues with...I wish there was more pink though...arr well. Once I get sick of the pink I think I'll go red...don't hold me on it...I like changing my mind.

So it’s finally fu*ken Friday…WINTER MAGIC FESTIVAL tomorrow (Katoomba – max temp 11○C)…I’m hoping to “borrow” my Dad’s camera so I can take some photo’s…I really have to get myself another camera…one that can withstand backstroke through hard liquor (“Liquor? Don’t even know her”…lol).

Dress Code? What Dress Code?

Was reading this article off the Sydney Morning Herald website where a man, dressed as a woman, was denied entry into Star City Casino.

Now the man in question said that they "were going into the main gaming room and a guard placed his hand on my shoulder and said: 'you are known here as a man, you are not appropriately dressed, I have to ask you to leave,"

Known as a man? Love that line…I’m “known” as a women but I wouldn’t be calling me a lady.

Than it was said that the two were dressed inappropriately ("wearing an extremely short skirt that barely covered his groin region, white underwear and garters … were visible").

So either they don’t like men in dresses (revealing or otherwise). I’m sure you could walk around Star City and see a number of women dressed in what security, above, has deemed inappropriate.

What if the man above didn’t “see himself as a woman” and was just a man who bought a nice frock and wanted to wear it out? It’s weird to see a man in a dress but that is only because we have been brought up in a society that teaches us that women can wear whatever they want but men have to wear “male” orientated clothing.

“Girls can wear jeans
And cut their hair short
Wear shirts and boots
cause its ok to be a boy
But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading
cause you think that being a girl is degrading”
(Madonna – What it Feels like for a Girl)

There are quite a few countries that have male customs were they wear robes or kilts…these are not seen as dresses? I know most kids would point to a Scot in a kilt and ask, “Mummy, why is that man wearing a skirt?” and mummy would reply, “That’s not a skirt, that’s a knit.” Helping to enforce societies teachings that “real” men don’t were women’s clothing (a kilt is “mans” clothing…“we’re men, manly men. We’re men in tights, tight tights”). What about all those Romans…parading around, showing off their legs?

So the matter is going to be taken to a tribunal, but wait…"The Anti-Discrimination Act does not protect transvestites, it protects transsexuals, but you said you live as a woman. Before the tribunal can hear the case what you have to be able to prove to the court is that sexually you are a transsexual."

What the fu*k does that have to do with anything?

If a woman was refused entry for dressing inappropriately and complained how would she be dealt with? Does a man have to be deemed a transsexual before being allowed to wear a dress in public?

I wear what I want…why can’t everyone else? It’s not like these places actually enforce their dress codes in the first place. No singlets…unless you’re a woman with your tits out. No thongs or sandals…have you seen women’s footwear?

P.S Got a bit depressed last post, which I now know is because that afternoon I came down with a virus that left me in bed for a few days and I’m still trying to get over it.

I have a more positive out look these days…I swear…lol

A mess…this blog has “ranting” in the title for a reason.

I was emailing a friend today, asked him how his weekend piss-up was, and he stated “unsuccessful...I drank but didn't get drunk”.

Is getting drunk a requirement for a good night out? With my dry month of May in full swing the question that came to mind was “drinking, what do I want as the end result?” To get drunk?

My friend’s reasoning, “Just felt like it. Don’t do it very often and I had the time off. No particular reason.”

In my teenage years, getting drunk was the goal because, and I’m not ashamed to say, it was cool. I mean, getting tanked was the thing to do. *HALE PEER-PRESSURE* Once the novelty of being legal age wore off it turned into the fact that I needed to get drunk to have fun. It made the music better, the people better and doomed relationships tolerable. I didn’t have to deal with the hole I was digging for myself and all the misery I was feeling was just a hangover.

Now that my self-respect has grown back, why do I drink? I don’t like getting drunk; not remembering getting home freaks me out every time it occurs. So why don’t I learn?

Mostly I think it’s this firm belief that I can drink…a lot…and be fine…well, quite tipsy, but fine. Now this might have been the case when I was young and my gut made of iron (how else can you explain large quantities of sugar, grease and all things bad?) but as the years get on (and on…and on…) the iron has rotted away to leave soft, vulnerable tissue. Yet with this change I still believe after downing shots and just as many chasers that I’ll be A.O.K. Not the case Missy, time to grow up. Is it a matter of growing up? Or just accepting my limits? And not just when it comes to drinking.

Some time ago I had a conversation on what an alcoholic was. I always believed an alcoholic was someone who pretty much had a drink in their hands at all times. As soon as they wake up, they would be downing something. I knew people like this, and this belief was backed up by everything I saw or read…than I had this conversation were the title alcoholic also describes someone who can’t stop at one. They could go for weeks, months, years, without drinking and have no problems, but when they do, they drink and drink and drink. Now this freaked me out some and I made the decision to see if I can stop after only a few. Some times it worked, some times it didn’t. The times it worked I was quite comfortable with my surroundings. The times it didn’t, well, I wasn’t. And then you have the times when I have no idea why I drank that much.

So here I am, dry for the month of May. No problems with relaxing with a glass of water but what happens when my dry month is over and I decide to have a few? Will I be fine, just normal paranoia (can paranoia be normal)? Or do I fall in this newly discovered (for me anyway) area of alcoholism?

What’s the point of drinking in the first place?

After high school I can only see the pub/club as the place to socialise. Though getting shit-faced with a bunch of strangers, who are also off chops, isn’t the best situation for “getting to know you” conversation.

Oh fu*k I have a headache now…I’ve reread everything over and over…I’ve made changes but it’s still a mess and I have no idea what I’m going on, and on, and on about.

Bottle - DAAS
A stinking sun burned me awake
Through the shattered windowpane
I recalled through the eyes of claret
had taken me again
And the hair of the dog revives me
But I find it hard to swallow
It's a marriage made in heaven between me and the bottle

A thousand words fell through my hands
And the room just spins
This sodden mattress holds my heart
And it cradles my regrets
I'll read it once again
For he knows that I'll not follow
It's a marriage of convenience between me and the bottle

So king alcohol comes back
With the traffics mournful cry
And he staggers, drunk and skillful
Through my throat all parched and dry
And if I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take
Then I could rest
And never wake again in sorrow
It's a marriage on the rocks between me and the bottle

Why do I drink? Still haven’t answered that question.

Take one:
I’m at a pub/club sitting by myself surround by people. Conversation is strained as small talk was never my forte (yes it’s cold…) and I’m sitting/standing there, staring into space, which probably looks quite weird and I can’t fu*ken stand pity. So the bottle in my head gets lifted to my mouth time and time again to break the stiffness. Gulp by gulp it gets easier and I can talk just as much crap as anyone.

Take two:
Growing up it seemed to be you were either perfect or fu*ked up. Average was not an option, you’d just fall between the cracks. I was never going to be perfect (I never gave myself the chance) so fu*ked up it was. But I didn’t drink, take drugs, or have sex…guess I fixed that in a few short years. Fu*ked up also meant your life was shorter. “Indirect suicide” was the name of the game but try as hard as I might, others were better at it than me. Now after years of trying to die, I’m trying to live…but how can you live when all you do is question everything and everyone else just wants to talk about the weather?

Either way it’s fu*ken pitiful.

My Footwear Fetish

A few years ago now I tagged along with my Dad when he and some old footy playing mates had a three-week holiday in America.

The final week was spent in Hollywood, which is dirtier than Kings Cross, in my opinion, but I did LOVE the shopping. Everything I love in clothing and footwear was easily found and CHEEP (compared to Australian retailers charging three hundred or more times that of the Americans).

This is how I came to own my boots (to add to my collection which includes lace up knee-highs and docs)…knee high platform boots (toes to ground was four inches…than add the heal) which laced up the front and had buckles (also I side zipper, otherwise they would have been hell to get off when drunk). I loved my boots and wore them to the pub, to clubs and even to work (never fallen over in them in case your wondering…I loved those boots, and those boots loved me).

Once returning home I decided to look for thigh-high boots similar to my new knee-highs. And low and behold they existed and I was in love (well, lust, must be honest) so I click my way to the shipping page…no international postage available…ok, no big, I’ll just find another website… no international postage available…there boots, I’m sure they’ll be fine… no international postage available…I have money… no international postage available…fu*k you all, you fu*ken fu*ks…must breath…so after many let downs I had to except that, right at this moment, I will not be walking around in thigh-high boots and starting thinking about how much I was willing to spend to get an Australian store to get them in for me ($100 in the US equalled $800.00 or more here…HOW THE FU*K IS THAT FAIR?)…

From time to time I would look online randomly, hope never truly dying…but always the same…which was more painful after one specific night where me and my boots were out having a blast when we gave the mosh pit a go (was always nervous of them after I had to be pulled out of one…plus I’m much shorter than everyone else…the boots fixed that)…loved every minute and I’m sure my boots did too before they died…

I held the tears in until the shoe repair place told me they couldn’t be saved…I’m tearing up right now as I think of it…my babies…*big sigh*…

Than yesterday…

I was looking online for gothic cloths, as one does when hard at work, and with me saving money I decided to splurge on an outfit (not sure which one yet but this is the most extreme…).
http://www.galleryserpentine.com.au/

Now with a Victorian outfit you need Victorian shoes/boots…and when looking for shoes/boots I always end up look for my wet-dream thigh-highs…suddenly I come across an Australian website (an easy way to bypass international postage…though I find it ironic that us Aussies will post to the US)…

!!!I FOUND MY BOOTS!!!

How could this be? Am I dreaming, is it real? Oh calm down Corinne, they would have raised the price ridiculously…NO!!! I’m in love!!!

So now, for the entire world to see, I give you my darling ones that will soon be mine…MY PRECIOUS!

First up is the Ranger…lol…love the names they give footwear…now these have a completely other story behind them.

I had this Ute that got smashed up and we sold it on EBay. Now there was no way I would get what I paid for it, but I was hoping to get something…which I did…the day the auction was finishing I was looking at New Roc boots (I know this looks like an addiction, but it’s not, I can stop any time…I just don’t want to) and came across a pair that I loved and thought they were worth the $800.00 price tag. As the Ute went for more than $800.00 I decided to get the boots…I like spoiling me…

Now the Ute buyer transferred the money into my Dad’s account and we were discussing getting it into mine when the final bill for our holiday to the Great Barrier Reef came in which, my share, as you might guess, was over what I got for the Ute. So Dad kept the money and wrote a check…so no New Rocs.

So when I came across this website that had THE BOOTS, I went looking around to see what else they had and found the Rangers. Now they don’t have the solid metal heal, buckles (I do love buckles) and other New Roc attachments but they were what I wanted in the first place. Just simple boots to ware anywhere with anything (docs are flates and knee-highs are a pain sometimes and don’t look as good with baggy army shorts).

Than the Monroe’s caught my eye in the footer of the page
While looking for them I cam across the shoes to go with my soon to own Victorian outfit (thank you Carolyn for helping me to decide between the calf-high and ankle boots…asking Carolyn’s opinion led to this blog). And last but by no means, least…the long desired…fantasised…THE BOOTS…named Electra (I will be getting them in black)!

Boots for Babes...I LOVE YOU!!!

YOU HAVE BEEN TAGGED! Bloody Carolyn

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1. When it comes to all time favourite music, I'm more into poets than musicians.
2. Have a fear of free falling which will stop me from bungee jumping but not sky diving.
3. Wish to travel to places that a single female westerner should not travel to.
4. Have dreams that I rarely remember, but when I do I wish I didn't.
5. Since year seven in high school I have struggled to decide what to be when I grow up so I have made the decision to never grow up.
6. Have a religious fixation but have a tendency to question EVERYTHING so have no ounce of faith.

Ok Carolyn, new one for ya: Tell of six of your worst habits