Please, Let Me Kill You – Or At Least Get Angry At You a Bit

A newly formed habit gradually creeps up on you. You wake up, pick your nose, roll it between your thumb and forefinger and drop it over the side of your bed. It’s only when you vacuum and it sounds like you’re sucking up scattered sand that you realise you’ve been rolling snot and dropping it next to your bed for pretty much as long as you can remember.

‘You can relax, little one. The chiwawa is gone.’

Of course, probably, when you become aware of your new lazy-arsed, snot rolling and dropping habit, you’ll stop – although there will always be something satisfying about mining out a booger the size of a small cockroach. But what if you’ve formed a new habit that you just can’t shake, like wishing a stranger would outrage you enough so you can kill them?

Men, Get the F##k Off the Couch and Do Some Housework

The majority of guys are lazy, sooky, mummy’s boys. Don’t believe me? Have a conversation with any woman in a relationship with a dude and you can bet pretty much most of them will say their man does absolutely nothing around the house. And they mean nothing. As in doesn’t lift a God-damn finger, nothing.

How does this happen? How do two people get to the point where it seems totally normal for one to do every piece of housework while the other doesn’t do any? To me, it sounds like utter insanity.

Beers and Spray Tans

‘Wow, I look pretty good for 37!’

I’m going to tell you something I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone, ever. And to be honest, I’m a little nervous about it. However I feel this is a safe place. A place of non-judgment. Somewhere we can let it all dangle in the breeze and save our sniggering for later when we aren’t around each other. Not that I do that of course.

Man. You’re A Real Mate

The other day I witnessed one of the most masculine displays of emotional outpouring I’ve ever seen. That’s right, masculine and emotional. Some say those two words don’t mix, like mixed-netball and enjoyment, but after what I saw I can guarantee you they do.

To be fair to my argument the man getting all emotional was Hugh Jackman. That guy could be getting a man-Brazilian and make it look blokey – except when he dances. Stop the dancing Hugh. Stop that right now. It was during a 60 minutes interview and after being asked a few questions about his father he began to tear up. Rather than stopping or trying to hide the tears, he wiped them away and said “Sorry mate,” to the interviewer and continued on.

Men Are Stupid

I wanna be a caveman – they get to wear sexy dresses.

Men are stupid. Yeah, I’ve heard that sentiment before. And most of the time I’d have to agree. However in saying that, I don’t blame anyone for thinking it. Much of our behaviour can come across as childish in an I-like-to-hit-things-with-my-caveman-club kind of way.

Over the last week I’ve had two questions posed to me. The first being – ‘What is it with men and jets?’ and the second being – ‘What is it with men and ribs?’

The first question comes in context from my city’s River Fire Spectacular.

Tight Denim, Tyler Durden and the Dirty Thirties.

Finding your masculinity can be damn hard for young men of today. Thanks to Father Time, you don’t find it, it finds you.

“So what do you think?”

My Girlfriend turned and looked as I stood wearing a jacket I’d picked off the rack.

“Yeah, I like it,” she said. “Sort of Tyler Durden looking.”

“Really?” We were doing some Sunday arvo shopping and had stopped at a little boutique in Paddington.

“Yes,” came the rasping verdict from the 55 year old shop assistant. “Very masculine.”

My mind started throwing around pictures of Tyler Durden, Han Solo and Aragorn. These dudes are men. I’m not a man. Since when did strangers complement me on my masculinity? I puffed my chest out and squinted a little. I guess the jacket did make me look a bit Tyler – if the light was dimmed, and if I had a chiseled haircut, and a tan, and a completely different body.

Don’t drink? You some kind of pussy?

So, I don’t drink. Believe me, I would love to. But the choice has been taken away from me recently.

It’s not because I want to wow my hot yogalates instructor, and it’s not because I suffer from alcoholism. My body one day just decided it had had enough and gave me an extreme case of pancreatitis – it’s when the pancreas tries to digest itself. From now on every alcoholic drink is damaging and causes a shit load of pain. A specialist explained why alcohol specifically has this effect, but the best I can come up with in my own words is – it’s like my pancreas is the Death Star with its shields down and booze is like X-Wings on crack attacking it. Oh, and now the shields are down, they stay down. Forever.