My ten favourite purchases 2.0

This is the second part of My ten favourite purchases, which I started writing waaaaaaay back in the beginning of July. 6. My degrees In 1989, when I was 26, I left full-time employment and enrolled in an Arts degree at The University of Adelaide. Coincidentally, 1989 was when the Australian (Labor) Government decided (in

grumpy

45 things that make me grumpy

Today I saw red. It was the fourth time this week I had to tell someone how to spell my name. My name is spelled Diane with one “n”. It always has been, despite the increasing incidence of people trying to gift me with two. It’s not that hard to spell, like, for example “deceive”

My five simple rules for dating

I’m nearly 51 years old. It has been around eight years since I’ve been in a relationship. I have only really ventured back into the world of dating in the last 12 months because it took me that long to feel ready again after aforementioned previous relationship. I have learned more in the last 12

My ten favourite purchases 1.0

Bella KittehAnyone who knows me knows that I’m not a big shopper. I tend to shop for what I need rather than I want, Ozsale impulse buys notwithstanding. And when I do impulse buy, it’s for items that I’ve had my eye on for a while and appear on my shopping radar: leopard booties, tuxedo shirt, pleather leggings, a specific lens for my camera… that sort of thing. Even when I taught marketing and advertising at TAFE, I’d joke with my students that I was an anti-marketer because of my aversion to shopping as a leisure activity. And I certainly don’t make shopping a priority when I travel!

A few days ago, Marty Nemko wrote about his nine favourite purchases on Psychology Today. He claimed, quite rightly I think, that our favourite purchases tell us a lot about ourselves. So, his article got me thinking about my favourite purchases, and what that says about me. I’ve listed them below in roughly chronological order, and explained why each purchase is important to me.

1.   My TV(s)

I can’t remember exactly when I bought my first TV; it would have been sometime in the late 70s or early 80s. I just know I’ve always had access to one, even as a child. I remember being four or five and thrilled about a new program called Adventure Island that was screened. I ran outside to share the exciting news with my mother, who had come home from visiting the neighbours. It was similar to the excitement of being sent home from school to watch the landing on the Moon a few years later. I have very clear memories of shows I watched when I was a child: Dr Who, The Banana Splits, Little House on The Prairie, Young Talent Time, The Wonderful World of Disney, H.R. Pufnstuf, Knock Three Times, Sesame Street. So, when I moved out of my mother’s home into my own flat at the ripe old age of 17 – my 16 year old sister came with me – I made sure I had a TV, even if it was a rental.

Why I hate running

Actually, I don’t hate running. I love it. There are times when I struggle with it, but at my age (I’m 51 this September), I am so respectful of, grateful to, and amazed by my body for being able to push itself beyond my wildest imaginings because of running, that I bang on about how

Things remembered fondly 1.0

20140606-192841-70121321.jpgLast week, I took a day trip up into the Adelaide Hills for work. I was there observing a training session being run by one of my colleagues. I left home early, hitting the road by 7.30ish. It was brisk; not exactly cold for a winter’s morning, but certainly not warm.

As I drove up the freeway, the sun peeked bright and gold over eucalyptus-covered hills, and fog draped its wispy fingers low over scrub and housing estates. I followed the road through the tiny towns of Littlehampton and Nairne, and – managing to get only slightly lost along the way, after taking a right hand turn when I should have gone straight – ended up at Brukunga, where the training venue was located.

I easily found a car park, and squeezed my Barina in between two government plated 4-wheel drives. I got out of the car, and felt the immediate drop in temperature. The air was cold and damp, and smelled of rain and eucalypts and rotting wood. I heard magpies warbling in the distance. Gem coloured parrots swooped low between bent, writhing gums, squawking as they flew past me, outraged, I supposed, that I dare invade their territory.

To my dear future husband… I’m sorry

20140530-192120.jpgDear future husband,

I have no idea who you are, what you do, what your name is or what you look like. I don’t know the circumstances of our meeting, who approached whom or what attracted us to each other. Was it a look, a smile, a word, or just plain instinct? I don’t know if we will even like each other at the start; will we be an instant chemical reaction or a slow burn?

What I do know is that I need to apologise in advance for a few things. These things will explain why I am the way I am and why I do what I do. This post will help you understand my motivations and drivers and flaws – and will hopefully help you prevail and persevere in the face of my occasional difficulty but frequent awesomeness.

So here goes.

I’m sorry that I won’t make things easy for you when we meet. You are going to have to do some serious work to get past the razor wire, glass shards, land mines and vicious guard dogs that protect the precious and fragile real estate that is my heart. I have met too many fucktards and/or twats to give you the benefit of the doubt and just let you in. My position is to assume you too are a fucktard and/or twat, and it’s up to you to prove to me how awesome you are and why I should let you past the razor wire, glass shards, land mines and vicious guard dogs that protect the precious and fragile real estate that is my heart. I’m sorry the fucktards and/or twats have made life difficult for you. You don’t deserve this, and unfortunately you are the one who pays the price for all their fucktardedry and twatiness. It’s not fair, but that’s just how it is.

No small thing

luggage-with-tags1Recently, I almost, very quickly and without much thought, fell in love. He was a man I had met a number of times, and when we crossed paths this last time, something just clicked into place. Suffice it to say I was swept off my feet with his attention; his openness and warmth; his wanting to get to know me; and his heady promises of an awesome future. He seemed so authentic, so genuine, so real and so different from all the fucktards I’d recently had the dubious pleasure of being involved with.

And he was authentic, genuine, real and different until he was faced with the situation* of choosing between his ex-wife and me.

Needless to say I wasn’t the winner.

And this man, who seemed so authentic, so genuine, so real and so different from all the fucktards I’d recently had the dubious pleasure of being involved with, retreated into the distance with nary a word. So much for “I can see a future with you” and “I’m so into you” and “Honesty and trust are everything” and “I really, really, REALLY like you” and “This is the last trip you’ll ever have to do on your own” (I was just about to head off to Japan for three weeks).

Three week hiatus

I won’t be posting to The Diane Lee Project for three weeks, because I will be travelling around Japan, starting in Tokyo and finishing in Osaka. I will, however, be blogging about my trip at The Travelling Homebody if you want to follow along at home. See you in a few weeks, and be kind to each

On kindness

kindnessIt’s funny how 24 hours can change your perspective. This post was *not* going to be about kindness. It was going to be about head fuckery (mine), and epiphanies (mine) and calling out bad behaviour (not mine). It was *so* not going to be a kind post. It was going to be a mean and small and revengeful post, albeit an enlightening and highly entertaining one. This post was going to be about as far away from kindness as one could get.

But.

I’ve been thinking a lot about kindness lately. I’ve been thinking about how kindness touches my soul more than just about any other human act. It overrides cruelty, diminishes meanness, cancels out small-mindedness. Witnessing an act of kindness, irrespective of whether it’s fact or fiction, never fails to make me tear up. And I think it’s because genuine acts of kindness are so rare, so beautiful, so generous.

(I cried in A Game of Thrones when Tyrion covered Sansa as Joffrey had her stripped naked at court and when The Hound saved her from being gang raped. And when Osher sacrificed herself so Bran and Rickon could escape Theon’s madness. I cried at Hans and Rosa Hubermann’s different kinds of kindness in The Book Thief. I cried when I read Mustafa Atatürk’s words at Gallipoli. I cry when I see soldiers adopting stray cats in Afghanistan and taking them home when they finish their deployment. But I didn’t cry in 12 Years a Slave, even though it was a film about devastating and awful human cruelty, because there was no depiction of kindness in the film).

Head fuckery, an epiphany and a calling out

I was going to publish this post last week, but I didn’t. Instead I wrote about kindness; however, I was not treated kindly or respectfully in return. And I’m in no mood to be generous. So screw it: published it now is.

stinkheadRegular readers will know that I’ve been having an “interesting” time over the last few months, romantically speaking. Of course, the phrase “romantically speaking” assumes that romance is involved, which it isn’t, although I thought there might have been. But there wasn’t. All I got was a Big Fat Head Fuck.

Let me recap for new readers. Last year, I got myself involved in some Christmas shenanigans. Clearly learning nothing from this episode, and at the same time ignoring one of my very own Golden Rules i.e. Never Get Bitten By The Same Dog Twice, I got myself involved in post-Christmas shenanigans of the plot twist variety. Foolishly. Stupidly. Who ignores their own rules? (Me, apparently.)

Why? Who knows? Despite my hard-nosed approach, I am a big softie and I want to think that just once – once! – I’m wrong (or is that right?) about someone. (Call it a faux emotional investment and sunk cost fallacy, but I do tend to give people I’ve slept with more than one chance to prove themselves. For a smart girl, I can be pretty dopey. Which is why I’ve made a pact with myself.) But my irrational brain keeps supposing: surely, it’s not too much to ask? I want the fairy tale ending, even though I know fairy tale endings belong in fairy tales, of which my life – as fascinating as it is, with all its eclectic characters and plot twists and intricate mysteries and page turning narratives – is not one. Thanks for nothing, Fairy Godmother that is my irrational brain!

The pact I’m making with myself

preview_minFollowing last week’s post about biting dogs and do overs, I’ve been doing some soul-searching and navel gazing. The same(ish) gnawing doubts have resurfaced around the intentions of this man, despite the fact that he’s overseas. I’ve re-examined the events of the week and realised I missed key inconsistencies between words and actions, as well as things in his conversations with me that just didn’t add up. I glossed over those red flags because I got swept away. I am – after all and to my detriment – quite the romantic. I want to believe that I can have that An Officer and a Gentleman moment Hollywood has promised us! What girl doesn’t?

But my life isn’t a Hollywood movie. Not even close. There will be no man who, on realising the error of his ways, strolls into my cubicle and sweeps me off my feet with his promises of that Happy Ever After, Fairy Tale Ending. But what I have worked out is last week’s particular episode wasn’t so much an interesting plot twist as me needing to learn a valuable lesson. About myself.

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