I’ve wanted to come back here for ages now. But the timing seemed off. Very off. There was always something more “official” that needed doing. Or my head wasn’t quite in the right space and I thought: No, you can’t write that.

Then, about 4 months ago, I had a mini-freak-out and decided to try and wipe all trace of me off the Internet. Goodbye Facebook, and Twitter, and Internet dating profile.  Profiles.

Realizing that things you write online are undeletable makes it a little daunting to write anything online at all.

Unless you deal in the smart and insightful. Then it’s kinda liberating. I like to think there may be the occasional smidge of that in here somewhere.  But let’s be honest: I write this because I am a terrible conversationalist who is hoping to be stumbled upon by someone super-interesting or have her life story turned into an award-winning movie not starring Whoopi Goldberg.

Another me vs. Whoopi analogy yesterday. “It’s just that for some people, when they see dreadlocks on a woman, that’s the only comparison they make”, my ego soothed me. Because really, if you are seeing much more of a resemblance than that between me and Ms. Goldberg then I have been doing this living thing all wrong.

I surprised myself a lot in 2011. In ways that were good and bad. On the bad side… I was the worst kind of cliché. The worst kind.

Girl meets boy.
Boy ignores Girl.
Girl decides this makes him “mysterious”.  Likes Boy even more.
Boy ignores Girl some more. Does some weird, inexplicable, side-show stuff.
Girl decides it’s because he’s in pain and needs her to fix him.
Girl accepts unuttered challenge – tools and remedies at the ready.
Boy casts fleeting glance Girl’s way, acknowledges her existence.
Girl interprets this as confirmation of Boy’s need + brokenness + unbridled yearning.
Boy goes back to being inscrutable.
Girl has epiphany: Boy is just Boy. Nothing more.

That totally happened. And no-one stopped me. I won’t tell you how much time I spent in that particular haze of ridiculousness but as I am now 33 and my womb is about 24 months from going into permanent shut-down from non-use, it was obviously too long.

But hello, 2012. I think I’m going to like you. A lot.

This week, one of the projects I worked on was editing a eulogy. When I got the document, it struck me right away that it had been written almost entirely in the present tense.  “Person X is….”
Usually when the same issue consistently recurs in a text, I just use “Find and Replace”.  I Ctrl+H the heck out of it and move on.  But this was someone who had lost their life and in this instance my job was to cement their non-existence on a piece of paper. To change references to things they are and things they do, to things they did and things they used to do.  In the past.  In people’s memories.   Where stuff is bound to eventually fade. It felt very sterile.  And kind of disrespectful, somehow, to use a shortcut.  So I didn’t.  Find and replace. I don’t like the “replace” so much…

Something else I realized that my confrontation Chinese is terrible.  You know confrontation Chinese.  My hey-I’ll-let-a-lot-slide-but-that’s-just-rude Chinese.  I don’t bust it out a lot.  But sometimes I feel an important principle is at stake so I have to say something.  Other times my hormones are all over the place and shutting up is not an option.  This week, I think it was a little of both.

I’m standing at the bus stop and a lady walks past me with her umbrella.  The little tabs at the end of the spiky things get caught in my hair as she walks by.  I have dreadlocks so they kinda catch fast and she then just yanks her brolly hard (ouch!) and keeps on walking.   This would not had been my favorite occurrence of the day even if it hadn’t been raining in Shanghai for like the eleventieth day in a row but that was too much.  Just a cotton-picking minute! I wanted to say.  Dude, what the f***?! I wanted to growl.  Oi! Can I at least get my follicles back? I wanted to harrumph.  But I do not know how to say any of these things in Chinese. So I said to her: Dude, that’s just rude. Those were my exact words.  I didn’t want to swear – out loud – because – between you and me – the number of people who take photos of me when I am just going about my business, I didn’t want to take the chance that someone would catch it on video.  That’s right, my heightened sense of paranoia is what stopped me.  Not any chastening sense of decorum.

Umbrella Woman just looked at me and said: “我听不懂你的话” （I don’t understand what you are saying).  “话” means language and I thought: Save it, sister.  We’ve all played the “I have no idea what you are saying” card before.  Except that you totally understand my body “话”, don’t you?  How’s your French?  “Je suis pissed”.  That’s not what I said; I just thought it.

Perhaps it should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: Please don’t plunge your brolly into the roots of my hair.  I know I’m a little tall and for you it’s kind of like having to fly a tiny kite over the steeple of a really high cathedral but if you do get it stuck all up in there and have to pull it out, then  a little “My bad” or a raised arm of acknowledgment are in order.  That’s all I’m sayin’.

I hate “lol”.

Honestly. Every time someone I like/love uses it, I make myself quickly list all the things about them which cancel out the cloying insipidness of this stupid abbreviation.

Good morning! Lol.

Really? “Good morning” followed by a laugh out loud? Really?

I mean, seriously…R.E.A.L.L.Y????

Who speaks like that?

No-one. So why write it?

Each time I see “lol” online, I roll my eyes. Or, rather, I let me mind’s eye do the rolling for me.

In general, most people don’t laugh out loud if they find something funny. They might just crack a smile, or give a little “heh” or maybe just think to themselves: That’s funny. Laugh out loud funny is, to me, Chris Rock funny. Rewind-this-clip-which-isn’t-actually-a-clip-at-all-but-a-link-to-some-other-dude’s-website and-watch-him-deliver-the-punchline-five-times funny. Bwahahahaha-I-think-I-may-have-just-ruptured-something-I-laughed-so-hard funny.

So, again:

I’ve just been to the supermarket. Lol!!!!!!!

Grrrr.

And what is with this rampant abuse of exclamation marks? We should declare exclamation marks an endangered species and set PETA on these people. Lol!!! This kind of self-expression, by someone who is neither 12 nor brain dead, makes me *sad face* Can you imagine how a conversation with one of these lollists would go?

Them: Hi! Lol!

Me: Erm…Hello.

Them: My name’s X. Lol!

Me: Ok.

Them: Nice to meet you. Lolest!

Me: Would you excuse me for a bit? I think my mind is about to explode and I want to make sure all the chargers are set properly.

And so it goes.

So I was riding the bus on the way home from work yesterday when on stepped a middle aged-gentleman, late 50s, early 60s.  He was dressed in black trousers, a red sports shirt (Tiger Woodsish) and had a red-and-white striped cardigan wrapped around his shoulders. I didn’t know that people actually dressed like that.  I mean you only ever see it on sitcoms to denote that someone is flamboyantly gay (think Jack from Will and Grace) or that they are wealthy and/or uptight. The guy also had a sports bag with two or three tennis rackets strapped onto his back.

So I was smiling to myself, thinking: Ooh, a toff riding the bus.  How…incongruous.

The bus was pretty full so the old guy was standing.  Next to him was a woman, of similar age.  One stop on, a seat became vacant and the dude practically shoulder-barged the woman out of the way, despite the fact that she was clearly scrambling to get to the empty space too.  He got there first, plonked himself down and slipped her a satisfied smirk.

I thought it was funny.  Classy on the surface; douche underneath.   How many of my exes does that describe?

So last week, someone told me that I was “striking looking”.
You know who else was “striking looking”?  The Elephant Man.

Were they calling me ugly? I don’t think so.  I was there and that is not how the conversation was going.  But “striking-looking”?  People who are described by that term usually have freakishly large noses – or eyes that are set alarmingly far apart.  Calling someone “striking-looking” is a polite way of saying: I’d paint ya, but that’s about it.

Striking-looking…it’s not even a proper adjective.   So non-committal.  Like a semi-compliment.  Or a quasi-diss.

Striking-looking…

Color me perplexed.

Hanging out with a mate this weekend we were talking about compartmentalizing.  Or I was talking about it, and she was listening and looking increasingly concerned at how maniacally OCD I am about not letting parts of my life overlap.  For example, I go to a lot of networking things.  A lot.  And there’s always at least a free glass of wine or two on offer.  I never drink in front of colleagues or prospective clients.  Never.  Wine = play.  Work = work.  Some people do mix them.  But you’ll notice that none of them are called “Iris”.

And when I asked her how many email aliases she had, she answered “one”, as though we were still in 1995.  One?!  You can’t let all your comms touch each other.  That is completely unsanitary.

I have seven.

• The first address is my work one.  Used by clients and prospective clients.
• The second is just for my family.
• The third one is for my friends. The people who genuinely know me.  Mainly it’s people who were around before the chronic cynicism and myriad of neuroses kicked in.  Good times.
• The fourth is for people I’m still getting to know.  Or for people I pretend to like (sorry).  Or those who I have only ever met in a dark and dingy club i.e. people with whom I have never had a conversation beyond: “Oh my giddy odd – I love this tuuuuuuuuuuunnnneeee!”
• The fifth is for when I want to comment on blogs and other forums anonymously.
• The sixth is for when I’m up to no good signing up for things and I know there’s a good chance the website is going to swallow my address and never let me unsubscribe from a spammerrific torrent of junk mail.
• And the seventh is a backup Gmail address for my work one.  I bcc everything to it.

So, 7.   That makes sense, right?

No, it’s not weird.  So shut up.
No, you.

You know that scene in Frankie and Johnny – awesome movie by the way – where Al Pacino tells Michelle Pfeiffer to open her robe and he stares at her nakedness for what seems like forever?

That’s what blogging can feel like when you write personal stuff.  Like you are completely exposed and people are staring right into you.  I don’t write much personal stuff here – a lot (a lot) of what I write is made up (have ya read the “About Me” section?), most of the stuff that is true is observational – about other people, not me.

I have another blog that I write anonymously – like being nude but having a paper bag over your head.  I may or may not have mentioned that before, and lately it’s getting harder to decide what to write here. Firstly, because it’s a lot easier to be honest under the cover of namelessness.  Secondly, if the initial goal of this blog really was content aggregation, and I’m pretty sure it was, then I think “Mission Accomplished, Artonym”.

I don’t know.  Maybe a short break will be good.  Just until the lines are a little less blurred.  Or until I get my Artonym mojo back.  Or until I stop saying silly things like “Artonym mojo”.    It could be in as little as a day.  Or as long as a week.  Less…More…  Can’t really say.

But I do love you, Arty.  You’ve been good for me.

Midnight At a house party.  On the roof, checking out the fireworks.  It’s snowing in Shanghai.  This is either fabulously awesome or hideously inconvenient. I’m wearing a leather jacket, though.  So “awesome” is off the table.
01:00 It was freezing up there.  Back indoors.  Should I have some wine?
02:00 Home and bed.
03:00 Still awake.  Ooh, have just figured out how to connect my new phone to the intertubes.  Send a flurry of emails with that obnoxious “Sent from my iPhone” signature.  I’ve been dying to do that for ages.
04:00 Still awake.  Maybe I’ll start fiddling around with some new ringtones.
05:00 About to doze off…oooh! A text message!  Who can be thinking of me at this hour?  How sexy – and mysterious.  Ah, the phone company – telling me I am out of credit.  Shouldn’t have done the web/email thing.
06:00 Email bleeping.  Will check it out.  Could be awesome.  Happy Valentine’s day from the networking group whose mailing list you didn’t even know you were on, Iris. I love you too, anonymous automated mailing system.
07:00 Lighting up.  Not good.  I’m kinda tired now but if I sleep my body clock will be all out of kilter.
16:00 So…
16:05 Text from J asking if I want to go to dinner.  Do I? I’m still about 4 hours from being properly awake.  I think I’ll give it a miss.
16:30 Shower and faux-tidy around the house
17:00 I can’t remember the last time I ate.  Am I hungry now?
18:00 Ring my parents.  They aren’t Valentinesing but they love me.  Score.
18:30 Ring sister #2.  I seem to have saved her number incorrectly.  A sleepy-sounding British fellow answers the phone.  I could be in, here.  No, that’s gross, Brain.  What are you saying?  Hang up.
18:35 Sister #X sends an email saying that Valentines Day is Christmas for tarts.   This is hilarious.  I send the email around to all the other girls, who apparently have already heard the gag, so it falls a little flat…  This is just like that time when Ana told me that Barbara Streisand was dead.  And then I told everyone.  And we were all shocked, awed and unable to name a single Barbara Streisand song or movie.  And then we found out that she wasn’t dead and -…Ok, I don’t know where I was going with that story.
19:00 Get onto FB to see what the cybersphere is up to.  Bump in to Sister #1 so we Skype.

19:30 I’m worried about whether I will be able to pull off cowboy boots in the summer.  She is worried about getting her son into a good school in the Fall.  My issue will obviously need resolving before hers.  I ask her to focus.
21:00 Maybe I’ll get out of my pajamas now. And call the gym to see if they are open for a late night bout of cardio. They aren’t.  Good.
22:00 Sister #4 calls.  She is well and having an awesome time in Happyland.  I tell her about my day.  She’s suitably impressed.
23:00 Still trying to get hold of Sister #2.  She’s not picking up.  What can that mean?
00:15 Trying on some outfits for the gym tomorrow.  Mid-thigh shorts, three quarter shorts, full length tights…Ooh, definitely not the tights.
00:45 Time to zhoozh up the work out playlist.  Top 10 songs so far:

1. Too Much Booty in the Pants, 2 Live Crew – Literal, but awesomely inspiring
2. Outta My Head, Leona Lewis – Ok, so dance music isn’t all completely vile.  Go Le-Lew!
3. Movin’ Too Fast, Artful Dodger (ft. Romina Johnson) - Irony on the treadmill.  Love it.
4. Push it, Salt ‘n’ Pepa – As if that needs explaining
5. Insomnia, Craig David – Love this song.  Love it.  Love.  It.
6. Cotton-Eyed Joe, Rednex – Never mind Cotton-Eyed Joe, where did you go, Rednex?
7. Alone Now, Tiffany – Did you look like Molly Ringwald, Tiffany?  Or am I just thinking of Molly Ringwald?
8. Gotta Get Through This, Daniel Bedingfield – Awesome for when I’m, breathing hard and thinking of packing it in.  I play this one on a loop.   A big ol’ long, endless loop, sometimes.
9. Jai Ho, A.R. Rahman and the PCD – I love shouty songs.  I have been known to inadvertently shout along.  If you were standing next to me when this happened, I apologize.  It’s how we work out in Zimbabwe. <insert raised eyebrows here>
10. Tootsie Roll, 69 Boys – “Cotton candy sweetie go – let me see that tootsie roll!” Need I say more?

01:30 Maybe I will start doing some laundry.
01:35 No.   I willint.
01:40 Maybe I’ll dance myself tired.
01:50 Or maybe I’ll blog myself sleepy.
03:00 Or maybe I’ll make myself some dinner.
03:02 Or maybe I’ll just stare at the ceiling for a bit …

Hm.

Here’s something very few people know about me: I love filling out online dating profiles.  Love it.  Signing up and putting together a profile on an internet dating site, then going through and answering the questions.  I find it thrilling.  And yes, I know what the word “thrilling” means.

If you ask me what I am up to on any given weekend and I say, “Oh, I don’t know, probably just hanging out”, that’s code for: I’m going to be visiting random internet dating sites and filling out profiles.

Not because I am into online dating – I’m sure it has its merits but I am equally convinced I would never, in a million years, muster up the courage to actually meet a netperson face to face.  They are sure to be emotionally damaged beyond all repair.  I just know it.

The thing that really rings my bell about online dating profiles is that they are the perfect conversation partner.  The questions are all about you.  What do you like?  What do you dislike?  What are your aspirations?  What turns you on (not sexually – I mean: what are the issues that get you revved up)? What do you think of this?  What do you think of that?  What are your good qualities?  What qualities do you admire in other people? Politics? Religion? Philosophy? School? Work? Family? Relationships?

They ask you about all of it.  You can sign up with a fake name, post completely honest responses to all the questions, find a bunch of people who think like you do and see their answers to the same questions.  Then you hastily delete your profile – before anyone you know stumbles across it – content in the knowledge that there are people who think like you do “somewhere out there”.

I’d quite like a map to “somewhere out there” some time.

Anyone?  Bueller?

Imagine you had a problem.  You’ve had it for years.  In fact you cannot remember a time when you were not the owner of said problem.  Sometimes it looms so large it obscures everything else and you are either consumed with the kind of impotent rage that achieves nothing or you feel like you are drowning in your defeatedness because there is no way up, over, round or under this problem.

Imagine that.

Then imagine someone says:  Hey, you know that problem that you’ve been facing forever?  I can help you fix it.

But you’ve been around the block a few times and you know that the reason this offer sounds too good to be true is because it is.

And the “solution” is final.   Irreversible.  If it works, it will be awesome.  But if it doesn’t, you will be left with a problem far worse than the one you were trying to fix in the first place.  Or, both could happen.  It would work, and we’d be out with the old problem and in with a new one.

The clear choice here seems to be: do nothing.

But I can’t think of anyone who ever won at life by doing nothing.  Thingdoers rule.  (I own thingdoers.com, by the way).

I don’t know what to do.  There is advice coming from all corners.  From people who really have my best interests at heart.  Many of them Winners-At-Life.   But these people, all of whom I love,  have no idea what is is like living inside this skin and so everything – everything – inside me is railing against their advice.

It’s like when I say:  You should totally call him; he’s definitely into you, to my heart-sore friends.  I dole out this advice knowing that were I the one pining for someone in this situation, I would be hunkered invisibly behind  big specs and shape-obscuring sweaters.  Not on the phone giving Captain Insensitive the opportunity to crush reject me.

So we come full circle.  The winners at life, they’d call, wouldn’t they?  They’d make the bold, risky choice and figure that in a 50-50, they have everything to gain. So why not aim for “everything”?   This kind of thinking scares me.  Where is the safe zone in that?

Maybe I’ll be braver in 2010.  I’m 31 now, y’know.