There's a Kid Inside... and I Have Her With Me Always.

okay.... April 25th this year marks my 27th year of life.

27 years...

I am now staring directly down the barrel of thirty. This is not something that scares me. Infact, after squeezing every last drop out of my twenties, (albeit three years early) I am quite looking forward to being re-booted with the juice of a new decade.

Infact, I've been looking forward to thirty since about twenty five...

But then last week, something happened. I hate to admit it here on a myspace blog, but I joined Facebook (yet another highly addictive friggin internet network find your friends and talk about yourself webpage) and there I found a new gang of old faces I hadnt seen in a long long time... my highschool buddies.

Now... for those of you who dont know... I am a small town gal.... Ballarat, Australia is where i spent many many years growing from the seed of a girl who climbed a tree and scraped her knee (much like her hero Frauleine Maria) to the bull in a china shop that writes to you now. (In the past two days I've already smashed my toe, gotten sun burnt, broken a mug and spilt three cups of scalding hot tea on myself and others.)

The school of hard knocks that is London is a universe away from the wonderfuly supportive and insular world of my primary, middle and high school life - Ballarat and Clarendon College. A school I attended for 13 years, where my brother, my step sister and my step brothers attended and was also where my Mum, Dad and Step mum all worked (that's an entire episode of Oprah in it's self)

Anyway, I was well aware that this year would be our ten year reunion. Ten years since we all signed each other's uniforms, sprayed the teachers with water pistols and promised we'd all be Best Friends Forever. Now... despite the fact I have not become a tony award winning super star, am not married to someone fabulous, do not have an amazing house with two kids named Oliver and Ethan or a range rover and a husky named Nanook (as was my dream in 1997) I am still quite proud of who I am and what I have made of my life thus far (just ask me... I'll tell ya!) and was looking forward to turning up to my ten year reunion and finding out where the road of life has lead my fellow "old collegians of 1997"

um... apparently... they were not as interested in me.... according to the messages on facebook...

It was last week...

AND I WAS NOT INVITED!

Not invited to my own reunion!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!? Was I really that obnoxious in the early 90's that ten years has not managed to get the cool kids to invite me to their friggin' party!

Apparently not.

All of a sudden I was back in year twelve at the after debutante ball party, wearing a size 22 mint green dress, standing alone in the corner too fat to get drunk and snog anyone in Tom Hunter's back yard.

I was astounded.

Dont they know who I am!? I go to parties with west end stars... I hung out with Monica Lewinski, I have pranked called the Osbornes... My name is put on the door at Ronnie Scotts and I have turned down invites to the Black Eyed Peas after parties.... and I cant get invited to my own HIGHSCHOOL REUNION!

(Please note that all of the name drops just written are announced with a large sense of irony and and witty, biting cynicism....)

So... I emailed my father.. who still works at the school... because obviously it was HIS fault I wasnt invited. (Lesson one in "How to be a daughter handbook" - when things go wrong... run to daddy) but when all he could email back was "um... you live in London and have been constantly moving since 2001, perhaps they couldnt find you." I went to the next source.

Brooke.

Brooke is from Beulah, (a town so small its barely even a road) and my fountain of all highschool knowledge. She came through with the goods. All the gossip from the reuinion I missed and let me tell you... it has frightened me to the very centre of my soul.

Here is an abridged version of what she wrote -

Dear Amy

Don't worry there were a lot of people not there but I'll tell you about the people I did talk to - apparently this is ment to make me and my lack of invitation feel better. It didnt work.

Craig - There with his wife Sharon (aka shazza) hasn't changed a
bit!! Craig went down in history as the hot but stupid guy who prided himself on eating fifteen pieces of pizza at the all you can eat buffet.

Adam - Married and settled down working as a lawyer in Ballarat Adam's mum was also a teacher at our school... played trumpet in the concert band with me and according to my diary i had a crush on him for about 4 months in 1994... and at the same time he had a crush on my best frind claire... bitch.

Ben - Just got engaged, nice girl, he still kept telling me to get my cha-cha's out though. Ben dropped out of highschool, worked on his dads farm, drove a ute with naked chics on the mud flaps... and makes more money than i can ever dream of.

Benn - Married and living on the farm, hasn't changed Again... had a crush on him for a few months in 1995. Again... he is now a rich farmer.

Sarah - Just got engaged and loves Karate. Sarah was always the bad girl, the rebel i was scared of.... and now she is karate loving wife. I'm confused.

Dean - Also engaged, really nice girl and Dean was on really good form Dean was the funny looking, geeky red haired guy... nice but annoying...

Rowena - Really lovely boyfriend Tait, working and living in Canberra, looks amazing. Again... was the funny looking, nice but sometimes annoying girl...

Megan - wasn't there as she had a baby two days before Was once my best friend... we had the necklace you split in half and give to each other...

Lauren - looks a little like she has been slowly cooking, just got engaged to John Howley The beautiful sporty one who's house was trashed in the infamous "Ultimate 18th birthday of 1997"

Rowan - Just got engaged to Justine, going bald, still great, really great to catch up with My crush from year 7 - 12... he snogged me on the last night of school in a dark corner of the local night club 21 arms and i was so happy i cried...

Dan Shields - Married to Jo, hasn't changed Another very big crush on him for many years....

Adrian - still gay My buddy from grade 1 - year 12....

DO WE SEE A PATTERN HERE PEOPLE????????

The only other unmarried, un betrothed one... is my former GAY BEST FRIEND!

How is it that all of these people, who I last saw leaping off the diving board of adolescence into the swimming pool of life, have now already made it to the podium of marriage and children? Did they all race off when i was in the shallow end pretending to be a synchronised swimmer? Was I still shouting "Look I can do and underwater handstand" when they were partnering up and getting the bronze medallion of adult hood? And why the hell do I still feel like I am wearing the floaties and using a kick board while these people are suiting up in the thorpedo olympic body suit? I'm so astounded I've run out of aquatic analogies.

And I was so shocked and disturbed by all this Ballarat Step-ford behaviour I spent the weekend on the couch watching "sex and the city" eating everything i could get my hands on and psychoticly obsessing about why my boyrfriend had not called me in the past 24 hours (um... casting a broadway show in New York might have something to do with that...)

In the immortal words of my brother... "Who invited me to the party and where have I left my pants?"

Now... dont be mis-guided here. This is not a blog where i stand and rant about small town people being boring and having nothing else to do but get married and pop out babies.

Thats not it at all. Really. Its not.

Nor is it a rant about me feeling unfulfilled because i am not (nor anywhere near) being married with kids and that entire part of life..

Its just a moment to recognise that, even when you feel like you are firing on all cylinders, that you are running towards everything you are passionate about, that you are steadily building a life that is representative of everything you are, everything you know and all things you see as beautiful...

There is (and always will be) always a 17 year old girl inside me, wearing a size 22 mint green dress, laughing loudly at the boys jokes to cover the fact she is too terrified to look them in the eyes.

and here she is ten years later... still quietly gutted she wasnt invited to the cool kids party!

Ugly ducklings... stand up and be counted!

Back in the Saddle

So...

Over the past two months I have found myself once again associated with one horrible word. A word I though I was done with. A word I thought would never darken my doorstep again. Yet after only 6 months there is was hanging over my head like a ghostly demon. SINGLE.

I have to be honest, it's a word I loved and was defined by, for many years. But then, after a certain amount of time (and cruise ships) you get tired of it – and to find myself once again in the realm of all the other single white females looking for r. Right in the ocean of Mr. Wrongs… it was not only disappointing, it was terrifying as well.
So in typical Amy style, determined not to let my fears get to me…I grabbed this opportunity with both hands and said to the universe "OK YOU SPIRITUAL FUCKERS… GIVE ME WHAT YOU GOT"

Be careful what you wish for….

Dating is horrible. Being Australian, I come from a world where the etiquette of first date, second date, will he call, wont he call bla bla bla is not really a big deal. You meet someone… you like them… you get them drunk… you're with them. That's that.

Or is that just me?

Ladies and Gentleman sit back and relax and enjoy…. Amy's return to single life

Stage 1: He aint Mr. Right but he's Mr. Right now – a regression to my University years.

In the wake of the sudden singledom I retreated to Canterbury where my friend Helen is currently living. Tall, blonde and stunning, she is hilarious and wonderful and a weekend with her was just what the doctor ordered for my hurting heart. So out we went to the bar… and there we sat across the table from a bunch of guys… who, as it turned out, played in a rock band. If anyone knows me… they will know
EXACTLY what this equation means.

Amy + rock band = random drunken snogging.

And that is exactly what happened. Some how… we had found ourselves in what was calling it's self a drum and base club… which I think means loud shite mucis thumping with some guy on a microphone screaming something that sounded like

sugga bugg dodle way flooga fluugg mamma jay.

And there I was, against a wall, kissing what I thought in my drunken mind was a hot, sexy guitar player…

And then it was three am, the lights came on and I realised that shoving his lips against mine was a post pubescent, acne covered Pete Doherty wanna be.

And just like that… I ran out of the club.

Nice move Amy. You've travelled halfway around the world to behave like you did when you were seventeen… and twenty one… and who am I kidding.. twenty five…

Stage 2: He looked so good on paper… why communism was good in theory.

So… I decided I was going to actively try this "dating" thing. Go on a date… see if I like him and see where it goes from there. I was not a child of my early twenty's anymore.. I was looking for something more discerning. I deserved someone fabulous… and goddamn it I was going to go and get it.

Enter Dr. Doug.

28… Surgeon specialising in finding a cure for prostate cancer. Smart, funny, into photography…. And not to mention… GORGEOUS. This was perfect. He was perfect. And so I agreed to a coffee one afternoon.

He was absolutely lovely, a perfect gentleman and everything a girl could want. We sat there over our double strength skinny soy late`… and we chatted, we laughed, we found common ground… and we had a lovely time…

But….

Nothing. There was nothing there. Not a zap, not a kazaam, not even a spark. Nothing. Was I supposed to date people I felt nothing for and one day hope they'll turn around and be "the one?" Or was I going to have to wait another five years until I met someone for whom I'd drop everything for. I didn't know. So I pushed him onto his Piccadilly line tube and went home to quietly freak out about how I was obviously never going to ever find anyone I could possible love who could possibly love me and I was destined to die alone with only my cats to mourn me and then eat off half my face when they got too hungry.

Stage 3: Never… ever… go to Starbucks. How mass consumerism can ruin your life.

I am a self confessed coffee snob. I love the stuff, cant get enough of it… hook me up shove it in intravenously if you want… I'd drink it all day. And without it… I am not a happy lady. It's an addiction.. I admit it.. and it's a damn addiction that I love… okay!!! So back off…

On this particular day… I was suffering from a monumental "lack of coffee headache" and was in desperate need of some help. I happened to be standing out side the root of all evil… Starbucks. But I thought to myself…. "It's better than nothing.. one cup can't hurt that much… and those couches look just like ones off Friends."
Famous last words my friends. Famous last words…

I was sitting on the couches drinking my over milked, under caffeinated, over priced beverage, reading the ridiculous British news papers (Guess what Posh and Becks did today…) when a gentleman came and sat down next to me.


We started chatting, he was Canadian… a little bit older… was wearing glasses and a turtle neck… and I think… "What the hell? Why not?"

Fast forward to a week later and we are on our first date. He's splashing around money… promising to buy me presents… its all good… I'm thinking this could be fun…I could be that girl for a while… let him take care of me… spend some money on me…

Um… no. For the record… people who pick you up in Starbucks… are PSYCHOTIC.

The next day, after one date, I got about twenty five text messages from him referring to me as his girlfriend. That he was so lucky that he finally had found the girl he would be with for years to come.

Um… too much?? Yeah.. I thought so too…

SO when I sent him a polite text message suggesting that we calm down on the 'ol "girlfriend" terminology – the SHIT HIT THE FAN.

Or… at least the text messages came at me THICK AND FAST, calling me every name under the sun… it was like one of those old episodes of Batman…

"You're a KABAM… What a complete KABOOM… How can you treat men like this you WAPOW… You deserve to be THWACKED…" On and on and on they went… for three days…. Until either he got bored of my silence or his phone credit ran out… I think the last thing I heard from him was "you can play your mind games with the next guy you mess with… its just another notch in your bed you filthy WALLOP"

NOTE TO SELF… NEVER … UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES… GO BACK TO STARBUCKS.

And so there we were… the three stages of Amy's road back to single. Bumpy enough for ya?

But then something happened… a light went on in my head and I remembered… I don't live this life to find a boyfriend… I live this life for me!

And then it all came rushing back… what I do, who I am, where I am going.. . all of a sudden I felt so much stronger, completely focused and ready to take on the world - and off I went – running 100 miles an hour to what I want to be doing… (see the next blog for all of those details)

And then there I was… standing alone on my stage (figuratively and literally)… finally feeling proud again of who I am, what I live for and what I am placed on this earth to do.

And then the phone rang.

And it was the recent ex.

And he said everything I have been dying to hear for the past two months.

And I thought my heart was about to explode.

And then what happened?

We'll have to wait and see… watch this space my friends.

An Ode to Loving What You've Got.

So...

my prison-beak style escape from the Alcatraz that is Harrods is yet to happen. But for some reason – I don't really mind. Something seems to have clicked over in my head; I have harnessed my chi and don't let the bad stuff in anymore. And really – the salon is a lot better than some of the other day jobs I've worked.

I've dressed as a Kinder surprise egg and been beaten up by children at a race course, I've thrown yo yo's at people in mosh pits, I've sold mobile phones to people who do not need them, I've hunted down tax evaders for the government, I've helped to run the worst youth hostel in the EU, I've sold popcorn to celebrities at Cirque Du Soleil, I've wrapped presents in my Auntie's gift shop and I've nannied for the most spoilt children on the planet.

Hey kids! Look what a degree in musical theatre can do for you!!!

Life at the Urban Retreat aint all that bad and it seems that I've been there long enough to now have what I can call "my clients." The weird, eccentric and slightly "left of centre" people who love me because I make all of their ridiculous requests, an even more ridiculous reality.

Stellios – mid 40's, interior designer. Comes in every Monday for his pedicure, every other Wednesday for his back wax and every third Friday for his hair to be tinted and cut. These appointments are booked for the rest of his natural life. He is a creature of habit and does not like change. When he comes in I make sure he has his fresh carrot juice as sits down and only when he has finished drinking it will he be served his porridge. Do not think of serving it at anything less than boiling point. Do not ask him his surname – he will not tell you. Do not ask for his mobile number – he thinks they are evil. Do not think he will pay on his card – to him credit cards are satanic. If there, for any reason, needs to be a change in this routine, he needs to know 48 hours in advance to emotionally prepare himself. Stellios – the man with no surname, always dressed in Prada. I love him.

Rula - Mid 30's, Jewellery Designer, French. Highly strung. Flips out if someone breathes in the wrong direction. Will ONLY see Davy for her cut and Sacha for her colour. If I sit her down and convince her, she might see Paco or Nikki, but will only speak to me about it. I make sure she has her diet coke, no lemon, no ice ready for her when she comes in and there is always an eyebrow specialist ready to give her an eyebrow shape should she decide she will DIE if she doesn't get one NOW. But as she leaves she gives me a hug… tells me she loves me and wanders what she would do without me. Quite frankly… I don't know.

Mrs. Cassar – about 100 years old. Non – specific eastern European. Cannot talk, can only yell… and seems to think the world is out to get her. "DAWN WILL NOT JUST DRY MY HAIR TODAY YES , SHE WILL CUT AND DRY YES, SHE WILL CUT THEN DRY NOT JUST DRY YES." After 20 years of coming to the salon every single Thursday afternoon at 12:30, Mrs. Cassar can't quite understand that no matter what Dawn does, it will always take 45mins and cost the national debt of Uganda. She often says to me "I LIKE YOU YES, YOU DO GOOD WORK YES, IF I HAD EVER HAD TO HAVE A JOB YES, I WOULD BE LIKE YOU YES. I take that as a compliment.

Mrs. Bettleheim. – About 200 years old – 3ft 4" and hunched over like Quasimodo. I have never actually seen her face. My reception desk is so high that when she checks in all I see is a cane smacking onto the glass and hear a Munchkin like voice say "Bettleheim – Robert – thank you" and off she goes….
Mrs. Nemeth – early 70's – 4ft 2" (a giant compared to Mrs. Bettleheim) comes in every fortnight for Robert to do her wigs. She carries three large wig bags with her and, due to a hip replacement, waddles through the salon talking the ear off everyone. Always orders two cappuccinos and a piece of carrot cake with two forks so she and Robert can shoot the breeze while he attempts to make her rugs look like real hair. She is sweeter than everyone's Nanna put together and is an oasis of lovely amidst the ocean of Euro trash that comes through our doors.

Mrs. Scott-Brown. NEVER EVER EVER CALL HER BY HER FIRST NAME. She will actually set you on fire with her eyes. But, if you keep on her good side, she's quite a pussy cat… or is that lion… through all the bright orange curly hair extensions it's hard to tell where the cat ends and the fifty something woman begins. She's had enough face lifts to make David Guest proud and is running the impossible race against age. Her tiny frame actually trembles at times and she seems quite terrified by her life or perhaps by the reflection in the mirror. But when Flavien runs his fingers through her hair – all the worries seem to melt away.

Marie Louise – another one with no surname. I have no idea how old she is because she has had so much plastic surgery she can only be half human. French and the size of a semi-trailer she comes in three times a week for endomology (a crazily expensive cellulite treatment.) With her bleached blonde hair, bright pink lipstick and blue eye shadow pasted all over her face I often say to her "Marie Louise, you look so lovely today in your leopard print leggings… you are so naturally beautiful I don't know why you need us." She sighs and looks at me over her Dior glasses. "I spend so much money coming here three times a week… and look at me! I am still fat!" And with that… she takes another bite out of her cream pie, gets in the cab and goes home… around the corner.

I could spend all day writing about my wonderful clients at the Urban Retreat – there is enough to fill a book, and one day I will. But the people who really make it all worthwhile, all the screaming, insulting clients, all the long days and the Harrods bullshit…. Are the staff. We are the worlds largest salon and in some ways, a little micro world of our own. We all laugh at this life together, because if we didn't, there'd be a mass Waco style suicide on the fifth floor of Harrods.

There's my reception posse – a gang of mostly girls ( and two guys) who are a never ending stream of advice on love, men, fashion, sex, dating, restaurants, bars, clubbing, celebrity gossip and diet tips. They put up with my melodrama of a life and don't tell me to shut up when I quote Oprah's thought for the day at them… well not right away anyway.

The beauty therapists are always on hand to help you out with an emergency wax, tan, facial, body scrub, back rub or eyebrow tint should the need arise and will always listen to the woes and worries of the day. Just don't mess up their bookings… they will pack hunt you down and eat you for breakfast while your heart is still beating.

The make up artists are magicians who somehow manage to make me look human after working fourteen consecutive days and staying out all night in a gay bar in Soho because John wanted to go dancing. With a flick of a brush, they take me from "night of the living dead" to "night of a thousand dances" and think nothing of it. I don't know how I lived before I met them.

But... If I am being honest… of everyone… the hair stylists are my favourite. If we were in high school they would be the cool gang that everyone wanted to be. They are the beautiful ones who are just so frickin' cool…

Top Dog is Paco – Senior Art Director of the Salon – Spanish. He calls me "Carrinitos" - which in Spanish means little cuddles. Mid 40's (although he seems to defy the aging process completely) his boyfriend is the HOTTEST man in the universe. He wears knee high Prada boots, tight ass hugging trousers and Versace shirts and struts through the salon like the stallion that he is. He works when, and only when, he wants to and does what ever the hell he feels like… for he is PACO! Lord of the stylists! When our ridiculous management try to speak to him about it… he listens… smiles… and then does whatever the hell he wants to. I love him.

Next is Claudio – the other Senior Art Director – Italian. Works harder than anyone I know, can cut three women's hair at once and make them all look like Miss Venezuela '97 within thirty mins. And they love him for it. He is passionate, funny and tells it like it is. On the days I have slept in too late to wash (or brush) my hair he'll openly yell at me "What are you doing? You can be so pretty and you show up here looking like a cleaner! Stop it! You make me sick!" But then he'll give me a wink and a smile… and I'll reach for the damn hair brush.

Then there's my favourite of them all. The man who walks in slow motion, with his own personal wind machine. The one with the floppy brown hair, the endless sparkling eyes and the sex appeal oozing out of every single pore. His bi-sexual, French flirtations mix a heady cocktail I would take intravenously if I could. He rubs my shoulders, whispers in my ears, and plays with my hair and at many times I have thought to myself… if he doesn't stop I cannot be held responsible for my deeply inappropriate workplace actions… and then let him keep going. I tell him everyday that I love him and that the sooner he admits he loves me too, the better it will be for all of us involved. He tosses back those brunette locks and laughs… and I let him think I am kidding. This is Flavien – the Don Juan of Urban Retreat.

So here's to those of us who have day jobs… the things that keep our bills paid, our rent on time and our fridges stocked. The things that keep us occupied while we spend every spare nano second of our live running towards what we actually want - our dreams.

May your dreams and your day jobs be as entertaining as mine…