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[greyzone]

TO ADULT... OR NOT TO ADULT?

Ever faced the harsh reality that the dreams you had as a child, just might not come true? Things just haven’t quite worked out the way your 10-year-old self had imagined and time is running out… Or it has run out.

Yeah.

I’m wit choo.

GOD - this is not a cry for help! Allah help anyone who says to me ‘there’s so much time left - don’t give up!’ or ‘keep dreaming’ or ‘keep going’ or ‘you got this’ or ‘you’re so talented’. Cos you know what? Fuck that.

I know I’m talented. I know I can do this. I know I have what it takes.

I adore making people smile, laugh, cry, punch the air in recognition of their own relatability with what they see on the stage or on the screen. But, things change. People grow and shift and discover new paths. And sometimes, you just don’t want it as badly as you used to. Or you’re really fucking picky and can’t be arsed smiling on command anymore. Since I’ve had these realisations, I’ve been on an express train to Change Town. And these thoughts are resonating so deeply it’s a little scary.

Since I entered my dirty thirties, more important things than a successful acting career have been vying for my attention. My childhood dreams seem to be taking a knee. 

And I’m kind of ok with this. 

It has taken me quite some time to get this point of comfortability with my new found knowledge (about 18 months of duress and therapy) but finally Madame Clarity is materialising and new directions are manifesting. WOO HOO! I think this might also be referred to as (gulp) ADULTING!    

The first time I had this light-bulb moment was when I was chatting with my dear friend, late last year (who also happens to be a life coach – she’s awesome! Check her out @thecoachingcorner.aus). We were just gossiping about life and I divulged how off kilter I felt and how some inner turmoil seemed to be dominating my overall energy. A few wines later she simply said, ‘maybe you’re just grieving your childhood dream?’

WHHHHHHHAAAAAATTTTTTT????

That stopped me in my tracks.

Then, earlier this year, I reunited with an old work buddy who has recently changed careers (she’s now a fab hairdresser and is also my hairdresser too. If you like my locks, book in with her (@lou_for_3blindmice) and in our casual conversation she nonchalantly said, ‘I’m just waiting for my life to begin’.

Well that resonated to my core, now didn’t it?

Then, on my 32nd birthday, I saw a comedy show and the brilliant performer said something about an ‘investment milkshake’ (you’ll have to see the show to get my reference - Elizabeth Davie – elizabethdavie.com SAH GOOD!) And THAT reference combined with the other comments just keeps looping around and around in my noggin’.

Grieving a childhood dream.

Waiting for my life to start.

Investment Milkshakes.

WHAT THE FUCK DOES ALL THIS MEANS?

Well, with many false starts, sleepless nights and too much red wine, I’ve come to this conclusion;

I want to work from anywhere.

I want to be my own boss.

And unfortunately, the industry that I have chosen to pursue, does not provide a secure future or the ability to make the aforementioned goals transpire. And in saying this out loud, I sound like my parents, who (13 years ago) told me I should accept my offer at Griffith University to study secondary education (good, solid, secure work as a teacher you see) and not at QUT in the Creative Industries (insecure and unreliable - BA of fuck all really) which is where I ended up studying! (Mind you - I did end up back at QUT in 2012 and did my Post. Grad in Secondary Education. I just realised half through, that I DID NOT want to be a teacher! I finished the course regardless and now have a second degree that collects dust in a box somewhere in my storage cage).

But yes - the unforgiving beast that is the entertainment world, is not one that I am actively pursuing these days. It’s inconsistent and doesn’t pay my bills. YES - I have been very fortunate and am very happy with the small slice of acting good times I’ve had (probably the biggest gig has been the Fly-Buy’s campaign I did last year). And I’ve always chosen jobs that have allowed me the freedom to pursue these acting good times. But now-a-days, a regular pay-cheque, suddenly has my focus. Therefore, it’s time to shake things up, slap reality in my face a little and change the goal posts.

I guess I just always thought that attaining financial freedom wouldn’t need to be an active pursuit. Money, assets and superannuation growth would just happen. Ten-year-old Jen was like, ‘when we’re 32 we’re going to be a famous actress, have loads of money and have houses and mansions and chateau’s all over the globe!’ I honestly didn’t know the effort it takes to even get into the property market. Seriously. I wasn’t taught the importance of these areas and the integral part that I play in their development. My concept of money was tragic and it’s only been in the last two years that I’ve started to restructure my financial situation and understand the importance of a ‘secure future’. (urgh - I can’t believe I’m even writing this!)

Being an actor, at the level I’m at, isn’t going to offer me that. So what else do I do? Who knows.

But knowing that I want to work from anywhere and be my own boss is a good enough start. Knowing that I want financial freedom and knowing that I have to be actively involved, fuels my next choices. So as my boyfriend says to me, when we’ve finished one adventure and are onto the next, ‘where to now, Jelly Bean?’

Well… time will tell. 

There are a few prospects that I am pursuing. But it’s time to keep the door adjar on my acting, and open new doors to new opportunities and new fields. 

Time to dream new dreams. 

…

But… with alllllll that being said though... I’m not ready to give up my agent! HA!

No no no! That would mean that I really REALLY give up! And that would be the equivalent of moving back to Queensland for me. And I am not ready for that. No offence to my fellow creatives on the Gold Coast, or to my family – but Melbourne is where I came to chase dreams. So moving back or giving up my agent, would be throwing in the towel completely. And I’m not ready for that. I just don’t stink of the desperation anymore.  

Here’s to adulting and making strong choices suitable for you and your future. Wherever it takes you. You’re not alone. 

[greyzone]

TABLE FOR JUAN - PART 2

OK - so 5:30pm couldn’t come fast enough last Monday. And my day was hectic! Work was all over the place. But I smashed through it as quickly and as efficiently as I could. When close of business finally rolled around, I was ready.  Usually I hang back at work and make sure everything is completed (taking care of future Jen) but not that day. I grabbed my bag and ran out the door! Helmet on, gloves ready, key in ignition VROOM VROOM! No waiting around or awkward office small talk today people! Jen is out! Now, I’ve been trying into get into a routine recently where I go to the gym 3 days a week, with Monday’s being day 1. And I had my stuff in my bag, ready to go. But in the half hour ride home, it was really easy to talk myself out of it. It always is lol! My precious Jen time, could not be wasted lifting shit. Not today!

I had of course, spoken to the boyfriend earlier that day on our lunch breaks. And I did mention (again) how excited I was for my date night. He may have said something about, not knowing how to respond to my excitement of him not being at home (I mean, I was literally holding my breath in anticipation knowing that I had a few hours to myself, so, I understand where he’s coming form). But I just said, baby, I love you but tonight it’s about me, myself and I. Gonna wine and dine and I’m pretty sure a sixty-nine could somehow work it’s way in there. But solo style - not sure how to do that, but who knows, the night is young and so are we. Or so am I, in this circumstance. Leap of faith baby, leap of faith.

Now, I’m not one for small talk. That’s why I avoid going to networking events, cos I just can’t be arsed talking to people about shit. But, when I arrived home last Monday and hopped in the elevator to go up to our level 3 apartment, there were 3 people in there. Three. Usually, I’d just smile, press my level and try not to fart or burp in the 15 seconds it takes to get to my floor, but not today. TODAY, I was cracking the jokes, shooting the shit, high fives them on the way out and said PEACE! (Ok. I didn’t actually high five them, nor did I say ‘peace’ but I felt like if it did, it would have been natural and I could have pulled it off). Nothing was bothering me.

I grabbed the letterbox key and my wallet and headed down to the Foodworks a few doors down. Selected a bottle of sexy red wine that was going to turn into my bitch (and a bag of lollies). Contemplated dinner options - food from here, Uber-Eats or something from home. I couldn’t decide. The options were limitless. Was too excited about wine and lollies, that I just headed back home. Checked the mail - but brought the wrong key! HA - silly Jen! What a dunker. But once again didn’t phase me. Things are guuuuuuuuuud.

Headed back upstairs, checked the pantry and after that sweet sweet red had hit my lips and ⅔ of the way through Britney Spears’, ‘Stronger’, I decided on chocolate chip pancakes. That’s right, pancakes. I can do what I want, I’m an adult! I’m going to have breakfast for dinner and no one can stop me. Not that anyone would. Pancakes for dinner is fantastic. It’s a delicious option. AND there’s a whole franchise based on this! But this is a treatie for me. And with blueberry flavoured maple syrup, ERMAGAWD! Heaven.

And yes - before you ask - they were made from a packet. I ain’t no Betty Crocker. I like knowing that my pancakes will taste good and she makes that a guarantee. I also, may or may not have eaten the entire packet of lollies, before the pancakes were ready - but entree right?

Once the pancakes were stacked high, swimming in syrup and my wine topped up, I sat on our lounge room floor (we have no furniture - I’m not even kidding. We’re going for a minimalist approach, but right now it’s a little extreme cos all we have is a rug. We don’t want to be extremists, we just haven’t gotten around to facing IKEA lol) and honest to god, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I started writing a post for this blog. But that stopped when my mind was telling me, ENJOY YOUR YOU TIME. I started thinking about the other business I am starting but once again, the little voice said, STOP IT - LISTEN TO YOUR HEART, WHAT IS SHE SAYING?

And I sat there, eating and drinking and eating and drinking and tried to listen to what my heart wanted to do. And probably for the first time in a really long time, I heard her. And this little voice, (I’m going to call her Mavis), this Mavis piped up and said, ‘you wanna watch @ellendegeneres 60th birthday celebration episode?’ And I said, YES MAVIS - I do!

So, I sat there in our empty little apartment, chipping away at my chocolate chip pancakes, sipping away at my sexy tempranillo (FAVE), and watched the entire Ellen special.

And it was glorious.

A part of me felt bad for not being productive or working towards my business goals (because, we all know, Norma-Jean will pop up one day soon and be like HEEEEEEEY Bitch! Remember me? You think you got time to chill, na uh! We gotsa werk!). But, I allowed Mavis to have her time. We chilled out. We did nothing. I laid on that floor in a maxi dress and no bra, and just bathed in the beauty of ‘nothing to do’. I headed to bed around 10 (boyfriend still not home from dinner… my irrationality started to kick in a little, but I was able to thankfully calm that farm pretty quickly) and I fell asleep watching ‘She’s All That’, star-fishing across the entire bed. (But not before, attending to my own little pleasure town, wink wink).

Such a simple evening.

Yet, so powerful for me.

I realise now that Jen time is very very important and I need to make room for it in my busy little schedule. And I’m not just talking about self pleasure here people - that’s normal in my world. No, I have lots of goals that I want to achieve and huge aspirations. But I also need to make the time to calm the fuck down and just ‘be’. I don’t know how I’m going to make this a daily practice - I know there are people who meditate and do yoga and shit and sometimes that works for me, but more often, it doesn’t. And, even my therapist used to tell that I need to implement more ‘nothingness’ into my world. Clearly this is a thing I need and I need desperately. But what is nothing and where do I buy her from?  

But, in realising that just ‘being’ is so foreign to me, and also hearing little Mavis’ voice for the first in like AGES, it all suddenly made sense. This is important. And I need more.  

I haven’t got an answer yet - it’s 7 days later and I still don’t know what to do. And I’m sure I’ll go round and round in circles before I have one. But knowing that ‘Jen time’ brings about such happiness within me, I now know it’s value. I’m not asking for advice or anything like that. I want to find out what my ‘nothing’ power is on my own. Because when I find it that way, it’ll have even greater meaning. But I have to admit... I am kinda jealous of the people who already know how to handle their shit and nail it like a boss. ONE DAY, MAVIS! We’ll get there one day. 

Who else doesn’t make time for just themselves? 

You’re not alone ladies! 

I’m sure I’m not the only one.

[greyzone]

TABLE FOR JUAN

I LOVE being by myself. I love it. Love love love it. Jen time is saaaaaah good! But because of my current lifestyle, Jen time is pretty rare. Not as rare as the #superbluebloodmoon that happened the other night, but still - it’s ‘seasonal’. Don’t get me wrong, I love my boyfriend. Having him in my life adds colour to my world and I prefer his company over anybody else.

But... I also love it when he goes out.  

Hear me out.

We both work Monday to Friday, 9-5:30pm (but we’re in at 8 and usually leave around 6). We ride into work together and break away at the last minute because he works in one suburb and I work in the adjacent one. Then as soon as I’m in at work, we’re on the phone to each other, recounting what was missed in the last five minutes. We talk at lunch time. If I don’t hear from him at lunch, I know he’s obviously busy at work and was preoccupied - but he’ll always manage to sneak a call in, even if it’s just for 10 seconds to say he loves me. (He once left a voicemail of him yelling down the phone, ‘I LOVE YOU’. It’s perfect. I still have it).

If I’ve got rehearsals, my Italian class, or I’m heading to the gym, I’ll call him as I’m about to make my way there. I’ll text him when I get to my destination. I’ll text him when I’m leaving said destination. I am a text freak! I text him all the time. My thoughts, my to do list. Questions. The ramblings of my mind. And my texts are all over the place - there’s no real connection between one text and the next. I think I leave him more confused than anything else. That’s probably why he doesn’t always text back - cos I’ve sent him a wall of messages and he’s probably there going, ‘whhhhhhaaaaa???’. My bad! (He just can’t keep up with my genuinus mind! Mmmmm.... I can’t back that up!).

And then there’s also the weekend! We plan our weekends with each other in mind. We meet with friends. We go to the beach. We plan fun activities. Our lives are interwoven deeply and beautifully and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But as I read over what I’ve said, it seems obsessive and borderline stalker-ish (is it considered stalking when its your boyfriend whom you live with?) OH WELL!

So, having time alone, doesn’t really happen. Maybe I should be more specific here too - having time alone with nothing on the agenda is like unicorns and leprechauns - non existent unless you BELIEVE. And it’s not like I’m leading a life like my current idols, @therock or @kevinhart4real - I just have stuff that takes up the hours of my day, filled with people and expectations, and then it’s time for bed. (Actually, I’m pretty sure ‘me time’ is a rare thing for Dwayne and Kev too, so until I have a life like theirs, I should stop complaining. BUT… I won’t lol!) 

What I do know, is that all I’d have to say to my boyfriend is, ‘baby, I love you, but I need some Jen time’ and he would happily and encouragingly go about doing his own thing to give me space. I know it’s only a question away.

But, the taste is far more sweet when I don’t have to ask and it simply falls in my lap.

LIKE, LAST MONDAY NIGHT.

I had been excited about this night all Monday day, neigh, ALL WEEK because… the boyfriend went out! For dinner! With his ex - we’ll discuss that later - BUT ever since their dinner date was confirmed Monday eve couldn’t come fast enough! Guaranteed 3 hours (minimum - always hoping for more) of just ME.

I had nothing planned.

I didn’t know what I was going to do.

But my tummy was all fluttery, like when you first meet someone new and exciting.

I was anxious all day at work, waiting for 5:30pm to come around.

And then it would be time.

My date with myself.

A table for Juan.

LINK TO PART TWO; 

https://greyzone.tumblr.com/post/170789479061/table-for-juan-part-2

[greyzone]

‘IS THIS IT?!!!’

I woke up this morning and had a panic attack whilst in the shower. I have only had a couple of these in my life – and all of them triggered by varying versions of this one thought;

‘Is this it?’

Perhaps my lack of sleep pushed my emotions into overdrive, ultimately prompting this visceral response. However, this isn’t my first rodeo. It lies deeper than I’d care to admit. I know I won’t be able to figure this shit out in one article, so I’m sure this will be a recurring theme – just an FYI readers!

I’ll tell you what I do know – this feeling of anxiety transcends all major aspects that make me, me; job, career, relationships, body issues, family, societal expectations, hobbies. And they usually pop up one at a time. They surface, say hi, we have an argument and then everything returns to normal. But this morning’s volcano of emotions felt like every single issue I have, wanted their five minutes stage time simultaneously. Every fucking voice in my head was so loud, it took all my strength to try and quiet them. And six hours into my day, they still haven’t shut up.

COOL! Happy Monday, am I right?!

To make it easier (for me) I’m going to focus on just one voice today.

I call her, Norma-Jean. She’s in charge of my career path and job.

And this morning she asked ever so vibrantly whilst I was trying to prepare for the day, is this it? Is this our life, Jen? A sometimes actress with no ambition or drive? A try-hard who would rather eat pizza than make change? A full-time office worker, who doesn’t care to raise the bar?

Well, Norma-Jean, firstly - thank you for interrupting my morning and turning me into a inconsolable blubbering mess. I really LOVE this kind of start to my week. And secondly, no - I don’t want this to be it. 

I want more. I crave growth and purpose. But I’m clutching at straws because there’s nothing that I am passionate ENOUGH about or care ENOUGH about to warrant chasing. And I thought I’d have this shit locked down by now, you know? 15-year-old Jen, was like – yeah, by the time I’m 30, gonna be hot, a successful actress, married and babies - BOOM. Fast-forward 16 years and I’m none of those things. And what’s more, Norma-Jean, is I don’t think I want them anymore. 

(I feel like if Norma-Jean was a real character, she’d be looking at me blankly. Maybe only blinking now and then. Mouth agape).

I’ll continue my rant, shall I?

I thought I wanted to be an actor, Norma-Jean. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been performing. Magic shows. Singing. Dancing. Monologuing the shit out of Shakespeare. But, in all honesty, I really can’t be bothered anymore. The politics that comes with this industry (well, all industries, right?) the networking, the chumminess, the conversations, the smell of desperation, the incest, the constant smiles, the harrassment, the impact every ‘no’ had on me when I was fresh to the game - it takes its toll. I moved to Melbourne for you, Norma-Jean, in the pursuit of our acting career. And yeah, I have done some cool stuff along the way to make up for the sacrifices I’ve made (guest role on Neighbours, Utopia, Newton’s Law, recurring role on The Wrong Girl – currently the face of FLYBUYS, which is the most random thing I’ve ever been selected for!) But, I’m still working full time to pay for this acting habit and I’m no-where near where I thought I’d be. 

So, if I’m honest, Norma-Jean, I’m tired. I just don’t care enough about acting anymore to put all of my energy into it. And this gear change in energy and passion is also devastating to admit, because I’m grieving my childhood dream. And I don’t have a new one to grasp onto, Norma-Jean!

People in this industry have always said, if there’s anything else you’re passionate about, do that instead. Well, Mr AdviseIDidn’tAskFor, what if I don’t have anything else that I’m passionate about? AND what if the one thing I’ve got a degree in, spent thousands upon thousands of dollars on, have sacrificed so much time, energy, and emotions for, just doesn’t blow my skirt up anymore? What am I supposed to do now, huh? What dream am I chasing?

The same kind of people also say, stay creative – do something within the arts. What the fuck does that mean? I’ve only ever wanted to act, and now that that’s a ghost of dreams past, what do you suggest?

Directing?

Nah.

Drama-turg?

Nah.

Producer?

Nah.

Don’t fucking care.

I also see the other talent out there, and you know what – they’re just better. I don’t admit defeat – but they just have more gusto and edge than I do. They like going to networking events and being in the know. They like being in the pocket of casting directors. They like looking good and dressing well. They like breaking down scripts and challenging themselves. They like finding work outside of acting but still in the industry. Me? These days, I’d rather sit in my lounge room and wait for Steven Spielberg to knock on my door, than try knocking on his. Acting has turned into a ‘hobby’. And I think ‘hobby’ is too strong a word. 

I just cannot be bothered with anything, anymore, Norma-Jean. My job, my supposed ‘career’ – none of it. And there’s nothing else I can think of that makes me go, ‘oh yay, I’m gonna get out of bed and do that!’ I’m waiting for that lightbulb moment. I’m waiting to replace you, Norma-Jean! For something or someone to walk around the corner and say, ‘Hi! I’m Judy! I’m your new career path! Let’s make magic together!’ 

But…I can’t do this yet because;

I don’t know what I want.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

I don’t know what makes me happy.

I don’t know what motivates me.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY FUCKING LIFE.

How am I supposed to find a new dream to chase when there’s nothing that curls my tail? How am I supposed to figure out a new path when I don’t want to be the captain or the pilot? How am I supposed to figure out my next steps when none of my shoes fit anymore?

So, thank you Norma-Jean for reminding me of how lost I am. If you need me, I’m going to be in my office, working my full time job that’s going no-where, pondering my existence and the reason why I even bothered to get up this morning. FML.

[greyzone]

TOP 10 VIEWPOINTS FROM A NON-BDASS, LAW ABIDING BIKER-CHICK!

1. Ladies, you should all ride. Trust me. The bigger the engine, the bigger the tingle. Rev it baby! (You’re welcome!)

2. I can see all you fuckers on your phones! GET OFF YOUR PHONE!*

3. The smells! I really taste the world when I ride! It can be beautiful and awful. (Don’t get stuck behind a garbage truck - it’s gross).

4. When I filter through the traffic, making my way to the front and then pull away quickly at the lights, I’m getting myself out of harms way. All you dickheads not paying attention, are a liability and a danger to me! I don’t like you. So eat my dust. (ALSO - FILTERING is LEGAL and encouraged. At ‘motorbike school’ we are told to get in front of traffic so that drivers can see us! It’s amazing how many drivers don’t pay attention to 2 wheel vehicles -bicycles included here!)

5. I can’t wear my final outfit of choice! It’s pants/jeans, clunky jacket and bring a change of clothes with me if need be. (It sucks going to an audition, cos you get there and have to practically change on the street - jeans off, dress on, boots off, heels on, take your jacket and helmet with you cos if you leave it, some nugget will steal it, go in, act act act, then do all that in reverse to go home. SIGH!)

6. I can’t drink my coffee or eat my breakfast on the way to work. BUT it takes me about half the time it takes you to get from A to B, soooo…. winning? (yes, that is a question mark).

7. Don’t believe the stereotype! We’re not all soonts! I’d like to arrive at my destination as one complete human, thank you very much! I too, see all the idiots who give us a bad name AND I AM EMBARRASSED TO SHARE THE ROAD WITH THEM (***cough-Deliveroo riders-cough***). But, if I pull a manoeuvre that bothers you, it’s probably because I don’t trust YOU as a driver! Indicate and look before you change lanes mother trucker! I will beep you and give you the finger. 

8. NO - I’m not a cowgirl. I’m just wearing protective shoes, that happen to look cowgirl-ish because there’s not much variety in female motorcycling boots. It tends to be a male dominated practice and for once MEN actually have more clothing options than women.

9. YES - I did brush and try to style my hair this morning. You just can’t tell because I’ve been wearing a helmet and all my hard work is lost.

10. Mother Nature is a wicked woman! Because I have the mantra, ‘all the gear, all the time’ and I never squid, the heat can make me sweat so much, that I arrive damp, hair sticking to my face, mascara running and a little stinky. And on the other hand, when it’s raining, I can arrive damp, hair sticking to my face, mascara running and have a hobo vibe going on. It’s really a win-win situation. #hottiecomingthrough (Helmets really need wind-screen wipers!)

*this is true for men. Men can also see you on your phone. Cos there’s this rule about having eyes and being on the road, or something.

[greyzone]

BOOBIES BE FREE!

I’m someone who has always worn a bra. Always. Both parents at one stage in their lives worked for lingerie companies - my dads license plate about 20 years ago was ‘BRA’ something something for fucks sake! So, bras were a given in our household. And when you go from bee stings to a DD at the age of 12, your world changes and the over the shoulder boulder holders become a necessity. It was actually kind of weird having your dad in the bra business - because he looks at you and goes, ‘yeah, 12DD’ - to which you respond by covering your tits and saying ‘daaaaaaaaad!’ But, it was actually kind of ok in a way, because it took away any kind of shame or embarrassment or difficulty some dads might have when their daughter blossoms into womanhood. This was all normal for him. (But still weird at the same time).

Mum was definitely in charge of what bras I wore. I remember, I would have been maybe 15 years old, I was wearing my sports uniform to school that day, which was a white polo and navy blue shorts. I happened to pop on a black sports bra that morning. When I came downstairs, straight away ‘nope, get back up there and change to a flesh or white’. At least I was being taught what bras I should and shouldn’t wear, pending on the materials I guess. But sports day was always hard because, I hated running. My boobs would hurt. I felt like they had a mind of their own. All the boys would watch. And I was already massively self conscience at it was, so add hormonal boys to the mix and it was a nightmare. 

I know that compared to some other girls in my grade and other women out there, a DD is small! So if I’m struggling, I can only imagine the hardships for my bigger boobed ladies. Respect, sisters! I started double bra-ing around that age on sports days. One underwired bra and then one crop top over the first. When I started that, it was a win-lose situation. Minimal bounce. But increased back pain because of the strain of two bras across my back. Which way did I go? I maintained the double bra, because it just made me feel less self conscience. 

These days, pending on my weight, I’m either a DD or a D. Kind of in-between at the moment ;-) . And when I am a D, I feel like I’m in HEAVEN! Being one bra deep, is like having a weight lifted - literally and figuratively! I am so envious of the women who have little tittles. I look at theirs, and they’re perky and round and lovely! I look down at mine and I’ve got these saggy east-west, side set baps (thanks Cosmo for the definitions) that need a good hoiking, if they're to look anything like the ‘round’ ta-ta’s I crave to replicate. 

I don’t have this sexy underboob thing that I see going on these days either, because... all of the weight of my boob is at the bottom. You basically saw the whole package when I tried that. Whoops! And I’ve seen this thing on the porn I watch sometimes of these girls who do ‘titty-drops’. I’ve tried that. I don’t have the right wazoos for it. If my boyfriend wants a face full of my melons, he has to go down towards my belly-button and turn his 90 degrees to get any nipple action. Clearly, I’m just not destined for the under-boob-titty-dropping career path I’m envious of.

But if I’m envious of the ladies who are members of the itty bitty titty committee, then I can only assume, that they’re envious of the ladies on the tig ol’ bitties committee. To me, Shakira has the ultimate jugs because they’re ‘small and humble, so I don’t confuse them with mountains’ because SHIT, lugging them around would do some serious damage! And it’s hard enough with these beamers - the struggle would be off the charts if mountains are what you’ve been given. 

But, big boobs, little boobs aside, I’ve recently started something new. An experiment of breaking a habit, almost 20 years old. Yup - you guessed it - freeing the boobies. I haven’t been wearing a bra as much. 

And it is so liberating!!! 

Over the Christmas period, we went camping up on the Sunshine Coast and I told my boyfriend, ‘for this week, no bras for the Jen!’ He was super stoked and didn’t mind one bit. But to do this, was shifting a gear that’s been stuck in the same position since I was 12. And it was tough. I think being in a different state, around people that I wouldn’t see again, made it easier. But I was still really self conscious. I felt like people were looking at me and noticing my free boobies. Particularly when men have their radar switched to full power and they clock my bazookas from 100m away. Takes me back to when I was 12, wanting to hold my titties and say ‘daaaaaaad!’ Which is weird. Clearly I have daddy issues ha!

But I did go, 6 days with free boobies!!!! I ended up wearing a bra on the final night of our holiday up north, because I was having dinner with my family and wasn’t quite ready to have my gajungers wobbling around in front of my brother, or step grandpa or step uncle. And I think my mum would have said, ‘nope, get back up there and change to a flesh or white’ lol (she’s still in the bra biz). 

I’m not at the point where I’m comfortable being full-time bra-less. But, if I have the option of not wearing one, I’m going to take it. Going ‘free’, has really assisted me in being comfortable with my body. I’ve always been and still am suuuuppper self conscience. But now that I’m in my 30′s, I’m finally digging being in my own skin - to a point. And it’s funny, because realising that I have a choice between wearing a bra and not wearing a bra in public, is amazing. So, like, right now... sitting in a cafe, writing about boobies and NO BRA BITCHES! BOOM!

Sometimes I do want my cupcakes to feel secure and have a little home to take a nap in. They’re working so hard as it is, that sometimes having a bra on, is a little break for them - particularly if I hit the gym. There will be bra when on the treadmill. It hurts just thinking about running without one on. And also, if I want any kind of cleavage, a bra is definitely needed. They don’t do it on their own! East-west, side bags remember! 

For me, realising that I have the choice is a huge turning point! What a big grown up step I’ve made! lol. If you’ve only realised that you too can free the boobies, or if you’ve been bra-less for a long time now, hit me up! Let me know! This isn’t about getting attention from your preferred sex or an act of hardcore feminism (still an active feminist of course!). But for me, this is about comfort and choice. Cos ladies of the bra and bra-less world, you’re not alone! 

[greyzone]

JEN-SMASH!!! Part 3 (final)

Ok, so the cleaner calls me. And I answer in my serious tone, ‘Hello, Jennifer speaking’. And this beautiful sounding West Indies woman begins explaining why they’ve been told to stop, the payment structure and the additional fee. And alI I am doing, is talking over the top of her and repeating my buzz words, 'miscommunication', 'disappointing' and 'refund'. I remind them that we’ve already paid - they were right there with my partner when he made the transfer. I bark about the additional fee (which was for the windows by the way. Aren’t windows a part of an apartment?) and then someone else comes on the line, taking over. (I mean, I would have as well, if I’d heard me yapping away). But this doesn’t go down well as I am not getting what I want in this conversation. 

So I end the call with something to the effect of, 'well, we’ve already paid you, so please continue the clean but it's disappointing that the communication between the company you work for and yourself is so inefficient, that we need to be having this conversation'. (I did actually say please. So, that’s a bonus point I guess?)

SIGH. 

I call back the cleaning company and happen to speak with the same girl as before. OH GAWD! And like she is reading it out of a text book, she adds that ‘the amount I was told initially, wasn’t a quote, but simply a guideline as the cleaners need to evaluate the property and come to a decision upon inspection’. Firstly, where did you pull this one from? And secondly, don’t go all ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ on me with your ‘guidelines’ shit because I was given different information. And I’m sure I know ‘Pirates’ better than you do, because I was one, twice a week, for 4 years. But that’s pointless in this conversation. (I didn't say this, but it’s definitely worth mentioning lol).

ANYWAY - we had already scrubbed that place like a mother-fucker the day before to ensure that between our clean and the professional clean, getting our BOND back was a given. I didn’t say it like that to her exactly either - because, I have found from previous experience, that when you swear at someone over the phone, you are deemed the irate caller and basically nothing will get resolved until you ‘calm down’. Lessons learnt! So, instead, I tried to be light about it and attempted to smile so that that could shine through in my tone - but most likely not very successfully. I think I may have laughed at one point - which now that I think about it, was probably a very patronising move. And of course, because Veronica loves to have the final say, little miss saucy curtly finishes the call with a 'if we're not 100% happy with the work, I'll let you know'. FUCK MY LIFE. Now that that conversation is over, I sit in my office, with the hum of my computer and the occasional flicker of the fluorescent lights as my only company and I think to myself - when did I turn into this person? This angry little woman, ready to explode and emotions steamrolling everyone around me. I literally put my head in my heads and giggle because how ridiculous this whole thing has become - and because I’m the one making it so. I am literally the human version of 'Angry' in Disney's 'Inside Out'.

A minute or two passes as I sit in silence, listening to my breathing (wooooo saaaah) And instead of owning the error of my ways and calling the cleaner to apologise for being so curt, I text. That's right, once again, hiding behind my phone like the coward I am, I TEXT the cleaner. AND I even don't apologise. I say, 'it's a shame there was a miscommunication'. Why should I apologise when I feel hard done by? YES - I feel hard done by - over $20 and paying via online transfer. And then, a moment of clarity blurs Veronica and suddenly I am thrown into a tornado of guilt. I feel like I am a racist, privileged little white girl, who's having a tantrum because she didn't get a pony. I'm throwing my duty or care, lucidity and kindness to the wind. 

Well done, Jen, well done. 

A few hours pass and I receive a text from the cleaner saying, ‘we’re almost finished, please get here asap’. I call!!! I actually call and say that because I am a selfish coward and don’t want to face you, please leave the keys on the kitchen bench. HAHA - kidding! I lied, I said that unfortunately I can't be there for another hour and if they could leave the keys, that would be great. I give it about half an hour before I leave and when I arrive, OF COURSE, they are still there!!! Getting my comeuppance, you see! She’s there and so are three other people. Four people in total cleaning a ONE BEDROOM APARTMENT! But, I can only assume that these three people are her children. And so, once again I am slapped in the face with pangs of guilt.

I make the assumption that she is a single, hard working mum with mouths to feed. And so, I open my mouth to say something and my internal monologue is working overtime. I am apologising profusely for my behaviour, for how I dealt with the situation. But then, I'm suddenly thinking about my ex-mother in law who's from the West Indies too and I feel like talking about her and comparing jerk chicken recipes. I'm going all white girl on the whole thing. I want to say how appreciative I am that they're there and have worked so hard to ensure that the clean is perfect. Yet, all I say is, ‘thank you’, I take the keys and the receipt and walk away.  

I hop on motorobike to head to the real estate agency to hand back our keys, and for about three quarters of the drive there, this woman and her children are in the van behind me. FAAAARRRRK. 

As we drive along, I ponder whether I would have reacted in a different way if it was somebody else. I’m suddenly asking myself if I’m racist? But then again, Suzy-Q from the cleaning company, sounded ‘white’ and I did not back down with her. Mind you - voices do not determine ones ethnicity - so again - racist. 

But I did come to this conclusion; 

I would have reacted the same way with anyone because I have a very quick trigger. My anger is a late bloomer and Veronica loves the spotlight.   

My ever-patient boyfriend tells me, that if I felt as though my emotions were warranted, then I shouldn't feel bad about my reaction. But holy fuck - what a reaction. And I know that there are wonderful, beautiful women out there who are in control. Who are cool, calm and collected. Who do keep their wits about them in times of confrontation. I've met them! Some of my closest friends fall in this category. And I'm envious. Cos I'm the little brat who has trantrums and spits the dummy when it doesn't go my way.   Maybe they’re better at life because they meditate.

Maybe they’re better at life because they do yoga.

Maybe they’re better at life because they don’t drink alcohol. But I'm not one of those people (as she sips on a glass of red). I'd like to think, that I'm not the only person who reacts this way. That there are other 30 something women in the same boat - not knowing how to properly deal with their shit and have their own Veronica’s ready to pounce at any minute. I’m not doing a call out for help. I am just figuring it all out. 

So if you can relate to this late blossoming of anger, if you have your own Veronica, or if you simply handle situations as tragically as I do, hit me up! 

Let me know! 

You’re not alone.

[greyzone]

JEN-SMASH!!!  Part 2

Let’s pick it up where we left off. I’ve confirmed a vacate clean for Monday morning, 8am.

My partner takes the burden of having to be there and deal with it all, as this apartment is closer to his work than mine. Upon arrival, he's encouraged to pay via online transfer or cash in hand rather than credit card. The reason? Apparently, the company they work for takes a higher cut from their earnings if we pay via credit card. But this is not our problem! Being guilt tripped into paying in a format which we weren’t planning is strike number 1 for me! 

(Veronica now has one hand on the wheel).

THEN they charge $20 more than the original quote. WTF for? 

(Now both hands).

Being the calm, level headed and caring man he is, he pays the new fee and does so via online transfer.

He calls me and tells me what happened and boom - VERONICA. She immediately pushes calm Jen to the side and takes centre stage.

I contact the company I booked them through immediately and bless the heart of the pre-pubescent sounding girl who answers my call, because she's about to deal with the unreasonable Madam Mim (shout out to my Disney fans!) In dealing with these situations, I do know this about myself. I don't yell. I don't swear. I am just ridiculously direct, assertive and borderline aggressive. Ok, I'm aggressive. Veronica likes to have a serious voice - so I'm about an octave lower than how I usually sound. I am sharp and to the point and use buzz words like 'miscommunication', 'disappointing', 'refund' blah blah blah.  I do say 'I know it's not your fault, so please do not take this personally' (patronising much?). However, I’m still aggressively speaking with a 10-year-old about something she's attempting to resolve - not very well mind you - becasue none of her options are acceptable offers in Veronica’s opinion. Now, I work in customer service and have done so for most of my adult life. So, customer-resolution is something that I am used to. But, I am not great at dealing with it or resolving anything. I love passing the buck too. So much easier to say, 'I'll pass this onto management' than dealing with it myself. And… sometimes I still find myself saying this line, even though I am the management these days. Which is weird, because I'll deal with it in the end anyway, but just not in that moment. Veronica also LOVES hiding behind a telephone to inform the other party of how dissatisfied she is. And it’s true! IT IS SO MUCH EASIER than dealing with it in person. And as I write all of this out, I realise, that Veronica is a coward - so therefore, I am a coward. Not facing the other party is a luxury. Kinda like breaking up with someone - I really try to be the bigger person and do it face to face, but then end up texting them. Maybe that's just me. Well… that's how I officially ended my marriage. But that story is for another time, ha! #millennial

So anyway, I am speaking in an unnecessarily antagonistic tone to this lovely young woman, at 8:30am on a Monday. With the benefit of hindsight, I've tried to put myself in her shoes and this is what I come up with;

Maybe this is probably her first full time job out of high-school.

Maybe she met a cool person on the weekend and was sharing her news with her colleagues about how fab her date was.

Maybe she just moved to this city from a small town and is chasing dreams.

Maybe she's just a young sounding woman and she is just doing her thing, whatever that thing may be.

Bu then, Veronica calls and carelessly tramples her pretty flower garden and ruins everything. I'm like Godzilla or King Kong, or even the T-Rex in Jurassic Park: 2 (The Lost World) that stamps her way through San Diego. I am just murdering the start of the working week because of a measly $20 and the inability to pay via credit card. And still my question of what the extra $20 is for hasn’t been answered.

At this point, my heart is racing and my blinders are on. Veronica is running this show.

THEN, the cleaner texts me to say that they have been advised to STOP CLEANING until our method of payment has been confirmed. As a reminder, WE HAVE ALREADY PAID. 

And then, she calls me. Now the big bad wolf is ready to dine.

Stay tuned for part 3.  

Here’s the link; 

https://greyzone.tumblr.com/post/169831461861/jen-smash-part-3-final

[greyzone]

JEN-SMASH!!! Part 1

Turns out, I have a quick trigger. I go from 0 - 100 in the blink of an eye. If something isn't going my way, I am not cool, calm or collected. I am not level headed or anywhere near the town of rational! And I say this, like it’s a surprise! Like, Pluto being a planet and then not one. And then a planet again. Like Trump becoming President. Like when you run into the ‘one that got away’, whilst at your local with your new boyfy - ‘Oh hey!’ (fuck fuck fuck).

But in actual fact this has been a long, drawn out affair. The ‘mean-girl’ inside me has spent years clawing her way to the top. And after all this time, she’s finally fulfilled her destiny of landing a lead role. She is one of the loudest personality traits I have these days and I do not know how to shut her up. Perhaps I am just more aware of Veronica than ever before, because of how often she’s around. Yeah - I’m going to call the angry version of me, Veronica. In my mind, names starting with a ‘V’ are automatically aligned with the ‘Regina George’s’ of the world. Massive apologies to all the women who are kind and generous and whose names happen to start with V. But in my 31 years, I’ve only had a couple positive encounters with V-people. (I blame Vanessa who stole my bucket and spade back in 1990 - she started it all).

But anyway… we’re often told that as we get older, we get wiser and more understanding of our place in the world. And yeah - I definitely feel that sometimes I know the lay of the land. But getting older, has actually made me angrier. Not because I’m getting old (I love being in my 30’s) - but perhaps because I have a greater sense of self, I therefore don’t feel obliged to silence all versions of me anymore. So in turn, Veronica goes from guest star to lead role in the same breath. And she pops up in the most obscure locations and at the most random times.

The Grocery Store.

The Post Office.

On the phone to iiNet.

And I’m suddenly painted as the biggest Princess, having a tanty over spilt milk. And because Veronica is like a child having it’s first sugar high, she’s uncontrollable, living in a world governed by none other than herself! So at the end of the day, all I can do, is let her fly.

Just to put it all into perspective for you - here’s a little teaser.

This morning, we had a cleaner coming to our apartment to do a vacate clean. And a simple miscommunication between parties, unleashed the HULK, the Mr Hyde or even the Cruella De Vil that resides deep down inside me. Well, actually not so deep down as my anger apparently lies quite close to the surface. Oh and I'm not really like Cruella De Vil, I love puppies more than chocolate and would never hurt them. So perhaps that wasn't the best example - but you get my drift.

So anyway, I made this booking weeks ago. 8am. One-bedroom apartment, plus balcony and carpet cleaning for one room. I was given a quote and told that we could pay via credit card upon arrival.

What eventuates in fewer than 6 hours, is a cacophony of emotions that leaves me deemed a racist and privileged white girl, living a cut above her pay grade, complaining about paying for something a mere $20 more than she was expecting.

Stay tuned for part two. 

Here’s the link; https://greyzone.tumblr.com/post/169803750941/jen-smash-part-2