A Simple Smile

I saw a man at The Party who smiled at the waitress across the bar and she came straight round to take an order from him.
He turned and smiled at the bartender who received the order. The bartender gave him a salute and sent the drink back pronto, perfectly stirred.
The waitress walked away smiling.
I watched the man as he worked the room, and observed how it didn't take long until the room started to work around him. People were approaching him, his orders were taken first and he was never without an admirer waiting in the wings. He wasn't classically handsome and, while well-groomed, wasn't opulently clothed. What was this invisible pull?
I approached him and extended my hand. He smiled as he shook it and I could feel myself smiling back at him, though I wasn't sure why.
I asked him why he was always smiling and he told me this:

I was an angry teenager. I had the entire CURE back catalogue and I was certain my parents were put on this earth to destroy me. I swore, I smoked, I stole, I drank, I lied. Generally, I was quite capable of rubbing people the wrong way. But if ever I found myself between a rock and a hard place, I knew that by some magic I could get out.

I never relied on this magic because I don’t deem magic to be terribly reliable, so every time I found myself in trouble I would go through the same motions of high anxiety and tension, and yet somehow find a way out.

It took years until I realised what this “magic” was - and it was a magic available to every global citizen should he choose to use it – it was charm.

Charm is different from beauty. Beauty is babied. It is treated preciously – a delicate display that is cradled, and handled with care. Charm is respected. Charm is an active force – not a passive recipient of adoration. Charm is a weapon used to bow down those who stand in your way.

Charm is all you need – that is when the magic happens. So I tried to break down this charm thing: what exactly is it that bestows the charm-wielder with control? It’s like having an operating manual of everyone you meet and I’m still trying to figure it out.

But the one ingredient I know that is certainly one of the most potent, the most fail-proof is the smile.

A genuine smile really gets you a long way towards whatever you want. A smile can mesmerise – like hypnosis, and that is the start of charm.

The FIVE Philosophy

An animated guest at The Party spilled her martini while in the throes of an exuberantly gestured tale on parking predicaments. The dirty, dry cocktail splashed onto some seriously suede sneakers of another guest who didn’t take too kindly to the imposition.
“Chill!” said our animated guest. “It will be gone in five minutes, like it never happened.”
It made me think – five minutes? There are a lot of things that are over and no big deal five minutes later: spilt milk, slipped eyeliner. Then there are the things that are over and no big deal five months later: a bad day at The Party, an unkind treatment by a fellow guest, missing out on your favourite canapé (or insert wish here). And then there are the things that are over and no big deal five years from now: you’re at a new Party, with new guests, swilling a new vintage of champagne and you can’t remember what it felt like not to feel this good at The Party.
It’s the five philosophy – if it will be over in five minutes, no need to stress or worry; if it will mean nothing in five months, give it no further thought because five months is not that long away; and if it will not be on your radar in five years, waste no further energy and look forward to how wonderful things will be at The Party in five years time.
Because in five years time you could be anywhere, and at That Party no-one holds your demons against you.
So walk away from your past - leave it all behind you - and walk forward to your five minutes, your five months and your five years from now..

Pretty Pink Pumps - aka "Detective Work at The Party"

In furtherance of my previous commentary on the (vaguely) endearing qualities of inebriated party peers, it must be mentioned that one of the more hilarious, albeit detrimental, elements to insobriety is the irrationality of intoxicated logic.

There was a moment at The Party when one of the party goers noticed her brand new, dynamic pink, handcrafted, $1,000+, platform peep toes had gone missing from where she had left them by the front door of the house at which The Party was happening.

It was a moment of panic. The ugly lights went on, Britney was silenced and startled guests were ordered by a militant Hostess to “find the pumps!” The pump-owner was, naturally, distraught, struggling to hold it together for the sake of keeping face and keeping her DiorShow intact. The ‘dynamic pink’ was an exceptionally rare release – had the peeps been stolen?

When the search of such clearly logical places for shoes to have been left – bedrooms, the dishwasher, the freezer, the dryer – produced no results, it was clear the shoes were not in the house at which The Party was happening. Party peers had rationalised looking in cereal boxes, the garbage, under the couch, in pot plants and through the broom closet and, astoundingly, to no avail.

The Hostess, in a huff, marched her fellow hostees out to scour the surrounding neighbourhood. They searched the park, wheelie-bins, parked cars and then – the neighbouring properties.
And THERE!

On the driveway of the neighbouring house! Strewn! Strewn, I tell you! With complete disregard for the exceptional rarity of a release of dynamic pink – were the peeps!

The flabbergasted Hostess drew the only logical conclusion available to an imbiber of more than several alcoholic beverages:

- The neighbours had stolen the shoes.

The Hostess marched up to the door of the dark, silent, and still neighbouring house and pounded on the door. Pounded and thumped and thwacked and walloped until a groggy, middle-aged (dare I add – terribly unkempt) man opened the door.

“You stole the peeps!” The Hostess accused, her hostees cowering behind her.

The unkempt man mumbled something along the lines of not knowing what she was raving about.

“One of OUR guests had HER $1,000+ dynamic pink pumps STOLEN from our HOUSE and they are in YOUR front driveway! Any IDEAS how they got THERE?”

As a witness, I must assure you, the Hostess was terrifying in her detective work.

The unkempt man proceeded to get a little rowdy with some throw away lines about not being particularly interested in dynamic pink pumps as they weren’t his colour.

Not his colour! Dynamic pink is everyone’s colour!

“So would you have stolen the shoes if they WEREN’T dynamic pink?” demanded the Hostess/interrogator. “What if they were BABY pink! Or BRIGHT pink or PURPLEY PINK!”

“Well, yes maybe purple pink,” the unkempt man responded.

“AHA! So you ARE interested in shoes then? So you DID steal the pumps from OUR PARTY!!!” the Hostess raged.

“No, I told you, pink is not my colour.”

It was clear it would take a lot more than a fuming Hostess to extract a confession from this midnight liar.

To support her Hostess, one of the fellow Hostees interjected:-

“Do you have a cat?”

More excellent, logical, inebriated detective work.

“No,” answered the unkempt man, puzzled. We were all a little puzzled.

Then from behind us we heard: - meeoooow and a silver Persian cat, with more hair than in Paris Hilton’s extension collection, sauntered past us to twirl around the unkempt man’s legs and nestle by his awfully olive slippers.

“THAT CAT!”

And that was it – this was better than a confession – he had lied about having a cat therefore he had LIED ABOUT THE PEEPS!!

“Don’t you think it POSSIBLE!” spat the revved-up Hostess, “That this CAT that you APPARENTLY don’t own could have FETCHED the shoes! YOU are still responsible for THAT! YOU can’t just have a CAT and then LIE about it and then lie about it AGAIN when your CAT fetches shoes from other people’s PARTIES!”

The puzzle solved, with a pirouette the pleased Hostess returned to The Party, the peeps recovered, and an excellent play of drunk logic to cringe over the next day.

post script

For those cat lovers out there - the Hostess has now been corrected and understands that it is dogs that fetch things, not domestic pets as a general category.

The unkempt man was the recipient of a large box of Roses the following day.

The Hostess had a two-day swelling and five day bruise on her door-knocking hand.

The Drink in Others

I was at the bar at the party, another bacardi, lime and soda please, and one of them came and stood beside me. The curiousness of drunk people is that they don’t know they are drunk. But as endearing as that may be, you cannot excuse their ignorance with innocence.
These are people who don’t know what they are doing, what they are saying, and sometimes even where they are- but sympathy for their situation is difficult to generate as their misfortune is a consequence of their own doing.

Cupcakes at The Party

Have you noticed the recent surge in popularity of cupcakes? Cupcakes are replacing cake as the ceremonial dessert of 21st and other birthday parties, weddings, office celebrations, and other outstanding parties.
My theory on cupcakes at The Party is that the omnipresent influence of Gen Y is permeating all parties everywhere.
As we all know, with Gen Y it is all About Me.
Egocentric, self-aware and confident -a cupcake is the perfect ceremonial dessert for Gen Y-ers. Why would we want a slice of the communal cake when we can have a a highly decorated and opulent CUPcake - a cake just for one - a cake all About Me.
The Cupcake answers all life musings of the grund norm Gen Y desire for self status which unravels the mystery of the vogue of cupcakes.
A Cupcake at The Party makes it all About Me.

Gen Y - The Saviours

We are the generation that are fighting hard to repair the environment and eco-systems your generation destroyed.
We are the generation that prove themselves not just by good grades at university - but by their social, cultural, and sporting involvment and acheivements.
We are the generation that are concerned with being fit and healthy and active, and the taxes we pay will support your clogged arteries draining the public health system - because you never looked after yourself we now have to.
We are the generation of responsibility. We are the generation that not only think outside the box - we live outside the box.
We are then generation that have to find solutions to the problems your generation created.

Don't call me Tall

How would you react if you were going about your life, minding your own business and a complete stranger butted in with "Wow! You're really fat has anyone ever told you that before?"
Or what about if you were having coffee with some friends and someone came up to you out of the blue with "Whoa, that is one huge nose you have there! It's like really HUGE!" or even "Jeez! Look at your freckles! You have so many freckles! That is like a seriously large amount of FRECKLES!"
It is quite plain that commenting to someone unrelated and unknown to you about their large ass, their huge honker or their overly spotted skin is completely inappropriate and downright rude. It is entirely unacceptable for complete strangers to comment on someone's physical appearance in such an intrusive and confronting manner.
And how would you react if these sorts of thrillingly un-insightful and unwelcome comments were thrown at you every time you ordered coffee, in the supermarket, at the bus stop, in the change room while buying clothes, in the line while buying popcorn for the movies, while out having drinks with friends, on the dance floor, on a date, in the office, in the elevator, at the bookstore - in a word EVERYWHERE everyday of your life?
How do you think you would start to feel about your large ass, your huge honker or your overly spotted skin? A bit self-conscious? Just a bit!
I am 6ft tall, darling. 185cm.
How do you think it makes me feel that every time I go anywhere the public feel it is permissible for them to interject with a dim-witted dialect on how tall I am.
I am aware I am tall.
I have been tall all my life.
I am not responsible for my tallness. This is how I was born.
It is a physical feature that I am not 100% comfortable with and don't appreciate being made to feel like a freak every time I grace the public with my presence.
I went to a concert and the girl standing behind me was bitching in a loud voice to her equally dull friend about the "big tall freak in front of us! People like that should be made to stand at the back".
I turned around and articulately reminded this short person - I was born tall. I have been tall all my life. I didn't just this afternoon decide to grow tall just to annoy her at a concert. My tallness is out of my control. Her bad attitude, bitterness and general waste of space are, however, totally within her control. And perhaps she should work on amending her bland personality instead of trying to change the colour of the sky.
It has reached the point where it is shaking my ability to make a party. Name me one pair of respectable Jimmy Choos, Peep Toes, Manolos or Louboutins that don't have a decent stiletto? It is as if I, as someone of some stature, cannot don a delectable plimsoll without having to hire a bodyguard to block the barrage of abuse and criticisms about my height.
A message to the public : Don't call me Tall. If you must speak, try first to research and rehearse something vaguely thought-provoking to impart to validate your presence at the party.
I am Tall. That is how I roll.