Saturday, July 17, 2010

Role models?

Recently, a woman and psychologist name Bettina Arndt wrote an article suggesting that Julia Gillard was, among other things, "wasting precious breeding time". She also claimed that because of her historical ascension to power, Julia would now be influencing all Australia's young impressionable women to be just like her - career focused, powerful and yet childless and deeply unhappy in their defacto relationship because marriage is the ONLY way to ensure your relationship is genuine (just ask Al Gore and Hilary Clinton). Bettina Arndt has since been diagnosed with being a backwards, spazzo bitch.
It has got me thinking though - I mean, I'm always looking for a bit of inspiration and I wonder which public figures I could aspire to be like? Of course, Jules Gillard, Madam PM, is up there. She's like a political terminator and that shot of her and our female GG made me do a little pee with excitement. Just the fact that she's PM has and will continue to teach Australian girls that anything is possible. Anything. Even finding a heterosexual male hairdresser called Tim. 
Paris Hilton, is unfortunately, out. She's been busted twice in two weeks with pot on her and I have lost all faith in her. I mean, honestly, if you can't hide your pot properly you're an idiot and not worth emulating at all. While I'm on it, Lindsay Lohan is out as well. Quitter.
Of course, my Mum, while she's not a public figure (yet... but hopefully her playboy pix never see the light of day) has taught me a lot and I'll always try to be as fantastic a woman as she is. A few of the greatest lessons I've taken from my mum include; get the kids to carry the Myer bags into the house and then quickly hide the new purchases in the "oh no, I've had this for ages" closet, never check the cupboard before shopping so always have three of everything and use silence as the best way to generate guilt and get your children to do what you wanted them to do in the first place (for more advanced applications, be silent and then quietly say "ah-huh" to no-one in particular but loud enough so your children hear it... fool proof). Really though, everyone knows my Mum is amazing and that anyone who has managed to hide that many Myer purchases AND live with my dad for 35 years is a bloody well-dressed, smart, generous woman. Much to aspire to.
Oh and I've decided that I also wish to emulate every woman that I saw last night at the Vic Roller Derby match. Who wouldn't be moved by a stadium full of rockabilly/goths cheering on women on skates trying to pummel each other?  My particular favourites include Punani Tsunami, Kat Van Krusher, Swish Cariboom and Skate Bush (and heaps of others but I don't remember their names!) - believe me, THESE CHICKS FUCKING ROCK. They're all proud of who they are, they're fast, they're curvy, they're tough and they don't apologise. And, the crowd? Well the giant sized, sold-out crowd worships them. All of them.
Perfect role models - and henceforth you shall all know me by my roller derby name - the Mengelator.

That is all.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Yes, No, Maybe?

A friend and I recently caught up for lunch. She's just returned from a year and a half of partying, working and... stuff overseas and is experiencing a bit of excitement withdrawal. Her theory is that this sense of isolation comes when you return to your home city and discover that everyone you know is going about their daily grind without much fanfare and definitely without the time to party so hard that they wake up in a gutter with a stranger standing over them rifling through their pockets to find ID and inform the next of kin. I think I know what she means - when the first thing you do of a Saturday is wake up and reach for twitter so you can see what exciting thing has been happening to OTHER people overnight, you know you've got problems. My friend has decided that the remedy for this is not to cry daily and eat her weight in chocolate while watching The Bachelor reruns but instead, she's going to go out and... wait for it... make new friends. SHUT THE EFF UP! I mean, the woman's over the age of 30 - where in God's green earth does she expect to meet these freaks - I mean, new friends? I'll tell you where! The interweb. Yes, you read right, the world wide web - home to online shopping, Nigerian credit card scams and pedophiles alike. Quite the fishing grounds for new confidantes? Hmmmm....

Now, I've got friends (it's true!) but it's an unfortunate fact that half of my very best friends live interstate while the other half are... well, vegan. Anyway, my point here is that maybe I should take the plunge and expand my own friendship horizons. I mean, I like stuff, you know like watching movies, writing blogs and sex outdoors, so I'd say I have a lot to offer a new friend. There's a website called "meetup" that I've been directed to explore and it's, shall we say, very accommodating. It's like shopping for accessories at Diva - it costs nothing AND you can find friends to go with any outfit and take to any occasion. Into being a runway model - OMFG me too! Let's purge together like real besties do - would you hold my hair? Harry Potter fan - shut UP! I'd totally love to go wait outside the cinema for two days to buy presale tickets for the new movie with you! Do you eat entire wheels of cheese whilst wearing nappies and being whipped with coriander stalks? Yay! There's a group for you too!

But what group should I join?I've always wanted to ask the big man upstairs a few questions so I paused and considered joining the Conversations with God group or the Singing with God group (I've heard He's awesome at karaoke and does a killer Bon Jovi cover) but I didn't feel it was quite me. I quite enjoy spending money but the Melbourne Cash Flow group looked a little too intense and reliant on power dressing, shoulder pads and giving each other high fives for me... So after trawling through the groups while I was, well let's be honest while I was at work, I found that there's a perfect group for me amongst all of the 100's of possibilities; the Melbourne Vampire Meetup Group. How fucking cutting edge and exciting could I be then? Forget about waking up to check twitter feeds - I'd need to wake up and check if I still have a pulse. Talk about living on the edge! AND, I'm what we call a fuller figured lady so all that black, draped clothing would be H. O. T. and tres slimming. Plus, being a night-dwelling being, I'd still have plenty of time for coffees, brunch and movies with my tanned day-dwelling friends. This is what we call a win-win situation.

What I need help with now is best practice in regards to securing a new bff. I was really hoping that a folded note left on their chair saying "Do you like me - Yes, No, Maybe (please circle!) If yes, how much do you like me? _______________ (please describe)" would do the trick. Alternatively, I had considered making sure I had the very best blood in the group and would use it as leverage to trade with other vamps and make them like me.... no? Making new friends is HARD and TIME CONSUMING and awkwardly URRGH so surely there's some way to cut out all that and just get to the friendship bit... I've got it! It's so simple and was staring me in the face the whole time - I'll wait til all my new vamp buddies are asleep and then stake them all but my one new friend so there's no competition and they'll HAVE to be my friend. Yes, yes. That's what I'll do. What a good friend I will be.... Best Friends forever, and ever, and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever.... my precious new friend.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

J-Lo and the Actor's Studio

Well it's been awhile. I have a few good excuses, but I'm fairly certain you're about as interested in the rest of my life as I am (which is not very). So let's just say I've had a lot on and, in between the made drug fueled orgies, curing type 2 diabetes in Africa and winning a Pulitzer for literature, I've just had no time to sit down and do some proper blogging.The good news is, I've got a plethora of topics to write about since taking a break... so... yep... here we... ah... go... I guess...

I have been off sick today and felt the need to engage in some really deep, snotty thinking. So I watched the new J-Lo movie "The Back-Up Plan". Yes, I know you're all rolling your eyes and huffing and puffing about just how shite J to the Lo is at acting. I mean, "Gigli" was so bad it was almost an anti-orgasm and is officially one of the worst movies of all times. And let's face it, the rest of her filmography reads like upchuck on a Saturday morning city pavement - full of corn and bow tie pasta. Let's see, there's "Maid in Manhattan" a heartwarming tale in which a hot, poor girl meets a hot, rich man, then there's "Angel Eyes" in which a hot, working class girl meets a hot, troubled rich man and, just to mix it up, she also did "The Wedding Planner" in which a hot, savvy business woman meets a hot, romantically promiscuous rich man... SOUND FAMILIAR? To her credit, she does mix up her approach to characterisation; she goes from cleaner and hotel maid in blue and white uniforms to classy executive in sharp white suits in the blink of a movie. So fucking diverse! My favourite movie of hers has got to be, without a doubt, the 2 hour face-palm entitled "Enough". Haven't seen it? REALLY? How do you sleep at night? It's the dramatic tale of a woman who suffers at the hands of her violent husband only to run away, train in some kind of beaten woman's boot camp, and come back to kick his mother fuckin' ass in a good old fashioned woman on man beat down. I can still see the scene where she's training and punching and sweating and her motivational coach screams "When do you quit?", she replies "Never", "When do you stop hitting?", "Never", "When will you be a victim"... you see where this is going don't you? Brilliant writing. Nail biting performance. Gold. Yet, in another Oscar's scandal, it was overlooked for any nominations. I mean, not even best screenplay - it's a fucking travesty!!!
But I digress. So, "The Back-Up Plan". Well, it's no beat down movie but it's still nice enough. Kind of like crumpets - warm and gooey but a bit annoying to eat and always a little funky after they've sat in your guts for an hour or so. Also, they make you poop dry cement. But again, I digress. It's all about a single woman who, having decided she can't wait for "the one" to show up, gets artificially inseminated. What happens next Danielle?, I hear you gasp. Well, in a crazy plot twist, immediately after doing the deed with the turkey baster she meets "the one". IKNOWRIGHT? CANYOUFREAKINBELIEVEITILOVEJUSTINBEIBER?
So, yep, meets the hot, rich, farmer guy literally minutes after leaving the doctor's office and what do you know, they live happily ever after. It's fine, and I giggled a bit through the film,but more than anything I totally GET the underlying message. Allow me to sum it up for you:

All the single ladies, if you are sick of waiting for "mr right" DO NOT PANIC. Just go out, get drunk, join a cult, get arrested or anything else that is relatively ill-considered and DESPERATE and you'll be sure to have him land in your lap within 24hours. It's TRUE! This plan is foolproof!! I know that I'm sure sick of waiting so I'm off to get my flange waxed and snort a kilo of coke - tomorrow should be like waking up on Christmas morning. I wonder what he'll look like!

Saturday, April 24, 2010


It's ANZAC day, and all around the nation and indeed the world, people are gathering to celebrate and remember. But remember what? Don't panic; far be it for me to begin deconstructing the Gallipoli legend or adding a liberal dose of truth or (god forbid!) politics to this blog. I would, however, like to point out that it's the ONE DAY of the year where we celebrate old people. Let's face it, there's no other day of the year where we do that. It's the only day where young people actively seek out the company of the old diggers and actively try to engage them in conversation. I mean, if you all are anything like my siblings and I, the second you hear Gran is coming around, you whip out the cask of chardy, a box set of "Miss Marple" and sit really still, hoping to Christ she is distracted enough not to notice you and start spitting comments in your direction. But ANZAC day, well that's the one day that old people are revered. They're applauded. They're marched down the street and people throw paper confetti at them and wave flags and buy them beer and ask to hear stories. Can you imagine?!?! Actually saying to the old mate at your local pub who you would normally step over coz he has that acrid uriney stank about him, "I bet you've got a story or two (guffaw) - what was the war actually like?".

I might add a side note that you need to make sure the person you're talking to IS actually old enough to be a vet and isn't actually a thirty year old alcoholic who is simply wearing every shot of gin they've drunk in lines on their face. Perhaps ask for ID or a concession card before engaging in conversation about D-Day. Also, I'm clearly writing from a very white Australian perspective here; there are many many cultures in Australia that insist upon lording their elderly but they aren't currently in my living room, so they don't get a say at the moment. Look at the Jedi for example - they're all about old people, particularly little green old people who say things like "begun the clone wars have". Bless. It's clear now that yoda is actually an old person with dementia and gangrene.

Anyway, I think old people are aware of the general disdain we have for them for 364 days of the year. That's why they're so angry and generally suspicious of everything that came after the 1950s. The other day I saw an old lady give a verbal lambasting to a driver who had the NERVE to stop at the traffic lights OVER the white pedestrian line, leaving her a tiny 2 meters of space through which to navigate her passage across the road. She was steaming! She waved her purse and managed to hurl a "you could have moved back you know!" at the evil young'n behind the wheel. Imagine my delight at seeing her wait to cross again only to have the traffic so thick that a car was trapped across 3/4 of the pedestrian path. She huffed and puffed all the way up to the window and then stood there knocking on the car with her fist under they managed to slowly turn the car out of her way. Lesson delivered, this white haired teacher promptly marched her trolley across the road to the vege shop. The thing is, she has the right to tell everyone what she thinks of them because she's ancient; every wrinkle is testament to her wisdom. Youthful skin is not wise skin, despite what Andie McDowell and the entire cosmetics industry will tell you.

I do feel like old people don't try much though. I mean, meet us half way in the conversation stakes. When I talk to my Gran, it's not about the latest ministry of sound release or what happened on last night's episode of Cougar Town - it's about everything SHE wants to talk about. Bingo is up there in the subject matter. As is Judy's scandalous split from Frank. And the upstairs neighbour who doesn't get around much anymore. And the family current affairs, particularly in relation to my spectacularly socially demented cousins (hi Sarah and Rachel!). I mean, I don't want to whine, but what about what I want to talk about you old crone? Sex, money and the latest pornographic movie picture on that new internet machine. I guess what I'm saying, old people, is let's not be selfish, eh?

So happy ANZAC day to all of the golden oldies out there. I hope you spend the day being spoiled with attention because God knows you'll have to wait another year before you cop a whiff of anyone under the age of 60!

disclaimer: this article does not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of or the author or anyone, really. i mean, i love old people. especially grilled with a nicely aged red wine...

Thursday, April 1, 2010

All aboard!

As soon as you read or hear that word, about a billion images crawl through your mind; the family sized pizza you downed last night, the hot mail room guy who went down on you at your Christmas party while your husband was in the next room mingling with you colleagues over canapes and witty discussion around Phillip Pullman and censorship. GAH! It's everywhere. You can't escape it. It's as essentially human as breathing, pooping and eating entire family pizzas! Now you might wonder why someone as seemingly shallow as me is tackling such a heavy topic. You're thinking "Surely, Danielle, this is beyond you. You've never studied philosophy or psychology and let's face it, you're not overly bright." and then BAM it hits you dear reader - guilt. Guilt for thinking that I'm actually a dumb shit. Guilt for doubting a friend's ability. Guilt for being on the computer writing your blog when you should be on your computer reading over the latest tutorial information for your Financial Reporting and Analysis. Guilt. Guilt. Everywhere.

I get the guilts a lot. I won't make a list but highlights include guilt over not exercising, bad food, lies, work productivity, not studying, shopping, wanting what I don't have, jealousy and lack of spirituality or any real political beliefs or interest, my ex, my current, bad environmental practices... Oh Christ, it was a list in the end. Sorry. I lied... oh, here it comes again! You see the cycle don't you? The vicious, vicious cycle.

I don't know how we learn to be guilty. I happen to know people who guilt just simply does not effect. Sure, their confident stride might falter a touch, there may be a moment where their self-satisfied smile kinks for a moment, but it's generally smooth sailing for them. They are guilt-resistant and fine. I observe that these same people are not planners. They're not the "type A" anal rententive, line the toilet paper up in ascending order from the date of purchase, type people like I am. Therefore I hypothesise that guilt and control go hand in hand. I also observe that people who don't feel guilt roll with the punches easier. These are the people who don't mind too much if they're caught by the entire film crew from "Cheaters" with their wang out getting a hand job from another woman in the back seat of the family station wagon because HOLY SHIT, AM I ON TV? THAT'S AWESOME. Therefore, I can further hypothesise that people who do not feel guilt are stupid ie Guilt = control + intelligence. So you see, really smart control freaks feel an inordinant amount of guilt. Sorry, it's a scientific fact and you can't argue with science.

Finally, and now I touch on what inspired this blog today, I wish to discuss how guilt can be absolved. I mean, if it's everywhere, how the fuck do you banish it? It's akin to our spiritual tinea and we need some emotional athletes foot cream to render us healthy again - but you won't find this salve stocked in your local Chemist Warehouse, dear reader! Oh no... it's not that fucking simple. Today is Easter Friday. This long weekend millions and billions of Christians around the world will go to Church and, feeling guilt for sins that have accrued over the last, well, lifetime, they will pray and ask God for forgiveness. And then, supposedly, not feel guilty any more. Et voila! Guilt salve applied, punter happy, cue skipping from church singing a Julie Andrews number about hills being alive with the sound of something or other. Cut to Easter Sunday when same punter is inhaling eggs to the point of self harm when what do you know?? All aboard, for Guilty-town! (note: this is nowhere near funky-town but often right near sexy-town and definitely is not the same town the Jay-Z and Rihanna profess to run) MY POINT IS EVEN GOD CAN'T KEEP US AWAY FROM GUILT FOR LONG.

The time has come for humanity to take matters into its own hands. I'd like to propose the government ditch stem cell research and start focussing on the real public health issue here - guilt. We need it fixed now. We need an implant which releases buckets of endorphines through your body every time you do something naughty. Or one which sends an electric shock through your genitals every time you have a pang of guilt because you didn't stand up for an old lady on the tram and some other schmuck beat you to it. Perhaps the government could put all people on the dole into teams that run around reminding people to not feel guilty. Immediately after finishing a cigarette, the team would remind you that smoking is ok, it's done now so "Yes Gary yes, yes Gary yes, Yeeeees Gary!" Yay. Group hug and high five all around for the smokers! But after significant research and postulation about all sorts of things and stuff, I tend to think our best option is cochlear implants that tell you what a great person you are, even though you just did something to feel guilty about. In a calm voice (I'm picturing Jeremy Irons or the guy from Gardening Australia) it will assure you "you've done the right thing for you... you are your own person... you'll start your diet tomorrow definitely... you're not a judgemental tart... you only drank that much so you could have fun... sleeping with the homeless man in the alley was a liberating experience that has helped you rediscover your sensuality... if your parents could see you now they would be proud but you should probably pull your skirt down... you live on your own and are your own family so eating a family sized pizza is totally the right thing". I think apple or microsoft need to get onto this immediately - the "i-forgive". (TM 2010)

So go forth, readers, and enjoy the Easter long weekend, with everything it has to bring including doing nothing, eating buckets of fat in the form of small eggs and spending heaps of cash SANS GUILT. It's yours and you know what? You deserve it.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

The last word

The old man rises slowly from the ground, ash turning his skin a dull grey colour. He stares at the massive wall of water that is barreling towards him and says "I'm coming home Dorothy" moments before he is killed by having a giant airplane carrier smash him into human paste... BULLSHIT.
In fact, I found myself saying bullshit a lot yesterday when I made the mistake of wasting a full 108 minutes watching the movie 2012 on DVD. I could have spent my time doing a myriad of other things; some that spring to mind now include having sex, studying, studying while having sex, having sex twice (let's face it, one session would RARELY last the full 108 mins unless there was some kind of game of scrabble or trivial pursuit in the middle of it), cleaning, getting laser surgery to the cervix or stapling my nipples to my forehead. Any of those activities would have been preferable to sitting through the farce that was the end of the world in the year 2012 hollywood style. It was so bad I almost wished I would turn around and see a tsunami gathering on Sydney Road, just so I had a reason to run from the room.
In all seriousness though, don't see it. In all other seriousness, really don't see it.
I will admit, though, it got me thinking. My thinking certainly didn't cure cancer, but I did have a chance to ponder a couple of important and big life questions - What would I say if I was about to be flattened by an aircraft carrier on a tsunami? and Who would I want to be with/speak to at the end? In 2012, the last gift that the President of the United States gives his people is in announcing the end of the world early so that the non-government plebs have the chance to say goodbye to the people they love. So who would I call? It's a big question. I mean, there are some people who I love desperately who are just rubbish on the phone - sure as shit I do NOT want to spend my last ever phone convo saying "Sorry? no, I can't hear you. huh, what? No, just take me off fucking speaker phone, would you? Yep, no, I can hear you now... anyway, did you hear that the world is ending? Huh? No, ending. The world. Yep." Doom. Then there are other beloveds who I know I'd want to speak to but never answer their phones so all I'd end up saying is "Hi... It's Dani here. Just calling to say bye before we all melt into puddles as a result of the liquid hot magma. Anyway, give me a call if you get this. Talk soon!" Oh hells no. All that really leaves me with is my Mum or Dad and I just know how that convo would start "Mum it's me. Yep, sure, put Dad on.... (hold...) Hi Dad. (hold) Nope, I haven't had a chance to see the new Matt Damon movie yet... (hold) What did David and Margaret give it? (hold) yep... right, Dad, can you put Mum back on? On the toilet? No, it's cool. I'll wait. So... what else is going on?"
My only option then is to just forgo the potentially time wasting phone calls and send out a bulk text to all who I love. Something like "Abt to die :-( but want 2 say luv u. C u in heaven... i hope! LOL :-b" If you get one of these, don't think I don't care - I'm just busy trying to make it to the safety ships so I can do my duty and continue our species after the whole apocalypse trend has died out.
If I could actually physically be with someone it would have to be Jason Bourne or Bruce Willis or the Bush Tucker man; basically someone with acute survival skills. An honourable mention in this category would also go to my boyfriend, Caatherine, Jeff the host from Survivor, Viggo Mortenson or Robinson Crusoe. Certainly a weedy John fucking Cusak would not be on my list. It's absurd to think he could survive the apocalypse, let alone that he could survive it while driving a stretch limo. I feel stupider even writing that sentence.
Oh, and to anwer the first question - what would I say as I gaze up at the wall of water? I consider myself to be a student of the English language, so I reckon the most eloquent thing I'd think of saying would be "FAAAAAAAAARK!". The perfect final line.

Monday, March 8, 2010

The Sizzler of blog posts

I've struck upon my first blogging block - not because I'm without ideas but because life is currently offering up a veritable buffet of isssssews that I'd like to unpack for you all... which particular topic to tackle, now that's my problem. (GOD, when will my genius and seemingly limitless creativity end? Such a burden...)
Seriously though, over the previous two weeks, my precious little mind has clocked a few hot topics that I'd love to wittily unpack and swear procociously about whilst appearing to be some kind of new age no bull-shit philospher because I've got it all sorted. These topics include (in no particular order):
1. Becoming 30 - I quickly scratched this idea because I'm not 30 yet. In fact, my friend Anita promptly pointed out to me that I'm not even 29 yet. Cue me crumpling a legal pad piece of paper and hurling it over my shoulder into the rubbish bin - figuratively speaking of course because clearly I don't write drafts on paper and then transcribe them as a "good copy" onto blogger... I'm not in grade 5 any more people!
However, I will say that getting older has been on my mind and lower back - my osteopath gave me some advice whilst digging his elbow into my ass that "your body isn't getting any younger". Luckily I was already crying from the agony of the treatment, so that additional sobbing didn't seem to phase him. In summary: body crumbling, metabolism slowing, heel cracks deepening, skin de-elasticising, tena lady pads becoming more and more attractive. Hello 29.
2. Blogging about blogging about my friends - I've got some pretty... erm... interesting friends. They're all shapes, sizes, colours, ages and most have just the right amount of skank/kink about them to ensure their stories are fucking hilarious and/or more embarrassing than mine. One in particular requested that I write about her (you know who you are but for anonymity's sake, I'll call you... Rada) but the very thought of it filled me with bile-inducing fear. I mean, let's face it, nobody BUT my friends read this blog and if I start unabashedly ripping the shit through them then my audience numbers will drop from the staggering heights that it currently enjoys down two or three spots to zero. No friend stories = pleased readership.
3. The great fence mounting incident of 1994 - a classic Mengel story where I went to a market with my cousins in Caloundra, tried to climb over a wire fence en route from the carpark with my usual dexterity and grace and ended up hanging from the other side of it by my bike pants and underwear. Underpants shredded with material swinging around my knees, bum hanging out, Beverly Hills 90210 black bike pants destroyed, ego completely trodden on when my uncle loudly proclaimed he could "see my arse!" and all of Caloundra laughed along with him. Good story but rejected as a blog topic. Happy to tell you in person though along with miming the actual "hanging" moment.
So: now that you know what HOT topics were rejected, you'll be sitting on the edge of your seat with anticipation to find out what GEM of an idea actually made it through. Well, after lengthy consideration, and several legal pads of ideas later, I've decided to write-rant about the injustice that occurs on a weekly basis on that bastion of Australian creativity So You Think You Can Dance. It's a JOKE that those impressionable, attractive, fragile young dancers have to listen and, what's worse, show respect and thanks for the fucking trash that spews forth from the gaping wholes in the front of the judges faces. Bonnie is so fucking insipid that she gives me goose bumps. Unlike... erm... the rest of humanity, this woman is incapable of thinking a coherent thought - I've heard more sense come from the giggling ice addict who sits with his face pressed against the building exhaust fan on Little La Trobe Street. Jason is clearly struggling with the concept that the dancers don't choreograph or make the costumes or do anything EXCEPT DANCE JASON. So stop giving them shit coz you don't "connect" with the concept of the dance because - stay with me here Jason - it wasn't THEIR IDEA. Get to judging the dancing you dolt - OH, and while I'm on it, everyone under the age of 35 in Australia thinks you're an old perv. It's inappropriate: you're like some wierd old uncle at a family bbq who presses his crotch a little to close to your elbow at the dinner table. And that's what I think about that... what? there's another judge that I've forgotten called Matt? Oh, I hadn't noticed... nuff said about that sack of snot in a trucker cap. Clearly when personalities were being handed out you were busy wacking off to a black market copy of "Horse and Hound" and missed it all together. Weirdo.
Channel 10, please get one of your SYTYCD producers to strap the three judges down and make them watch an episode ala A Clockwork Orange so they see the verbal turd that they fling about and end this madness now! Seriously.

Friday, February 19, 2010

What I never got to say

Dear fella
You might not realise this, but you were my first. Yep, it's true. Officially, it was the guy before you that I rolled around on Shelly beach with but to be absolutely honest he was hung like a pinkie finger and I'm still not convinced it actually made it... you know, inside. Which means UNofficially, you were my first. Shocked? Oh really, do use your brain (the brain on the top of your neck, not the one that's saggy, pink, often has the faint odour 3 day old indian food and sits inside the jocks your mum picked out) and put two and two together; when we did it, it hurt like hell, was awkward as all get out and there was fucking blood everywhere. Oh, you don't remember the blood and pain? No, I don't suppose you would considering your brain was a touch foggy after having an orgasm - mine, however, was NOT foggy and did in fact see the blood and yes, registered the pain. Come to think of it fella, you must have noticed something was not quite right because you did take the time to wipe your hands all over my sheets and leave my bed looking like a fucking slaughterhouse at Thanksgiving. But I digress... Yes, you were my (un) official first and while this may or may not have made a blip on your fella-radar, I would like to set you straight on a couple of small points.
1. Even though you were my first, it didn't matter much to me. No, honestly, when I think about you now, I struggle to remember your name (although my friend Holly recalls it quickly, with very little prompting, just proving the point that women friends are the greatest asset another woman can have in the never ending war against male idiocy and fuckwitedness). I don't really recall where I met you - of course, the litres of alcohol purchased from 7-eleven and skulled on the street corner have something to do with that - and I don't really care. I don't think I ever really cared because I was having the time of my life and you may or may not have fitted into the great time I was having. Either way, you were never going to have a monu-fucking-mental impact on my life. In summary of this point = GET OVER YOURSELF, YOU EGOTISTICAL TWAT.
2. I fear you got the wrong end of the stick. The times we spoke on the phone after we did "the deed" I wasn't flicking idling through bridal mags and doodling the names of our children. I genuinely meant it when I said I understood that you were leaving the country. I genuinely meant it when I said I'd had fun with you and would like to have *wink wink, nudge nudge* fun with you again. I genuinely meant it when I said "yes, I am free Friday night" and when you replied "great, I'll call you and we'll go out around 7pm", I genuinely thought we'd come to a genuine agreement to go out Friday night. So when you genuinely didn't call and genuinely forgot to answer you phone and genuinely left me sitting in my bedroom for three hours, I was genuinely upset. HOWEVER, I was only upset because lying to a woman and making a woman wait like an idiot makes me realise that I slept with a genuine coward who thinks women can't handle honesty... best to keep the poor weak flowers in the dark, clinging to the scrap of hope that your previously genuine body has been run over by a genuinely enormous bus whilst en route to pick me up for our genuine date. In summary of point 2: WOMEN ARE NOT EMOTIONAL RETARDS, SO DON'T ASSUME WE CAN'T HANDLE IT. BE. FUCKING. HONEST.
3. Lastly, I'd like to offer my thanks. Thanks for fucking off without a word because now I know that some men do that. Thanks for helping me to realise that being alone is better than being with douchebag who talks rather than does and couldn't find a clitorus with an iphone app called i-clit and a large red arrow pointing the way. In summary - YOU WERE A SCREAMING DISAPPOINTMENT BUT YOU TAUGHT ME A LOT ABOUT MYSELF, SO THANKS.

Oh, and fella, just so we're absolutely, crystal-couldn't-be-this-clear clear, I say this now not because I still care about you but because I think it's about time you heard it. I think you're ready. You're grown now - hey, you probably even buy your own jocks. And not just you, but all men should hear it because unfortunately it applies to more than one of you fucking tree sloths. And, no, I'm not some man-hating femo nazi - I'm a woman. It's what we all think and what I never got to say to you before you left.

Sincerely not yours

Sunday, February 14, 2010

it's home brand bitch

I love grocery shopping - it's a nice, cool temp inside, you can wander and stand and judge and select until your hearts content. NEVER have I had a staff member at Safeway come up and ask if I need a hand? Do I need a different size? Did I realise there was a 2 for 1 special on this style??? No. You get left alone to browse and dream until your basket is overflowing.

Until this: now, I consider myself to be a fairly confident person (note: please disregard previous blogs as I've decided to turn over a new, confident leaf. and if you don't believe that, you can fuck off please). To be fair, if something happens that I don't like, I'll generally be able to articulate what I don't like and through the use of good humour and flattery I'll get the other person to change their mind or at least question their choice. There is, however, one scenario in which I always feel like I should apologise, one scenario that always gives me cause to pause and... well, feel awkward as a hooker in a Mormon modesty suit - buying groceries with a fucking audience.

I HATE selecting my groceries in front of other people. With every item that drops into my basket, I fell them glare and judge - "pfft... you sure you need that jar of nutella? looks to me like you've had enough already"... or the classic "TWO packs of 12 sanitary pads? two? shit, you must bleed like a stuck pig". I skulk by the potato chip racks, snatching a bag like lightning before any curious passers by notice and, in seeing the size of my ass, put 2 and 2 together and dob me in. I'm just waiting for the nasal store announcement - "could the women with the bag of mexican cheese doritos and grated cheddar cheese please put down the family block of Golden Rough chocolate and report to the fruit and vegetable department immediately."

Let me asure you at this point that I am not alone in this issue (yes, it IS an issue) as it plagues many people; a friend of mine said she once cut laps around and around an isle until the shelf packer left and allowed her unobserved access to the tampons. Another friend admitted that she often buy items she doesn't want because she has to waste time fiddling with other less controversial products until the coast is clear and she can swoop in and grab a box of magnum minis from the freezer.

As an aside to this, I ALSO live in food snob heaven - otherwise known on Google maps as Brunswick, Victoria. Honestly, if you dare approach the checkout with one item that doesn't have the words "organic" or "fair trade" or "free range" emblazoned across the box then you're liable to cop a slap across the face from the cashier. I'll just say it right now - I like home brand crunchy peanut butter, I bloody ADORE using the cheapest dolmio sauce I can get my hands on and black and gold label garlic bread is THE SHIT.

So grocery shoppers of the world, rise up and be proud! Let us proudly plonk our bottles of canola oil (at least 1/4 of the price of extra virgin single press olive oil, mind you) into our baskets and boldly eyeball anyone who dares look twice. RISE UP - that's if your fat ass can be bothered... honestly, how do you sleep at night?!?!

Saturday, January 30, 2010

the view from the middle

I've always wanted to be a mover and shaker. One of my greatest fears in life is that I'll end up ordinary - a realisation which is becoming clearer and clearer as I get older. It's dawning on me like the fog of a big night out lifting the morning after, as chip by chip and sip by sip of a McDonald's double quarter pounder meal, you realise what an absolute fool you'd made of yourself the night before. That's exactly like this, except spread over a life time.

All through primary and then high school I'd been the best I could be. Top marks, tick. Witty, tick. Well liked, tick. Dependable, tick. The first one you'd invite to a party.... no. Not really. I was never a natural leader so I made up for that lack of inspiration with sheer hard work and discipline which meant that I always held back just a little. One perfect example of this was one of my first highschool drinking parties. My parents, wise sages that they are, allowed me a ration of four vodka cruisers over a period of four hours... of course, being the rebel that I was, I only drank two and gave the other two away. WHAT THE HELL?!?!? Oh to have been that girl - you know THAT girl, the one whose name got called out first to take a shot of schnapps in the kitchen or who was the FIRST one on Monday who got called over to the school canteen line to catch up on the party gossip. I wanted to be that girl, thought I would be and now, I realise, never will be.

All of this, I'm sure you can see clear as crystal, is a sure sign of low self-esteem. Probably. But that's not the point. Clearly I don't want to be streamlining tequila while tucked under a footballer's armpit, but as an adult, I DO want to be the equivalent; a go-to person, an ideas person, someone that others think of as creative and who routinely is invited to conventions as a "key note speaker" and whose name will be echoed through the ages something akin to Beyonce or Winnie Mandella or... you know, Jesus.
Am I asking too much?
I don't think so but I'm just not convinced that I have it in me. I work with and am surrounded by friends who are ideas people - musicians, small business owners, charity workers - and they're all amazing and totally inspirational. Especially from my view which is somewhere behind them, in the middle of the herd. I guess my big question here, dear reader, is when, as an adult, do we stop trying to become what we dream about and start acknowledging who we are?

Monday, January 25, 2010

in the beginning, God created mongrels

I will never forget it; I was 12 and it was the South-West Queensland primary school swimming trials. Back in those days I trained just about every day. I was my club swimming champion and bound, so I thought, for swimming glory akin to the like of Dawn Fraser or that other lady with the really big man-shoulders... Anyway, I was waiting in the marshalling area and was about to go up to slug it out for a spot in the regional team in my signature race, the 200m individual medley (note: in retrospect, it was probably only my signature race because nobody else in my swimming club would compete in it - ipso facto MY signature race). For those of you who don't know swimming or... well, sport or anything more physical than flicking through a delivery guide for your local indian restaurant, a medley involves swimming 50 m of all four strokes - backstroke, butterfly, breastroke and freestyle. It's epic when you're 12. And also when your 28.

So, back to the rant/story. My heat is called up and the 8 girls from all over southwest queensland move out into the heat of the day, tip-toeing over the hot concrete, to stand behind their start blocks. I was in lane 6 which was great (note also to fat couch potatoes: NOBODY ever wins from outside lanes ie 1 or 8) and I nervously stood sussing out my competition... I'm thinking things like "hmmm... she's got gross togs (read: qld for swimming costume)", clearly highly focused and ready to kill. The announcer begins reading out the names of the competitors lane by lane... "lane 4 Megan Cross" and I immediately recalled that I'd played netball against her on a chilly Saturday morning in Surat the winter before. Still, highly focused and even more ready to kill. "lane 5 Cheryl Tait"/Gross togs girl and I'm just so, so ready to take this heat!! "lane 6 Danielle Mongrel"... So, ready...
Wait. What? What did he call me?
Now, I don't know if you've ever been 12 years old but I can tell you at that moment it took every ounce of strength I had to not burst into noisy, snotty tears. The only thing that stopped me was the thought of having to run down the 50m pool to the change room in front of everyone IN MY TOGS while blubbering... yep, I had to suck it up. But I knew right then that every single pair of eyes was focused on me, Danielle, that poor girl called "mongrel", how unfortunate, isn't it a shame, wouldn't she cop it at school, Danielle bloody Mongrel.
So I came 3rd. Not enough to get into the final or make the regional swim team. The very public name/shame incident just mortified me to the point of sinking like a lead block the second I hit the water. I felt like every time I rolled my head to breathe, I could hear the slight repeated in the murmur of the crowd "mongrel... blub, glub, glub... mongrel"

So now you know... now you know why I've named my blog this - so you can all gossip about it... and every time I hear a tram rumble by I'll be able to hear the passengers whisper "mongrel... screeeeech... mongrel". Yeah, I'm an egocentric sucker for punishment.

PS I've never written a "blog" before so if this isn't write and it's crap, I apologise. Please don't read it anymore. Thanks