Why guys don’t like funny girls

Pop culture has lead us to believe many a thing; party girls most definitely never get hurt, “zero fucks given” is now a legitimate reason for not doing something, and if somebody likes you and hasn’t put a ring on it then you should twerk your booty ’round in some sheer black neoprene until they do.

Tv, movies, shit we find on the interwebs and largely netflix would also insinuate the cute kind-of-sassy funny girls that get too drunk at weddings Emma Stone always end up with the very good looking, pragmatic Ryan Gosling’s of this world.

Well, just like party girls often end up semi-naked, face down in a burrito at 6am at a Starbucks on a Sunday, so too do many  funny girls end up single, watching 30 Rock re-runs while yelling “Dumplings for one” down the phone to their local Vietnamese on a Saturday night.

But, let’s be clear about the exact definition of a ‘funny girl’ in this instance. We’re not talking ‘commercial comedienne prompted by queued audience laughter types bridget jones diary‘, but more the witty, caustic social commentary humour that conjures unexpected hilarity. Think Tina Fey, Lena Dunham, Dorothy Parker, Fran Lebowits, all of whom make you laugh and think at the same time and maybe even pee your pants a little. Now let’s dial it back a bit, take away the celebrity, the shine, mostly the money, till we get back to the common funny girl. Still funny, just a li’l more single, a li’l less rich.

So, if you consider yourself one of those girls that can really throw out a LOL but can’t quite catch a mate, these are some of the reasons you don’t get the guy.

1. You are intimidating

You scare men. You make them feel inadequate. Why? Because you’re smart, which is the underlying fuel for your innate humour and apparently the worst thing to ever happen to a man’s penis. This must mean you like books and reading and other dumb dumb things that don’t involve making sandwiches with a side of sex on a daily turn around. You like challenging banter and often blur the lines between being dry and being rude. You like Amy Poehler; he likes Adam Sandler. You make jokes he doesn’t get and don’t find his particularly amusing or well executed. You prefer to watch the news than document his weekly Saturday football game via Snapchat. You leave no place for him in your life and he doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. And as a result of this, neither do you.

2. Men are the funny ones

Male western culture is designed to breed funny. Take the Seth Rogen, James Franco, Jonah Hill manpanionship; just casually hanging out 24/7 for the hahas. So, you are male and you can’t even funny?… then you can’t sit with us. Us being the guys playing beer pong and  chest bumping over there in the corner of the bar. Being male and funny equates to having friends and getting more chicks than your looks would otherwise allow you to. It’s guy maths and it doesn’t apply to those with ovaries. Women, ladies, girls that run the world, are not ‘expected’ to be funny. And, you are definitely not expected to be funnier than him. But you are, and worse yet you are funny in front of his friends. You are a unicorn. You are like a big plate of LOLsagne and everyone is eating you up.  You make jokes at his expense and even sometimes around his family. You have gained all the laughs and he has lost all his manhood. You must go before he becomes fatally more insecure.

3. You’re just not that into him

Not really. You probably L.O.V.E love him or are at least keen to grab a drink and maybe turn down for what. But, just as we, girls, are nurtured from a young age to be quiet, polite ladies, so too are men’s perceptions of us. You’re confident, outspoken, drawing attention with your quips and anecdotes, then surely you couldn’t be interested in him. Your slightly abrasive, push-pull conversational tone tells him you are not so keen on his face, or maybe you’re just a lesbian, as he’ll later recoil to his 300 friends on Facebook. While we might look for a certain taste of humour in men, men see humour as their special provenance from which their primitive side triumphs. It’s a communication breakdown and one you shouldn’t bother wasting time on pandering to his insecurities.

4. Triple threats are dangerous

If you’re good looking, smart and funny, then it’s probably not just men that hate you, it’s women too. Only women hate you because they are baby makers fending off fierce competition to procreate and men hate you because you are some strange alien sent to their local cafe to make them feel wildly insufficient and maybe even  a little short. Being a triple threat can be a triple fucking nightmare and a lonely existence for a woman. And in fairness, when we think of the recent wave of funny women emerging through the cracks in pop culture’s diversifying sphere, none of them are particularly gorgeous. Kristen Wiig, Sandra Bernhard, Kathy Griffin to honestly name a few. While men instantly go up with quick banter on their scale of one to hot, I’m not so sure this is transferrable to women. Men want to look after you and, more importantly, be better than you. They want you to slide into their life like mayo on their burger, fitting perfectly between the meat and the sheets. Being a triple threat makes you unapproachable and unattainable to most men, unless they themselves are one. You’re not mayo, you’re the special sauce and if they don’t get the recipe then they don’t wanna go there. So, best be looking for that unicorn or  turn your womb to 250 degrees fahrenheit and ready to settle.

So, what do we make of this? Do funny girls need to tame it or just accept that some men will never actually accept them?

Personally, laughing is one of life’s greatest pleasures and the ability to ignite amusement in others is an even greater joy. So, to deny yourself that, purely for the affection of another, seems repressive and ultimately dissatisfying. Surely there’s a Chris Pratt out there for every Anna Farris.

So, keep it real. Real funny.


Greater expectations…Part 1

I’m sure some of my mother’s most consuming thoughts exist around her only daughter’s relationship status. Will she ever meet someone? Is she even going to get married? Will I ever get the chance to babysit a grandchild instead of feeding 10 cats while she treks the Inca Trail and finds her inner self?

I’m sure her most unrelenting fear is that all of the above may well be answered by a rather deflating ‘no’.

My dad thinks I work too much. He tells me my “expectations are too high”. Of course, he’s referring to the expectations I place on myself and concurrently the future man/men in my life. What he really wants to say is, “You’re only 27, but I’m worried you’re going to become one of those high-flying business women that has to end up freezing their eggs and holidaying in Florida with her dog”. He’s perplexed by my total disregard for timeline and the ticking clock that beats below my belly button.

When I was 24 my older brother told me “you’d better find a boyfriend before you got left on the shelf”. Like I was a product to be purchased before moved to the miscellaneous discount basket, right next to the half price shampoo. The whole concept was new to me. How could someone else choose me off the shelf when, in my eyes, I was the one doing the shopping?

Last month over dinner I told my 83 year old grandmother that right now, “I could think of nothing worse than being married, with a baby, and a mortgage on a 2-bedroom house in the suburbs”. Not because I don’t want to get married and have children, but because when I do, it’s not going to be the result of settling with some guy I met at the local pub after we had a two year semi-decent relationship then tied the knot at some equally blemishing venue. If that was me right now, it would mean I had given in to something short of remarkable, a relationship that was good but never quite great. I had to tell my Grandma to stop setting me up with 38 year old Organ players like I’m some desperado that’s filtered through all her e-Harmony options.

I think Granny D’s resigned her dreams of ever watching me walk down the aisle in her lifetime.

I can’t blame them for caring, they’re probably just scared I have commitment issues and that I’ll end up all alone. But, I’m not uneasy about being alone because the thought of spending a life tied to mediocrity is a fate far more frightening. Settling; The very word is sad. So monotonous. Like middle management or leftover pizza. It’s dripping in closeted dreams and self resignation. It’s not for me. People must misinterpret my choices, thinking that I’ll choose business or career or self development over love, but that’s not what it’s about for me at all, and I guess in some way or another it took me a long time to admit that to myself. To admit that I wanted something so great and all consuming that it may very well not exist. That at 70, I want to turn to the grey haired man that walks beside me and still be blown away by overwhelming feelings of admiration, respect and love. The constant awe of “I ended up with you”.

I know, the soppiness even sickens me to my sassy core.

A friend on her own singledom commented, “Maybe I screwed up my prospects for everlasting love by becoming too independent to compromise on anything and, by having met so many men around the world that meet my expectations if only for a time, I compare them to each other and then dismiss them for not being the sum of their predecessors.” And that’s the thing. Yeah, it’s true that the ‘pool’ is drying up, but it’s not wholly because the amount of men are diminishing – it’s more that as you become more self aware of what it is you like and dislike, and that is a compounding taste, the type of men that will satisfy you become fewer and fewer. The pool party ain’t over till the right guy swims.

Cultural analysts might call bluff and deduce my or our pursuits to a Gen Y thing. Siting that I’m nothing more than a young protagonist believing she’s the main character in a very special story. A girl raised with “a sense of optimism and unbounded possibility”, inevitably doomed to be perpetually unhappy, as described by Tim Urban in his deconstruction of why Generation Y Yuppies Are Unhappy. If that’s the case, I’m not really sure how I’m meant to re-work this all star romcom into a mid-morning d-grade soap opera, or why the fuck I’d even want to. I can’t imagine in 30 years looking over to my husband on our wedding anniversary, holding his hand and saying “I’m so glad I reduced my expectations and finally found you”. Sorry Tim, whatever beige-vanilla slice you’re selling, I’m not buying it.

A friend recently told me I was “a fan of impossible relationships” insinuating that I indulge in things so complex because I hold the knowledge and security that they’ll never come to fruition. Something that strikes me as very “non-committal”. I’d challenge that by saying the right term would be remarkable relationships and everything I’ve experienced thus far has been two scoops short of a sundae. I haven’t limited myself either or placed restrictions on the types of people I’ve dated, apart from the fact that they must be mentally stimulating. And to be honest, every guy I’ve been with has taught me something new and possibly pushed me that extra bit closer to helping me find exactly what it is I’m looking for.

The same friend helped me realise I haven’t been walking in to relationships understanding that the final destination is to “fall deeply in love and have babies”. Instead my thoughts are more focused on whether we are both our better selves as a result of being together. And, ‘great’ doesn’t mean ‘perfect job, car, health, functioning family and biceps’ nor does it mean ‘tall, dark and handsome’ – it means great for me, someone that fits, this whispering feeling that ‘this is right’.

It would be easier if there were material things to tick off the list instead of having to invest time into investigating the possibilities of a chemical connection – but I guess that’s half the fun, isn’t it? It feels a burdensome really, this pursuit of remarkability, coursing through your veins pumping its wanting way right into your fingertips. Sometimes I wish I could numb my expectations until I remember how dulling mediocrity can feel and then I resort back to all the amazing things I want to experience in life and who I want to experience them with.

But there is nothing more frustrating than people constantly asking you where that person is and why haven’t you found them yet. Some drastic things would have to occur for me to change my values, wants and desires. Something I know probably isn’t quite achievable.

So, to people that tell me to settle down and reduce my expectations I say “how about chime out, mate. Next time you come over for dinner expecting spaghetti bolognese, I’ll serve you up a nice big bowl of plain pasta and send you on your merry way.”


The promised land of apricity

*published for Surfing Life magazine

The Northern Beaches has been rated as the most white, mono-ethnic district in greater New South Wales, a place completely devoid of sympathy for the unknown, where the tanned monotony of ingredients like Home & Away is baked into our DNA. It is a cruel, cruel Anglo-Saxon metropolis where Brazilians weep for their lack of assimilation and Russians are fittingly nowhere to be found. A region that despite its fierce Winter gusts, is in an eternal Summer state, where shorty shorts rule and ghetto side boob singlets are uni-sex and for some reason transeasonal. It is the place to hibernate in the winter and locals unashamedly cower in the warmth of NB’s heaving beachy bosom. Why? Because it promises nothing and delivers marginally beyond that. It is winter’s safety net of urban surfing.

The Golden 15

It’s a heated debate, but I don’t think anyone really comes to Sydney’s Northern Beaches for surfing. The 15 or so beaches that give it its name exist more so as portals to mutated surfing subcultures spawned from the larger area rather than great surfing destinations. In the summer,  grommets rule the waterways like rats to NYC’s underground and of course the only decent waves over 2ft arrive in winter. But nobody stays or comes for the surf in this chilling interval. We stay for the apricity, for the lack of sweaty commuters with tug boat inflatables, for the caffe lattes and the days we count down till Bali. For some reason there’s a plethora of unconventional workers and we all sit around mid-week reading the paper over pastries because we are a breed of nouveau coastal colonists. Most guys have a semi-professional beard that is acceptably smart-casual and sometimes there’s a bunch of pros that hang around but no one really knows why. While breaks like Nth Narrabeen and Winki Pop might bring the young and naive, most people know these hot spots play out for their residential convenience. Unless you’re one of those few that still clings to the eight second barrel Larry Blair got at the Manly Coke Classic back in 1977. But like me, you probably weren’t even alive and even when the bomby breaks off Nth Steyne like an awkwardly chubby 40 year old it still is not why we stay. It’s for the scantily clad tourists that bake hopefully in a beaming sun with a UV Index of 2. For the comedy of bodyboarders that never say never and for the influx of hipsters that do yoga on SUPs. It’s the obnoxious golden glow that Manly dons on a winter morning making her the most arousing beach abroad. It’s the blissful seasonal ignorance that can only exist in winter, at a time when we are completely unaware of our cultural intolerance. A place that asks us to do nothing but chill in its crispy winter warmth.

Big Nothings

The best thing about this urban dwelling is that, apart from Jennifer Hawkins and the highest rating of football orientated sexual assault allegations, the Northern Beaches has absolutely no attractions. We are like a slightly comatose version of Surfers Paradise without the Condom Kings and angry 17 year old tradesmen. There is no Big Banana, no Giant Clam and no 3 Sisters, apart from the ones you might meet at Shore Club on a Saturday night. We are completely setup for Mother Nature’s glorification and all the sun has to do is tip her crown above a distinct blue horizon and it’s like a small choir of children sing softly through the air. It is the starfish of the eastern seaboard, taught nothing but to show up and look good. We need no accessories and have very little edge. There is no iconic point or reef break but somehow we are still home to some of the greats like Lynch and Beachley. On a good day we offer vanilla and sometimes deliver beige, but only when a little drunk and on those days I feel like Bec Cartwright back when she was young, and olive and Hewitless. Way to be.


History tells me you can develop cultures out of simply denying others. Impatient in our surfy virtues we are too insular and threatening for ill-mannered migrants to settle, and so diversity is exceptionally low on the Northern Beaches. There is already a distinct difference between the north and the south of the region and if this was five years ago we would be on the periphery of a cold war between Manly and Avalon and it would be carried out in a skatepark with Angus stone as the honourable judge. But things have changed, we’ve adopted an emerging ethical intent, which I think was picked up overseas on someones gap year. We’re totally chilled out now and everyones got a gluten free attitude. We’re void of Versace suits, shithouse Italian designer sunglasses and anything that looks like it may have once been worn by an Ibrahim. Though we do have heaps of drugs and drinking, which keeps the winter angst at bay and the sun always shining.

So come on by in winter, unless you are: not Anglo-Saxon, don’t wear stupid oversized street gear, looking for the massive oyster and a bit of multi-culturalism, don’t enjoy drinking ciders on the grass while watching 1ft surf, actually want to surf, and below a 5/10 in attractiveness. We are extremely anti-social if you are an outsider. Sunny days!


50 shades of cray

Apparently, every girl has an inner crazy. I never knew this. I always thought it was something you opted into. A box you ticked. Like religion, or politics, or sex on the first date. That was until Thursday. Until alcohol. Until tequila partnered with my phone and forgot to inform my reputation they were about to push it off a very steep cliff. Until 8 messages to a boy I don’t remember sending. Until here I am drowning in a sea of blue texts whilst I deep dive for my dignity. Until …. crazy.

Was it that bad? Let me entertain your inner crazy for a minnie. Just relax. Now have 3 bottles of wine and some espresso martinis at your fave bar. Request Alicia Keys’ ‘This Girl is on Fire’ to a guy that’s a part time DJ, part time accountant. Dance sort of sexily with your girlfriends like you don’t even care who’s watching because you are just sohhh fun. Make sure the guy you’re interested in is watching. Laugh a lot and loudly with your friends because… carefree and cocktails. Maybe talk to the bartender like you’re interested. You’re not. Follow it up with No Scrubs by TLC and some more tequila because ‘you don’t want no scrubs’ and definitely have R.E.S.P.E.C.T for yourself.

Nek morning. A parade of text messages. Lots of sick feelings. Your self esteem break dance battled it’s way into a whole new iMessage realm…. solo. Text. Where did you go. Text. You need to grow up. Text. I didn’t really mean that. Text. Spelling mistake spelling mistake. Text. How good is Blue cheese?. Text. Cool whotevs. Text. Miss you. Text. That’s probalby weird #soznotsoz. Text Text Text. Crazy.

I suffered a deep sense of shame, which also felt a lot like a hangover. Sooo I did what any girl would do and asked all my gal pals to give me their cray bitch stories. Instant self-esteem booster.

You’re welcome.

We playing Mario Cart cos this is next level cray

We playing Mario Cart cos this is next level cray

Girl who wrecked herself...

Girl who wrecked herself…

Not sure if I've been there or done that... Feeling good.

Not sure if I’ve been there or done that… Feeling good.

Should probs facebook him... see what happens. #crazythingscrazygirlssay

Should probs facebook him… see what happens. #crazythingscrazygirlssay

He's at least coming back for seconds.

He’s at least coming back for seconds.

Can get away with it cray.

Can get away with it cray.

Some people do drugs. Stay in school kids.

Some people do drugs. Stay in school kids.

I can't remember my own name let alone a number once I'm a few wines in.

I can’t remember my own name let alone a number once I’m a few wines in.


Want to make me feel better about myself? Share your cray bitch story with me. Find the 50 shades of cray blog here.



Mum’s Letter

Hi Mum,


Today is mother’s day. It’s also your mum’s birthday, my grandma’s birthday. It’s also exactly six months to the day since she passed away. It’s not quite the Mother’s Day you’d hoped for is it? It will probably never be the Mother’s Day you dream for again, will it? Really, it’s just a pretty shitty day and no amount of flowers or dark chocolate coated ginger will fix that, even though I know they’re your favourite.

I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry I can’t fix it. I’m sorry you’re feeling so sad, because this is meant to be your day, this is meant to be a day for you to be celebrated. I’m sorry I don’t understand, I’m sorry I don’t get it because when I’m hurt, or frustrated, or need advice, I call you. I call you because you’re my best friend, because you know me inside and out like no one else on this planet, because you call me on my shit and lift me up when I’m down. You come to my side when I’m sick, even though I’m an adult and can look after myself. You’re equally the most beautiful and selfless woman I’ve ever met and I’m lucky to call you my mother. Don’t forget that you’re my rock and I’m so sorry you’ve lost yours.

That day in hospital was one of the worst days of my life and we probably don’t talk about it enough. We don’t talk about how quickly it happened and how it all just felt so wrong. How I came straight off a plane from New York and into a hospital room where my once tenacious, sprightly ‘Gma’ was now struggling to breathe on a respirator. How seeing you cry broke my heart and made me want to bundle you up and take you away from all of it. How your sons and my brothers held us all together while we collapsed into an emotional mess, not caring about how to pick up the pieces. How they held grandma’s hand and rubbed her feet so gently. They’re great sons of yours, great brother’s of mine. You should be proud.

I’d never been there before. I’d never had someone so close to me die, let alone being in the same room when it happened. We all were there as the very life slipped out of a woman we all thought would live past 100. A woman that was still driving a ride on lawn mower at the age of 80 and whose vocabulary did not contain the words “I can’t”. A woman that migrated to Australia on her own at the age of 17 and inevitably became one of the country’s first female pilots. A woman so intelligent and vibrant she could take you from yelling to laughing within a matter of seconds, and we all know she was never short of opinion. I miss her too, mum.

I know you secretly blame yourself. I know you feel responsible, like for some reason you could have saved her. But, what you don’t realise, is that it’s about a bigger picture. When Grandma sold her acreage in Queensland and moved in with us in Sydney, she was finally happy. She was around people, around her family. She had people to talk to again and I was privileged to get to know her better. We became friends, Mum. We moved past the ‘redundant Christmas presents and obligatory birthday calls’. Mum, she taught me about life. She wasn’t afraid to talk about sex or politics or religion. She taught me that if I wanted something I had to go out and get it. That I’d probably only come across a ‘good man’ once or twice in my life and when I did I should act accordingly. And, that if something didn’t feel right, then I should bloody well speak up about it. She just taught me.

But, that’s not all she did. She brought our family together. Through her passing she reunited you and your sisters with your brother, someone you hadn’t spoken to in a long time. Her death allowed you all to put your differences behind you and reconnect on what the most important thing is, family. She allowed you all to love and be loved again.

It’s not your fault, Mum. She got sick, and no one can control that. I’ve learnt that life and people that matter are precious and I shouldn’t take my loved ones for granted. So, Happy Mother’s Day, Mum, you’re the one that matters. I want you to enjoy this day with the people that love you, the ones that are beside you right now and we can celebrate Grandma’s birthday together. She would have been 85 and if she were here, she would tell you and dad to go out and live your life and do something that makes you happy.

So, on this happy day, I hope you’ll do that, in the spirit of Grandma. Go do what makes you happy, i’ll be your rock if you need one.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Love always,

Brit. x


Sex sells, women should learn that too

You know what are fun? Boobies. I know, because I’ve got ’em and boy are they a hoot, but you know where they’re not so cute? The workplace. Yeah, that little productivity hub is a real blast until someone raises the hem line and drops the cleavage, then it’s slutty Chinese Whispers and ‘bitches be cray’ all ’round the stationary cupboard.

But, why is that? Why is it that a woman that exudes, nay capitalises, on her sexuality in her work environment is labelled as stupid, ditzy or worse yet ‘a slut’? Meanwhile, her male counterpart exhibits his stature and good looks like he’s showing at the Louvre and touching is prohibited but looking on in adornment and intrigue is widely encouraged.

For some reason, women are very cautious when it comes to using their beauty capital (read babin’ bods) to get ahead in their careers. We often feel embarrassed and even shocked that our attractiveness could or should play a part in our own professional advancement, but we’re not shy of using our social premium and networks. Why? Mostly because we’re too concerned with achieving equality and success the ‘conventional’ way. That somehow, if we open doors because a man liked the way you sashayed into his boardroom, then you didn’t really earn it, at least not the right way. Somewhere along the line we were taught to separate our brains and beauty into competing days of the week. Like, no Doll, save the pretty face and leggy skirt for the weekend when you’re looking for a man, now go put on your pant suit – it’s Monday.

Bitch puhhleasee, do you think men have qualms about using all their assets to get ahead? Nope, they blend it all up into a sexy souffle then let people eat it right out of their crafty little hands. So, why shouldn’t you?

Last year, I managed to get an unheard of second interview with the CEO of one of the world’s most noted luxury companies while working in Asia at the time. Why did I get it? Because he enjoyed my company in the first interview (thanks to some freshly tanned pins on show paired with charming banter) and naturally, for fear of losing the story, I knew that and used it to my advantage. I used my prowess as a commodity, which sounds like I’m verging dangerously close to prostitution, but his feature profile got glowing reviews and that magazine is still fatly filled with that companies ad spend to this day. You’ve got to be in it to win it.

Don’t get me wrong, I have a very low tolerance for sexist bullshit. And, this is not about feminism. In fact, I do not even know what a feminist is anymore or how I would go about associating myself to the varied dilutions of that bra burning movement. What I mean is, I have very little time for the sexism debate. When I hear those buzz terms, ‘girl power’ or ‘Fempowerment’ I’m all, ‘Ew, I don’t want to be that girl’ and sort of throw up a little bit in my mouth. What I do want to be is a successful business person. Maybe not one that manipulates and exploits men, but instead one that says to herself, “Oh hey there, I see you staring at my breasts, now watch me make this badass deal because you are too busy having a conversation with your penis”.

On the other hand, some of you know your milkshake brings all the business to the yard, but damn right, you’re too scared to charge. Well, stop being a cry baby, the business landscape has changed and the lines between our personal and work lives have never been more blurred. Catherine Hakim, a professor at the London School of Economics says in her book Erotic Capital: The Power of Attraction in the Boardroom and the Bedroom that women should use their ‘beauty, sex appeal, charm, dress sense, liveliness, and fitness — to get ahead at work’. We need to understand that in fact there are biological differences between men and women, which still remain throughout our work cultures, and the same path to success that exists for men is not necessarily always open to women. So, instead of waving a flag and starting a Facebook womens lib group, we should discard the notion that beauty or attractiveness only holds a superficial value and perhaps cultivate our own path to the top using our non-traditional assets.

Let’s think about it in terms of sexuality in advertising. Imagine if that woman in the commercial being used for her provocation and body had a voice, a voice that was powerful and informed, a voice that could make you do anything she wanted… would it still be discriminatory? Sure, it still might be poor form on the brands part, but I guarantee you the audience doesn’t just see her as a play thing. It’s all about who’s in control of it, and no one should ever dictate the meaning or intent of your own beauty capital except for you, particularly at work. What I’m saying is, there’s nothing wrong with understanding the fact that a man you are doing business with finds you attractive. At first, you may be confronted, even offended depending on how he goes about it, then what you should do is recognise it, then identify how you can use it to your advantage. But, don’t misinterpret me, you still need to have the authority, education and drive to back it up. I would never suggest a woman should aim to get by based purely on her looks. That would be a huge faux pas for our entire gender.

Like every other business oriented woman, I’ve been reading Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In (apparently you aren’t ambitious if you don’t have this sitting by your night stand, I still haven’t finished it) and in it she asserts that ‘aggressive and hard charging women violate unwritten rules about acceptable social conduct’. To me that reads: let’s change shit up because whatever we’re doing right now is working about as well as a Libra super slim on a heavy flow. Sandberg makes the obvious but daunting statement that men still run the world. Citing that of the 195 countries in the world, only 17 are led by women, and only 20 percent of seats in parliaments are held by females globally. Sheryl Sandberg knows where the bread gets buttered.

So surely something needs to change, doesn’t it? And, perhaps it is taking control of our workplace sexuality, something that males have marginalised women for in the past, that will alter dynamics and see females in more senior positions in the future. Of course, the notion of beauty capital is sensitive to cultural change and everyone should assess their situations individually, but it’s about being real and analysing how you can better get ahead, being honest with yourself about it, and then taking action.

Naturally, I’m not only talking about generic good looks or the perfect 10 here, everyone has beauty capital in their own right, it’s about finding out what goes in that milkshake to make it delicious, then taking it to the yard.

Then, damn right, I sure hope you’ll charge.


Man Drought Doubt

I’ve seen that annual ‘man glut’ article pop up through mainstream news again recently. The one that has 25 year old women desperately fielding old flings so they don’t end up sleeping on a bed of cats and having to have their eggs frozen and stored next to their lean cuisine meals.
 Firstly, I’m pretty sure these studies are conducted by a 24  year old professor that’s still can’t tell the difference between a rocket ship launch and a porno, and secondly,  I’m surprised that you, as modern ladies, are so susceptible to daily d-grade news that you can’t call social bluff on the concurrent Man Drought myth. A fable that sounds more like an antiquated communist con than a contemporary epidemic.
What’s going on?
You’re shaking in your ever-widening panty hose. You’re breathing in the scent of your ex-boyfriends favourite t-shirt you never gave back and is clearly now moulding. Pathetic. You’re crying over the scarce resources of quality men that society says is being sucked from our grasps. Yuck. The sheer smell of your gullibility is enough to make me vom slightly in my mouth. Of course, all this woeful weakness is a scene set by a half eaten tub of Neopolitan ice-cream, some badly worn in ugg-boots and played out to the full string of over priced Katy Perry albums. Yet you still blame the supply rather than the pitiful excuse for demand.
If you are really the power suited women you uphold yourselves to be, you would laugh in the face of such a challenge and slightly kick it to the curb with your black patent heel when you’re done with it. You would aptly notice that there are gorgeous men all over this sexy city. Just like the tall, sinewy brunette that reads Tolstoy down at the corner cafe, or the league of handsome gentleman that frequent your local lap pool before donning their grey pinstripes for office adornment, and even the comely, bronzed bartender with his shaggy hair, air of evanescence and penchant for menthol cigarettes.  Wait… that’s Gossip Girl, but hey what about the sort of descent looking guy at your Post Office that always carries around the Kathmandu backpack?
Stop saying No!
To you, the man drought should merely be a kiddy pool that’s leaked, a pond you always knew you were to big to swim in and one you only common for sashimi. You would be decisive, you would hunt and pursue, all the while discarding the ones that don’t fit the bill along the way. You would be the furthest thing from desperate and if it wasn’t for this man drought nonsense, you’d swear it was raining babes because you’re practically up to your slender neck in them.

But you’re not. You’ve let a few pie charts and a man in a badly dressed suit that wrote some sort of book dictate your destinies. By the way, have you seen that guy? Bernard Salt, who wrote Man Drought. Apparently he is a social demographer, which is really just a fancy name for online predator. He sits at home and spies on people from behind the comfort of his mum’s computer and looks like Bert and Ernie finally found that surrogate to have their baby and now he’s 50 and modelling casual corporate wear for Big W.
Because of him, you’ve resigned yourselves to the couch on a continual basis because you’re insistent on watering holes being landscaped by competing oestrogen. Coincidentally, this has also led to mediocre looking men believing they are ‘one tall drink of H20′, which is largely a farce, even when one’s slightly parched. If you picked your jaws up off the bitchumen for a second and quit watching Friends re-runs, you’d realise you have a choice here. You can promptly stick your flag in ‘no mans land’ and start digging your way to water, or sit around with the rest of the schmucks and wait for it to fall.