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Showing posts with label Other Rubbish. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Other Rubbish. Show all posts

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Uncomfortable Truths

Hi. I like your shoes, are they new?
About a year ago, I wrote this for a truly excellent independent wordy juggernaut called The King's Tribune, which you should definitely pay the pittance they ask for to get it delivered, all quivering and moist, into your inbox every week.
And now I'm reproducing this thing here, because its intention is to make people feel  bad and I'm a bitch who likes that kind of thing.

UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTHS


People eat dead animals because they are delicious. People do everything they can while they’re eating dead animals, or purchasing parts of dead animals to eat later, to ignore the fact that we know that these animals have been grown and killed and chopped up for us to eat. We ignore that fact because it gets in the way of us enjoying our meal of dead animal parts and crackling.

Bindi Irwin has boobs now.

Generally speaking, women are physically weaker than men. They’re more likely to make decisions based on emotion. Mind you, they’re a lot less likely to make decisions based on what their penises want, so there’s that. Still, there is no good reason that women can’t or shouldn’t serve in the armed forces or go to war or lead countries or run companies or build bridges or control spacecraft. Almost none of those things have jars in them that need opening.

Penis size does matter. Not as much as you think it does. But it matters. There’s such a thing as too small, and there’s such a thing as too big. You are not either of those things.

There’s a reasonable chance that Tony Abbott will be prime minister of Australia. There are people who will vote for Tony Abbott based on his personality alone. There are people who think it’s fine to see the outline of Tony Abbott’s genitals nestled in their Speedo hammock. They think that’s just okey-dokey.

Kyle Sandilands is liked by tens of thousands of people.

People don’t like to look at the physical deformities of others, or at people in wheelchairs. When people pass people with obvious physical deformities in the street, they notice them, but they pretend they haven’t noticed them.
People treat people with disabilities differently. People are nervous and uncomfortable around people with disabilities. They think more carefully about what they say to and around people with disabilities.

Human beings like the smell of their own farts and the smell of their own feet. Human beings are sometimes disappointed when they clean their ears with a cotton bud and it comes out more or less clean. They’re disappointed when they floss their teeth and no chunks of spitty food come out on the string. They like squeezing blackheads. They like getting a big chunk of sleep-crust out of their eyes. They pick their noses. They wee in the shower.

Some nuns are horrible, horrible people.

When we see someone on the street collecting for charity or a homeless person asking for money, sometimes we make up an excuse not to give them anything. We might have a couple of different excuses that we use at different times, but we have one favourite excuse that we use more often than the others.

Elle Macpherson has at least one grey pube now.

We only want to look after the planet if it’s easy, comfortable and convenient. It would be better for the planet if we didn’t use electricity. It would be better for the planet if we didn’t use plastic. It would be better for the planet if we didn’t travel anywhere except by foot. It would be better for the planet if we didn’t use soap or detergent. But for now, let’s separate our rubbish into vegetation, recyclables, and other. Mostly. Sometimes. Do we have to tear the little windows out of envelopes? Because we do not want to have to do that.

We’re racist. At the absolute and very least, we expect to see stereotypical traits or behaviour in people of particular races, including our own. Of course, the best thing to do as highly evolved humans is to rise above our racist impulses and not make any judgements or choices or decisions based on race. But we do. We’re racist.

Children are a pain in the arse.

We become less physically attracted to our partners as time goes on. We have other things to keep us going, like romantic love and support and comfort and reliability and companionship and both digging the shit out of crumpets with butter and honey. But we’re not as jazzed about our partner as we used to be. And sometimes what we thought was forever isn’t. And sometimes we just go along with things anyway, because it’s better than being alone. Either way, those quirky habits that you used to think were borderline adorable are now the main reason you want to stab each other in your sleep. And oh, god. Is that an ear hair? That’s an ear hair.

Genitals are ugly and periods are gross.

We believe that people who believe in things that we don’t believe in are stupider than we are.

Attractive people will be presented with more and better opportunities in life than unattractive people.

Our parents lied to us about things. So many things.

We should get that mole looked at.

We have friends that we don’t really like. We say bad things about them to other people, but we’re nice to their face. Some of our friends don’t really like us.

Parents have a favourite child. Your parents had a favourite child.

People with sun tans look better than people without sun tans. Slim people look better than overweight people. Acne is off-putting.

We judge people based on what they do for a living.

We wonder what our friends look like having sex, and then immediately wish that we hadn’t.

People in cities barely pay any attention to the needs of people who live in the rest of the country, and find it far more comfortable that way.

We will give money to charity, but we’d rather not volunteer.

We like watching extremely famous and rich American celebrities going off the deep end and damaging their careers.

Somebody is still watching Australia’s Funniest Home Videos.

We look into the shopping trolleys of fat people.

We want our exes to go out with people who are uglier than we are. We want them to see us with someone more attractive than they are.

We would rather that our children didn’t turn out to be gay. Being gay is more difficult than not being gay. Gay people are more likely to face prejudice, or be treated differently, or be teased and bullied, or not afforded the same rights as heterosexuals. We don’t want our children to have to deal with that. Life is easier for straight people.

We lie to people about how their haircuts look. They lie to us about how our haircut looks.

There are millions of tiny animals on you, right now. Some of them are feeding on you. They’re eating your dead skin. They’re crawling through your eyelashes. They’re in your intestines.

We don’t know what it’s like to die, but we’re going to find out.

Sometimes, just seeing the word ‘yawn’ in print can make you yawn. Especially if the word ‘yawn’ is in a sentence a lot, or stretched out like this: yaw-haw-haw-haw-hawn.

Once, you sneezed and got some mucus on your hand, and you wiped your hand on your clothes or on the tablecloth or on your friend’s furniture.

When your friends have problems, you don’t always want to hear about them, especially if it’s about the time they found someone’s mucus on their couch. 

When your friends break up with someone, you don’t want them to keep talking and talking and talking about it, even if it makes them feel better.

You pretend you have to get off the phone, even when you don’t.

You washed it in the washing machine even though it said ‘dry clean only’. You opened it at this end even though it said ‘open other end’. You used it after its expiry date. You didn’t wash it before putting it into the salad. You told them there was no garlic in it even though you put garlic in it. You made it from a packet but you told them you made it from scratch. You used one and threw the rest in the bin. You just scraped the mouldy bit off. You can’t be bothered, so they’re having chicken nuggets. When they asked if anyone had any chocolate, you lied even though you had chocolate. You put salt in it. You didn’t check what kind of eggs they were. You tried a grape in the fruit and veg section. You ate it straight out of the jar. You ate it off a knife. It fell on your lap and you picked it up and ate it anyway. It fell on the floor and you picked it up and ate it anyway. You ate a Chiko Roll. You served yourself the biggest one. You’re not always a vegetarian. You ate the whole packet yourself. You ate the whole packet yourself on the way home. You ate other people’s leftovers while you were cleaning up the kitchen.

That is seriously the ugliest baby you have ever seen.

Porn.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

The CnB Initiative

I know. I know.
It's been a long time between thingetties on this here bizzo.
Of course, with Twitter taking care of all my brief things (except my actual briefs, but that's only a matter of time, surely), and Australia's Next Top Model being on hiatus until next year (any aspiring contestants can look up the word 'hiatus' here) what am I going to write about?

THE COCK N' BALLS INITIATIVE IS WHAT.

See, my mate Russ has an unofficial Pictionary rule that whenever you draw a picture, it has to include a cock n' balls in it somewhere. It doesn't have to be good. It just has to be present. Like this, for example:

I call this one 'Baby Fish Mouth With Cock N' Balls'
The always-classy Bert Maverick extended this rule to encompass Draw Something, so that everyone who plays against him gets an oddly malformed little bonus. Or 'boners', as it were.

Less than a week ago, Shellity and I were flying on an aeroplane in the sky, when she decided it might be fun to draw the good ol' Cock N' Balls in the inflight magazine. That got us talking like grown-ups, and the Cock N' Balls Initiative was born.

Here are the instructions:

1. Whenever you find yourself in the presence of publicly-available magazines that other people have access to, like inflight magazines or waiting room magazines (NOT shops that sell magazines), draw a cock n' balls in it. Anywhere you'd feel fine completing a crossword or quiz in a magazine probably qualifies.

2. If possible, take a photo of it and post it to your Twitter account or Facebook doo-hickey (I forget what they're called).

3. Leave the magazine for others to find.

4. If you happen to FIND a cock n' balls drawing that someone else has left for you, you can feel that warm, fuzzy feeling that only being part of a secret international community can give you. And also take a photo and post it.

Here's a couple to get you started:



QF431, Sydney to Melbourne, by Shellity.



QF425, Melbourne to Sydney, by me.




If we all work together, we can make the CnB Initiative a thing.

Who's in?

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

The Inside Seam, And How I Sometimes Forget To Be Up Myself.

I can't believe I haven't properly plugged this here yet, what with my penchant for self-promotion tantamount to listening to an opera singer warming up (me me me me me), but check it out!

While we're waiting for Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag to grace our hungry screens, I've been scribbling and voicing episode recap clip show thingies for Project Runway.

Like, they ASKED me to. Because they WANTED me to. So if you'll excuse me, I have to call a couple of high school teachers who told me I'd never get anywhere by being a sarcastic bitch.

It's the best fun a girl could have with her clothes on without martinis or cheese! I write it and put the time codes and stuff on a piece of paper, record a voice-over, and then hand it all to a clever bloke who actually knows what every single button on his computer keyboard does. Even that squiggle thing. I know. It's amazing.

Right. I think I've made up for forgetting to blow my own trumpet now. As you were.

New episodes up every week. Yay.

Tuesday, June 07, 2011

I'd Call It Mama Mia, But That's The Name Of Another Blog.

I've been crap, haven't I.
Inconsistent blog updates with eons between them. I know. I know.
And I'm sorry.
Well, as sorry as a self-indulgent brat with delusions of grandeur can be, anyway.
The kind of sorry that could kick your arse in a cage fight, if it could be bothered getting off the couch and into its cage fighting... what, leotard? I don't know. But anyway, my sorry would be wearing a cup. And a leotard. And hell, a glitter-wig, because my sorry RULES.

There's some good stuff coming, but. Rumour has it that Australia is apparently looking for its next top something something, so I figure I might take a mild, back-seated interest in that eventually.

In the meantime, feel free to join me listening to the sound of my own voice on Twitter and also see what Mrs Woog from Woogsworld and I look like when we're being Agnetha and Frida. We made it as authentic as possible. They have martinis in Sweden, right?


Friday, May 06, 2011

Those Magnificent Bastards



Everybody’s got a friend in a band.



When you have a friend who’s in a band, you’re pretty much obliged to go to their gigs.


When you go to their gigs, regardless of how awkward or clumsy they are, afterwards you generally need to tell them they were great. And then get drunk and talk wank until dawn. Pretty sure that’s standard. Pretty sure.


A few years ago, I met my mate Russ at work, and we became good friends. He told me he was in a band called Sierra Fin, and that they had a gig at the Annandale coming up, and that I should check them out. Here we go, I thought. Another friend gig, I thought. I’d better get my auto-impressed face on, I thought.


Jesus nappy-wearing Christ, I thought. These guys are goddamn fracking AMAZING.


Over the ensuing handful of years, I watched them grow (quite literally – they added a bass player) and write and play and develop and drink and eat and argue and perform and record and endanger their kidneys, and I can truly say now that I love this band.


Russ is the singing guy who does most of the writing. A hilarious bastard who happily laughs up his own pancreas, he likes it when it’s time for gin, and has about three favourite t-shirts that he rotates endlessly.


Frosty is the drumming guy who, as overheard by a punter one night, “hits the skins fuckin’ hard, ay”. Outlandishly good at drumming, he likes meat and photography very much and has excellent posture.


Joel is the keyboardy guitary guy. He can kick your arse in any general-knowledge-related realm, has fetching red swimwear, and is working on copyrighting his signature wiggle.


Oli is the bass guy, and sometimes gets thrown out of pubs for pretending he’s been shot. He’ll always, always surprise you, especially if you ask him about underpants.


And now, today, they’ve released their debut album, Cautionary Tale Of The Beautiful Blackout.


They recorded it in five days after an outrageous amount of preparation, planning and orchestration (seriously – there’s a twenty-six piece goddamn orchestra in there), and it’s beautiful.


It’s fucking beautiful.


I’m tearfully proud of them boys, and thrilled, honoured and delighted to have been hanging around while they got there.


Congratulations, me lovelies.

 
PS: You’d better buy the album, huh. It seems like the right thing to do.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Cirque Du So-Lame Part 2: The Lamening

Update: Being fifteen different kinds of idiot, I posted a link to this blog on my facebook page. It didn't occur to me that Gemma the absent-but-on-her-way-home-whose-room-has-just-been-turned-into-the-most-pissweak-circus-in-history might see it on her phone.

Dammit.

Flex Chong and I received a polite text from Gemma exclaiming that it looked like we had a busy long weekend (lol) but that she wasn't feeling great and if it's not too party-pooperish could we tidy her room.

ALRIGHT FINE.

Welcome home, Gemma. Please be as quiet as possible when approaching the front door.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Cirque Du So-Lame

So it's a rainy public holiday, and housemate Flex Chong and I are bored.

We've never even been to acting school.
When suddenly we suddenly had a sudden idea!
Seriously. Never had one lesson.
Of course! While our other housemate Gemma was away, we'd turn her bedroom into a circus! It was all  so clear.
In the past, whenever Gemma had declined joining Flex Chong and I on a night out, we'd always make sure we brought her home a present to show her that we'd missed her. This is almost certainly the reason she once found a bag full of leaves, menus and real estate flyers outside her bedroom door. Rumour has it that it also has something to do with the shopping trolley that rumbled swervingly down our hallway one evening.
So now, with Gemma away for four days, we had to do something special. Sort of more special than the big piece of bark and number-six-painted-on-a-board that we'd already brought her that weekend, anyway.

Although to be honest, it could be a number 9.
In case I've never made my feelings regarding discount stores known before - I frickkin' fricky love discount stores. If it wasn't for discount stores, how could I possibly sustain my lust for plastic crap I'll never use again? Come on, now. You're not using your brain.
Now, the availability of circus props is unpredictable in discount stores. We expected to find clown masks, but failed.

Carnival and Big-Bird's-About-To-Eat-My-Soul masks, though? No problem.
We didn't expect to find gigantic novelty clown shoes, but voila!

You should've seen his underpants.
Granted, we had trouble justifying the purchase of window-rat...



But we more than made up for it with a line of questionably-positioned circus animals...


They're all in a 'lion'. No, wait! That one's riding 'bear-back'. No, wait! I've got a billiion of these...

A foam head and a clown hat...


And, of course, your nightmares taken care of for the next fortnight
...a welcome home banner...


As seen in circuses across the nation
...and plenty of that garish multi-coloured popcorn, the thought of which makes you gag like you're a python swallowing a tractor.



And you always get a bit stuck in the back of your throat like a pu... er, like a church hymn.

But, whether or not the rest was circus-y enough, I think where we really excelled was in the balloon department. One hundred and fifty of those static-charged bad boys. Seriously, I've never been that puffed out around that much latex before. Shut up. Keep going. Shut up.



Like the prettiest and most severe case of bed-hemorrhoids ever.
Gemma gets home tomorrow. I'm pretty sure she'll be delighted. Who doesn't love a lame, half-arsed circus?

 





Friday, March 04, 2011

The Hills Are Alive With The Sound Of No Work Being Done.

Many years ago, a friend of mine noted kindly that I have many and various highly-developed skills, and an alarming array of undeniable and deeply impressive talents.
They then added that not a single one of them would ever earn me a single cent, ever.

On a completely unrelated note, I've spent a fair chunk of the last couple of days making memes based on The Sound Of Music.

Please send me money.





Tuesday, December 28, 2010

The Deputy Principal's Cat

Education and schooling were critically important to my parents, and have since become critically important to me. These days I can appreciate learning for learning’s sake (which is one of my excuses for doing pretty much bugger all with my teaching degree), the joy of books (explaining the great dusty slabs waiting for me on my bedside table), the power of rational, informed thinking and the value of being able to make oneself understood through the efficient use of correct spelling, grammar and punctuation. Granted, I’m about as useful with mathematics as Anna-Nicole Smith, but you can’t know everything.



My father was involved with our school’s P&C association, and once even invited our sixth-grade teacher to a barbecue at our house. He was no stranger to our teachers, and my brother and sister and I were happy to let him get as involved as he liked because we didn’t know any different and subsequently wouldn’t have it any other way. We were all more than ready to start school by the time we did, as our education had already begun at home. Riotous spelling bees around the dinner table were a frequent occurrence, and child-friendly encyclopaedias lined one wall of the study. A favourite family story has my father fronting up to the headmistress’s office at Mimosa Public School with my then-four-year-old brother Michael, the first of us to nudge institutionalised-education age, to attend a meeting discussing his early start in big-guy school. Dad strode into the office with a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald, which he deposited on Miss Davidson’s desk. “He can already read that from cover to cover”, he announced in a cool, matter-of-fact fashion. “He’s here to learn some social skills”. I don’t care if you’re cringing right now. I reckon that’s awesome.


Mum and Dad experimented a little with our pre-school education, sending us to an experimental school called Kinma for a short time. To parents and teachers, Kinma was a progressive, vaguely Steiner-esque co-operative school at which individual needs were addressed through a curriculum of self-directed activities, social interaction and organic progression. To us, it was a place where we learned batik, ran around the ‘drama space’ and made pizza. For some reason, I still have an undying love of pizza, but can’t stand hippies.


By the time we all reached high school, we pretty much had the swing of the whole learning thing. We’re those loathsome people who say that most wretched of things – that we found school easy. My brother found it so frustratingly easy that he sought out his own challenges with a series of self-directed projects, such as tying all the chair legs together in English or sewing a star into his palm in Home Science. I had a reasonable rapport with most of my teachers in high school, being a goody-two-shoes with a pathological desire to impress people, albeit wrapped in a package that shaved parts of her head and went into joyous spasm whenever a new Depeche Mode album was released. One teacher in particular, Mr O’Brien, had met Dad a few times due to his enthusiastic involvement with our school lives, and to my mild embarrassment singled me out in Year Twelve Modern History, mentioning my father a number of times in front of the rest of the class. Mr O’Brien was at one time a terrifying spectre of discipline, and at other times a bit of an oddity who patted the trees in the quad and extremely rarely displayed an awkward sense of humour that nobody understood. If you were ever called into his office, which people often were due to his role as Deputy Principal, you knew you were well and truly busted. He was that one teacher that represented the most dire punishments and the most balefully disapproving glares. I’ll never know if he actually made Modern History either come alive or die a tedious and slow death, because he was the only Modern History teacher I ever had. I spent most of my time in his class being quietly jealous of the kids in Ancient History, who were poring over illustrated texts about blood-soaked gladiators and Bacchanalian bum-orgies while I waded through joyless, dense texts about economic fluctuations and whatever the Luftwaffe was up to.


Because of my parents’ devotion to the getting of book-learnin’, our attendance at school was exemplary. Even on days when most teachers were on strike, and therefore most parents didn’t make their children go to school, off we would go with a packed lunch and an entrenched scowl. We’d wander through the almost deserted halls and attend sparsely-populated classes while teachers (probably) read magazines behind the desk and prompted us to engage in ‘self-directed study’. Everybody had a good old tedious bludge in between bursts of schoolbell.


Except in Modern History class. As I waited outside the door for Mr O’Brien and other students to arrive, I realised with horror that no other students were arriving. I was going to be the only person in the class, a double-period, with a teacher I was equal parts terrified and scared of. Eventually he showed up, uncharacteristically late, and opened the door heavily, indicating that I should take my seat. I noticed that his eyes were red, and briefly wondered if the predictable rumour about him keeping a hip-flask of Scotch in his desk drawer was true.


After fifteen uncomfortable minutes, Mr O’Brien looked at me with his bloodshot eyes and asked if I had a cat. “Um... yes”, I tentatively answered, wondering how that related to the post-war period. He said that he had a cat, too.


Until this morning, when his cat had died.


It dawned on me with considerable globs of doom and desperation that he had been crying. Then, with the urge to sprint away from this desperately uncomfortable situation making my legs twitch, I realised that he was - present tense - crying.


Imagine the most awkward situation you’ve ever been in. Now, put that situation in a vise for a year, mix in a teenager’s inexperience with anything even remotely related to empathy, then talk to a crying deputy principal about his cat for an hour and a half.


There has never, in the history of grossly anxious situations, been a more welcome school bell.


We never spoke of it again.


I passed Modern History.

Sunday, December 05, 2010

Everybody's Got A Pretty Friend.

I’m the “funny friend”. Since high school, my best female mates have tended to be jaw-droppingly beautiful. It’s almost like I seek out the most obvious threat to my self-esteem, hunt it down and befriend it.


It started with Sharon, my bestie for most of my secondary schooling, not counting the two weeks she didn’t speak to me because she was sick of the way I constantly corrected her pronunciation. She had a point – she’d be telling a perfectly interesting story, and I’d just pipe up intermittently, re-pronouncing an incorrectly uttered word, interruptedly peppering her speech like intensely irritating commas. It’s a habit – nay, a compulsion – that I’ve since grown out of, mostly thanks to Sharon sending me to Coventry for that fortnight. Now I just repeat the correct word silently in my head and keep smiling and nodding. Baby steps.


Sharon was gorgeous in a way that was completely different to the way that most of the other girls at my high school were gorgeous. Our yearly school photos were sprinkled with sheathes of blonde, sun-kissed hair, impossibly slim legs and envy-inducing figures. Sharon was short and petite, with boobs on the generous side, freckles twinkling relentlessly across her face, a great heaving mass of dark curly hair and a dainty, turned-up nose. Of all Sharon’s features, her nose was the biggest source of envy on my part. This was the mid-80s, and elfin wee noses were the solid gold Rolexes of facial features. I would go to bed at night, pinching and squeezing my relatively non-descript but really quite normal proboscis into the shape I thought I wanted, trying to will my cartilage into fashionable submission.


Sharon, my sister Shelley and I had a lot of friends in high school, which was probably surprising in traditional cliquey circles, as we spent more than our allocated time hanging around the art and music rooms. It was (and admittedly still is) the primary and singular priority in my life to be ‘cool’. I can pick where I’m standing in school photos from half a room away with my eyes crossed – I just scan across the picture until I pick out the vague outline of dyed-black, short spiky hair and a sarcastic grin. I modelled each haircut I had carefully after popstars and desperately underground actresses that I deemed imitation-worthy at the time, and got around after school in mostly black, often home-modified outfits. There was a neo-gothic sub-culture at the time, but although I nudged the edges of it occasionally appearance-wise, I didn’t really like their music, and chirpy, bouncy class clowns who could moonwalk pretty well were generally frowned upon in black-lipsticked, artfully depressed circles. We developed our own mini-subculture, getting good marks at school but looking like drop-outs, voraciously devouring music and photography magazines and drawing highly accomplished profiles of pretty boys in the margins of books.


Most of the boys at school were beachy-coloured and got around playing handball in shades of gold and brown. There was a handful of boys who we deemed acceptably cool, and one of them, Jono, attracted my eye purely because he had a pierced ear and wore a Greek fisherman’s hat on mufti school excursions, despite having one German parent and one Bornean one. It was the 80s. Logic was secondary. Jono and I held hands a lot and even kissed once or twice, the cute and intensely embarrassing way that thirteen-year-olds do. The mostly superficial relationship lasted an impressive total of two weeks until it became clear to me that Jono was going out with me to get closer to Sharon. I was pretty intuitive about it, carefully piecing together subtle and obscure clues, like when he said to me “I like Sharon”.


A couple of years later, I was enamoured with a boy called Dave, who was rumoured to have been expelled from his previous school, sported a curly mullet not dissimilar to my main celebrity crush, Michael Hutchence, intense green eyes and a general air of danger. It was the first time I’d experienced the thrill of having a crush on a Bad Boy, and it was truly exhilarating. Add the fact that he played bass guitar, and in retrospect I can see that Dave pretty much paved the way for most of my future crushes over the next twenty years.


Dressed in an out-of-character studded white dress and reeking of hair gel and hormones, I arrived one Wednesday evening at the local youth centre dance to find Dave there in an advanced state of inebriation, obviously because he was cool. We sat for a while in the crowded yard next to the main hall, and he asked me if I would pierce his ear. In my very early teens, being asked to pierce someone’s ear in my mind was tantamount to an offer of marriage. Happily, the hem of my dress was held in place with a safety pin and ice was readily available, so with a hand rendered unsteady by a thumping heart and an unfamiliarity with medical procedures, I clasped ice to his ear while he rested his head in my lap. Having Dave’s tousled curls nestled on my thighs was pretty much the sexual peak of my life at that time, and the fact that the rumour that bloodshed and jewellery were imminent had attracted a small audience. I had it all. I had the head of the cool guy on my lap and the devoted attention of a gaggle of onlookers. I had ice and a safety pin. I had new shoes. I was pretty much living the teenage dream.


The safety pin poked easily through the skin on the front of Dave’s frigid lobe, but became stubborn when I asked it repeatedly and painfully to break through the skin at the back of his ear. Sounds of thrilled disgust were starting to emanate from the audience, almost drowning out the sounds of drunken agony emanating from Dave himself. After a couple of final, desperate, gory stabs, I gave up. Dave sat up in order to start early work on an ear infection, and then told me how much he liked Sharon. I looked down at the depressing spots of blood on my white dress.


Sharon didn’t end up going out with either Jono or Dave. Perhaps out of loyalty to me. Perhaps because she didn’t share the same taste in scruffy, addled miscreants. Perhaps because she ended up realising she was gay, and lives with her girlfriend now. Either way, I feel I’m entitled to feel a little smug. Through her pheromonal destiny, Sharon vindicated the embarrassment and disappointment I felt at the actions of these silly, barely-pubescent boys right where it counts. In the penis.


Although it wasn’t a habit I intentionally cultivated, I continued to befriend, or was the object of befriendment to, some of the planet’s most stunning inhabitants. I easily became accustomed to it, and found my own way of opening doors – a well-placed witty one-liner here, a startling philosophical revelation there – all helped me to keep feeling secure and liked, with dignity and pride intact. Of course, none of those things helped open doors quite like walking through them with a six foot Amazonian friend with a rack you could rest schooners on. But it’s all about balance, see.


Recently I was playing Monopoly with one of my pretty friends, who used to be a model. I landed on a ‘Chance’ square, and she handed me the top card from the pile with her elegant, impossibly long and slender hands. Turning it over, I read “You have won second prize in a beauty competition”


Yeah. No kidding.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Beautiful One Day, Bruised and Vomit-Stained The Next

When I was seven years old, my parents took my brother and sister and me out of school for three months to sail around the Whitsundays.



I know how that sounds. It’s the kind of thing you’d expect to be discussed over soy chai lattes in a private school cafe between two girls called Brianna and Gwendolyn. “We set out on Daddy’s yacht, you see. To suckle at Mother Nature’s teat and be educated in the School Of Life, darling. More gluten-free low-fat scone?”.


Wrong. My father has always had an unquenchable passion for sailing, observable in black and white photographs in which he has a remarkable amount of hair and salty, sun-ruddied forearms. I can’t remember a time in my life where he didn’t own a boat, and a considerable amount of his frenzied weekend tinkering included vast knotted mats of fibreglass or careful gunwale-varnishing. The boat that occupies the biggest slab of my childhood memory, dubbed Roadrunner due to the fact that it trailed behind our massive LandCruiser between home and the water, spent most days of the week sitting proudly and redly on its trailer next to the house. It was twenty-two feet long, bright red with an always-sparkling white cockpit, and countless father-generated modifications and customisations inside the cabin. The tiny galley, which one didn’t cook “in” as much as “on”, was a gas-burning corner bench that my mother generated truly remarkable meals from on overnight trips, especially considering that there wasn’t enough headroom in the cabin for grown adults to stand upright, so dinner was cooked by bending at the waist with hunched shoulders, impersonating the question mark at the end of “What’s for dinner, Mummy?”. We washed the dishes in a sudsy plastic tub, sipped at long-life milk and dutifully sat up on the comparatively fresh-aired deck when Dad settled himself onto the tiny white tank toilet for his morning evacuation. There was nothing even remotely private-school-yachtsy about Roadrunner, which is one of the main reasons she was so wonderful. Huh. I think that might be the first time I’ve ever referred to any of Dad’s boats as “she”. The boat was always just “the boat”. Never “the yacht”, Gwendolyn. Now drink your latte so we can go pick up the labradoodles from the grooming salon.


Our trip to the Whitsundays occurred happily before tourism in Queensland had reached the mildly tacky zenith it is today, when our Airlie Beach grocery-purchase stop-overs entailed lugging plastic bags of non-perishable food across what seemed like miles of sodden sand at low tide. We trailed Roadrunner slowly up the east coast, stopping for tiny half-cans of soft drink and takeaway meals on the way. My reminiscing brain tells me that the drive took two weeks, which I’m sure isn’t true, but to a child, a day is ten years and a week is a lifetime. However long it was, it seemed that an intensive period of motorised forward motion followed immediately by a gentle waterborne rocking motion did not agree with my digestive system at all. I’ve always had remarkable, almost super-human intestinal fortitude, particularly in the non-upchucky area – a trait shared by all females in my family – but during the first evening on the water, my stomach was gurgling an operetta. Mum gave me a glass of Dexsal which I dutifully drained, and then lay on one of the cushions in the cabin, summoning all of my considerable melodramatic powers. Eventually I lifted my feeble head, as Mum and Dad had opened a bag of peanuts to have with their pre-dinner drinks and I was a veritable garbage-disposal unit whenever food was around.


One peanut. I ate one peanut. It was almost as if my stomach was a trampoline. The peanut dropped, bounced once on my gut-trampoline and suddenly rebounded, bringing with it everything I’d ever eaten in my life. Being a usually-non-vomiting, highly dramatic seven-year-old, I panicked, cried, and spent the next hour bent over the stern railing, depositing cascades of beige directly into the water via mouth and nostril. Again being a highly dramatic, self-important seven-year-old, I didn’t quite appreciate my father grabbing a fishing reel and dropping a hook into the water with the hope of landing a fish. “Good burley”, he said of my apparently fish-attracting vomit-stream, whilst I continued to regularly and violently turn myself inside out.


When my chunky volcano finally became dormant, I curled up next to my sister Shelley in our nook bunk wedged up in the bow, zipped snugly into orange polyester sleeping bags. Mum came to kiss us goodnight. “Goodnight”, I said weakly, summoning my most plaintive eyebrows. “BLEAAAARGH!” said Shelley, coating the bunk with what was previously her dinner. Shelley and I spent the next two days taking gentle sips of lemonade and nibbling on dry biscuits. Mum spent the next two days washing sleeping bags and cushion covers in low water pressure laundromats on the mainland and cursing the day she was born.


Once the gastric tidal-wave had ebbed, we spent three idyllic months sailing around islands, fishing, running the generator, playing draughts and generating tans that were to be the future envy of Mimosa Public School. Our education, never neglected for a moment from birth until our mid-twenties, certainly didn’t suffer. Mornings were spent hunched over maths problems in dull grey exercise books, rising to parental spelling challenges and keeping illustrated journals of our adventures. Our physical education was also steadily maintained – Shelley and I were to appear in a ballet recital (more artificial sweetener, Gwendolyn?) shortly after our return to Sydney, so whenever we were moored near a beach, Mum would supervise our bikini-clad rehearsals. In the recital, Shelley and I were appearing as the Two Turtle Doves in the (certainly near-interminable to the poor audience) Twelve Days Of Christmas dance. We would wear pale satin tutus, painstakingly and tastefully adorned with swan down via Mum’s ever-humming sewing machine. Our ballet routine ended on a grand scale, with a mirror-image jete towards each other and a final, hopefully graceful drop to one knee each, arms artfully arched. Over and over we practised on the sand, spinning, jumping, toe-pointing and knee-dropping for all we were worth. Not even our gap-toothed grins (thank you for your diligence, Tooth Fairy) would detract from the turtle-dovey elegance that we would bring to the stage.


Once we dragged our deep brown torsos back to the big smoke, it was time for one final rehearsal at Janece Green’s Dance Academy – home of lycra, resin and false eyelashes that could be seen from space. The willowy, bendy and generally terrifying Janece was delighted that we had been practising during our holiday, and requested a run-through. Our little hair-buns zipped and twirled through the air at the whims of our collective leg muscles, and we pranced and flexed through the motions. At the dance’s crescendo, we both arced through the air in our ultimate jete. It may or may not have occurred to us in mid-air that our rehearsal surface for the preceding countless weeks had been the silky-soft sands of Northern Queensland, and that now we were about to land on our pre-pubescent knees on hard, polished pine floorboards. BANG! said our knees, as observers’ faces and shoulders winced collectively.


The final performance went without a hitch. Mum told us later that she looked back at the faces of the audience while we were dancing, and everyone was beaming at the adorable widdle twinnies with missing teeth and bruised knees. It was exhilarating. It was exciting. It was the last time I enjoyed ballet.

Tuesday, June 08, 2010

Terror, With A Bit Of Screaming Mixed In.

I’m only truly afraid of two things in this world.

I use the term “afraid” not in the “would rather avoid” sense, but in the “run screaming with hands flapping and the distinct possibility of involuntary wee” sense. I don’t think anybody truly likes the two things I’m afraid of, but most people probably wouldn’t go to the same lengths I do to avoid them.

Now, there are rational fears and irrational fears.
Rational fears are usually aversions to things that can potentially and realistically harm you, like spiders, snakes, sharks, and other things starting with S. Steve Irwin, for example.

Irrational fears are things like… well, vomiting and grasshoppers.

Vomiting.

I haven’t thrown up since 1989.
I steadfastly and unreservedly refuse to. Even my twin sister went through two pregnancies without so much as a wet-burp, and my mother has only upchucked once in my entire life. The females in my family find the concept of reverse-digestion not only abhorrent, we avoid it at all costs.

I would rather feel sick for three days than throw up.

Even when I’ve eaten something dodgy, I can think my way out of a vom. It’s a simple case of mind over splatter.

If I see someone hoiking up a beige rainbow, I feel substantially traumatised, and will see an instant replay any time I close my eyes for the next three days.

Yes, I’ve had food poisoning. Yes, I’ve dabbled extensively and at times excessively in the alcoholic arts. I. Just. Don’t. Vomit.

Grashoppers.

I’d like to put this one down to the preponderance of grasshoppers around my childhood home, being as it was surrounded by leafy hidey-holes conducive to the development of six or more legs.
But if that were the case, then I’d also be terrified of Huntsman spiders, cockroaches and gangs of toddlers. And I’m not.
I think instead, I’ll have to peg this fear onto the Hills Hoist of JUMPING GREEN DEMONS OF SURPRISE CRUNCHY HORROR.
Did you know that grasshoppers like to hide in the fingers of washing-up gloves?

Or in the buttock-nook of jeans you’ve just taken off the line?

Or just outside your driver’s-side window, waiting for you to wind it down so they can JUMP ON YOUR FACE?! Okay, that happened to my sister, but the blood-curdling horror travels.

If there’s a grasshopper in my room, I sleep on the couch.

There was a grasshopper in the front hallway of my house for a week, so I came and went by the back door. My housemates had to collect my mail.

For as long as I can remember, grasshoppers have epitomised mortifying evil all the way from my brain, straight through my pancreas, directly to my bowel.

Until one of my Kiwi mates made me aware of the Weta.

The Weta is New Zealand’s answer to the grasshopper. Presumably the question was “Have you got anything straight from the armpit of hell available for nightmares and screaming?”.

Seriously. Check it out.
SWEET KILT-WEARING MINIONS OF SATAN, GET IT AWAY.

If that thing vomits, my life is over.

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Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Four-titude.

Huh.

While my attention was turned elsewhere, this blog turned four.
In fact, I missed my blog's birthday by exactly a month.

Probably a good thing I don't have kids.

Anyway, even though I've been a neglectful 'parent' of late (honestly, all this blog ever does is whine and piss its pants), thanks for still stopping by!

You know you have to send me presents now, don't you. And not fairy bread, neither. Never really understood the attraction.

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Friday, March 26, 2010

It's Not Technically Stalking If He's Just Being Stubborn, Officer.

Last year, a friend of mine (let’s call him Benny, because I’ve got an Elton John song in my head right now (which I kind of hate (but not as much as I hate using brackets within brackets))) and I had a bit of a misunderstanding.

You see, Benny is a sensitive soul, and I’m always right. As a result, I’m often hurting Benny’s feelings without meaning to, and then just assuming that it’s his fault.

Wow. I’m kind of an arsehole.

Anyway, one day I noticed that Benny had stopped talking to me, and it soon became clear that he was ignoring me altogether. I couldn’t remember anything specific I’d done to offend him, so I decided he was just being petty and that if I irritated him – and I mean really, sincerely annoyed the ever-lovin’ crap out of him – he would snap and respond.

I emailed him something new every day. I put quite a bit of effort into it, and thought I should share the highlights with you. So, on the off chance that you’re ever in exactly the same predicament, I present to you:


Perfecting The Art Of The Relentless Digital Harangue – A User’s Guide


Day One
Subject: New T-Shirt Slogan Idea


Might need some workshopping, but something snappy like:


NOBODY OVERREACTS, TAKES THINGS PERSONALLY AND GETS ON THEIR HIGH HORSE QUITE LIKE JO. AND BENNY. LIKE, EQUALLY. BOTH AS F*CKING BAD AS EACH OTHER.


Maybe with a picture. I'm thinking a table of unicorns playing poker.


-no response-




Day Two


Wow. WOW. Your irritating daily email rhymes today. You really hit the jackpot there.




I love to be ignored;
It stops me getting bored.
And when I’m bored I fall asleep,
Wake up, and find I’ve snored.

And to be overlooked?
My place in therapy is booked!
If my self esteem was toast
It would be well and truly cooked.

And oh! To be forsaken!
Irresistible as bacon.
Whilst I look like a fool,
You’re just a hero in the makin’.

I like being disregarded,
‘Cause it helps me be less guarded;
But sending emails daily
Makes me look a bit retarded.

-no response-

 Day Three


Hi, Benny.
Here's a picture I drew of a sad clown.
He's so sad he doesn't even want to play his ukulele.
So I didn't draw a ukulele.
Jo.
-no response-




Day Four
Hi, Benny.
This is what it would be like if I was dead.



-no response-



Day Five
(inspired by the ‘Posters By Craig’ thing that was the style at the time)






-no response-



Day Six


No, you don't get weekends off, I'm sorry.
It's 'lite' though, as I have better things to do today.
So here are my ten favourite fruits in random order:


Oranges
Strawberries
Kiwi Fruit, or Chinese Gooseberry
Grapes
Delicious Apples
Pineapple
Rockmelon
Peaches
Nashi Pears


-no response-



Day Seven


All the punctuation marks on my computer are below. It would be a totally freaky coincidence if they're the same as the ones on your computer.
`~!#$%^&*()_-++[{]}’}”;:/?.>,<@

-no response-



Day Eight


Hi, Benny.
Here’s me being the letter Q.



My fondest regards,
Jo.


-no response-



On the ninth day, I pretty much just saw Benny at the pub and we said hello to each other, and then we were friends again.


I think it's pretty clear what the moral to this story is:






I need a hobby.

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Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Extreme Avocado.

You know what makes me happy? Well yes, there’s that, but I mea… well yes, granted, there’s that too, but what I’m trying to get at is… what? Well technically yes, but that’s more a young person’s ga… LOOK. You know what makes me happy today?

The fact that I will have too many games to play come Summer.

You might remember that I invented Bee Bingo, and you may have also subsequently realised that this is a game that has taken the world by storm in a quiet and unobtrusive way.

WELL. My new housemate Lozzy, of oh errol fame, told me about a game her boyfriend plays, and I want to play it. I need to play it. I want you all to need to play it too. I’m an eddying maelstrom of wants and needs. See paragraph 1.

Lozzy’s squeeze has an avocado tree in his backyard (although this would work well with any tree that bears fruit or other heavy-ish, dropping things. Bats or possums, for example).
When the fruit is ripe, he and his friends crack some (many) beers and sit in the yard wearing custom-built helmets.

Each helmet is a bike helmet with a bowl super-glued to the top of it. Anyone who doesn’t already think this game is awesome even at this unresolved point has no business reading further. Helmet. Bowl. Dreams. Realised.

Whenever game-players hear an avocado dropping through the leaves, they RACE TO CATCH IT IN THEIR CUSTOMISED BOWL-HELMET.
Sometimes it's a long wait, so more beer must be consumed, rendering each subsequent avocado-drop more and more difficult. Also rendering all spleens burst. Because of the hilarity.

If you want me at any time during avocado fruiting season, you know where I’ll be.

Also PS: Please somebody tell me when avocado fruiting season is. ‘Preciate it. Thanks.

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