Queen of Penguins

Every day getting closer to Miranda Hart and fruit friends

2011-09-28T04:18:00.000-07:00

Ok, so remember the Director of Services who saw me pretending to be a synthesiser while I waited for my job interview? Well today he made the mistake of being in the lunch room with me. I was all, "Oh hey, Important Guy, have you ever watched Battlestar Galactica?" and he was like, "I hate sci-fi," and I was all, "Fool. Ima give you ten reasons why you'll love this shit." I was up to number 3 (sometimes Saul Tigh wears an eye patch) when he stopped me to say he didn't really like television in general. So of course I was like, "I don't understand what you've just said," and he went on to explain that he also didn't particularly care for movies, music, or books. I needed a co-worker to step in and enquire into further interests as I really had no idea what exists outside of those things. Turns out planes exist. I was all like, "Oh you like planes? They have planes in Battlestar Galactica. Except they're outer-space planes. So better, I guess."

I have decided now to just stop talking to people, since obviously I have some sort of communication deficiency. Ok, let me rephrase that—I'm going to stop talking to people that I'm vaguely trying to impress in any way (I had no trouble talking to Bernie, the old man in the rainbow beanie I met at Hungry Jack's over the weekend. By the time fucking Helen the cashier had given me my iced coffee I knew that Bernie's parents had been involved in an acrimonious divorce when he was a child, that he'd been through an acrimonious divorce himself a few years back, and that he was going to a seafood festival in Tin Can Bay that afternoon. Fucking Helen).

Yesterday I met a cute boy out running. He was running, I was walking slowly and having a conversation with Indy about the Disability Support Pension. Something about this combination must have grabbed Cute Boy's attention, because suddenly Indy was getting pats and Cute Boy was being attractive and I was trying not to giggle. Unfortunately, Cute Boy seemed to be unfamiliar with the concept of talking dogs—just because I was making direct eye contact and actually saying the words, "I like you. Will you be my best friend?" didn't mean the comment was coming from me. I tried to drag Indy away and make a hasty exit at Cute Boy's awkward expression, however realised I was stuck as Indy had decided to...use the facilities...right next to Cute Boy's foot. Because he is the worst wingman ever.

Luckily I was able to put this experience out of my mind when I spotted Cute Boy II in the fruit & veg section at Woolworths later that afternoon. I started sauntering over to where he was examining the pre-packaged lettuce while thinking about Banana Code (the idea of signalling your availability by carrying a bunch of bananas in your basket). Then I started wondering if, given the current price of bananas, it might be more economical to change the single-signifying fruit to something less pricey. Then I started trying to work out if there was a specific reason the banana was chosen for the whole concept in the first place, and if the process would look different if people started showing their singlehood by displaying, say, a watermelon. Then I thought about all the times I had bought bananas without being even slightly hit-on. Then I became irrationally offended. Anyway, you know what else makes a shitty wingman? A grape. Stupid half-squashed grape blending in so slyly with the floor that I didn't notice it until I was sliding towards Cute Boy II and screaming, "Whoa whoa whoa, she's going down!" I couldn't help but feel a little betrayed, on account of grapes being my second favourite fruit (after bananas).

These failed attempts at being a functioning human have made me concerned about booking another dental appointment. I've been experiencing a bit of sensitivity in my teeth lately, but unfortunately I have something of a crush on my dentist and therefore seeking any treatment is best avoided. Here are some reasons my dentist will never date me:

He has flossed my teeth
He has seen me wearing those giant dentist glasses
He has seen me trying not to choke on my own saliva
I laughed a little too loudly (and around a suction device) when he made a joke about Magic: The Gathering
I told him I liked his wall photos of penguins, seals and dogs—as they're my favourite animals too—before realising they'd probably been put up just to distract the children
I told him I don't always feel comfortable swallowing
I told him I feel weird about my mouth. I then clarified this statement by saying I feel weird about things being in my mouth. I then clarified this statement by saying I feel weird about people being in my mouth
I told him he'd now be seeing much more of me, so to brace himself

At the same time, he told me that he thinks the ice-pack-in-stockings device people tend to favour when recovering from having their wisdom teeth removed makes them look like swollen chipmunks with bras on their heads. Tell me we're not supposed to be together. Watch this space.

Tash on

2011-09-18T23:09:00.000-07:00

Blog fail. My bad. Excuses of work and uni will only take me so far—to be honest a lot of it is Geordie Shore's fault. Yes, Geordie Shore. It's basically the same as Jersey Shore except set in the UK and more efficient—they seemed to have combined the JWoww and Sammie characters into one hellbeast of a lass. Also, I can't understand a word they're saying. It took me a couple of episodes to realise that Geordie girls use plural pronouns to describe themselves (and don't actually have dissociative identity disorder). For example, "I think he fancies us," or "All you wanna do is bang us." Sometimes they need to use subtitles. It's pretty great.

I was going to write a post a few days ago but then I looked at my bedside table and saw these things:

Hobby glue

A book about angels.

A half-drunk blue Gatorade from a hangover about three weeks ago

Floss

A CD of child-focused dialogues with separated parents

Three pairs of scissors

Four different types of moisturiser

Strapping tape

A gluten-free cupcake mix

Albus Dumbledore's wand

Not only did it look like I'd been having more fun than I really had been, there was no room for my NiNi...time for a clean! Which is really just an excuse to listen to show tunes and inhale bleach. But spring has sprung, after all. And fucking how. I wasn't built for the heat, guys. I was built for being indoors in a controlled moderate temperature, with my pasty freckles (they're rare) only ever seeing the sun on weekends and special occasions. It's not even summer. Spring is supposed to be full of flowers and good vibes, and smugness over the fact that I don't get hay fever.

Unfortunately, one very spring-like occurrence has been the sudden uprising of those a-hole bees. On Sunday morning I got stung on my ankle. I was already in a bad mood because it was bright (I had no sunglasses) and early (too early for my mascara-smeared eyes, bed hair and fancy lace top from the night before) and had to walk (in the wedges I had claimed to be able to run in eight hours earlier) for 20 minutes until I found my car. Now, there is absolutely no way to do the Sunday morning hangover walk without a) arrogant cyclists looking at you like they're unsure whether your heart, lungs or liver will kill you the hardest, or b) middle-aged women looking at you like you're a total prostitute. Even if you had simply crashed on your friend's air mattress after a conversation about how cool it would be to be a spy and/or jazz singer (sidebar: if I ever become a spy, do not tell me your government secrets. I almost cried from pain during massage the other day—I am giving everyone up. If I ever become a jazz singer...you're welcome).

I digress. The a-hole bee got me on the ankle. Which freaking hurt. Granted, not as much as the time I got stung by a wasp ON MY NECK while on my nerdy way to the Alhambra and suddenly became convinced I was going into anaphylactic (spelt that right on the first go!) shock, despite never having had symptoms in the past. To make matters worse I didn't own my NiNi back then, so just started screaming at the first people I saw—a group of hardass women—that I needed some water (is thirst even a symptom of anaphylactic shock? Perhaps it was simply an acute case of diabetes). Of course, they only spoke Spanish and were all like "Lolita!" (which confused me) and I was like "Lo siento, por favor!" because they were the only things I knew how to say in Spanish, so it really just descended into me clutching my neck and screaming "I'm sorry please!" at them while making the international symbol for "drinking" (which apparently doesn't always look like drinking, since quite a bit of laughter ensued). Really, Spain, how many times are you going to try to kill me???

Meanwhile, I wish there was some way I could reason with these bees. Like, "I'm real sorry I'm in your way, but this seems like a total overreaction. Think of the consequences. Nobody likes a martyr, Bee." Unfortunately it always happens too quickly for me to explain that it's going to hurt them more than it hurts me. My attempts to reason with magpies during spring don't go much better—really it's just a statement of my innocence as I scream "I don't want your babies!!" and run for my life.

In complete seriousness though, it is going to be one hell of a summer. Has everyone seen Farscape? Does everyone know Scorpius, the half-Scarran, half-Sebacean Peacekeeper commander? Does everyone remember how he had those cooling rods inserted into his head to absorb his excess body heat so he wouldn't die? Well I'm thinking something like that for the coming months. Also air-conditioning. Frel yeah.

Of course you're a catfish, penis fish.

2011-08-19T04:16:00.000-07:00

Diversity Day! This morning at work we had a training session on how to work with clients from different cultural backgrounds. I’ve been watching so much of The Office lately that I was expecting a really Michael Scott presentation, and wanted someone to be all “Abraham Lincoln once said that if you're a racist, I will attack you with the North. And these are the principles I carry with me in the workplace”. Unfortunately, it was really appropriate and respectful. We got to go around the room and talk about our heritage and where our families were from. One chick said she was of Scottish and Irish descent, and I was all like “That sounds really attractive”, which was admittedly a weird thing to say. We spoke as a group about how some cultures have higher levels of accepted conflict than others, and how our own upbringing and family history might affect how comfortable we are with this. I was all, “Bitch please. My people made Vikings and Nazis,” and then wondered who would win in a fantasy battle between Vikings and Nazis. I'd probably cheer for the Vikings, since I love Eric from True Blood, but antisemitism not so much.

Diversity Day was run by our Director of Practice, who is super impressive and important and will more than likely give me a promotion following this exchange today:

Director of Practice: I like your red cardigan.

Me: Thanks, I was tired this morning so thought it would fire me up.

Director of Practice: Did it work?

Me: It did. I guess you could say I’m both matador and bull.

???

I got to make some Thank God It’s Friday jokes today, which weren’t as funny as the Thank God It’s Tuesday jokes I made before the Wednesday public holiday this week, but were topical nonetheless. I think my favourite thing about returning to work is feeling like I have earned my weekends and lunch breaks. I get to have good chats with the other newbies on our breaks. Topics discussed this week include:

Do giraffes look funny when they run?

Are all traffic cops assholes?

Is it irresponsible for parents to let their eight-year-old name her cat Muff?

Are all P-platers assholes?

Is it possible to be a slutty virgin?

Are all butcher birds assholes?

Today at lunch we spoke at length about the Candiru—the parasitic freshwater fish native to the Amazon that burrows inside the human urethra, usually just after urination. Guys, I’m pretty worried about the Candiru. Every time I think about it (and I was stuck in traffic for an hour this afternoon, so I have thought about it a lot) I start to get all panicky. Rationally, I know there are several factors currently preventing me from being attacked by a Candiru:

1. I’m not in the Amazon

2. I’m not swimming in a freshwater body in the Amazon

3. I’m not swimming naked in a freshwater body in the Amazon

4. I’m not urinating while swimming naked in a freshwater body in the Amazon

So I'm all fine and safe right now, but I can’t be sure I will never do these things. Just as I can’t be sure there will never be a day when all the engineers die and I have to design a building without knowing how to account for metals expanding and contracting in the heat. Or just as I can’t be sure I will never be in a leaking submarine at the bottom of the ocean and have to fight off a swarm of anglerfish (or even one anglerfish—those things are effed up). It just doesn’t hurt to have a contingency plans for these things…and I’m open to suggestions on this one as Candiru have barbs in their gills, guys. Freaking barbs in their gills. Plus I just found out they are members of the catfish family, and as I was once bitten so severely by a catfish that I gushed blood and had to be given ice by a stranger to numb the pain, I think I have reason to be slightly concerned. Meanwhile, why have teachers been threatening kids with mystical purple dye that shows up when someone urinates in public pools all these years, when they could have been telling them about Candiru? Riddle me that, Education Queensland.

Since everyone seemed so interested in parasites today I might bring up flukeworms next week and see if anyone remembers that X-files episode. I like making new friends.

P.S. Please note that nobody actually knew the correct name for the Candiru, but I just googled ‘penis fish’ using my mum's computer. My aim now is to get people using penis fish as a regular insult. Like, “Shut up, penis fish” or “Screw you, penis fish” or “Stop being such a penis fish, penis fish”. Who’s with me???

Working 9 to 5 (except on the days they let me finish at 4)

2011-08-17T01:16:00.000-07:00

Regular blog post fail. Apologies to anyone who was sent into Slanket-reference withdrawals during my absence. I bet that was tough. I wish I could say I've been off doing something fun like visiting Harry Potter World or having a Pretty Little Liars marathon. Actually, if I'm wishing for things I would wish that I've been at my own space wedding to Laura Roslin, but beggars can't be choosers (they can't, they really can't). Unfortunately, the Time Thieves have been my new job, uni, a couple of side projects, and working on assessment items while eating baked beans in bed (I do have a white doona cover though so this is actually more adventurous than it sounds). Also, I have been something of a fatigue monster now that I'm in the caffeine cycle which comes with returning to work. I can't sleep because a) clown will eat me, and b) I keep having dreams that I'm a spy and wake up feeling like I've been working all night. Working at being awesome. Yesterday I had three cups of black coffee because there was no milk in the tea room. Turns out three cups of black coffee doesn't actually make me alert and productive but causes heart palpitations and vomiting. Good times. Also now I'm going to have to spend the rest of my time with this agency pretending I take my coffee black since I don't want to admit I was too awkward to ask where the milk was.

Getting back into a work routine has proven slightly difficult. Apart from the lack of sleep-ins and afternoon naps, I now have to brush my hair every morning. Ok, I say every morning, but it has probably been closer to one morning out of three. Which is still an effort. It's something I'm going to have to keep on top of though, since another girl came in with unbrushed hair this week and was told by the scary admin ladies that she looked like the Gobbledock. Outdated snap aside, this started a doppelganger conversation during which I was asked if I had ever been on television since I looked so familiar. I made a joke about that Border Control show and how everyone in the office should be alert not alarmed. Because what's funnier than terrorism humour? Then one woman told me I looked like a friend of hers who was needy and prone to emotional outbursts but very nice (apparently she's my soul doppelganger too). Another girl asked if I had ever been told that I looked like Kate Winslet, and I said no on account of rarely hanging out with visually impaired liars. Then she said perhaps it was just my hair, and I wondered if that was an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind comment about my regrowth, but thanked her nonetheless. Plus I remembered that I need to finish watching The Reader, since I have a good feeling the movie will have a different ending to the book.

I'm still in training at work, and like any good suck-up I have already taken many notes and asked many questions and used many active listening skills whenever anyone speaks to me. I have been trying to be that pleasant, personal newbie that fits in immediately and addresses everyone confidently by name. Unfortunately, this ended in me calling a guy Hugh all day when his name is actually Ian (to be fair, he really looked like a Hugh). At least I haven't forgotten the names of my bosses, even if I can't remember exactly what each of them does. I tuned out during the presentation on corporate structure as it was being given by the dude that hired me and I was focusing all my energy on not looking like a synthesiser.

The plus side to all this is that I don't have to deal with Centrelink anymore after receiving my one payment (can anyone say Rockefeller?) I had a contact appointment with my customer service centre before I started work and met with a lady named Lenore (Yes, I had to try really hard not to make any Edgar Allan Poe jokes...because I'm a nerd). She was very congratulatory on me getting the job, and then was like, "Next time you come in someone will probably tear up your job seeker diary," and I was like, "That sounds intense", then she was like, "Or maybe I should just tear it up right now" which is apparently impossible to say without sounding vindictive and like you're trying to teach someone a lesson. She tried but couldn't physically tear it up, which was embarrassing after her threat. I attempted to make her feel better by telling her that sometimes I have difficulty taking the caps off shampoo bottles, but she gave me a look as if to say "There's no sympathising in Centrelink," which I think is a similar concept to "There's no crying in baseball." A League of Their Own is just a really good movie.

Lenore then told me I needed to contact my job network to let them know I would no longer be filling out my shredded job seeker diary. I was kind of hoping I'd never have to speak to my job network again, since on my first visit I accused them of stealing my licence, then made a follow-up phone call to see if they'd found my licence, then drove back in to the office to ask to look for the licence myself, then swore there was nowhere else my licence could be, then implied that if they had a more organised system and competent staff licences wouldn't go missing, then found my licence beneath my bed three days later. Needless to say, they were pretty glad to hear I'd found a job and wouldn't be back in. Yay employment!

Meanwhile, I washed my dressing gown last week and hung it on the clothesline only to have it obscenely desecrated by bats during the night. Sophie thinks this may be the Slanket gods trying to crush the competition. I'm inclined to agree.

Stop! Husher time.

2011-07-29T03:31:00.000-07:00

Employed! Like a queen! Or responsible adult and valued member of society! Just when I was beginning to think it would never happen and I'd have to give up the luxuries of private health insurance and food, someone decides to save me from 24/7 Slanketeering by offering me a job. No more answering strangers' questions of "What do you do?" with "Hmmmm, yes. And you?". No more trolling Seek and wondering what exactly one needs to promote and how "attractive" and "fun-loving" one has to be to earn $2470 per week. I'm finally returning to the world of overtime and power suits. I guess the interviewer who saw me being a synthesiser in my car understands the meaning of transferable skills.

I have one week of freedom left before I start, and I've decided to use this time to be incredibly organised and productive. I'm putting an end to lying in bed all day, or alternatively lying in bed most of the day but getting up for meals. This morning I wrote a To-Do List. To get myself motivated, the first thing I wrote on the To-Do List was write a to-do list, which I could then immediately cross off. I feel better already, and this go-getting can only continue. Or fail miserably, since my list includes some ambitious tasks such as take clothes to Lifeline (unlikely), donate blood (very unlikely) and roll over super (hahahahaha).

Thwarting my productivity somewhat today was everyone's favourite Jug, who was exceptionally needy after having fun at doggy daycare twice this week. Yes, I said doggy daycare. Yes, it is as adorable as it sounds (yesterday I saw a Great Dane getting shampooed!!!! He was friendly and wet!!!!). Jungle Man is away for work this week, doing manly man things camped out on the edge of a snake pit in the middle of nowhere (can you tell he works in HR?), so Soph is living the envied life of a single parent. I'd like to say I'm the live-in help but let's face it—I'm no help to anyone. So for the past two days I have driven Indy to doggy daycare. The fun really starts on the drive—little known fact about Indy: he hates my GPS. Which is insane, because my GPS is clearly awesome. His name is Sean and he is a loose canon who takes me down dark alleys unnecessarily or tells me to do a u-turn in the middle of a motorway. You know, just to see if I'm listening. I'm not sure if it's Sean in particular or just my general lack of navigational skills that Indy objects to, but either way once we started moving he turned to me with a look of disgust, as if to say, "Why the fuck does your GPS have an Irish accent?". So I was all "Why the fuck don't you have an Irish accent?", and he was like, "You're the one doing my voice, so that's really out of my control," and I was all, "Good point, shall we try it?" and he was all, "That'd be right craic," and then Sean was like, "Turn left," even though we were driving over a bridge. Stereotypically, Sean is both stupid and constantly drunk. And hot.

Doggy daycare has given me two questions to ponder: 1) How rich do you have to be before your dog prefers his nanny to you? and 2) Could it be possible that I spend too much time at home alone with a Jug? There is evidence to supports a response of YES to question 2. This week while Indy was away I apologised to pillows when I bumped them and asked air-pockets in my doona their thoughts on my lunch options. This acknowledged, I was quite excited to pick him up yesterday. So much so that as soon as I saw him I yelled, "You're so fat!" in his face. This wouldn't have been weird except that during my exclamation I looked up from Indy into the face of the guy leading him to me. Who undoubtedly now thinks I'm a rude bitch. Explanations done, as Indy and I walked back to my car I was all like, "Did you have a lovely day?". This wouldn't have been so weird, except just as I asked him I looked up and locked eyes with a woman in office wear coming out of a building. Who undoubtedly now thinks I'm a nosy bitch (and it was obvious from her death stare that she had most definitely not had a lovely day).

I've been trying to hold onto these fuzzy feelings today, since Indy has reverted to being a bit of an a-hole. It started when I woke up to find him eating my eye cream...for the second time this week. I know, I know—leave eye cream on the floor twice, shame on me. But he had the audacity to look at me with a, "Oh hey! I'm sorry, did you want this?" face, before running downstairs to bark consistently for 30 minutes. I assumed this meant he wanted to wear his Husher, an anti-barking device that makes him look like a cross between Hannibal Lector and a seagull (who wouldn't want to wear that???). However when I went to put it on him he didn't seem so pleased. Because he's contrary. I tried a few other Indy distraction techniques: games such as "I want the bottle but you've got the bottle so I'll chase you for the bottle", "Stop biting yourself, stop biting yourself", and "Why do you let Teddy walk all over you?". We then went for a W.A.L.K., during which he actually tried to attack the postman. Presumably because he has no problem being a total cliché.

I was about to write investigate how to channel the energy of an entire doggy daycare centre on my To Do List, when he decided to make it all up to me by burrowing underneath my Slanket. While I was wearing it. With his carob-coated bakewell chew. Which he ate underneath my Slanket. Because he has an infinite number of cuteness-thunderbolts he can hurl at humans whenever he fancies. Like Thor. I then told him that he is like Thor and he yawned because he already knows and I bore him with this repeated information. He then burrowed in further, which wasn't only heart-warming but also rest-of-the-body warming, and yaybos to that because frak me it's cold. If I have one complaint about the Slanket (and trust me, there is only this one) it would be the open-air back which alternates between being sexy and just plain indecent. If only someone could combine the genius of a Slanket with the practicality of a poncho. A Slanketo.

I have just added invent the Slanketo to my To Do List and crossed it out. Productivity!

Fiddle dee dee, ladies

It's not product placement. I just like it.

2011-07-24T04:53:00.000-07:00

I achieved one of my life goals this week. No, I did not get a greyhound named Jane. No, I did not start a folk band with Jess and David Boreanaz. This goal was fashion related. I was given a garment that is red, backless, and sure to turn heads. Yes, it's Slanket. A sleeved blanket (also known as a snuggie), which provides the warmth and security of bedcovers while still allowing the freedom to pour cereal and operate a remote. It also doesn't look significantly unlike a Jedi robe. I'm not even going to pretend to look for a job anymore.

This bundle of joy came courtesy of my friend Jo, who cleaned out her house this week in preparation for several months spent on a boat doing coral research and community development in Papua New Guinea and the Solomon Islands (You think that's impressive? Today I did a load of washing, reorganised my handbag and made my bed, without even needing a nap!). In amongst the dried apples and non-fiction books I pilfered, there was a good as new, never before used, genuine Slanket. I knew what it was before Jo even unfolded it, and was so pumped that I yelled, "Dibs on Slanket!" despite being the only person around. It's possible that I was as excited about this addition to my life as Jo was about her upcoming trip. Though there are probably different types of excitement—it seems unfair to compare the satisfaction of helping out at community hospitals and protecting endangered reefs with the pure joy that comes from being able to sit comfortably and eat cheese without my arms getting cold.

You may be wondering why—if Slankets are as wonderful as they sound—I hadn't taken it upon myself to spend the $7 necessary to obtain one years ago. Truth be told, the thought of actually purchasing a Slanket has never occurred to me. I always wanted the Slanket event to occur naturally, organically—not so much me choosing a Slanket as a Slanket choosing me. And now it has, and here I am: snug as a bug in a Slanket and ever ready to relax. Thanks, Jo!

Sophie hates the Slanket. Jess hates the idea of the Slanket (even though she hasn't seen it and I'm pretty sure she'd succumb to the Slankety charms). Al asked me if I was wearing the Slanket as a joke. My friend Alethea said she would punch me in the face if I ever wore the Slanket near her. Indy is completely indifferent to the Slanket, even after Sophie helped me shove him into the Slanket pouch while I was wearing it (This could possibly explain why he likes Matt best. But seriously, the only thing more awesome than a Slanket is a Jug in a Slanket).

I really don't understand this Slanket hatred. What's not to love? It's convenient, it's versatile. It can be dressed up with elaborate earrings (as I discovered last night upon Slanketing directly after an evening out) or dressed down over pyjamas (though if I had known I'd be getting a Slanket this week I wouldn't have purchased my pink ankle slippers with silver glitter hearts, white fur and pom-poms...I don't want to show Sophie up in her own home). It's also super helpful. Apart from the Jug, I've also used the pouch to transport pegs (impressing the lady over the back fence with my clothes-hanging efficiency), books (proving it's impossible to make a Slanket nerdy) and my water bottle (because it's nice to know that hydration is never far away). I may or may not have pretended to be a kangaroo while carrying some of these things. Possibly the best thing about the Slanket though is the invention of the song, "Slanket, Slanket, Slanket. I made you out of clay," which makes absolutely no sense and may slightly misrepresent Hanukkah, but is so catchy that I see no chance of it stopping anytime soon.

Finally, I'm pretty sure that owning a Slanket takes me one step closer to actually becoming Liz Lemon. So it's really just a platform for success and a small part of a larger goal. And it seems now that Sophie might actually be warming (punny!) to the whole Slanket idea, if the conversation we had this afternoon is anything to go by:

Sophie: How long before we leave for soccer?

Me: About ten minutes.

Sophie: So enough time to make a Slanket for Indy?

Me: Absolutely.

Sophie: Slanket, Slanket, Slanket. I made you out of a blanket.

I guess that's Slanket: 1, Haters: 0

Get out of my Parliamentary hearing, pigeon!

2011-07-20T03:37:00.000-07:00

Ok. Firstly, I want to apologise to anyone who has had enough of the Murdoch-heavy news of late. I'm pretty sure I have brought this on us all with the "What News of the World scandal?" comment I made to Al last week (I bet everyone's glad I didn't ask about the carbon tax. Hey? Hey???). Secondly though, I'm going to retract the apology I just made since I haven't been this caught up in news coverage since that British guy faked his own death by canoe then lived in a cupboard for four years. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion—a car crash that poses a lot of ethical questions and involves Elle Macpherson. And now thank you, Wendi Deng, for upping the entertainment factor. After writing this Ima pen a fan letter and make a request for her to be my personal bodyguard. Or new best friend. Either way, I want her on my side. I also think that if I got in with the Murdochs I could potentially get some help with Parking Ticket Wednesday. Two tickets, I got. Two. Ironically, one of them occurred while I was pleading destitution and begging for money from Centrelink. At least, I think that's irony...I often have difficulty identifying it (a traffic jam when you're already late?). Either way, should I really be punished for being a free spirit and refusing to let yellow lines dictate my life?

Do you know what's depressing about walking into a Centrelink office? Everything. And that everything is made even more depressing when it turns out I still can't get any money so there was no payoff for that hour of my life spent wondering why someone wouldn't wear shoes if they knew they'd be leaving the house. On the plus side, today I got to meet up with my dad who bought me food and gave me compliments and ensured me that I had mad skilz and someone would employ me soon. He then said that he was thinking of buying a synthesiser, and I was all like, "Yo. You should hear me synth," and suggested that instead of buying one he could just pay me to hum tunes on request. He wasn't into it though, presumably because the offer of help he gave me was a lie, or else he doesn't understand the concept of loving your job so you never work a day in your life. I don't think I would have lasted long in the role anyway, since my dad is something of a hard task master. According to him, Australia's Got Talent has "lost the plot", because sure, comedians are funny, but can they also sing and dance? I guess anything less than a triple threat won't do.

After saying goodbye, I was so engrossed in the thought that if all Australia needs is a funny songbird with superior dance moves then I should just try-out, that I failed to get out of the way of an oncoming pigeon headed straight for my face. Yes. Swooped by a pigeon. This was upsetting for the following reasons:

a) I don't think pigeons ever actually swoop people. Therefore: insulting.

b) I wasn't even carrying anything enticing to swoop for. Other than my dignity. Which is now gone. Thanks, pigeon.

c) I'm quite fond of pigeons, and like to think I have a natural affinity with all winged creatures.

d) It reminded me of the time in Venice I was told if I purposefully kicked a pigeon I would get a €100 fine. I became indignant all over again. Do I really seem like the type who would kick a pigeon? Unprovoked?

e) If I'm going to be confronted by a pigeon I want to make a BSG reference and yell, or at least imply, "Get out of my house, pigeon!" As I wasn't in a house, and there was nobody around who would get my hilarious joke, all I could do was shriek like the pigeon-fearing knob I am.

f) Many people saw the pigeon incident, but nobody laughed with me to show support. Which is the worst. Instead, I got snippets of concerned whispers: "Was that a pigeon?", "Did you see that pigeon?", "Rhubarb rhubarb pigeon".

But I managed to pull myself together and carry on. And I'm ashamed to admit it but I was somewhat pleased to see that as soon as it landed post-swoop, that pigeon got flapped in the face real hard by another pigeon. Yeah. Somepigeon just got Denged!

Is dreaming of a White Christmas racist?

2011-07-18T05:16:00.000-07:00

The after Christmas come down is always difficult. Even more so when it follows a bonus special Christmas in July, and this year gender equality allowed me to play Santa (except without the beard or fondness of children). I have spent the past three days in a near constant state of eating, with only small breaks for sleep. No judgement. It was cold, it was raining, there was cheese. Festivities during winter means that Santa gets to cover her pudding belly with a flattering red felt number, and everyone knows that Christmas Calories don’t count. Neither do Leftovers Calories, so you’ve just made the worst move of your life, Apple Crumble. Apart from the food and frolicking with friends (alliteration rocks), for bonus Christmas I got a Make Your Own-Opoly game. Which I’m 99% sure is going to turn out Battelstar Galactica themed. Full of spoilers. With extra points given for all Laura Roslin related questions. So really only those who have completed the series and love boardgames can play, in which case I should probably just cut out the middle man and spend some time alone listing facts about Laura Roslin. Watch this space.

Yesterday I left the peace and tranquillity of the mountains and Montville’s motherfucking gluten free scones and came face to face again with the rest of the world. The rest of the world sucks. This was highlighted during my stop at a petrol station in Caboolture, in which I overhead a mum (wearing a Bulldogs cap and slippers) speak to her son (who would have been about 10 years old and no doubt named Bentley):

Bentley: I don’t want plain.

Bulldog Slippers: Why?

Bentley: Plain chips are gay.

Bulldog Slippers: Yeah, well so’s your face but you don’t hear me complaining.

I paid for my petrol and homosexual chips and left them to it.

I’m now curing my post-Christmas depression by puppy sitting while my parents are away. Which is fun, except for the dogs’ vocalised belief that someone is being murdered outside my house every 30 minutes. Don’t worry. Nobody is. But that doesn’t make my backyard any less terrifying in the middle of the night when I get up to investigate, what with possums and windy noises and Harry bringing me her tennis ball to throw, since I’m up anyway. Also last night I was pretty sure I saw a Chupacabra hanging out on the back deck, though once I got up close I realised it was just a pot plant. Thinking about it now, I have no idea why I decided to move closer and suss it out—sure, I might not be in any direct danger of having my blood sucked on account of not being a goat, but really what good can come of getting up in a Chupacabra’s grill? I wasn’t even thinking rationally, like, oh hey this probably isn’t a Chupacabra since they’re only found in Latin America or, alternatively, don’t exist, because it was 3.00am and all I could think of was that report I saw on how Lime disease exists in Australia but nobody gets told about it, and couldn’t that be the case with Chupacabras???

I’m almost certain keeping me up all night was George’s idea, to get back at me for bringing that damn blue casserole dish back into the house after it was gone all weekend (yes, his fears now include pillows, hats, sandwich bags and casserole dishes). George also has a new favourite hobby—lying down to drink his Inside Water from his Inside Water Dish slowly while staring at me. It’s fun for everyone, really. Though I can’t figure out if it’s a menacing “What have you done with my mother?” stare, or a proud “Look how well I can multi-task” stare, or simply a goading “Jealous?”. The last one is due to the severe withdrawals I have been having since leaving my yellow water bottle behind at soccer yesterday, requiring me to drink from a glass like a monster until Wednesday when I get it back. Sophie has told me not to go all Mackenzie from Toddlers & Tiaras about it, but I can’t make any promises. Some may say I have an irrational attachment to this water bottle. Others may say that our relationship is healthy and right and that everyone loves yellow things, and that if I am to keep helping the environment by not buying bottled water someone should GIVE ME BACK MY NINI!!!!

Meanwhile, I had a job interview today. Which is good, since I don’t know how much longer I can hold out before I get really involved in McLeod’s daughters. Tired and dehydrated, I tried to psych myself up on the drive there by playing my new favourite game of deciding what I would say to people with My Family stickers on the backs of their cars (“So your husband likes to barbeque? And you have two cats? No way!”). This is only slightly less fun than my other favourite car game, Spot the Jesus Fish. Arriving early and still in need of a bit of psyching, I decided to rock out to Pendulum in my parked car out the front of the building, during which one of the interview panel members walked past and totally saw me. Doesn’t matter, not sorry—I don’t care how many jobs I lose, I’m not turning Witchcraft off for anyone. Since I left my glasses and fake moustache at home, I’m pretty sure the dude recognised me when I sat down. I’m also pretty sure that if reincarnation exists I’m coming back as a synthesiser. Awesome.

Where everybody knows your name

2011-07-12T05:57:00.000-07:00

Five weeks of unemployment makes you do weird things. Like ponder why—if evolution is so great—dogs still can't understand human languages. Or become re-addicted to Hollyoaks even though it was so hard to quit the first time round. Or book yourself into an RSA course when you don't actually want to work in hospitality. Today I spent four hours in a bowls club listening to a guy I like to call "Teach" talk about undue intoxication and disorderly patrons. Which was actually pretty fun. Or rather, not particularly unfun. I was in an intimate class of four: my fellow RSAers included "Glasses", "Braids", and a guy whose name I actually bothered to learn...well I thought I bothered to learn it, though realised later that his name was not, in fact "Bijou" as I had been calling him all morning. Braids has worked as a bottle shop manager for several years, which, as I'm sure you're aware, means that she knows absolutely everything there is to know—not only about alcohol, but about everything and anything ever. She even answered rhetorical questions. I attempted to make classic what-is-the-deal-with-this-chick? eyes at Bijou but he was having none of it. Possibly because I couldn't get the look quite right and so just raised my eyebrows suggestively in his direction while Braids talked about lifting from the knees.

I used to actually be a bar tender—back when I was 21 and had gumption and didn't need to be in bed by 10.30pm. But seeing as though my employer never insisted I do an RSA course I was more into the Irresponsible Service of Alcohol, including encouraging people to do ten shots of tequila in a night (if you've already done nine, what's one more?) and giving a girl so much Baileys she ended up having sex in the toilets. That being the case, I wasn't entirely sure what today's course would entail. But I hoped there would be role playing. Not in a kinky way, just in an on-the-drive-over-I-thought-about-what-sort-of-bar-tender-I'd-like-to-be-so-am-ready-if-necessary kinda way. You know Cocktail? You know Coyote Ugly? Great, except I wasn't going for either of those vibes. I was thinking less song-writing dreams and moving to Jamaica, and more depressed alcoholic poets. You know Barfly?

That was going to be my angle. Dude gets to work with his leg up on the bar and watch as a not yet too insane Mickey Rourke plays a character loosely (or so, so heavily) based on Charles Bukowski (somewhere right now Luke is applying for this job). But alas, no role playing. It was all just theory. Though admittedly really helpful theory. And very Australian. We learnt how to make sure things are "ridgy-didge" and how to overcome the "she'll be right" mentality. We were taught how to calm down aggressive patrons with lines such as, "Pull your head in, you're acting like a galah." Though apparently we don't need to use this exact wording, so I could probably supplement "galah" with "goose" or "donkey" to make the statement more internationally usable. We also had a chat about what physical signs give away this unwanted descent into galah/goose/donkey-ness. Behaviours such as slurring, poor motor coordination, difficulty walking. Teach acted them out—and did a pretty good job too—until he stopped suddenly and was like, "But seriously though, be mindful. Someone could just have MS."

We also got to discuss how different types of alcohol effect people, in order to predict how someone will end up if they order, say, a gin vs. a XXXX (I'm pretty sure it's slightly suicidal vs. bogan). Braids told the class she can't drink tequila. Teach asked her what her behaviour is like once she's had some and then there was a long pause, during which it was obvious Braids was trying to think of an alternative word to "slutty". Apparently there is none, so we moved on to discuss the impact of rum and I was reminded of the time a 16-year-old Sophie totally tried to glass our friend Alethea's grandmother. Ahhh, youth. Speaking of which, do you know that the kids turning 18 this year were born in 1993? I told Bijou I thought that was disgusting. He didn't reply—maybe because he didn't have any background info on my War Against the Passing of Time, but more likely because he too was grossed out and had been rendered speechless.

During the course we also received really handy tips about forethought and protecting the patrons and just generally using common sense. For example, don't—like one venue Teach told us about—have a wet t-shirt competition followed by a slave auction for charity at a bar frequented by biker gangs, because shit gets real. (Side-bar: are we allowed to make light of slavery? Even for charity? It might be all the American civil war novels I've read of late, but it seems like maybe just...don't). Teach also suggested that we continue with our studies and do a cocktail making course or a food safety course or armed robbery training. I pretty sure he meant training in how to handle armed robberies rather than how to commit armed robberies, but either way Ima probably end that course crying. Braids then spoke about how there was a stabbing in her work carpark recently, and Bijou looked at me like, "Isn't that awful?" and I was all, "Stop playing hot and cold, Bijou!"

We finished the day with a test. Even though Teach told us that nobody had ever failed, I was still a little nervous (and certain that I would be the first person in the history of the world to fail it). But I passed (woot!) and now have a shiny new certificate (or I will in up to 21 working days) plus a workbook full of RSA notes. Which doesn't hurt to have...even if one of those notes does read Bikers + charity = SVU.

It's already been brung!

2011-07-10T07:07:00.000-07:00

Today my step-sister Nicky competed in the Winterfest Cheer and Dance Championship. Yes, it's a cheerleading competition. Yes, I went to watch it. Yes, it was ONE OF THE BEST THINGS I HAVE EVER SEEN. Think sequins and sparkles flying about on stage while someone plays a mash up of Ice Ice Baby and the Jersey Shore theme song. Think teenage girls settling their differences through cartwheels and dance-offs. Basically it was like watching an episode of Hellcats, except there was no Ashley Tisdale and I got to wave at someone.

Nick—who is 14 and has about as much energy as a Jack Russell on speed—was obviously the most talented and impressive competitor there. Hands down, no bias, fact bomb. Her team won her Stunt division and came an awesome 3^rd in Pom (the fact that there were only three teams in her Pom comp doesn't really need mentioning). But there were hundreds of other girls flipping, tumbling and smiling around me, ranging in age down to preschoolers in Mini Cheer who were so cute they made me want to punch something. There were a few guys too. According to Nick it's good to have some males in the group since they're strong as well as being "flexible...not just for boys but for human beings".

My mum and step-dad, Martin (who sat up the back in his sunglasses and leather jacket, envying the dads who had thought to bring newspapers) left right after Nick's performance. They couldn't really handle the noise or the people or the...well, cheerleading. To save looking like a creep who hangs out at a kids' competitions alone (I had already had an internal conversation about whether the lone man with the video camera a few seats down was actually someone's father), I hovered near a group of ladies in spray jackets with acronyms on their backs. Cheer Mums. Cheer Mums are awesome. And why wouldn't they be? They get to put glitter in their daughters' hair and make them grind to Lady Gaga in front of strangers without it being weird. I get it. Cheer Mums are also a really handy source of information. For example, I overheard this:

Cheer Dad: Why don't the boys get to use pom-poms?

Cheer Mum: Because pom-poms make them look camp.

Pause as principle male slides into the splits and gives jazz-hands while mouthing the words to RuPaul's 'Cover Girl'.

Cheer Dad: Huh.

So of course now I wish I was a cheerleader. I want an excuse to sporadically burst into dance moves in public to 'practise' and wear over-sized bows in my hair. I couldn't be a flyer (I'm afraid of heights) or a base (I'm afraid of being crushed to death in a human pyramid) but perhaps I could aim to be a spotter—one of those kids who just hang out at the side of the formation, encouragingly holding their hands up, palms out, being all, "steady...steady...you got this". I'm aware that I sometimes I get puffed while simply hanging out washing and team spirit always makes me a little uncomfortable, but everyone needs a goal, right? Bring It On.

And so it begins...

2011-07-08T06:23:00.000-07:00

Oh hi friends! Welcome to my first post. This blog almost didn't happen. Not because I don't love talking about myself. Not because I don't know what to write about (worst comes to worst there is a copy of Mastering the Art of Cooking in the kitchen). But because today Technology seemed to go out of its way to make me look like a jerk.

Evidence? I woke up at 9.30 to my housemates' dog Indy eating his bone on my pillow—cute, sure, but surprising seeing as though my phone alarm was supposed to go off 1½ hours earlier. No, my phone wasn't being polite and letting me sleep in. It was being a douchehound. It knew I had an appointment with Centrelink to finally start getting some money after 25 days of unemployment (35 days if you want to be mean and count weekends), and not only did I miss it but I can't get another one for six days because the computer won't let them book me in any sooner. Enough said.

I wasn't too worried though since this afternoon I had a job interview. All went swimmingly (I was told I present as happy and competent, though need to take time with my hair and wear more make-up) until the bus ride home, when I was falsely accused of breaking the Go Card machine. I just happened to be the last person to swipe my card before the machine started making a high pitched screaming noise, as if I had touched it inappropriately. I'm pretty sure it was faking it just to get me in trouble. Either way, I got a long hard stare from the driver when I asked to ride "For frees" since I didn't have cash for a paper ticket. I didn't bother trying to explain that the ATM I used earlier had refused to serve the likes of me, though not before holding my card hostage for a good few minutes (following which I warned the lady in line behind me. She had shrugged and stuck her card in anyway—either she trusted her luck or thought I got my kicks by telling strangers lies about ATMs).

Perhaps Technology has gone all 13-year-old girl and is balking at the idea of me suddenly wanting to have a closer relationship through starting a blog. Sure, I haven't really been interested in spending time with it before. I've never bothered to get to know it, to understand its hobbies and wants and needs. I can't operate a Mac or an iPhone, or download music without paying for it. I'm still convinced that the internet is controlled by fairies and magic and also probably my friend Matt, who can send something from his computer upstairs to our TV downstairs, presumably via Wonkavision. Maybe, then, I've overstepped my boundaries and am getting in too deep?

It's also possible I've inherited a blood feud without knowing about it. My dad has been so effed by Technology that he needs two hands to operate a mouse. Which is adorable. He also writes all of his emails in capslock without any punctuation...which is less adorable and comes off crazed and angry, but I suppose crazed and angry is how you want to come off if you're going to gain respect in a turf war. After becoming somewhat paralysed by the idea of navigating what I have now learned is known as the blogosphere I called my brother Luke, a graphic design student (who I guess in this analogy would be Tony from The Jets—if I'm in a gang there's going to be singing). After a discussion about font type and the Gutenberg press and whether he ever thought he'd have such strong opinions on serif vs sans serif, we decided I should just throw myself into it and see what happens. He also told me that this morning he stood on a belt and somehow managed to get the pointed part of the buckle imbedded in his foot. Not particularly relevant, but interesting nonetheless.

Long story short, I now have this blog. So I guess suck it, Technology. Don't really know how it will go, but aren't we all excited to see??? Plus I have got through this entire post without mentioning Battlestar Galactica. Looks like everyone wins!

Follow me. Please.