Category Archives: LOL

I woke up like this… Unfortunately.

I recently ran into a friend from university. Twice. In one day. Having been ‘alone’ for a while I took that as an invitation to end up in his bed. Not overly proud of it but, hey, girls just want to have fun, right!?

Normally, my golden rule is to bring the man to yours: always play a home game. There are multiple bonuses to this strategy: having your beauty products at the ready the next morning being one of them. (Not having to do the walk of shame another).

When I awoke the next morning I was suffering something much worse than ‘buyers remorse’. I had a tongue that could sand a table. My lips were caked in skin cells. My contacts had shrunk into my retinas. On top of that, my head throbbed and I couldn’t find my underwear (withhold judgment, please).

I couldn’t find anything remotely sexy about the situation. The previous night might have been loads of fun but the morning light was just far too harsh. My dear old companion didn’t seem to have so many qualms about his appearance – while I shied away from all human contact he was begging for round two.

I was infinitely concerned that he was thinking he’d gone to bed with a 10 and woken up with a 2. I wish in that moment I could be photoshopped into the woman I’d been on the dance floor only hours earlier.

I retreated to the ensuite and utilised the minimal arsenal I had in my clutch – bronzer, lip balm and contact drops. No transformation is complete without the old ‘toothpaste on the teeth’ trick. I emerged looking only slightly less dishevelled that I had been going in.

My friend quipped that I hadn’t taken long to which I wryly replied “you can’t polish a turd”. Classy.

There is a reason I never play an away game and my appearance that morning was it. As my friend so gallantly drove me home, I couldn’t even bring myself to give him a kiss goodbye. That furry feeling I had coating my teeth and the taste of last nights tequila didn’t the ideal kissing situation make. If he misinterpreted my cold farewell as a lack of affection I don’t blame him – I’d have been confused too!

If I’ve lost a potential date because I didn’t have access to baby wipes and a decent BB cream I’m going to be seriously pissed. And Beyonce – I blame you!

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Would you like a side of sex with that?

At a recent friends birthday party, I happened upon his attractive friend. There was instant chemistry, mainly assisted by a roaring fire and copious amounts of alcohol. After a good half an hour flirt, he asked me to the bar. My rubber arm didn’t require much twisting.

Once there however, the night went from normal to strange very quickly: Alice fell down the rabbit hole. He offered me a sample of the illicit drugs he’d been toting around. Now I’m no angel but I also don’t accept MDMA caps from someone who is essentially a complete stranger. However I decided to run with it and let him pour it in my glass of chardie: which I promptly proceeded to pour down the sink of the nearest women’s bathroom without taking a sip.

I’ve since learnt that being high and pretending to be high are two completely different kettle of fish. I don’t think I’ll be winning an Oscar for portrayal of a drug addict anytime soon. I had no idea how someone on caps is supposed to act but I obviously wasn’t doing it. Within a few hours I was blatantly boozed while my tall, handsome drug-dealing pash was clearly off chops.

The birthday party moved back to an apartment in the inner city and before long I was kissing the mysterious stranger. Kissing, and yawning. It was, after all, almost 3 in the morning and I’m not known for my stamina. My wannabe lover enquired as to whether the effects had ‘worn off’, having no idea that they’d never kicked in! He was still clearly relishing the effects of the chemical reactions while I was on my way to the Land of Nod. Not ideal. After a couple of minutes he promptly stood up off the couch and declared that he was leaving to go back out. I had no issues with that, clearly myself wanting to make a dash for the door and my bed some few blocks away. Preferably alone. He walked to the door of the apartment before turning and somewhat dramatically returning to my side where he ever so politely enquired:

Did you want to have sex?

Not your normal invitation. I think he was just trying his luck, of which he didn’t have much. Needless to say he didn’t get lucky that night but I did have a giggle the next morning relaying his proposition to my girlfriends.

That was until I got a text at 8 am asking if I’d care to drop round to his place.

He might have been ridiculous, but least he was a gentleman.

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Stuck on my elevator

Chance meetings can be serendipitous; ending in love scenes which wouldn’t be out of place in a Richard Curtis movie.

Last week I had one of my own, that, whilst not yet ended, I can tell you would be more suited to a scene out of Australia’s Funniest Home Videos. Without the ‘boom tish’.

We met out in a bar. I was sober (with the flu, not out of choice) and chaperoning a best friend on her birthday. For some reason I had resisted the temptation to smoke bomb into the night at every turn, and we all ended up at a local dive bar, devouring tacos late into the night. As I was walking (nay: stumbling in a Sudafed- induced haze) back from the bar, I was approached by a young man who I instantly recognised as working in my building. Awkward eye contact, followed by a hasty introduction to him and his friends before I returned to my table was the extent of the effort I could make in my feverish stupor.

It wasn’t until I went to the bathroom that he approached my friends, managed to secure my mobile phone number and started a very interesting and very public texting session. I was doing my best to be both witty and cute whilst snot dribbled to my top lip and I was doing my best just to stay upright. After a few cheeky exchanges, we decided to unite our tables. His friends met my friends to mixed levels of success until we disappeared into the night.

Over the next few days we harmlessly texted back and forth, mostly sticking to safe topics including other inhabitants of the buildings lifts and his job interview. Despite him knowing where and when I work, there was no invitation to lunch or even coffee.

In a moment if weakness I whinged to my secretary about his lack of ability to set up another meeting. In a moment of stupidity we decided to google him, little did I know my not so private Linked In profile would automatically log in, allowing him to easily see I had stalked him. Without knowing his last name. Nor was I aware that my secretary had also gone back to her desk to show his portrait to a number of colleagues so that they too, could be on the look out for cute elevator boy.

It wasn’t until my phone dinged minutes later from said elevator boy, asking why me and my colleagues were all checking out his credentials that the penny dropped. Mortified would be an understatement. The boy thing to do was to laugh hysterically for half an hour, then cheekily respond:

sprung…

Luckily for me he saw the funny side.

A couple of days later I got a knock on my office door from a colleague, passing on a greeting from a tall handsome man she’d met in the lift. I guess he’d decided to meet me on my level: cute but creepy.

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Hey I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my number…

Stage 5 clinger. Bat shit. Intense. Stalkerish.

Chance are if you’ve broken up with a man, you’ve been called one of these. If not to your face, then assume its been muttered behind your back. It’s the horrible truth that because women, you know, feel, that we can sometimes be labelled emotional. As emotions are the work of the hysterical female psyche, they are bad. Hence, when you show them, even totally justifiably, you are automatically banished to the kingdom of crazy.

A brilliant article by Harris O’Malley on the Huffington Post says it better than I ever could:

The trend of labeling women “crazy” is part of the culture that socializes women to go along to get along. When women are told over and over again that they’re not allowed to feel the way they feel and that they’re being “unreasonable” or “oversensitive,” they’re conditioned to not trust their own emotions. Their behavior — being assertive, even demanding or standing up for how they feel — becomes an “inconvenience” to men and they’re taught not to give offense and to consider the feelings of others before their own.

You can read the article here.

It’s absolutely the worst catch 22 in any relationship. The second you protest that you’re not being ridiculous or overreacting, you start being ridiculous and overreactive. I couldn’t even count the amount of times an ex berated me with this argument. On more occasions than I’d care to admit, he would ask me to leave the house and not re-enter until I’d changed my attitude. Classic example of how my feelings were second to his. My concerns were bothering him, so he’d simply ask them to stop.

In hindsight, probably should of told him to stick it, but fear of being the crazy chick stopped me.

I barely ever go after a man I truly like for fear of the dreaded C- word label. If a girl even thinks about texting after its obvious it’s over then she gets smacked with the clinger stick.

So I propose a change. Let your freak flag fly ladies. Don’t be afraid to express your genuine feelings. Men will just have to learn to handle emotions as they come.

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Hell no! H2O!

Wing woman-ing takes a certain amount of finesse and tact.

There are times when I’ve exhibited such skills and achieved immeasurable success. Just last Friday, I managed to acquire my friend a suitable partner after she eyed him across the bar. A coy introductory line from me to him, deflection to her and a subtle exit to the bathroom some minutes later saw them exchange by the end of the evening both digits and saliva.

Other times, however, have not been so profitable for any party. After accompanying a good friend to meet her Romeo at a local bar, I was in the common position of being left with the ‘spare’. Don’t get me wrong, this guy wasn’t half bad (besides the tattoos and smug awareness that they did, in fact, up his street cred). Under normal circumstances however I can say with certainty he just wouldn’t have caught my eye. However sometimes when you’re single you must break out of that little comfort zone and branch out into the unknown. Unchartered waters.

So I took a chance on the inked man and after some (read:several) drinks we decided to take the whole party back to my place. My friend, her man, his wingman and me. Happy little family.

After a few more glasses of red and some not so subtle banging on the door from our neighbour I decided to retire to my boudoir. As nothing more than some heavy petting had transpired thus far between the spare and me, I politely stated in no uncertain terms that if he did wish to stay over (as his friend had already managed a bed space) he could “lie next to me with no funny business”. Clearly, it was the invitation of a life time because after agreeing with a cheeky smile and a pash, he followed me into the room before declaring he needed a glass of water.

Either he got lost on the 10 metre journey to the kitchen or we were fresh out of running tap water, because he never quite made it back. I don’t think any guy has made a mad dash for the exit of a girls apartment before he’s even tried his luck. But, true to my dating form, I heard the front door slam moments after he walked away from me. I peeked outside the bedroom room, expecting a knock and a sheepish “I took a wrong turn” explanation, but none came.

I consoled myself with the thought that he must have not been well but I really don’t think that to be the case. Needless to say, his friend and my friend were able to have a good giggle about it in the morning when they expected to see his at the breakfast table but I emerged alone.

I guess two wings don’t make a right.

“Please, God, don’t let anybody see me Please, God, I’ll do anything you ask me I promise no more walks of shame” – Walk of Shame, PINK

If you haven’t experienced this, my hat and heels off to you.

My worst “accompanied” walk of shame involved the guy I was seeing insisting of walking me home after a particularly large night. I could barely see straight let alone trying to make small talk. All my energy was devoted to keeping last nights kebab out of the public eye. This guy (in typical male fashion) was completely unperturbed by the fact that we’d downed enough tequila to kill a Mexican the night before. I had to sit through him ordering a large breakfast with all the trimming while I stirred my lemonade.

Still, it couldn’t be worse than being made to do the walk ALONE! I will never forgive this particular gentlemen for thrusting me out into the daylight like a new vampire one several separate occasions. I know, you’re wondering why I would put up with that on multiple occasions. When you figure it out, would you let me know. Anyway, having to hail a cab wearing yesterday’s suit and requesting to be dropped home rather than at work is, frankly, mortifying. I came accustomed to packing sunglasses when I thought I might end up out with him just to have facial cover up the next morning. The arsehole had every excuse under the sun for not driving me home in his perfectly functional Land Rover: “I lost my keys”, “the car is smelly this week”, “my parents are expecting me at the dock in like, 5 minutes” (I shit you not).

The dreaded walk of shame is something guys will never truly comprehend. They can muster the bed hair without so much as a second glance in the mirror, whilst girls skulk out into the sunlight dragging their dignity in their Phillip Lim 3.0.

If it can’t be avoided, follow the anthem blog’s golden rules:

Always pack fold up flats in your bag, heels in hand is a dead giveaway!
Sunglasses. Or a burka
Don’t under any circumstances get on public transport. Fork out for a cab no matter how far away you find yourself. You are trying to limit human interaction not encourage it.
Master a fake phone call scenario. This fantasy conversation should include stating loudly that you’re off to a event such as a wedding, birthday party. Anything that will excuse your current attire.
If your skirt is so short you can see your ovaries, borrow a big T or a pair of trackies, the boyfriend look is in even if you’re single.

If all else fails…fucking own it. You can guarantee all the joggers and mothers groups sipping on babycinos you strut past at 8 am are jealous they weren’t up all night to get lucky.

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Easy does it

“You could put a blond wig on a hot-water heater and some dude would try to fuck it.”
― Tina Fey, Bossypants

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Friday funday

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Stay sharp this weekend ladies TheAB x

“Get back, get back, get back to where you once belonged” – Get Back – John Lennon/Paul McCartney

Next week or so is my birthday. Yes I’m a typical Tauren. That’s another story.

It’ll be the first time in three years I’ve been single-lady-put-your-hands-up-in-the-club. After last years disaster I think it’s a blessing in disguise (boyfriend ever forgot your birthday? Kinda fizzles quickly). That however is also another story.

This post is centred around my last ‘potential’. Started out typically enough. Boy meets girl in club. Girl think he looks like a slighter shorter but just as delicious Bradley Cooper. Boy’s not so movie star quality friend hits on girl. Girl rejects. Tactically stages a run in at the unisex bathrooms… Subtlety never got anyone anywhere. Anywhoo… We had a hour conversation, a pash, exchanged numbers and I received an early morning wake up call via SMS saying it was nice to meet me. Witty exchange; date arranged.

First two dates I (quite unashamedly) got absolutely bungalowed. Not serving a lady with an appetite so much as a bar snack will result in that. Both dates, after a bet with my one of my besties that no hand action below the belt would occur before this mythical cut off point called ‘Date Four’, ended with me in a cab. Always cuddly, always a midnight kiss, always an early morning text.

Overall he wasn’t my ideal prototype. English, investment wanker, little shorter than I’d prefer (towered in heels) but, hey, you know beggars can’t be… Yeah yeah. Regardless, there was definite attraction and shit, he looked like Bradley Cooper. I wasn’t kicking him out of bed if he farted.

Turned out he had a little more aversion to bodily functions that I did. Third date was going swimmingly. Drinks at a hip Mexican cantina followed by a soggy wait in torrential (shared umbrella…cuuuute!) Sydney rain before standard Thai feed. Think he cottoned on that the way to my heart was through my stomach. Shame the dumplings I’d had for lunch didn’t also care to pass through my stomach. One whiff of our duck stir fry as it came to the table and the bile was in my throat quicker than you could say “Sawadeewherethefuckistheladies?”

Managed to excuse myself as politely as possible while drips of sweat (sorry ladies, we don’t always just perspire) formed on my brow. Made it to the bathroom, swallowed whatever breed of pork/shrimp/beef dumpling was coming up for seconds before dashing back to the table to retrieve my belongings. Apologised profusely that I wasn’t feeling well. One look at me and you could tell I was not A-OK in the whole living department. Bradley C looked longingly at said duck masterpiece which lay untouched on the table then back at me before promptly paying the bill like the gentleman he had no choice in this scenario but to be.

Stood again in the torrential rain (not so freakin cuuuute while suffering from acute food poisoning) whilst he rubbed my back and assured me it was fine. Only saving grace was that I made it to my front yard before… And that was the last I heard from Mr Coops. To my credit (he deserves none) I texted the next morning at the insistence of my mortified mother and sheepishly explained my predicament. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I could bullshit and say I’d learnt a lesson. But hell, I’d never be so idiotic as to tell a girl not to date a guy that looked like B-rad. So would go there in a heartbeat if I had my time again, even if he was a little too good to be true.

Think the only possible lesson to be learned is that the arbitrary ‘Date Four’ rule is there for a reason ladies. Use it wisely.