I want more of that, and I want it faster and harder.......

Dear 2011,

How are you?

I realise you have only existed for a day or two, but I figured we may as well start our relationship by discussing some basic ground rules so that we both feel comfortable with the direction we will take together over the next 12 months.

No doubt you have spoken to the previous years to get a little background on me, and might I recommend you also do a little research as to how best to handle me.

Please do not be shocked by my forthright way of speaking.

I know there are times when I need to be handled.

Self awareness is not a new state for me, and it was one of your brave predecessors who held up a mirror long enough for me to see the truth.

That was a tough year.

Literally and figuratively.

But like all great friendships, the bonds forged in that difficult time have held strong to this day.

I hope that we too can be such great friends.

2010 and I had a hell of a good time together, and I will forever look back on our shared seconds, minutes, hours, days and months with warmth and a smile.

But this is a new beginning for us both and we both have desires and objectives that we would like to reach before you leave me.

This year I should like to continue a few habits I picked up last year, namely my excellent health and greatly improved fitness which 2010 helped me to work towards.

I am hoping to take up marathon running this year as I am aware that without strongly defined goals I tend to vacillate.

You could help me with this by placing a store in my neighbourhood (that being Asia, so it's a big area) that sells reasonably priced sports bras that offer athletic support for women with actual breasts.

The ones 2010 supplied could not have held a ripe cherry to plywood and at the risk of being graphic, I would prefer to cross the finish line without self blackened eyes.

2011, I am not getting any younger. I do not wish to end my days rolling up my titties and placing then gently into my bra like a well loved pair of socks.

A sports bra made from a fabric stronger than spiderweb would greatly assist in this cause.

Also, as I am making requests, can we keep some of the more stupid people off my path this year ?

Particularly the ones who think they are clever, but they are not.

Granted, these people are EXCELLENT material, and I really really DO look forward to the day when I finally finish all these threatened manuscripts and wait for the lawsuits to start rolling in, but this year can we try and keep it to only one or two per month?

Last year, you will have no doubt heard, there were one or two repeat offenders whose astoundingly bloated self belief caused me more than the odd sleepless night.

True, I am partly responsible for bringing these people into my path myself, but this year, is there a way we can fix a flashing red light above the heads of people who, on first perusal, appear quite reasonable and then, on closer inspection, turn out to be the type of adult you wish had died in childbirth?

I am far from perfect, and my tendency to believe others also know that they are not perfect does me no favours whatsoever.

It turns out that the most obnoxious cunts on the planet are either never told, or never hear, that they are obnoxious cunts.

A large flashing red light and perhaps a 160 decibel alarm placed near or actually ON these people may help make identification easier.

I have a boring request too, can you help me do my paperwork and boring admin shit with a better attitude?

It's just so fucking boring, and I hate it.

True, I am much better than I used to be, thank you 2007, but even though I am better at getting it done on time I find it so boring that it is often difficult to type out invoices or bank cheques because my eyes are rolling so often I can't see.

It seems stupid to stand in bank queues sighing and eye rolling like a drugged up porn star when all I have to do is remember that cash flow is king, but even the threat of possible eviction or being disconnected from the city water supply is not enough to prevent the petulant song and dance routine I insist on carrying out every time I receive bills with the words URGENT written in red.

"What AGAIN", I sigh, rolling my eyes " But I had to get money in and send it out LAST month as well !!!" and then I set off down the street bashing into people Gruffalo style, blinded by my rolling eyes.

This is what I mean when I refer to 'handling' me.

I can get all emo on your arse faster than John Travolta fill a tight hole in a Turkish Steam Room.

The good news I can usually be tempted out of my own sphincter by the promise of some delicious tidbit of gossip about someone more ridiculous than myself......if the stories are true then even better.........but I'm not fussy.......

So 2011, lots of silliness please.

Lots of wacky behaviour, lots of crazy ideas that will never work and some that do.

Send me as many challenges as you think I can handle and then add one.

Other years have taught me I am stronger than I ever believed possible and I am not afraid.

Help me to grow.

Keep my children safe, help them to remember that they are the choices they make.

Help me help them make good choices.

Help me set boundaries, but keep all the gates unlocked so that I can look into the other fields.

I have never been one to envy other peoples greener grass, but I do like to look at the flowers.

All in all, lets work together to end the year with a tally of one more smiley face than sad face, one more fit of giggles than set of tears.

You will find I am fairly self reliant when it comes to achieving my plans and goals, and I take full responsibility for my own happiness, but we have been brought together by a quirk of the Universe and I am delighted to be able to share everything the next 360 plus days will bring.

I have great faith that we will be a great team, and I look forward to working with you,

best regards

Wendy.

I like to watch.

Forgive me Christmas Father, for I have sinned, it has been two months since my last blog entry and I am really....oh what the fuck.....I can't even fake it.
I've been busy.
You know how it gets.
Besides I am not even Catholic so the only beads I own are either bright and sparkly and designed to go around your neck and be worn with matching earrings or purple and rubberized and designed for play in the bedroom, and I'm not sure what sort of purgatory I would be invoking on myself if I started saying sorry poems to the Virgin Mary whilst counting off anal beads on the MTR.
Perhaps none.
I read the papers.
They like the twisted ones in the Catholic church.
But back to me.
The year is coming to a close, and I have started my annual " What have you done today to make you feel proud?" summation of my life to this point.
It's pathetic, and a bit heavy, but it's become the habit of my lifetime, and I'm at peace with it.
Those of you with access to either my haiku blog or my facebook page will have no doubt observed my tendency towards public documentation of my days.
If I can sum it up in 17 syllables and/or a photo, I'm good to go.
I think there are some who misunderstand the motivation behind such observances, believing it to be ego based and therefore ego driven, but this is not correct.
I document because I am forgetful, and the pace at which I live has forced me to accept that if I don't write it down or record it, it will be gone from my mind within days, if not moments.
I would like to lay the blame for this early onset 'out of sight out of mindedness' on the excellent years I spent harming my delicate brain cells with class A drugs, but it has, in fact, always been thus.
I have selective memory.
Often my mind makes arbitrary decisions about what is important and nothing is selected.
Therefore I write stuff down, usually in poetic form because it's shorter and it makes me look creative.
Plus , if I diarised the way others do it would reveal my secret fetish for exploring the lives of others.
Yes, I like to watch.
And do, of course,
But watching is my favourite.
I'm a Leo, we cats are naturally curious.
So this year, rather than list a bunch of things I have achieved and create a public wish list of improvements I should like to make to myself in 2011 ( HOLY FUCKING JESUS) I shall instead put down in writing some of the things I have come to observe and state them here without comment or judgement.
And about this I feel very strongly.
I have opinions, strong ones that I am not shy about, but the older I get the more I am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that my opinions are only that.
Opinions.
My thoughts.
They are relevant only to me and MY lifestyle choices.
There are things I would never do, but if you want to do them, go ahead.
I shall continue to watch from a safe distance and be standing by with gauze and Vasoline should the need arise.
This list is about love.

Observation Number one:
No matter how intelligent a woman is, she can and will, make stupid choices about men.
This has something to do with the desire to be held at night and to be invited to dinner parties that require even numbers.
If the man is handsome and/or arrogant, this is even better.
If he has money that is a bonus, but most woman over a certain age accept that a functioning circulatory system and a cruel streak is just as rewarding as a bottle of Piper Hendrick brought to the table at 4 in the morning.
Younger women do not know this and place a full wallet at the top of the 'must have' list.
They fuss and flutter over his ability to sign credit card receipts whilst holding court in a crowded nightclub with a nose full of blow and permanent hard-on brought about by his own awesomeness.
Older women will love a man if he can make it home by 1am without actually vomiting on himself or her or pissing in his pants.
When that same man dumps her for a younger model, she will cry heartfelt sobs about his inability to appreciate her accepting manner.
She will question herself endlessly and try and rationalise his revolting behaviour by diminishing her own self worth.
She will find excuses and make allowances for treatment that she would never accept from herself.
His 'being male' will be enough for her to cut him so much slack that eventually they will both be killed by the rope.
Then she will snap out of it, and start the process again.

Observation Number two:
No matter how intelligent a man is, he can and will, make stupid choices about women.
This has something to do with a desire to be held at night and to be invited to dinner parties that require even numbers.
Men love to make goals and achieve them.
Men do not have vagina's or wombs.
These two facts seem cruel when placed side by side.
If I was designing a man I would defiantly give him both placed somewhere handy on his body.
I think that if men had built in vagina's the world would be a much nicer place for a whole bunch of reasons.
Men think flattery is real.
They think that a woman will hang off his every word because she has never heard words before.
Remarkably, the younger and more financially disadvantaged the woman is, the more amazing the words seem to be.
When he has run out of words, he can use his penis to express his feelings.
This is a great convenience indeed because his penis is an excellent judge of character and does an awful lot of the thinking for him that would otherwise require his brain, and that brain is busy thinking up words.
When his penis discovers an older woman it would like to meet it tell the man by taking over his whole brain.
He is then free to think, sound and behave like a dick.
When the young, financially disadvantaged woman his penis fell in love with becomes old, she will repay this prickish behaviour by removing his balls.
He will cry heartfelt sobs about the injustice of a life spent dedicated to warming her cockles with his remarkable blood flow and hard earned dollars.
Then he will snap out of it , and start the process again.

Observation Number three:
No matter how intelligent a gay person is, they can and will make stupid choices about love.
This has something to do with a desire to be held at night and to be invited to dinner parties that require even numbers.
I love the gays. I have children who have The Gay and I love them.
Being gay means you run the risk of falling in love with someone whose preferred genital position does not include bits that look like there own.
For woman gays- and this is a bit of a guess- I think this poses less of an issue.
The trendiness of lipstick lesbianism is such that most girls below a certain age will happily admit to a bit of drunken girl on girl action if the mood seems right, and most hetero men will pay money to watch same.
If a lesbian comes onto a straight woman in a bar, a straight woman will most likely be flattered, if not slightly aroused, and there's no harm there.
If a gay man comes onto a straight man at a bar..........well, you've no doubt seen the news reports.
As one of my gay sons said in a moment of massive understatement " it's a bit of a risk".
But when it comes to love, and not just lust, the same rules apply to homosexuals as they do heterosexuals.
Broken hearts an non-exclusive.
Whether you are a man or a woman, the man of your dreams can heal you and hurt you with equal force.
Everything written in parts 1 and 2 applies to you too.

Observation Number four- and my final observation about love this year :
People need love, they need kindness and they need someone to hold at night and sometimes in the day, and they need to feel included and to be invited to dinner parties, even when the numbers at the table don't add up.
The lesson that has been re-enforced to me time and time again by my voyeurism this year is that in order to be loved for who we are, we must learn to love ourselves first.
That means we must stand up for ourselves and demand decency, we must place a value on our feelings and not be prepared to sell them for any less than their worth, and we must not use our hearts as bargaining chips.
I have seen people I love be hurt by the selfishness of others, and punish themselves for being human enough to feel the pain.
I have also seen people I love be warmed by the glow of kindness and friendship and watched with joy as they open their arms to the hope that springs eternal.
What a wonder to watch people who matter fall in love and blossom :)
It gives us all something to hold onto on those cold winter nights eating dinner in front of the telly.
Wow, told you this reflection stuff can get heavy.
Meh, if it helps, I also learned this year that eighties fashion looks shit on everyone no matter how thin you are and that I love blue cheese- and I always thought I hated it, so there you go.
I hope this year has been as interesting and as thought provoking for you as it has for me, and that the new year brings us all lots more stuff to watch, wonder at and write about.
And at the risk of projectile vomiting blood exorcist style due to my complete atheism-
may the road rise up to greet you,
may the wind always be at your back,
may the sun shine warm on your face,
and rains fall soft on your fields,
and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of his hand.
Thank you for being with me in 2010, and Happy New Year,
Wendy.

If I pretend to be stupid, will you pretend to love me?

At my age, 41, I have seen a lot.

A great number of it more than once.

Sometimes that's a good thing. I will never tire of watching sunsets and soft serve ice creams being dipped into chocolate and Han Solo being a rascal in The Empire Strikes Back.

Then there are those other things that are unwelcome repeats.

I have been consciously donating money to children less fortunate than myself since I was 7. Surely 34 years on we have sorted that out? But no.

It's cool being over 40. I feel at ease. I know myself fairly well, I feel I have done stuff and I know stuff. I am a woman of substance, and if you are anywhere near my age, you are too.

But age, my darlings, does not mean jack shit when you insist, as some of my sisters do, in reverting to becoming a bubble headed portable snatch when it comes to men.

Age really is 'just a number' when you dumb yourself down to other women because you don't wish to be perceived as 'a threat'.

Years of experience pale into shadow when you stand there flapping your hands at the most obvious problems because taking a stand and taking control might appear to be too ' dominating' or 'intimidating' or 'masculine' or 'scary' to everyone else.

An idiot once said to me " better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than to ask questions confirm it". What a retard. With all due respect to retarded people who would no doubt be insulted to have this man compared to them. That man- lets call him Jim ( although that's not his name but it's close enough) makes retarded people look bad.The concept of 'shutting up and playing dumb' as a lifestyle choice has to be considered one of the all time lows of human evolution.

But it happens.

And it happens all the time.

And I have to say, it happens to women 500,000 times more often than it happens to men.

Last week, I was working in a large middle class area in Hong Kong known for it's clean outdoor lifestyle, it's birth rate, it's drunken middle aged white population, and its key parties. I am certain you can see the links. Those of you from HK can no doubt guess where I am talking about.

Anyhoo. I was waiting for a bus. It was a pleasant night.

Beside me sat two women with babies in push chairs. As they were speaking in English I could not help but overhear.

" That's a lovely necklace"

"Thanks, yes, I don't often wear it this late in the year, It's more my summer jewelry, but it's still so warm I thought I could get away with it"

(Wendy now turns to look at this so called 'Summer Jewelry'. she observes a gold chain and pendant that COULD be considered summery.....she thinks........)

" Oh, yes, I think it's still warm enough to wear Summer Jewelry"

(Wendy now makes mental note to inspect her own jewelry to check she has not been wearing earrings out of season.)

"I saw your Paul the other day, he's got a little grey on his temples"

"Yes, he does, and a small patch on the back of his head, it's quite bizarre"

" I know what you mean, Jasper's got a small amount of grey at the top of his head, and a small amount of grey on the left side of his chest, just under his nipple- it's TOTALLY crazy"

( Wendy starts to feel as if she has entered the twilight zone)

"I told Paul about the grey patch on the back of his head and he said he hadn't noticed, how insane is that?"

" Men are so silly aren't they?"

"by the way, did Lily sew your stroller blanket?"

"Yes, how did you know, did she do yours too?"

"yes, but with mine she was able to sew it so that you can't see the seam, see, the pattern on my fabric repeats, whereas your doesn't"

"Oh yes, you're right, but it's because my fabric has Elephants and Giraffes, so the pattern is less consistent, your one has flowers so it's easier....."

I had to push my fingers into my ears to stop the blood from squirting out.

It was chronic. I know it's only small talk- excellent term btw- but imagine if that was ALL you EVER did.

For these women I suspect it is.

I know, I've been there. I turned to drugs.

Playing dumb is not just for housewives either.

I know of a woman who is soooooooo enamored of a talented but broken man, that she allows him to pretend she doesn't exist publicly whilst bonking her privately. She plays along in spite of her education, talent and beauty.

She could have anyone, but because this man wants to maintain some sort of independent image to the rest of the world she is a carefully guarded secret. Like having Herpes but shagging sans condom.

Of course eventually the truth will out, but perhaps not until she has become a little broken herself. This one is young, so I forgive her. One only hopes that if her plans and dreams all come to nothing, she will be able to forgive herself.

He is my age. She has my permission not to forgive him.

Over the years I talked at some length with hundreds of woman of substance about the proliferation of middle aged men wearing the latest seasons 20 somethings as accessories.

Unfortunately it starts to sound like sour grapes.

Perhaps.

But so fucking what? It isn't always. Sometimes it's the incredulity at the men and the equal incredulity at the women that makes it open for discussion.

As someone who is not prepared to limit myself to small words and lengthy silences to please a male I find it breath taking when I meet woman who will.

For what girls? For a PENIS????

How long can you smash at a glass ceiling with one of those things before giving up and going to lunch?

There is a woman of substance in my circle with a highly technical, senior management style job. Very much the sharp end of the stick.

And yet the minute a man enters the room she forgets how to open an envelope.

He could have his knuckles trawling the floor and breath that would kill a seal, and yet his presence alone means she can no longer perform simple maths.

"Oh I don't know how much the bill is, lets see, there are 3 of us and it's 300 dollars, you work it out Roderick, you have a hairy chest".

This woman is hot. Seriously hot.

And rich, and smart, and funny.

I like boys in bed and I'd do her.

Guys will do her too, but the only ones she seems to want are the ones who see past all her amazing qualities and are looking straight into her pants to see if childbirth has made her kitten parts stretchy.

"Stop looking at my substance, and treat me like I am nothing" She seems to say.

And they do.

Surprise, surprise, surprise.

I started this by saying I have seen things more than once.

I am putting out a call.

My sisters.

Stop this pattern of behaviour now.

You are worthy.

You have value.

You are worth more.

And the world will still like you even if you speak your mind, take a stand and have values and standards you wish to uphold.

It's OK to be smart.

It's OK to be you.

Men are OK with you being you too, at least, the good ones are.

I'm too old to get angry about this issue anymore, and my frustration is now directed at the women who perpetuate the myth rather than the men whom I used to accuse of creating it.

If women continue to treat themselves as objects then how can we accuse men of doing anything other than copying our example?

We have been through the period of the Female eunuch, we have tried emasculating men- to the point where THEY don't know who they are anymore either- now it's time to get back to nature and let the men have the dangly bits and the ability to fight mammoths without the need for a group hug and some counselling and for the woman to get on and do what they do best, which is pretty much everything else.

Ignorance is not bliss. Bliss is Bliss. Ignorance- even pretendy ignorance- is still just ignorance.

Hi, I'm looking for a Penis, and you look like a Dick.

I am about to open up about my sex life.
So if the mental image of me gettin' jiggy wid' it is likely to cause permanent retinal scaring, it's best you change the channel now.
Right, now that my kids are no longer reading this, lets talk.
I love sex. I truly do. Always have, and hopefully always will.
There have been times in my life when the 'on' button has been temporarily 'offed' as the ESLers say, but these were miserable times.
After the breakup of my marriage I took a voluntary vow of celibacy, which was lucky because it coincided with a drop in libido that could at best be described as an Arctic winter and at worst a nuclear decimation of all things physical.
My spiritual self was in desperate need of repair, my physical body was also a wreck having spent an amount of time in purgatory being punished for having the audacity to house my wounded soul.
My heart was barely beating, and there was nothing short of a small car battery and a set of nipple clamps that was going to make my clitoris thump in time to music.....which it did, but we will get to that part later......
Being celibate by choice is incredibly life enhancing, but only for short periods of time and not really if you are a man of the cloth.
What?
You don't read the papers?
Give me a break.
In fact, if I may just talk about something other than myself for a moment, can we all just admit now that asking people to give up all sexual desires and dedicating ones self to an organisation based on guilt and secrecy is NOT what any God- (if in fact there is a God which I personally believe there is not but back to the burning bush issue )- would have had in mind when he designed genitalia.
It's for reproduction, that sex organ in your hand gentlemen, and if God didn't want you to have sex, he'd have left it out of the blueprint.
He's like that.
He's a GOD.
Anyhoo, back to my sex life.
Back then, I was celibate because I was broken and I needed the energy to repair, which I did.
And then, I found a fuck buddy.
Well, actually, I didn't FIND him, I knew him- hence the term buddy, we'd just never had sex before.
Now, this town is small, so there will be no names, but I just want to acknowledge publicly that THAT sex was the best sex I had ever had in my life up to that point, and I know my way around the fleshy bits.
Perhaps it was the fact that it was just pure, unadulterated, no other agenda, hard core fucking.
Perhaps it was the fact that with no fear of judgement attached I could ask for, and receive any old kinky shit I wanted.
Hell, he was getting free sex, what did he care if I needed to be blindfolded and trussed up like a turkey just to get the engine ticking over?
His needs were somewhat secondary, no offense.
I was trying to raise the Titanic, his job was to provide the ropes, not lead the orchestra.
Anyway, it worked. I climbed down from my mountain hideaway and back up into that saddle and onto that horse.
And for that I shall love him always.
That was a while ago, and my buddy and I - having sorted out my shit- are back to being friends without the benefits.
Since that time, things in the bedroom department have veered from the pedestrian to the outlandish depending on a number of factors some of which have been spoken about here before.
Singledom for a White Woman in Hong Kong is a tremendously complicated emotional maze designed by blind architects and built by packs of rabid out of work circus performers lacking opposing thumbs.
If you wade your way to the centre of the minefield you will be met by marauding hoards of tone deaf musicians murdering love ballads whilst standing on mounds of broken hearts and piles of shattered dreams.
Then, if you can make your way over the tinder dry flammable bridges littering your path and out the other side with a sense of humour still attached to your lips, you may just meet someone almost worthy of sharing a taxi and an AIDS Test Appointment with.
If not, it's back into the maze you go for another round of shits and giggles.
However a bonk- as the British say- is not quite as complicated.
Getting laid, if one wishes to get laid, can happen rather more easily and without the need for a ball of string, a compass and an emergency matchbox filled with Mercury.
Now I know as I write this, that there are many ladies- some of whom I know will read my drivel- who will disagree.
Often I hear my sisters in arms complain of the lack of a hard man coming into their neighborhood or coming anywhere near ANY hood for that matter, but I think that this 'Donger Drought' needs some further investigation.
Because girls, it is out there.
You just have to know a) where to look and b) what it is you are ACTUALLY looking for.
Men do not multi task.
We know this.
Evolution has dictated that the male of the species, being generally bigger and slightly simpler, be used to carry out important tasks like hunt and kill.
You will note that these two things are not actually two things, but one thing with two different names.
Therefore, men can do one thing at a time. And they do that one thing with skill and high levels of concentration.
This was once useful because if they fucked up, they would die.
Woman do multi task.
Evolution has dictated that the female of the species handle every other bloody thing on the 'to do' list whilst men are busy concentrating on a task such as taking out the garbage or drinking beer.
And yet woman think- and for this they have only themselves to blame- that if they can get a man to have sex with her, he may be thinking of a way to form a partnership and maybe buy a house together.
Sweetheart. When a man is having sex with you, he is thinking about the sex he is having with you RIGHT THEN AND THERE.
When he has orgasmed, he falls asleep. He is no longer thinking AT ALL.
When he wakes up, he is thinking about either food, his full bladder or his next task.
He is NOT thinking about the 'love you just made', that's your job, along with finding out where the condom went so the maid doesn't find it and wiping the strawberry flavoured fun jelly off the mirror.
I know this is true because- remarkably for a woman so clearly marked by oestrogen overload- when it comes to sex, I am wired like a guy.
Which might also go some way to explaining how it is that no matter what my waist size, my beauty regime or the height of my heels, when it comes to 'Booty' I get what I want, when I want it.
It's mental.
And by this I don't mean "Oh my God Wendy, you are totally mental" I mean the sex you want to have is available to you if you adopt the right frame of mind.
But there is a MASSIVE clue as to what is real in the last statement.
THE SEX YOU WANT TO HAVE.
Many women I know tell themselves, and others, that at their age, the only sex they want is with a 26 year old Swedish back packer named Gustav who is working his way 'round the globe with little more than an beaten up old guitar and a 9 and a half inch prick.
Bullshit.
These are the same ladies- and girls, I love you, I do- who will weep into their skinny lattes when Gustav discovers that for less than the price of a happy meal he can hump a 19 year old named Wincy and stay in her families beach house for free.
Such is the way of things.
He was NEVER thinking about tomorrow, he was thinking about THEN and THERE and when you are not THEN and THERE his mind, and his lovely prick, will wander.
It's not because he's an arsehole, it's because YOU told the universe that all you wanted was mindless sex, when what you REALLY wanted was someone to hold, and there is NOTHING wrong with that, it just wasn't the truth.
Last night I heard the words Cougar Town being used within earshot of my good self.
I am not a cougar.
I do not hunt in so narrow a field.
Some days I do not hunt at all.
I am a busy girl.
I have a MAJOR 'To Do' list with me at all times.
I do have 'needs', but I do also have an alarming number of toys that buzz and whirl and I am excellent at wand work.
If time is short, and the urge arises, I will set my vibrator to 'Stun' and still make my lunch meeting, hair and make-up in place.
If time is less pressing, and there is no 'significant swordsman' filling my inbox , I will survey the landscape and send up the smoke signals.
If I decide I may want more than the fulfilling of my immediate needs, then I shall sit still and wait.
The Ox is slow, but the Earth is patient, little grasshopper.
It's about knowing what you TRULY, TRULY want, and then having the courage to ask for it, and the balls to grab it when you see it.
Sound like hunting?
I guess it is.
That's how guys do it, and if you want to get some-just like the guys always seem to, even the fat, bald, old ugly ones - then you will have to embrace that attitude or forevermore be at one with the power of the AA battery.
Tell yourself the type of sex you want, whisper it to the Sun, and then walk out the door and get it.
Simple as that.
Do not lie to yourself, or to the Wind, because your lie will sit there like a fart in a still room.
Do not shy away from being satisfied.
Why should you?
Have you done something that means you are no longer worthy of succumbing to pleasures of the flesh?
Are you dead?
I think not.
And if you should find yourself yearning only for true and deep love, DO NOT SETTLE for anything less.
You deserve that too, and no one will judge you- least of all me.
Once at a party, I sat next to a woman who was clad head to toe in Red Latex.
I never learned her name.
I was not supposed to.
She was in total submission which was, I was assured, her unbridled desire.
Her 'keeper' informed me that this behaviour was the very thing that had kept their 24 year strong marriage together, such are the exotic tastes out there in the marketplace.
I sat quietly beside her and ignored her as best I could.
Ever the talker, the list of questions I did NOT ask her nearly drove me to distraction.
Having endured the silence for as long as I could manage, and with the arrival of a man pierced through the cock ( a Prince Albert) with a chain linked to his dog collar being led around the room by his huge and hairy boyfriend to distract me, I stood to leave.
Without wishing to break The Rules, I turned away from Little Red Rubber Hood- the name I had given her- and started to leave.
She suddenly gave a shudder and a moan, looked up at me and whispered " Thank you".
We had just had sex and all the while, I had had no idea I was even playing.
Jesus wept.
If only it was that simple for everyone, think of how much money we'd save on booze.
Happy hunting Girls.

With Balls Like These, I Don't Need a Parachute.

"Sometimes the reason we go off the rails is because we are at the end of the line".

Ever heard someone say something so profound that the next 5 minutes are a total blur as your mind struggles to process a truth so significant all else becomes white noise?
That happened to me the other day over a chicken salad and a bowl of suspect pumpkin soup.
I was lunching with a friend whom I have known for a number of years.
This man is noteworthy for a number of reasons, namely his creativity, his intelligence, his accent and his startling blue eyes. Mostly his eyes. And perhaps his accent.......and the colour of his eyes.....anyhoo......I digress........

It got me thinking as one does, about the importance of sexy eyes, as well as the importance of courage.

I am a fan of people of all sexes having Great Big Balls.
I have the words "Fortune Favours the Brave" tattooed on my forearm so that when I'm dead, I will still be bear witness to the concept of being fearless.

Guts, intestinal fortitude, ticker,pluck, grit, call it what you will, being able to close your eyes and step off the ledge with a great big "Fuck You I'm doing this anyway" on your lips is the stuff legends are made of.
Sometimes, outright audacity is a silent kind of quality unrecognised to the untrained eye.

Here I am thinking about people with serious challenges just going about their daily lives.

Blind people cross roads every day. Ever closed your eyes and tried to go about YOUR day?

I wouldn't make it much past the getting dressed stage.

Autistic people sitting in shopping malls having lunch when every cell in their body is screaming ' get the fuck out of here, NOW'.

Quietly, calmly, these people climb insurmountable heaps of 'too bloody hard', without a single person witnessing their heroism.

And sometimes the approach to venturesomeness is so loud it attracts words like 'recklessness' and 'derring-do'.

When it works, when the leap into the abyss means you landing safely into a bed of success and happiness, everyone around you says " Wow, that was amazing , what cliff will you be jumping off next?"

But when it doesn't.....oh, ho ho ho.......as the fat man in the red suit says.

No matter.

Valor and tenacity are placed side by side in the Thesaurus.

If at first you don't succeed, build a better mouse trap and all that.

Well, that's the theory anyway.

Truthfully walking all the way up the hill just to jump off the bastard to land in the pile of shit that forms at the bottom time and time again can be wearing.

But then of course, there's the thrill of the jump.

The definition of courage is not 'winning', or 'being right'. The definition of courage is 'the quality of spirit to face danger without fear'.

That 'spirit' is a hungry little bugger, and it feeds on one thing, and one thing alone.....the rush that comes when you realize you may have seriously fucked up, so you had better stay and kill The Dragon or run away.

Good old fashioned adrenalin.

Such an overwhelmingly sensational drug that chemists and Bolivian farmers have been trying to replicate it for thousands of years.

And yet there is NOTHING on the market, and let me tell you I have researched the market THOROUGHLY, that comes anywhere near it.

So having big kahunas, and being prepared to whip them out and use them when required is the most potent form of sexiness available to man, and it's free and always on tap.

Then why the fuck are we living in a world afraid of its own shadow?

Fear of saying the wrong thing, of failing, of succeeding?

Fear of exposing ourselves as being human, and with faults.

Fear of speaking out our desires, expressing our needs, owning up to our anger, our disappointment, our hurts, our love, our passions.

Bland may be bland, but at least it's safe, and on that you may quote me, but only with lashings ginger beer and sarcasm smeared over the top.

Most of us at some point struggle with just being who we are.

And yet to express that struggle is seen as dangerous by those for whom hiding the truth seems somehow less twisted.

So what does this have to do with Old Blue Eyes?

Not much, except in that one statement he managed to free me from years of guilt about a dark

time in my life.

What a fucking liberation, let me tell you.

I kept completely still for a good 10 minutes after he said it- a record for my fidgety self- and breathed in the air of self forgiveness while my internal organs exploded, a carpet of peony's instantly bloomed inside my brain and my heart resumed a rhythm it had not played since I was a very small child.

You see, I once had to be very brave and hurt people in order to save myself.

I have laid blame squarely on my own shoulders for a long time.

But the truth is, I had just had enough, I was at the end of the line, and I faltered, and I came off the rails.

That's hard for me to say.

I have always believed myself to be strong enough to carry as much burden as was needed.

But lionheartedness -what an amazing word- is not always about standing on the precipice all by yourself preparing to leap into the great unknown.

Sometimes it's about looking around and asking for help.

Intellectually I know this.

And in fact I have done it, but never without the secret shame of believing myself to be weak at that moment.

So now you know.

I am strong only because I am afraid of being weak.

You see the irony in there?

Please tell me you see the irony in there because I'm shit at drawing diagrams on this computer.

After lunch I went home and had a little cry, but they were not sad tears, just wet ones.

Into every life, a little rain must fall, as they say.

This morning a horrible Faux European woman with cartoon sized watermelon breasts, a moustache and the unenviable skill of appearing even more stupid than she actually is, accused me of 'having a lot of gall'....which in her head appears to be considered some kind of insult.

I have never been more delighted in my life.

Perhaps for her gall implies bitterness and rancor,certainly that is one of it's meanings, but I prefer the Yiddish interpretation of the word.

For them, gall is audacity and audacity, as we know, is courage.

"You" she seemed to be saying " have a lot of courage".

Well, tie me to the Old Oak Tree and stick Peacock feathers in my VJJ.

Guilty as charged.

So back up the dung heap of human spinelessness I go, wings, wax and a ball of string in hand to once again leap into the cavernous spaces left open by the fainthearted, a renewed sense of self my torch to light the way.

I may land in the fire........or maybe even in a soothing pool just the right shade of blue.

Me doth protest, she thinks too much !!!

I am in a funny place.

Not in terms of location -although had you wandered into my street this week you would have observed a temporary bamboo theatre created to hold 8 or 9 monks in various stages of elaborate costume and stick on moustaches with Paper Mache dolls on chairs and bells, clangy things and joss sticks warding off hungry ghosts- no no, I mean mentally.

Don't say anything rude.

I am self aware.

And perhaps that is the problem.

There are times when I wish I knew myself less.

That way, when I behave in a certain manner, or think a certain way, it would all seem as if it had come out of the blue and before I could understand it, the behaviour and the thinking would be gone.

That 'Blissful ignorance' thing everyone always goes on about.

Trouble is, I have never held that to be true.

I know ignorant people and they are not blissful, they are ignorant.

Anyhow, back to me.......

I am currently at the pointy end of a play production.....not my first.....not my last....just another one.

Producing and Directing a play (and this time I am doing both, with assistance) is like creating a child that will be born an adult and will be made up of dozens of other adults who remain somehow frozen in their own childhoods.
I do not mean this to sound in anyway derogatory or defamatory.

It is simply a fact that in order to tap into our own creativity as adults we MUST remain open to the wonder of our childlike states.

The world is rough.

Real life is scary and confronting.

If we were to look at it with the dry disconnection of a scientist we would see that, on paper, there is little to be amused, inspired and delighted by.

But we DO find joy, and love and harmony, and beauty, and richness and laughter.

We DO reach out to embrace tomorrow.

We DO believe in the world.

We forgive, and we forget, and we try again.

And that hope, that belief, that desire to create magic where none exists is our inner child.

Our better self.

I am always confused by people who say that they don't like children.

What's not to like?

They are us.

Only smaller.

And less able to lie.

But back to me.........

This 'Process'- this 'Creation of a Play' works in three parts.

There is the Early Stuff-Auditions/Casting/ Booking things/Team building/Blocking-

There is the Middle Bit- Rehearsal/Production stuff/Emotional well being of the cast/characterization/ drinking too much/ exhaustion.

And then there is The Death- The Performance Itself.

You did not misread that, for this is the truth.

For the directer, and for the Producers, the play is finished before it ever hits the stage.

Don't get me wrong, in all my years I have never missed a performance and I will stand there patting backs and kissing foreheads until the last punter has left the theatre.

I give notes after performances, when things are quiet.

But I am in mourning.

My child has left me, and will soon be gone.

I think for people in my position, the fact that the Child is so happy to be free and walk on it's own- and by this I mean the enormous momentum of a cast and crew working in unison- is a kind of tortured double sworded joyous relief.

Yes, it is simply fantastic and totally rewarding to see it.

But I have never yet spoken to a directer who didn't utter the words " Well, that one's done" after Every. Single. Performance.

So,back to me and my funny place.

I recently went through a bout of melancholy.

Nothing major.

Frustration and a general desire for less bad news on the television and more forward motion on a personal level.

It lasted 4 days.

I kept working, kept talking to people, kept exercising and it passed.

I am ever vigilant for the shadow of The Black Dog.

Having been in it's company once before for a debilitatingly long period of time, and having learned from the past, I did what any self respecting insecure Obsessive Compulsive Egotist would do.

I wrote witty emails.

Not one, dozens.

To all sorts of people.

Most of them friends.

(Hopefully, they are still friends).

I wrote useful things like 'Tips for this and that'.

I wrote loving things like ' This is what this and that means to me'.

I wrote cross things like 'This is what I think of that'.

But all of them bursting with razor sharp observations and comic brilliance.

And sat back awaiting their over awed responses.

Silence can be so quiet sometimes.

Of course,people have lives of their own.

They have families, and jobs, and stuff to do after they have been with their families and at their jobs.

I do too.

I have all those things.

And I know- and here is where the self awareness thing really scores an own goal- I know that MY need to communicate my tumultuous 'look how fast I can tap dance to the tune of my own heart beating' has very little to do with all the things that makes THEM dance to THEIRS.

I know, and I knew then, that MY need to cut the air and fight the demons with the only weapons I have- my words- is more about me looking for the reassurance that it was going to be OK, than it was to show everyone how clever I am.

I know I'm clever, what I sometimes need is to know that I'm Still Here.

The book of that name by ABC journalist and mother Anne Deveson dealt with the heartbreakingly sad destruction and ultimate death of her son due to the horror that is Schizophrenia.

I am not schizophrenic, if I was, I would tell you.

But when I read that book many years ago, I was struck by that phrase.

Oprah calls it 'affirmation' and I have talked about it before.

It's when you look in the mirror and think..."is that what I really look like?"

It's when the child inside you calls out just to check that there is someone there when the lights go off.

And to check that you are still there too.

When someone says " I can hear you, I can see you", all the doubts, all the shadows, the shallow breathing, melts away.

Reply emails started appearing.

No one was worried about my mood.

Happy, buoyant and witty- that word again- I was clearly on top of things.

"Oh Wendy, you are so funny'- yeah tell me about it, I'm fucking dying here.

I wanted to send out follow up emails headlined.

AM BEING HILARIOUS-PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE

But even I knew that that sounded desperate and clingy.

Eventually my inbox filled up.

Frankly, I didn't need to read them.

I just needed to know I wasn't alone.

I am loved, I know that.

I have three children with whom I have a passionate mutual love affair, and always will.

I am blessed with the strength of friendships they make sitcoms out of.

But I am letting go of yet another creation that must take flight in order thrive, and it hurts.

I know another will come along and replace it, and I will fall as deeply in love with its process as I have the others, and I will grieve when it comes to life as I have done with all the rest.

And it's not ego.

It's not 'My Vision'.....for fucks sake, what is that in a collaboration...?

It's not even really about me.

You see, when I do my job properly, I am invisible.

And maybe it's about that.

Maybe it is.

Blink.....and you'll miss me.

You have a lot of potential, but if you have sex with me you will win

When did we start replacing proper words with their soft cock shadowy options?
When did 'Second Place' become 'Runner Up'?
When did 'being crap at something' become 'having room for improvement' ?
When did 'I am fucking stoked I've won, I've earned it and it's no surprise because the others were shite' become 'it's been an amazing opportunity and I am grateful for all the support of everyone in this competition' ?

Yes, yes.....political correctness.

I'm not new here.

I know.

We soften the blows because we want everyone to feel good about themselves.

Ugly girls have great personalities, insane people are creative, and small dick men know how to use them.

(Christ how I hope that that's true, Dear Baby Jebus PLEASE let that be true, I somehow feel that's not true)

Since the day that Janet Jackson ripped off her blouse to show us her star swaddled Boobie, Gen X's such as myself have lumbered under the weight of 'wardrobe malfunctions, imitation jewellery, pleather and faux fur'.

In my mothers day they would have called all that stuff 'attention seeking, cheap tat, vinyl and fake shit'.

It's the same number of words- go ahead and count them- it's just a LOT less letters.

The prefix that irritates me most, and yes, I know that sounds pedantic, is 'MAL'.

In Latin it means bad, badly, harsh, wrong, ill, evil, abnormal,or defective.

I have mentioned one here already 'Malfunction' which basically means 'busted' or 'broken'....but it appears we no longer wish to hurt the feelings of inanimate object as well, so instead of saying " This computer is BROKEN" we say " This computer is MALFUNCTIONING". Because 'broken' sound so harsh and final, whereas 'malfunctioning' has the word 'FUNCTION' in it, and therefore sounds like there might be some hope.

For that reason we use the word MALADJUSTED instead of PSYCHO, MALCONTENT instead of ARSEHOLE, MALINGERING instead of LYING, MALODOROUS instead of SMELLY and MALICIOUS instead of BITCH.

Note the 'licious' part of that word. Sounds yummy doesn't it?

"What's your new boss like?"

"Oh she's really mal........licious".

"Well, that's nice".

When we add the word 'lingering' to the prefix for 'bad' it sounds like we are hanging back a little, and not terribly well, just wasting time in a sort of romantic manner.

What it doesn't sound like is that we are being an irresponsible cheating twat.

I blame the state we are in on cheap and plentiful education of the white middle classes.

We think big words make us sound smarter.

Everyone knows it is human nature to complicate the simple for the sake of drama or a bit of sport.

When we all went looking for nuts and berries, no one was fat.

Now we can have entire cows delivered cooked to the door, we need gyms.

And weight loss pills, and personal trainers, and running shoes, and support groups, and nutritionists, and sports bras and hand held weights and nautilus machines, and organised fitness classes with excellent names like BODY COMBAT and PUMP UP THE MUSCLES SO YOU LOOK FREAKIN' AWESOME, ALRIGHT GOOD JOB !!!. ( that's not a real one).

We used to take the stairs to get up to the tops of buildings, now we take the lift and go to the Gym to spend an hour sweating with 2 dozen others as we go up and down on an extruded plastic stair.

Of course to do this, we need to take our water bottle, towel, shoes, gym clothes ( including sports bra), membership card and lip gloss- just in case we see someone nice.

It's complicated.

And it is a lot to remember.

And sometimes I forget things 'cause I'm getting old.

But I digress.

Lets bring language BACK to the point where it has meaning again.
Let's scratch of the slough that we have allowed to form over the scabs that are The Wounded Words.

I'm not suggesting cruelty.

I don't think telling the father of a new born that his precious bundle is neither better nor worse looking than any other newborn who has been squeezed from between the hips and out of the vaginal canal of it's mother and that it just looks like a baby.

Coo all you want.

But for Pete's sake, lets at least get back to a place where a kid failing Maths at school is told " You are failing Maths, it appears you are shit with numbers, so you had better find something that you are good at or you are FUCKED" .

'Cause that is a hell of a lot easier to say, and carries more meaning than" There certainly is some room for growth and development in areas such as numeracy and there appears to be some malalignment between expectation and output, although I can see you are defiantly making some inroads and with some more guidance and encouragement you may achieve a level of success, in the meantime you might consider your options and strengths in other areas or you may discover a reduction of options at a later date".

A Spade, A Spade.

It will hurt less than you think, and in the long run it will go a long way to healing the pain of a generation of men and women in their late 30's and early 40's who discovered too late that their androgynous pop stars were all actually closet homosexuals, their Ergonomic Chairs were a ploy to sell broken furnature to yuppies, and that Janet's Wardrobe Malfunction was a publicity stunt with a built in tear away patch and a stuck on nipple shield.