Freudians continue

Still working on women's underwear, still having to be terribly mindful of my freudian typos. This could be the result if I don't double check my spelling of the colour descriptor 'butter'...

A sweet girl's bikini, predominantly hot pink, with a trace of bugger around the edges.

Somehow, I don't think they would be very happy about that one.

I will be returning to the land of the living, or at least, the land of the blogging, very shortly. I have promised myself some days off at the end of this week to recuperate a little and rediscover the joys of a boozy lunch. Nothing better than the boozy lunch to loosen the blogging tongue!

All work and no play is making Hooch a very dull girl.

I hope you've all been out there misbehaving so I can at least have fun vicariously!

A quick glance around the work office shows nothing remarkable. An overweight, broaching middle-aged woman, sitting, focused on her computer, unconcerned with the conversations around her. She seems awkward in the space her body occupies, clumsy and shy… little do they know.

My lips. It’s like all the nerve endings in my lips are buzzing, hyper-aware. I make a slight pout, imperceptible to anyone around me, and my lips ache for contact. I am aware of them in a way I never would be about my nose, or my ears. If I blink, an image flashes in front of me… not even an image, more a sensation.

That incredible sensation when you know that a highly desired kiss is almost within touch. That slight draw in of breath because you sense how close they are, the anticipation of that initial soft contact. A slight brushing. An overload of sensation. And then, as my lips become familiar with his, they begin to explore, to lick, to suck, to probe. For the moment, my lips seem to have taken on their own desires, oblivious to my surrounds, and they crave. I gently brush my finger over my bottom lip, lightly circling around and over the cupid bow, smiling to myself at their precocious sensitivity.

My mind would wander, now to the skin on the back of my neck, with imagined lips grazing my nape, and strong fingers tracing around to the soft vulnerable skin at the base of my throat. If I closed my eyes, I could lean back against his sturdy chest and feel him trace his hands down my arms, my waist, brushing against the sides of my breasts.

My body yearns for contact. It is made for, tuned to, the touch of skin… responsive, eager, knowledgeable, keen.

A quick glance shows nothing remarkable. Just an overweight, broaching middle-aged woman, focussed on her computer.

*sigh*

A weekend over, and pretty much all I've done is mope about.

And now another week starts, which is going to be a hell week, work-wise.

*sigh*

Don't worry, I'm going to give myself a huge kick up the arse for an attitude adjustment... just thought I'd have a little whinge first :)

As I’m sure you’ve all figured out by now, I’m not the world’s most organised person. I tend to rarely (OK, closer to never) have things ironed ready to be worn. I’m an iron-as-I-go kind of person. And as you can imagine, with four (yeah, four, you wanna make something of it!!) cats, cat hair is a bit of an issue in my household. Well, it would be an issue if I was overly concerned about it. It was more of an issue for my allergic husband (past tense). Mind you, his allergies actually lessened when he lived with cats. It’s just when he visits that he puffs up like one of those blow fish. That’s ok. Good excuse for him not to visit ;-)

Anyway, back on track. This morning I was ironing a shirt. I turned my back to do something terribly exciting like throw on some slacks, and I heard the soft *pad* of a set of pussy cat feet jumping secretively onto something they know they shouldn’t be jumping on. I turn around and there is Ziggy on the ironing board (to which my immediate reaction is to freak out that he’ll get burnt, on the inside, while keeping my calm, there’s nothing to get worried about, animals should all stay calm so they don’t get more hurt than they already potentially will, on the outside).

So there he is, standing on my newly ironed shirt (grrrrr).

Do you guys have the sticky rollers, covered with adhesive tape, for picking up lint and, surprise, surprise, pet hair? I have one of those on the ironing board (ok, token effort to please my mother when she visits)… and there is my insane cat deciding to cut out the middle man and just rub his head all over it directly, instead!

Mmmmmm human-mum. It’s all tactile.

We’ll add to that him stealing a box of unopened dried cat food from the shopping bag this evening and chewing a neat corner off it so he could get to the contents. Must have been feeling a little peckish.

Cheeky little sod.

Oookay, so now I’ve done the blogger equivalent to walking out of the toilet with my skirt tucked into the back of my pantyhose…

It is stinking hot here. About 30 degrees, and it’s 10pm. Been ages since I can last remember a night that was so hot that I wasn’t able to sleep. (And I’ll be realistic, I’ll sleep tonight. I can sleep through anything.) When I was a kid I managed to sleep through a stolen car being set on fire in the reserve behind our house, as well as the fire truck and police that turned up. I did not hear a thing. That explains the necessity of at least two alarms by my bed. Even two struggle to rouse me from my deep (and no doubt noisy) slumber.

I’ve always been a night owl. I think initially it was my way of guarding the house when my mother was doing evening shifts. I like houses that have their own sounds, settling, groaning, creaking. And that house, with it’s flat cyclone roof, groaned with it’s own familiar voice, while the possums played heavy-footed tag on the roof. From tree to window to roof to window to tree… right next to my bed.

I can close my eyes and be back to lying on that bed, feel the soft slightly knobbly feeling of the blue bedspread under me as I lie on top, too hot to get under the covers. The breeze lightly shifting the curtains next to me, the moonlight shining brightly through the leaves. Their rustling. Our dog, Sam, pottering about doing his own rounds of the house, his collar making a gentle tinking sound. And the occassional ‘creeeeak craACK’ as the house cooled down from the hot summer day.

All it needs now is a small southerly buster to break the heat. That sound of heavy drops on the dusty ground. That smell. Hot rain on bitumen. Gee I love a storm.

One green bottle, sitting on the wall…

I’m sitting here, eating chocolate and contemplating yet another weekend that I’ve somehow managed to spend alone. For the last three weekends (at least) I have thought that I’d be spending Sunday catching up with a person who I regarded as a pretty close friend. Although we haven’t been friends for a long time, we have talked about a lot of very personal things, and we share the same sort of humour that just leaves me with tears running down my face.

Perhaps this is my fault. I am pretty easy going as a rule if things get called off. It is my habit to spend time alone, so is it such a big deal for me to revert to that habit? Maybe because I don’t make a big deal about things, people aren’t too concerned about rain-checking me. And I’m not very good at making firm plans. I had hoped to go to the beach today. Something I haven’t done for years. But I had not actually had a chance to run that by Amy, my friend. We were just planning on catching up for a beer.

So yes, what am I whinging about. I could have gone to the beach if I had wanted to. And so what if she was too tired to talk on Friday, as we had planned. Or that she decided to go out drinking on Saturday night when I thought we were going to have a big long chat session. Or that I haven’t heard a peep from her today about the catch up we were going to be having. Hmmmm.

I just don’t do friendships very well these days.

When I was a kid I was always more the type of person that had two or three very close friends rather than a huge gang of friends. I mean, I did have lots of mates, but not the sort of group that extended through into my adult life.

My two closest friends during high school were Serena and Tracy. Serena was my closest friend. Especially after Tracy got a boyfriend when she was 15 (who was a fair bit older than her) so she was at his place every weekend. He didn’t approve of the things Serena and I started to do (going out and seeing bands and drinking). So Tracy sort of dropped out of our lives except for school. That would change once we’d left school. But this is really about Serena.

Serena and I met when I started playing netball. We must have been about 8. We went to different primary schools, but played in the same weekend team. Her sister and mother were coaching and managing us one year. As my father wasn’t inclined to get involved in our activities (and he was the only one allowed to drive his car), I used to walk around to their place each weekend to get a lift to the games. I suppose that’s how we became friends. I was an awkward girl. Very shy and yet also very outspoken. I think that was a way of masking how conflicted I always felt. One day when we were waiting to leave for a game, I was sitting in Serena’s family living room. It was always chaos in their home. She was the youngest of five, three brother and her sister. They were all very sporty, and so Saturday mornings were a rush of uniforms and balls and lifts and kids from various teams meeting up. I wasn’t at all used to that sort of bedlam. Throughout it all, there was a knock at the door. Someone asked me to answer it, so I stood up and answered the door. Standing there was a boy a few years older than me, cute, and I just froze. And blushed. And he gave me that sort of look that made me feel like I was not even there. So I turned and walked away. Serena’s mum asked who it was, and I said "Dunno. Some creep." I have absolutely no idea what possessed me to say it. It was unlike me and I knew it was just wrong, wrong, wrong. When we got into the car, Serena’s sister turned from the front seat and gave me an absolute serving about how rude I was, and how it was a friend of her brother’s, and it went on. I deserved it all. I sat there, burning with shame, mortified at myself. My shyness and embarrassment had made me react aggressively when there was no cause. That would be a recurring event in my life.

Anyway, even with that hiccough, once we started at the same high school, we became good friends again. She had two horses and was an incredibly talented rider. I used to hang out with her while she worked her horses, and we would walk all around the suburb, just talking about anything and everything. She knew she was very lucky to have the opportunities that she had, but she also saw her family dissolving due to her father’s drinking, and she worried about her brothers and their dope smoking. And she worried about how hard her mother worked and how tired she seemed. I understood that worry only too well.

Serena’s oldest brother began taking us out to see bands when we were 16, and we also began drinking. I looked much older than I was, and with her brother looking out for us, we never had any problems getting into pubs and clubs. My mother figured she was better off letting me go out with them, and know where I was, even if I was underage. So we got to see bands that we both liked during the 1980s. She was a huge fan of INXS and Jimmy Barnes, and I loved Do Re Mi and the Hoodoo Gurus. I think that was one of the real bonding things between us, the music. We would get together and just play tapes and albums together, talking away about stuff that I can’t even remember anymore. We were out together the night I got asked out on my first ever date. She was the one I told about my first kisses, and she told me about hers. And when she first had sex, she told me about it. But that was later.

We managed to get through school together, and Serena got herself a job in a Dive Shop. It was just fantastic. She was so excited. I had been accepted to Uni, so I was just bumming around over that summer holiday break. And so I started to spend a lot of time with Serena at the Dive Shop too.

It was the first time I had ever been in an environment where I can say I felt attractive. Most of the people there were at least a few years older than we were. There was a good male/female mix, although, if I’m honest, I’d say the balance was in our favour. Everyone was great friends, and they welcomed us wholeheartedly. There were the shop owners, the instructors, the dive masters, and the enthusiasts who were there every week. As well as the courses that came through the shop, a new one every 4 weeks, and more through summer.

I took a course and, dare I say, I took to it like a duck to water. Or a seal. It was just very natural. The getting into and out of the water wasn’t so natural, but I managed it. At that stage of my life, I was doing a lot of weight training and was very fit and strong, so I didn’t have an issue with the weight of the equipment when I was out of the water. I quickly did my advanced course, and then moved on to my Rescue course. I was getting courses as payment for helping out working in the shop and with the accounts.

Serena and I had never been closer. She loved working there, and I was loving all the time we were spending together. It was through her work that she met Simon. He was one of the fulltime instructors. He was young and charming and an absolute tart, but you couldn’t help but like him, regardless. And Serena fell for him. Hard. They started going out, and she was completely smitten. I went out with them once to see a band, down at Dee Why. This was when I was still living in the North West. It was a good 40 minute drive home. And while we were watching the band, they slipped away and left me there.

That should have been an indicator that our friendship was beginning to be less valuable to Serena. She was love struck. She had lost her virginity to him. I was an understanding friend. An understanding friend who was very lucky to meet up with a group of young guys who gallantly took me home, as I didn’t have any cab money, and public transport didn’t run that late at night. I shudder when I think of the trouble I could have been in, but the one who was particularly keen (and looked like George Michael during his WHAM phase!! Who really wants to bring the 1980s back??) was a gentleman, to his word.

Not long after that Serena and Simon broke up, and I was there, doing the best I could to support her, keep her busy, distract her with new people and going out. She recovered and met a new guy who had done a dive course there. They started going out, but he and I didn’t really click. He was nice, but far more conservative than I was, and with a different value system, I suppose. I didn’t really like his friends, and he didn’t think that I was a good influence on Serena. Oh the number of times I’ve heard that in my life. Untrue, of course. But a great line for someone who wants to be the controller of the relationship. How better to isolate your new love and make her more malleable. But I digress.

I had my own distractions. I was having fun going out and doing the social things with the divers. We went out every Thursday night, and dived every weekend. I would help out during the week (ummm rather than go to Uni) on the courses.

One memorable one was a group of Lithgow miners that would come down to Sydney once a year for a holiday, and do a dive course for the week. This year they were doing their rescue course. Because it was such a small group, they only needed an instructor and a rescue diver rated assistant. So I started helping Simon out on his courses. He had taught me to dive, and I trusted him implicitly in the water.

Here I was, playing the distressed diver for the week. I would swim out from the beach a certain distance, put up my hand in a distress signal, and sink to the bottom. And wait. While I was lying there, fish would come up and nibble on the end of my hair, which being longish and blonde would tendril out. They were attracted to the colour. That kept me entertained. Fish do have a sense of humour. I’m sure of it.

And one time I was lying there, when I heard sssshhheeee-sherrrrrrrrrr SSSHHHHEEEE-SHERRRRRRRRRR SSSHHHHEEEE-SHERRRRRRRRRR. It sounded like Darth Vader. Like a lot of Darth Vaders. I started looking around to see what it was, as sound direction isn’t clear under water, when a shadow fell over me, and WHOOMM a mass of divers swam over the top of me. Scared the daylights out of me. One of them, whom I recognised as the local instructor who specialised in teach Japanese tourists, turned and gave me the international ‘ok’ signal. I replied ‘ok’ and he swam off after his charges.

Eventually the miners each found me, and towed me back to the beach before throwing me over their shoulders and racing me back to the resuscitation spot. I have to say that the fireman carry is not at all comfortable. But I survived all the rescues and they all passed.

I suppose Simon and I became pretty friendly during this time. We were mates. He introduced me to punk music that I didn’t really know, a more underground style music. And he was good mates with another good friend of mine, Phil. And Richard, who I knew was rather interested in me. I wish I had been in him. He was so lovely, but love, or lust, is fickle. And Andrew. And the two Michaels. I suppose my head was a little spun by the amount of new friends I had made. I didn’t think too much of the fact that most of them were men. I have always made friends with boys. It didn’t seem an issue to me.

But it did seem to be an issue for Serena. Even though she was happily dating her new man, there seemed to be a distance growing between us. It was like she was wiping me. It got to the point where, if there were ten of us in a room, she’d ask everyone if they’d like a drink, except me. It was obvious enough that people were asking me what was going on. And I didn’t know.

It seems there were little whispers that Simon and I had a ‘thing’ happening. I can only assume this is what was upsetting her. The sad thing was, there wasn’t anything at all going on. Not with anyone. Yet. But hell, if I was going to be tarred with a brush…

A group was going north for a long weekend dive trip. I was offered a free trip if I worked as co-ordinator and helped out the instructor who was taking the trip. Yep, you guessed it. Simon. I leapt at the chance to go, as the diving was going to be amazing, and my friends were going along. It would be great fun. And it was. I dived with grey nurse sharks. I was awed by the beauty shards of light creating a cathedral effect with fish swirling through it. I dove on a wreck in shallow water where the surge was so strong and visibility so poor I wasn’t sure if I’d survive it. But I did.

And over the weekend I had received a certain quality of attention from Simon that was different to our previous friendship. Little touches of the hands. Certain long glances. We had driven up together, about a six hour trip. And after the weekend was over, we were to be the last to leave, tidying up and returning gear and keys.

I’d been sharing a double room with the only other female on the trip, and after everyone had left, Simon and I decided to have a nap before we made the long trip home. The nap turned into kisses and caresses, which eventually turned into sex. It was my first time, and I had chosen him purely because I knew he was completely unreliable and therefore I wasn’t going to lose my heart to him. I know that sounds bizaare, but I didn’t want to be in love with him (even though, in hindsight, of course I was, a little). But I knew from what Serena had told me of him that he was a gentle lover. And with the number of women I had seen him with, who never seemed to hate him after their brief flings would end, I figured he must know a few things.

I didn’t tell him I was a virgin. I just let it happen, things progressing from one level to another, and it wasn’t like a traditional missionary experience. Somehow he positioned himself on his side, and with me on my back and our legs intermingled, he entered me. It was nice. Really nice. Not earthshattering. But I certainly saw the potential! I was lying there thinking, Wow, so this is Sex. Cool. I’m having Sex. I. Am. Having. Sex. And I’d giggle in my mind at how ‘adventurous’ it all was. It was three weeks before my nineteenth birthday.

After it had finished, I was suddenly struck by the awful thought. What if I’ve bled? I knew from Serena’s experience that she bled like the proverbial stuck pig. And she was just as athletic as me. And into horseriding. All the things that supposedly lessened the likelihood of an intact hymen. But in spite of all that, she said it was really messy.

I sat up with the covers wrapped around me and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I was too afraid to move. I hoped he would get out of bed, but he seemed happy to just lie there dozing. And I was busting to go to the toilet. Simon looked at me and asked "Are you ok?" "Yeah, sure. I’m fine" I smiled back at him. On the inside I was just ranting "Get out of here, go into the other room, move your fat arse!" He did, after what seemed a lifetime, get up and go to the toilet. As soon as I heard the door close, I was up and whisking away the covers. Nothing. Woohoo! Nothing!!!

And that was it. We weren’t ever going to be an item, and we both knew that. So we just went back to being mates.

And any friendship I had with Serena was effectively over forever.

She became engaged not long after. And left the dive shop. I saw her once at a party just after she’d returned from her holiday where she got engaged. She was happy but there seemed to be too much between us now that we couldn’t cover. She had become best friends with Simon’s latest girlfriend. I became good friends with Andrew, who would end up being my first serious boyfriend.

And the last I heard of her she had a baby boy at 21 and was still happily married, settled down south, and back seriously horse riding again.

I still dream about her. We bump into each other and it’s like we never stopped being friends. Or sometimes she just walks away. I have never dreamt about an old boyfriend. But I regularly dream about her. I think she was my first true heartbreak. And I’ve never had a really close female friendship like ours had been since.

The Answer

Do you ever wake up from a dream absolutely shaken?

This morning I had a dream. I have a terrible habit of sleeping through (both) my alarms, and I think my dream must have incorporated some of radio that was playing on my alarm. Anyway, the dream was in a record store. It was a pretty typical place, a bit like Utopia used to be on George Street (the old store) or Red Eye. Black décor, posters, and music playing in the background. I was up near the counter, and people were standing in a queue to buy their records. Yes, records. They were buying albums, holding their square album covers and handing them over to the young guys behind the counter. I was standing back, letting people walk in front of me, and I was peering over, watching what they were buying, listening to their conversations with the shop guys about the bands and what they liked. I was holding a t-shirt (a bit like a Strokes one that I saw, black, with long red raglan sleeves) and couldn’t decide if I should buy it or not. One of the shop guys looks up. "Are you right?" "I’m fine" I say. "Just trying to stay quiet and unnoticed in the corner." "Yeah", he says "I noticed."
He came around from behind the counter. He actually looked a bit like a guy that works at my favourite local music shop, only more attractive. He was tall, had a youthful roundish face, was built lean in that way that muso’s are, and had black ringletting hair to his shoulders.
This is where it gets a little fuzzy… he starts talking to me about the music, and asks me why I’m letting people in front of me. "I like watching what they’re buying. It’s interesting." "Yes, but you can’t hide back here."
And then he looked at me really intensely and yet, gently, with understanding, and said "You know what you have to do." I started to cry and nodded my head. And then he gave me advice on who I really was and what I needed to do.

And then I woke up. I felt like all my layers had been stripped away. I was shaken, vulnerable and afraid. And I couldn’t remember what he said. He gave me the answer, and I can’t for the life of me remember what he said!

Reginald Grundy's

#1. When writing blurb for skimpy g-string underwear, one should never use the phrase "tongue in cheek". Yes, they did.
#2. When writing blurb for underwear, one should never use the line "so comfortable you’ll never want to take them off". Is it just me that can actually imagine how rank that could end up?
#3. I don’t do typos. I do freudians. I consistently mistyped the colour descriptor "mango". Instead, I typed "mange". No, I don’t know what this means either.
#4. Overheard. Young guy booking airline ticket. Flying Korean Airlines. With a stop over. In Seoul. "And where is Seoul again?". ummmm in Korea? Have you never seen an episode of MASH? Has ANYONE never seen an episode of MASH??
#5. There’s a woman who sits on the phone near me all day long. She makes this continuous sound of affirmation. Her version of Oh, I knoooooooow. Only she coos. Yes, like a pigeon. Mmmmm. Mmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. It took me a day to realise there wasn’t a bird stuck in the ceiling cavity. I have to put headphones on to drive the sound out of my head. It’s either that, or strangling her with some sample frilly edged binding.

I’ve never worked in a place like this before. It’s a clothing company that focuses on underwear, and is a bit of an Australian icon. I’ve never had anything to do with fashion design, so walking into this company has been fascinating.
In the area where I’m working, there are fashion designers, cutters, people who source fabrics, pattern designers, fabric designers, and racks and racks and racks of sample clothing, underwear, swimwear, t-shirts, sportswear. It’s a mishmash of colours that almost, but not quite, spills into chaos.
There is something quite nice about working in an environment that isn’t about banking, financial services, or corporate reporting. There is something nice about seeing an item of clothing, and knowing that it is a relevant (and tangible) product that will be appreciated across the population. For the moment, this is a good place for me to be.