it’s a new post-war world of constantly looking like I rolled over a giant furby.
A lot of my blogs have been pretty serious lately, so I think it’s time for a lighthearted change.
Over the years I’ve had many a person say, “You’re so perfect… you’re so beautiful… how are you single… you’re an angel…”
Quite frankly it occasionally makes me uncomfortable, mostly because I’m all too aware of the fact that I am most definitely not perfect. Yes, my ad reads of perfection incarnate, but us gals are still human. Imperfections are what us fucking awesome and and I adore my occasional un-lady like behaviour. If everyone was perfect, none of us would be any different. So let’s explore just how imperfect I am for some kicks, shits and giggles.
- Anyone who has been on a dinner date with me knows that I talk with my mouth full. Apologies for the front row display of the food massacre occurring in my mouth, but to my credit I tend to at least hold my hand to block the view of the destruction.
- I am constantly covered in dog hair. Wouldn’t have it any other way. My black coats are now grey, and whenever I meet people they without fail try to dust the hair off. I have to tell them that I admitted defeat to that war 3 years ago and their attempts at hair assassination are futile. The surrender flag is up, I will never wear hairless clothes, and it’s a new post-war world of constantly looking like I rolled over a giant furby.
- I often rock the shittiest clothes. I’m often seen wearing pyjama pants with a hoodie in IGA. You would probably walk past me on the street and think I was homeless – sometimes I walk past a reflection of myself on the street and scare even myself. I’m surprised my dogs recognize me. But when you’re often up until 1am in the morning with a 7 am start, it’s a constant battle to just get out of bed let alone make myself human. I’m often seen with a bowl of porridge and a cup of coffee in lectures because rolling out of bed took so long that I am now known as “that student”. I think many of the workers out there will identify with this one – I may have to do a blog on industry truths later down the track 😉
- I occasionally chew my nails when I’m stressed. Even I gross myself out with this one. I’m forever worried that I’m going to get the nail equivalent of “Rapunzel syndrome”, and wake up one morning with a ball of tiny old nails forcing its way through my abdomen like an Alien sequel. Maybe slight paranoia?
- If you don’t give me warning that you like feet before a booking, you will witness first hand the absolute horror of blisters that diehard runners get. I like to exercise, a lot, and I need warning so that a beautician can repair the self-mutilation that my feet suffer from running. Yes, to all those trying to be mum to me out there, I have new shoes. Soon even hand fetishes will have to brace themselves as I am now getting so good at pole dancing that my instructor has warned me that I will be peeling pieces of skin the size of quarters off my palms in the very near future. Soon my palms will resemble a 95 year old farmer’s calloused palms. Sexy, I know.
- I love to cook, and am kick ass at it, but have gotten so lazy with all of my late nights and minimal sleep that I have lived off frozen meals for the last 5 weeks. So the best way to my heart is a decent dinner date – you will seriously make my week with anything that is not thawed from a freezer. Starting to fail at the domestic goddess title from this front. On the plus side though, I am very easy to impress with food.
- I often talk before I think, sometimes to the point that I wonder if I’m having a stroke because I have either totally left some words out or have combined words to produce new entries entirely worthy of urban dictionary. “Hi, I’m food” = Hi, I’m fine/good. “See you goodsoon” = see you soon/goodbye. Maybe I need to write a “Charlie’s dictionary” blog to help you all interpret.
- I have the worst taste in potential dates it seems…. If I ever tell you that I think you should go ask out x person, take that as a solid DO NOT TOUCH. My dating escapades have ranged from men who write poems to other tinder dates about smelly vaginas (and then admit this to me), through to being witness to the worst ‘sex face’ I have ever seen. Imagine a man kicked in the nuts while trying to eat an imaginary double quarter pounder, cross eyed. Yep. Safe to say there was no date 3. Part of my problem is that I always tend to pick up bartenders while drinking, but I have honestly given up trying to pick up men. If I like them – I am automatically suspicious because of my track record. If they ask me then it’s a totally different story, but the problem is no one EVER asks. EVER. The only times a guy has asked me out was when I was 14 (that lasted a week after he nearly accidentally drowned me in my own pool) or when the guy was shoulder height (that one may sound shallow but honestly, I love my heels and I don’t want to look like I’m bringing my 12 year old son out on the town with me. A little short – no biggie. Shoulder height or below – Houston we have a problem).
- When I drink I have multiple personalities. Up to 3 drinks I am happy, chatty, well-mannered Charlie. Between 4 and 7 drinks, all you have to do is play some serious RNB and I turn into Black Charlie, whipping out some serious club worthy moves. Everyone has always told me that this mythical Black Charlie can really fucking dance, but I don’t know if I believe it because it has never been recorded in the wild, kind of like an urban Big Foot – plus these reported sightings are often reported by people just as wasted as me or more so. From drink 5 onwards I tend to turn into sleepy Charlie, so drinks 5-7 are often kind of interesting to watch because Black Sleepy Charlie emerges. Black Sleepy Charlie looks like she’s ghetto dancing underwater, and the head nods get pretty epic I’ve been told. I’ve been known to fall asleep in a heavy metal club before.
- I want to think of this incredibly epic end to my blog but honestly have hit a brick wall and can’t be fucking assed. So this is the last flaw – I get bored easily. Variety is definitely the spice of my life. After time I get to the ‘no two flying fucks given’ stage and just tap out into a new exciting change. This need for diversity has resulted in the double degreed, multiple certificate owning, soon to be scuba diving pro, pole dancing extroadinaire and all rounded fucking incredible (if I say so myself) imperfect Charlie that you all know and love.
Bored now, so going to go find a new adventure to have for today. Peace out.