(As seen in December 2010 issue of DarwinLife Magazine)

PREFACE: I wrote this for the mag last year – with a promise to repost in time for party-goers this year. I realise it’s too late for some, but for those of you celebrating tonight, consider this the desperate plea of someone who is not very fond of idiots at Christmas time and is moving states in 4 days and has taken precious time out from packing to tell you some important information.

I LOVE December. I love fruit-mince pies and chocolate-coated almonds. I love legitimate excuses to shop. I love decorating anything that doesn’t move. I love celebrating with family, and friends and I love that there are parties everywhere.

Parties. Hmmm.

For every aspect I love, there’s a down side. With all of December’s good time promises and parties, there are moments to embrace self restraint. Because when it comes to celebrating the silly season; just like relationships, credit cards, and tampons, there’s always strings attached.

The Christmas Party provides the perfect opportunity to lose your dignity. Or your wallet. Or your knickers.  Let this be a Cyclone Cindy Warning to you all.

DRESSING: Just because it’s hot, doesn’t mean you should wear an outfit that covers less than a towel. Wearing lots of necklaces doesn’t make it a fancy towel.  Wearing reindeer ears or a Santa hat doesn’t make it a cute towel.  And those sexy shoes you love, the ones you are certain love you back just as much –  will probably rip your foot skin off until it gets blistered, wet and red and you limp around like a deranged person. It will ruin your night, and possibly your ability to wear thongs for the entire wet season.

SWEARING: Even if; “How the f*** are ya?” is a common phrase around your workplace, the Christmas Party is not the time to impress your colleagues with the most ever swear words used in a sentence. Even if you are discussing your last power bill.

DRINKING: Firstly; the only people that really enjoy shooters are under-aged or still at uni. Remember the time you drank so much you projectile vomited your feelings and kidneys into the toilet while trying to read the poster on the back of the loo-door about safe sex, in order to pass time between wretches? Or when you peed in your pants and got lost? Or what about the time you got so smashed you vomited on the dance-floor then slipped in your own spew and landed with your skirt up over your head and your ass in the air? Try not to let this be the night you promise to give up drinking forever.

DANCING: Guys: when dancing, you may not be aware but you actually release a strong odour of cheap deodorant. Smelled from miles away, sometimes this musky gym scent attracts drunk women to your pelvic region, at which time they will rub their bottoms against it. This is not actually dancing. This is a precursor for making out. Making out in front of your boss is creepy. Especially if the girl is wearing a cute towel.

HOMEWARD BOUND: If you start sexting, taking photos with your tongue out, or telling the bouncer your sad life story, it’s time to go home. Go directly home. Do not collect $200 from the ATM and do not pass McDonalds.

Whatever December brings for you, remember that you can’t spell party without try, and you can’t spell season without ass. So try not to be an ass, and have a Merry Christmas!

I think we can all agree that sleep deprivation is more than feeling a little bit tired. Yes, yes, it’s a form of torture. As are many stages of ‘having a baby.’ I know that I would reveal top secret information and jeopardise national security if it meant avoiding having poo flicked one millimeter from inside my mouth.  

Anyway I digress. Sleep deprivation can mess with your head because being that deliriously tired makes you just plain ole delirious. Unless you’re not sleeping because you’re on speed. That can still mess with your head but can apparently do wonders for your figure. Unlike what happens to me. I vaguely trudge into the kitchen, yawn, reach for the jar of Nutella and BOOM! Instant energy. Instant cottage cheese arse! But at night after you’ve brushed your teeth… Nutella? No. Energy? Gone. Phantasmagorically random thoughts? Yes indeed.

I wrote this particular waffle when I felt alone in my suffering. It could be a metaphor for something quite deep. Or it could just be that I was thinking how Eddie Murphy used to be hilarious when he did stand up and told some funny jokes like that one about the bear and the rabbit, and hang on a minute… Wasn’t that joke in his movie, ’DELIRIOUS?’

Maybe he wrote that joke when he was feeling delirious, because maybe when you’re feeling delirious your brain releases stored images and memories of bears and rabbits. Like when you vomit – how your body releases years’ worth of stored carrot.

Ok. I’ll stop now.

See?

PREFACE: A rabbit seeks out a bear in the woods.

RABBIT: Hey bear!

BEAR: What’s up, rabbit!

RABBIT: Do you like honey? You like honey right? Yes or no?

BEAR: How about stopping it with the stupid questions!

RABBIT: ANSWER ME

BEAR: Dude, yes. Duh. Of course.

RABBIT: Well… I just so happen to have a big thing of honey right over there.

BEAR: ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?

RABBIT: Straight up.

BEAR: Then let’s get down to business!

RABBIT: First… First you have to give me a big hug.

BEAR: No problem, I love big hugs! I’m a bear. Like…. I give ‘bear hugs.’

RABBIT: I mean reeeeally big.

BEAR: Stop talkin’ and start huggin’

[overlong hug]

RABBIT: So.

BEAR: Yeah.

RABBIT: That was … that was really nice.

BEAR: So… About that honey…

RABBIT: Yeah, about that.

BEAR: What.

RABBIT: I don’t actually … have any honey. Per se.

BEAR: What!?!

RABBIT: Yeah. I’m sorry. I just.. (sigh) I  really needed that bear hug right now.

BEAR: I … I mean, I guess that’s OK. You could’ve just asked.

RABBIT: Sorry. I … I didn’t—

BEAR: It’s OK.

RABBIT: I just didn’t know how to—

BEAR: I said it’s fine.

[long, cold silence]

(As seen in DarwinLife Magazine July issue)

I fancy myself a reasonably smart girl. I did well at uni, read online newspapers, can make a witty quip when necessary, and know how to pronounce foie gras correctly. But none of this means anything without a decent pair of tits.  Everyone, (especially Beyonce) knows that if you are female and want to rule the world you must first; always wear only your underpants and second; you must possess ample cleavage.

Most women have a strange relationship with their boobs, monitoring them and their behavior closely. I remember watching with confusion and amazement as my breasts grew in that weird pointy way at thirteen. My lumps were a novelty and I had no idea of their potential or ability.

By the time I was 21, I discovered that shaking my milk makers brought all the boys to the yard. I learnt that my lady lumps were a secret source of power over men, and that having the right kind of boobs could result in social and economic gain.

Then I breastfed two babies. They stopped being lady lumps and became two gargantuan bazoinkas with nips of steel. But then… they left. No goodbye. Not even that fake, “hey well I guess we’ll be seeing each other around.” They just buggered off leaving two sad little over-fried eggs. Alas, my fun bags are no longer fun.

The problem is – I have ACTUAL non-silicony breasts. I couldn’t go to ‘Bass in the Grass’ because I don’t have perky little breasts that look good in a boob tube. Instead, I have breasts that happen if National Geographic was like, a totally hot magazine.

And I’m terrified that before long they’ll be flopping around like cocker-spaniel ears. Or wake up one morning with breast knees. So when my husband said if I wanted to get a boob job, he’s ok with that, only if I want, because I’ve been lamenting my lack of lady lumps? Hmmm, the conundrum. Only if I want!

I don’t know… but MANY others do! No longer reserved for strippers and bikini models; breast enhancement is now mainstream, and not only for those with tea-bag titties. Young women with cute little apple pie breasts who’ve barely reached puberty are also getting the ‘job.’

I know. I see them. Because like any expensive purchase you make, you want to show them off. “Look what I bought,” you tell the world sticking your nipples to the wind. “Check out these puppies,” you mention in passing as they high-five your collarbone. Or my favourite: “Oooh, shots! Look dad, no hands!”

Most women consider breast implants the way men consider steroids.  Some demonise them out-right.  The rest are hesitant to judge because in the back of their mind they think maybe… someday, they’ll do it too! You know, not to be huge.  Just to feel better.

Sure, I could get a new set. But sometime around 2038 when we’re at an age where it’s no longer realistic to have such a pert and colossal bosom, maybe those who DID get it done will eye my breasts with wonder and remark at the way they fall. So casually, so gracefully…

…to my midriff.

NOTE: Just because since the birth of my second baby my blog posts have been very infrequent, doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing stuff. I have. It’s just a little kooky. But that’s what happens when you have sleep deprivation. Your brain starts melting in it’s own skull, kept alive only by a crying baby that needs you, and random fantasies.  The following is one such selection of fiction. I wasn’t under the influence of anything other than 1am, then 3.30am, then 5am wake-up calls.

Me: Hey there. Chuck. (looks down, laughs nervously)

Chuck: Hey. Whatcha got there?

Me: Uuhm this? It’s ahh. Well… it’s a Paddle Pop.

Chuck: A Paddle Pop?

Me: Yeah, it’s…. Well – it’s basically just ice cream. Chocolate ice cream. Well, technically choc banana, but on a little wooden stick.

Chuck: Oh right.  Yeah I know, I diffused a bomb with one of those one time.

Me: Really? Wow. Huh!

Chuck: Yeah. Yep.

Me: So would you like one? A Paddle Pop? It’s just that, well its hot today. I mean, I was hot before so I thought some icecream would cool me down. And you seem like you’re feeling a little hot.

Chuck: Yeah some stuff’s been pretty intense today.

Me: Really? What happened?

Chuck: Can’t talk about it. But I will say, I was NOT prepared to karate ass kick a bunch of terrorists before lunch.

Me: ….uh…..

Chuck: (continuing) I mean it was bad enough they blew up the hospital, good thing they called me in time or I never would’ve saved everyone. I was in a Cobra when I got the call so you know…

Me: (nodding as if I totally know)

Chuck: Let’s just say we broke air traffic regulations to make it in time.

Me: Right. (biting top lip) So you want a Paddle Pop?

Chuck: Nah. I’m good.

Me: I mean, I know it’s not like, a healthy…

Chuck: Hey. I never said nothin’.

Me: I just thought you might want to cool down.

Chuck: That’s why I carry this canteen filled with river water.

Me: Oh.

Chuck: Well, you seem like you’re enjoying it.

Me: Yeah.  It’s one of my fav….. Aaah. I have to suck it slowly like this because my teeth are really sensitive. I can’t just bite into it. I’ll get brain-freeze.

Chuck: Brain freeze?

Me: You know, like a cold headache.

Chuck: (looking away, as if distracted) I got a cold headache one time. A Neo-Nazi General was holding my face against the wheels of a tank that was driving on ice.

Me: Lucky you have that beard!

Chuck: Mmm. Maybe I’ll go wait in the F22 Raptor.

Me: Cool. I mean… Hey you wanna hear the joke on the Paddle Pop stick?

Chuck: Later sweetheart.

(As seen in Darwin Life Magazine - June 2011 issue)

Today I woke up, opened the windows, and shivered for about three seconds. Then I remembered that the dry season has arrived. Cool. I put on some jeans, vomited out sunshine rays, and went on with the knowledge that life in Darwin was about to get very entertaining. If you’re not sure what you should be doing in the dry – I’m here to tell you.

Grab your friends and do outside stuff on the grass:  Frankly, I want to be outside when it’s 6pm and there is a drink in my hand and tapas on a plate in front of me. When I’m sitting on the ground, it feels like there are ants crawling up my butthole. And no! I don’t want to go on a picnic. Making food is one thing. Asking me to carry it, along with my own plates and chairs is just rude. I can eat a perfectly good salad in a restaurant and not when midgies are going to eat me alive.

Go to Fannie Bay to see the whoreses on track:  For some females, the Darwin racing carnival is like a contagious virus known as Territory Scrubber. The symptoms are feathers, vadge grazers, and poorly applied fake tan. Whoreses also carry bottles of booze around in their hand like it’s an accessory. 

Rediscover you hair straightener: I tried to straighten my hair back in December because my hair is a suspected terrorist so I torture it by rubbing it with hot irons. Ages later, my hair was socially acceptable so I went outside. The second I closed my front door, the humid air bitch slapped me across the face, gave me a wedgie and stole all my lunch money. My ends curled up and the hair around my face frizzed out like I had my finger in a socket. My hair is a stupid idiot in the wet, but the dry makes all that straightening worthwhile.

Barbecues: Eat meat until you throw up.

Mindil Beach Markets:  Forget personal space. This is a fantastic spot to visit if you’re in the mood for a grope. I can’t count the number of times my boobs have walked into someone. Go right ahead and pinch that backpacker’s arse. They’ll turn around to see whodunit and get lost in a fragrant sea of meat smoke, BO and sunset.

Turn off your air conditioner:  Enjoy your power bill going down by $3000.

Finally, if you find yourself wondering if Al Qaeda has retaliated by dropping a mini Bogan-bomb on Darwin… No. This will be the sign that the V8’s are in town. Actually I love the V8’s because there’s always a slight chance that I might go deaf from the sound of the revving motors, and I’m like Indiana Jones; living on the edge of danger. While you’re there, deep throat an icy pole by accident, because there can only be one ‘Stig’ but anyone can be inappropriate.

Ahh yes, Darwin in the dry. Thank you. Because like reality cooking shows, Bangkok’s nightlife and the Kardashian sisters, I rely on you for extreme entertainment and there’s honestly nowhere I’d rather be.

I’ve been crap, haven’t I! Inconsistent blogging with months between them. I know. I’m a bad blogger. If I was a dog you’d be rubbing my nose into my computer screen. So anyway I’m sorry.

Well, as sorry as a self-indulgent mother of 2 in serious need of sleep and a facial with a broken washing machine and broken spirit, and a surprisingly well-in-tact superiority complex can be, anyway.

Not sure that anybody really cares that much. It’s not like my blogging saves lives or helps anyone, other than people who have insomnia.

You know, you random strangers out there that are so bored and wanting to be entertained because despite like a hundred new free TV channels there’s still crap on TV, so you’ll google “nice stylish boys lonely feeling sad” or “hairy condom sex” or ”Jennifer Lopez butt” or “Ryan Reynolds testicle tuck” and sadly somehow (I’m not kidding) you’ll see a link leading you to this site and go: Oh, this should amuse me for about three and a half minutes….

To those of you – I’m especially sorry. Oh and ahhh…. Also to all the celebrities who google their own name and see my 2 cents. Sorry to you too. Not for my 2 cents. But because I have soooo much more to give and I haven’t been. And for THAT I’m sorry to myself.

The kind of sorry that could apologise to an entire generation if it wanted to. Just by getting a bunch of people on a hill somewhere in Canberra and saying – I’m sorry, really slowly into a microphone and then printing it on a T-shirt and in the sky with a plane and that.

The kind of sorry that could round-house kick karate chop your arse, if it could be bothered getting off the couch… what leotard? I don’t know.

But anyway, my sorry would be wearing a sweat band Rambo style. And a red leotard with Swarovski crystals stitched into the bodice. And Christian Louboutin Mouskito Pumps in Black and Red. Because my sorry is AWESOME.

Anyway the consistent folk over at DarwinLife Magazine have this thing called a monthly deadline. So despite my absence here, I will be updating soon with Cyclone columns that appeared in June and July issues.

But for now, well you know.

(As seen in May issue of Darwin Life Magazine)

This isn’t about the time I kissed a girl. Or jelly wrestling. Or Ellen DeGeneres.  Although… this is about girls I could ‘love or leave.’  I used to hate girls. All my mates were boys and I use the term mate loosely because I suspect half of them wanted to see my knickers. I’d say, “Oh, I just find I get along better with guys.”  

I soon realised that if I didn’t have at least 3 really good girlfriends I would wither away and die. I have them now, and flourish from knowing them.  Love them! Seeing them is like returning to the womb and I can’t imagine my life without them.

Yes I love lots of girls, but not ALL girls. Certain girls.

‘Girls night’ Girl: She’ll watch romantic comedies with you so you can stare at Cameron Diaz and feel indisputable amounts of jealousy. You both get teary eyed at the end of Love Actually; where Colin Firth is all ‘I learned a different language for you.’ It kills me every time but she doesn’t tell anyone. She just passes the tissues and breaks you off another row of chocolate. Later in the evening when you’re high on sugar and you have the soundtrack of your teenage years cranking, she’ll jump up in her PJ’s and do the running man to The Backstreet Boys, just to amuse you – even if she’s not wearing a bra.

‘Never diet’ Girl: She suggests you share a plate of nachos with extra sour cream, then some spring rolls and maybe a barrel of pork belly. Later, we’ll take a shower in chocolate ganache and that will be fantastic as well. Don’t even think about ordering salad. She’ll fry the lettuce and cover it with cheese sauce when you go to the loos.

‘Go-to’ Girl: The woman gives fantastic advice and is always ready with an update on that trailer-park skank that made life hell at your last job. You can call her at 3am when you’re crying out your right lung. She’ll listen, tell you you’re being ridiculous, make you laugh, but still totally get your tears. She’ll also use more than 3 words to honestly describe how your butt looks in those jeans.

‘Secret Nerd’ Girl: She’s the epitome of Geek Chic. She watches Discovery Channel and abstract comedy, has Enya on her iPod, idolises Tina Fey and can name every Member of Parliament. She  loves books. No. Literature! But she’ll happily discuss with you red carpet fashion disasters and the evolution of Brad Pitt’s face.

I risk sounding like Ginger Spice here, or just like a 9 year old, but girls rule! Meanwhile, there are certainly some girls I could leave, thanks.

‘Girl hater’ Girl: She’ll give you bitchy sideways glances in her chandelier earrings and ‘temptress pink’ lipstick. She tells vicious lies about other girls to her ‘mates’ to make herself seem like a goddess and she walks like she has sex fire under her feet.

‘Messy drunk’ Girl: She’ll drop perfectly good kebab in her lap, attract some random guy she can blast juices with in public view, then crowd the toilets vomiting up body glitter and her face.   At the end of the night you’ll see her, and her underpants, sitting on the curb contracting a bad case of crotch worms asking you for a cigarette.

‘Drama’ Girl: She’s the girl wearing unnecessary ruffles. Everyone has done her wrong. Including her push-up bra. If she’s not texting her ex, she’s ‘not speaking’ to you. Thank goodness. She probably touches herself to Edward from Twilight.

So, to the girls I love – thank you! And to the others? Woman Up! Pull the limited edition leopard print hair straightener out of your stuck up, spray tanned arse and stop pretending your drink got spiked.

You say potato. I say pomme de terre not because I speak French, but because I’m a bit pompous sometimes… but seriously!!!  What the hell has happened to chips?  By chips I mean the deep fried crispy variety, not the deep fried hot variety, and also – not the two dudes from the 80’s on motorbikes in aviator shades variety. Cause who knows WHAT ever happened to them… (What you just heard was the entire Y generation going ‘huh?)

Anyway, I ask because I was eating such potatoes on the couch today. It was SO IRONIC.  But it made me remember a time when potato chips consisted of 4 flavours: Salt and Vinegar, Barbecue, Plain and Chicken. They were crinkle-cut. Always crinkle cut.

Then someone got a little bit fancy on our junk food-fed asses, and invented ‘Cheese and Onion’

We totally welcomed this addition to the chip flavour family because quite frankly, we were all a bit over the original four flavours.

Obviously, after considerable market research, they discovered we LIKED to mix it up a bit when it comes to salty snacks and thus: bought out ‘Sour Cream and Chives.’

And we were happy with our two new flavours. Until…

Along came Kettle. With their rustic non crinkly bubbly chip, including flavours such as: Herb and Spice, Lamb and Rosemary, Honey Baked Ham, Sour Cream and Chilli….. They were delicious and it wasn’t long before the pioneer chip makes (Smith’s and Samboy) were expanding their portfolio to include similar flavours.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that the brand managers panicked and thought it was best to flood the market with an assortment of unusual and diverse flavours. It’s the only explanation for Tomato Sauce flavoured chips. Then Smith’s launched their ‘thin cut’ range, a non-crinkle-cut chip.

I’m sorry, Tomato Sauce flavoured chips? Who buys those? I’ll tell you who buys those… Nobody that’s who!

Then you have your limited edition flavours. Like the time Australia hosted the Commonwealth games. I don’t know about you, but I was more than happy to see the end of ‘Australian Sausage Sizzle,’ ‘Lamb and Mint’ and ‘Bacon and Cheese’ flavours.

We’ve also been blessed over time with Ranch, Hickory Barbecue, Roast Beef and Mustard, and Big Red Meat Pie.

So anyway, Smith’s launched a spin-off gourmet brand of chip – Red Rock Deli: and that’s when things really got ridiculous.

Honey soy chicken, Greek Feta and Herb, Chicken Thyme and Lemon, Italian Tomato and Basil, Thai Chilli, Red Wine and Tuscan Herbs, Lime and Black Pepper, Roasted Garlic with Parmeggiano, and… 

wait for it….

Baslamic Vinegar and Sea salt.

Excuse me?

I’m sorry! I refuse to take it anymore. I will not be silenced by the fraudulent crims in the crispy deep fried potato industry. I’m not stupid. Au contraire mon frère.

Balsamic Vinegar and Sea Salt and Salt and Vinegar….. are the SAME FRICKIN’ THING!

Seriously; potayto, potahto!

You see my carbohydrate palate is actually an insatiable, unsophisticated beast, but I will not be misled any longer.

Go right ahead – sit there stuffing your face with your ‘gourmet, meal-in-a-snack’ chip; but I’m here to tell you that the only place I want to taste Greek feta is with salad, or stuffed inside some excessively buttery Greek pastry. And I wonder: Do the Italians know you’re using their tomatoes?

Please take back your full bodied red wine with its bouquet of aromas. Take back your vintage cheddar with French Dijon mustard and Moroccan spices and duck red curry and hazelnut infused pumpkin puree on pan fried scallops….

Enough!

Please just give me a regular, potato chip snack. Crinkle cut or whatever… But please just make them salty ok?

Right. Osama bin Laden is dead.

Or isn’t he?

Because we’ve yet to see the evidence. He swims with the fishes…apparently.

US correspondents are reporting that the images will likely be released soon. Other than video footage AFTER the carnage, we’ve not seen any proof. (There is one photo doing the rounds which has been reported by US officials as a fake).

I don’t see why they can’t drag his dead carcass out of the water, take some snaps, then throw him back in. Aren’t dead bodies like, really easy to fetch from a body of water? Horatio does it every second week on CSI Miami…. However one ex-military friend of mine believes that if Osama was actually dead, we would have seen real pics by now and that this is all a staged affair for the media for the sake of assuming power. A deal made perhaps.

Huh?

Even my neighbor is skeptical. Conspiracy theories in the ‘against’ corner are claiming the news is a hoax designed to boost Obama’s popularity and remove power that the US themselves gave to Osama. There is that anti-Bush rumour that the CIA knew about the attacks in September and let them go ahead, in order to ‘create’ a villain and an excuse for war, and for troops to enter these Muslim extremist countries.

I don’t know what to believe. But I can’t imagine any president allowing that to happen to his own people for the sake of war. And that doesn’t explain the bombings in London, or Bali, or Spain.

Barrack Obama’s popularity HAS increased since the announcement of Bin Laden’s death… But am I the only one slightly disturbed and freaked out by the stampede of Americans to celebrate in the streets and cheer in misguided patriotic chants while waving the US flag?

If he really is dead, this IS justice and a victory for ALL nations. UNITED nations. NOT JUST the US. As mentioned, al Qaeda have claimed responsibility for numerous terrorist attacks around the globe.

Yet Americans are the only ones jumping around like they’ve just won the World Cup Soccer. I’ll concede that the attacks on 9/11 were slightly more personal to Americans, and that bin Laden was their Public Enemy Number 1. And I’m all for revenge in the name of justice.

An eye for an eye might make the whole world blind, but revenge on a man who’s responsible for the death of thousands would I imagine, taste sweet. Yes, it’s a dish best served cold. YUM… sweet and cold. Like ice-cream. Or tiramisu.

BUT!!!! Quietly seeking out justice and revenge is different to hateful celebration.

Look, if someone killed one of my children, I think I would feel enormous relief watching them gasp for air, or clutch their heart as it stopped beating.

But celebrating someone’s murder (even if justice has prevailed) is strange. The scene outside the Whitehouse was remarkable! And not in a good way. Isn’t there a more appropriate, perhaps somber way to express relief that a man who led a terrorist army and encouraged, even gloated about the death of innocent people is dead? And aren’t we westerners and even Christians above that?

It was Martin Luther King who said: “I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”

Something to think about….. Back to conspiracy theories.

If someone had told us back in 2001 that the person essentially responsible for bringing down Osama was named Obama… haha. That rhymes. I would’ve laughed.

Meanwhile if someone had predicted that his capture and death would take place on the same weekend as a royal wedding… well I would tell them to stop reading fairytales because ‘the prince marrying the girl’ AND “killing the villain” is far too much Disney action for one weekend on planet earth.

And if someone had said his death would also be the anniversary of Hitler’s death…. coincidence?

Well I guess what I’m asking is this: WAS this thing planned months ago? And if so, how do you plan the date you’re going to catch the bad guy if you don’t know where he is. Can you wing it, report it anyway and hope you find him soon? The media is so ginormously powerful these days that reporting someone’s death like this could potentially take away their existence therefore rendering them powerless.

Is this why William postponed his honeymoon with Catherine? The world is clearly a little vulnerable at the moment and there may be some hostility yet to wreak havoc. Indeed, a promise for revenge has already been reported. Did British Intelligence advise William not to travel knowing they were about to bring the world’s baddest dude down.

Wait a second… Was James Bond in on this too? Because if he was I can tell you who Pippa went home with after the wedding and it wasn’t Harry.

Truthfully I’m not a skeptic. I’m far too gullible for that. But there are many out there getting all Neil Diamond on us. They want to see his face. THEN they’ll be a believer. And in the meantime they’ll try to convince us that it’s a ‘load of fluff.’ (Thanks Matt)

Here’s some gross very much NOT fluffy information: “U.S. officials have confirmed that they have identified Osama bin Laden’s body in Afghanistan with DNA tests, and reports say that they got the match from a grisly source – his dead sister’s brain.”

I personally don’t WANT to see images of him with a bullet to his head. Our world has become so hungry for information, and this appetite we have to see EVERYTHING is what inspires people like Lady Gaga. What used to be traumatic viewing is now symptomatic of our society’s voyeurism and curiosity.

So now I guess we sit back and wait. For evidence. For a reaction. For revenge. For the war to end. Or intensify… who knows. But this is certainly not the end.

But I for one have been told. Osama is gone and buried in the ocean. And that’ good enough for me. Sort of. Ish.

Elvis however, is currently on vacation in the Bahamas.

 

(As seen in April 2011 edition of DarwinLife Magazine  NB: This is actually the original version of my column before I changed it  - due to our TV sponsors.)

So there I was lounging on my lounge. Quite gracefully actually, considering the humidity and my penchant for sitting like a brickie. . .  Just eating a TimTam, trying to be all witty on Facebook, and all but ignoring the television.  Then I heard it…

John Travolta’s sexy voice singing that infectious tune…. “I got chiiiills…” I looked up hoping to see John in skin tight black doing pelvic thrusts. Instead I saw a bunch of over-groomed farmers and city girls in wedding dresses with cowboy hats and boots line-dancing; followed by Natalie Gruzlewski asking:  This time will every farmer find the one they want?

It was a promo for The Farmer Wants A Wife, and it got me all ba-jiggity with excitement. Then it made me wonder: Does any man really want a wife so much that he’d go on national telly, in what is an awkward attempt to hook-up?

Isn’t it true that the farmer just wants to make out with 3 girls in one week?

Whatever those bachelor-types who go on TV to find ‘the one’ are after: the truth is I relate. Watching women get all worked up about a guy… I get that. I’d get totally psycho obsessive when I was into somebody – especially if there were a bunch of other bitches after him. When the girls are with their farmer, you can practically smell the desperation wafting out of your flat-screen.  I inhale and nod knowingly… I wore that fragrance for years!

But women who use the word ‘fairytale’ whilst up to their knees in pig poo? Well, that just freaks me out.  Whatever the farmers are looking for, there’s no doubt that the city girls are looking for a husband. Not just a husband; but ‘the one!’

And this is why everyone loves The Little Mermaid. Prince William will be married this month, and nobody is overly excited or surprised about that. But when a 16 year old half-sushi redhead finds true love with a Prince as intelligent as his hairy, drooling dog… It’s ‘fate!’ Likewise, when a cattle farmer applies on-line with the nine network for a reality dating show falls for a 22 year old receptionist from the big smoke. And we love that word ‘fate’ as much as ‘destiny. ’

Walt Disney has some explaining to do because his movies are where we first learn about ‘finding the one’ and ‘happily ever after.’

Even Will and Kate’s pending nupitals which fit the formula of a real life fairy tale (Royal Prince falls for a common girl and whisks her away to his castle) was not ‘fate.’ If it was, it wouldn’t have taken 8 years, including one breakup. That’s the stuff of best friends and life-long partners….not FATE.

Disney’s fairy tales usually end with ‘true love’s kiss,’ which OF COURSE equates to happily ever after!  It makes little girls everywhere think that a pash guarantees a life-long commitment. Now there’s a scary thought. And what if he’s a bad kisser? My guess is that Aladdin had tabouleh breath. Actually, Aladdin is a thief! He cares more about his monkey than finding a shirt that covers his chest and he can’t support you because he gives all his bread away.  But Jasmine still wants to marry him. Because most girls eventually want to get married.

Sorry, did I say married?  I mean the expensive ceremony before the elaborate party where you dress like a meringue and slow dance to Van Morrison. 

I started out wanting to marry Greg Brady. In high school I fantasized about marrying George Michael because not only did my new-found maturity allow me to love stubble, he was the first man to tell me he wanted my sex. At university I felt that marriage was close at hand, and realised I had better start saving if I was going to have my ‘dream’ wedding worthy of a real-life Contessa including a live performance by Elton John.  By the time I entered the workforce and had had my heart destroyed repeatedly, I decided happiness was a dance floor with my name on it.

But despite the bitter years, and the ‘I’m so hot right now who needs a husband?’ years; the concept of marriage as the ultimate never eluded me. I had the dress, the flutist, the DJ who played We Are Family, the freshly shucked oysters, the ridiculously large cake, and… I even got to chuck my flowers at a bunch of women’s faces.

Did I marry the one I want? Of course not! I WANT Ryan Reynolds: sexiest man of the year.  And I secretly still want George Michael.  Wouldn’t mind having a crack at John Travolta either…

But I fell in love with and married my best friend. A champion who makes me laugh, challenges my intellect (which I HATE but LOVE also), knows how to make a good omelette, worships the quick sand I walk on and from time to time… I even get a magic carpet ride.

Which answers Natalie’s question. No. The farmers won’t find ‘the one they want,’ unless Jessica Alba is a contestant. But they might find love, friendship, some action, and a farm-hand to boot.

And the step mother (in true fairytale form) should probably be wearing a dog collar but let’s not. Yes the princess will ‘borrow’ one of the queen’s 77 tiaras… And speculation is saying it will be the Russian Fringe Tiara (pictured above on Kate’s head). 

Actually speculation is ripe this morning. The news is saturated with royal wedding updates. What shade of frickin’ lipstick will Kate be wearing? We all know she’ll look gorgeous so seriously? Why the hoopla? Okay they’re ROYAL, but is that why the brewha? Ummm, Prince Charles and Camilla got hitched not too long ago and NOBODY cared. But they’re royal too right?

I will make this observation about the royal wedding: yes it will be watched by like a cajillion people. But not because we love the ‘royals.’ It’s because WE ALL LOVE A GOOD WEDDING! (When I say ‘good’ I mean, of fairytale proportions. Charles and Camilla didn’t really fall into that category.)

We all love to hear how about how people ‘hooked up’ (hence why the ratings for an enlightening re-enacted tele-movie called WILL & KATE : A Royal Romance” were so high. Just quietly, I was loving it sick!) We all love to find out as much as we can about celebrities private lives. We’re voyeuristic that way. We all want to know what the bride wears. What the bridesmaids wear.  Even you blokes have a bit to say about that. And Prince Will is a celebrity more than a royal. I mean he’s actually 100% royal. But in being royal, he has become a celebrity. And we love him because he’s a celebrity, not royal. Princess Anne is royal and seriously… Who gives?

Yes, we love weddings NOT the monarch. If Hollywood celebs let us watch theirs, we would all tune in to that as well.

I remember being in Manly the day before Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban’s wedding. Wowza! People everywhere! No it wasn’t filmed, but the choppers flying over and the paps with their ginormous lenses were certainly trying to get as much footage as they could. Because we wanted to see all of it in its romantic glory. And because we didn’t get to, we ate up all the stories about what they wore, what they said, who they invited and what even what they ate.

Yep, we love weddings, and NOT the age old institution of royalty. It’s why said celebs can sell their exclusive wedding pictures for millions of dollars. It’s why Hollywood keeps pumping out movies about or around or involving a wedding. We can’t get enough of that crap. I have a whole section of DVD movie genre dedicated to the very topic. Julia Roberts and JLo feature heavily.

So there are rumours going around in certain circles that today’s royal wedding will ignite a love of the royals once more. A love that died with Diana. Those of us who want Australia to become a republic, do not call ourselves monarchists, obviously. But many of us will happily call ourselves Diana-ists. We loved her more than cheese, and it started with her wedding day.

I remember watching her ride the carriage that looked like something out of a fairy tale, waving to the crowds. I remember seeing her walk down the aisle, and actually remember thinking at the age of 8, that there was not nearly enough bling on her dress.  I remember picking up Woman’s Day magazines to study her outfits. Examine her hats. I adored her and her style.

And I wonder if our disdain for the royals would be different if Charles had died in a car crash at the hands of a drunk driver who was speeding, and Diana was next in line for the throne. Monarchists would possibly choke on their beef wellington, but I for one would happily support a head of state who loved George Michael, loved Elton John, loved dancing, loved fashion and loved being affectionate with her children.  Hello? She WAS my queen.

And Will is… a massive spunk. (Luckily, Random Genetic Selection smiled upon him in the womb and he inherited his mother’s ears) But it doesn’t necessarily mean I want him as my king.

But we want to see him get married. Because he is a spunk, not because he’s the future King. By the time he’s the king he won’t be such a spunk. If you don’t believe me, ask your parents what they thought of Charles when he was 26. Catch of the century – he was. Blergh!

Here’s the deal. Australia should be a republic because the balance of power in Australia is all messed up. Becuase our current constitution was out of date the day it was written. Because what actually happens in the Austalian system of government is NOTHING LIKE what’s written in our Commonwealth handbook.

Most systems of government have both a head of state and a head of government. Two separate people. Except America. One dude holds both titles and of you ask me, that is WAY too much power.

Heads of State normally have real responsibilities and duties. Often the military, and other important stuff. They represent the nation as one state. One country united.

A head of government represents one political party. They do not represent the entire nation, but in Australia, our Head of Government (Prime Minister) seems to represent and speak on behalf of our country. It’s almost like they take on the role of Head of State, without officially taking on the title. Plus they get to make laws. This is where Australia’s system of government is like a Pro Hart painting.

Half Westminster, half American system; we have a House of Representatives where laws are made, and a senate, where laws are passed or blocked. According to our constitution, all of this is done at the Queen’s leisure. Puh!

I can assure you that does not happen. Nor are laws made at the Governor General’s leisure. He or she is too busy cutting ribbons and attending ceremonies to give a toss.

I’m personally a fan of the French model, with both a President and a Prime Minster. Both share the power and those powers are clearly defined.

Will and Kate can still come and visit our golden shores and hospitals and disaster zones and raise awareness for important causes. We will still follow them around with cameras and children holding roses and flags with the union jack. But we will be our own nation. One whose constitution is relevant and does not allow Prime Ministers to be sacked by Governor Generals (see Gough Whitlam – November 1975) or double dissolutions in the senate.

No. This wedding does not create a stable future monarch for Australia.  But it does give the journos and TV presenters a free trip to London.

The wedding does not protect Australia from one day becoming a republic.

One day… we can win a gold medal at the Olympics and NOT pay homage to the union Jack in the process. It does mean saying seeya to the Commonwealth Games, but we all know they’re just a poor man’s Olympics.

One day… we can have a constitution without racism, that recognises our own people, our own merits and our own sense of national pride, without constantly seeking the Queen’s approval.  One day… our children will stand in assembly and sing “…for we are young and free,” and it will be true.

One day… American’s will have Australian accents on TV that actually sound Australian and not like Russell Brandt. In fact, the rest of the world will stop getting us confused. I’m not a convict ok? Sure I might sing Waltzing Matilda from time to time, but it doesn’t mean I’m packing stolen goods.

Yes the bride will very likely be wearing a tiara today. And possibly Alexander McQueen. And a loved up “Wow I just became super-famous, and rich” glow. But she will not be wearing the weight of this nation’s responsibility on her shoulders. It will never happen.

But for now, the Queen still wears the crown. And a ceremonious face worthy of nobility. And one of the world’s most powerful titles. And I’m thinking… quite possibly – support hose with Kumpfs.

Today I’ve been married for 4 years. Not that long. No itches so far either. Just as well, since I haven’t really had time to scratch myself. So anyway, last night in the shower I was reflecting on my career so far as a married woman. Wife. The Missus. Better half. Ball and Chain. Whatever. And I was thinking how some people, as a way of remembering their wedding day and celebrating their anniversary, choose to renew their vows.  Delightful.

We didn’t have any.

We had a few ‘wedding songs’ that we could sit and listen to. We have expensive photos we can look at. I have my ‘Dorothy’ shoes. ‘Spose I could have put them on and walked around all day to remember  the ‘feeling.’

I asked my husband if he regretted not writing or even choosing to recite vows to each other on our wedding day. He said, “I do.”

“You do regret it?” I asked surprised by his response, since he’s not sentimental AT ALL.

“I do.” He said.

“WOW. I thought you really didn’t want to worry about that..” I said now flummoxed.

“Noooo. I do. That was our vows to each other. When we said ‘I do’ that was our vows.”

Oh. He was right. The only time either of us opened our mouths during the ceremony was to say ‘I do.’ And to kiss at the end, although I recall that being a closed mouth deal. Also I cried. Silently, but my mouth would have opened for that.

We had decided while discussing the ceremony that we wanted it to be no more than 20 minutes. We didn’t want it to be a performance. We didn’t want to nervously recite words and emotions that we felt were for each other, and not for the 120 guests present.

I in no way judge those who do recite vows. In fact, since getting married, watching couples recite vows still makes me wonder if we missed out on something by NOT having or writing vows.

So anyway, I wondered last night… what we would possibly do on our 25^th wedding anniversary to momentously mark the occasion. It’s 21 years away, but judging by the last 4 years, I reckon that will fly by.

Then I started thinking how neither of us have any idea of what the future holds. What if one of us becomes blind. What if one of us gets a boob job and lipo and botox and looks super hot and young. What if we go bankrupt or what if we have a gorgeous home and boat and it gets destroyed in a cyclone or flood or fire or bombed. Or what if we win lotto. (Not that we play).

When couples are writing their wedding vows, they do so with no knowledge of what the future will bring. The ups and downs of married life can literally throw you about. There are days I am so in love with my husband I cry at the depth of emotion and gratitude I have for him. Then there are days I hate his guts and want him to sprain his ankle. Just so he can feel frustrated and annoyed and also a little bit of pain.

So with all this in mind, I came to the conclusion that wedding vows don’t really do much but remind you of a time when your love was young and you celebrated by wearing the dress of your dreams and had an awesome party called ‘a wedding.’ A time that while lovely to remember, is no longer relevant to your every day life together.

Relevance. Now there’s a word that makes the point I’m about to make seem SO CRUCIAL. 

Why the hell do married couples not ‘renew the terms and conditions’ of the marriage. Vows are lovely and romantic no doubt. But they won’t see you through the next 12 months. Unlikely. That’s like 2 business partners reading their mission statement once a year as way of ensuring success. A nice gesture, but completely bloody useless.

This year (I decided this last night) I am going to write the terms and condition of our legal union. A wedding contract. What I will bring to the union and what is expected of me, and vice versa. What I will abide by despite us not agreeing on certain matters (eg. farting in bed) and what I will not (toenail clippings not disposed of immediately.) What I consider to be a breach of contract (any form of cheating) whereby the contract becomes futile and I take everything you own, including your testicles. Etcetera.

The contract will be renewed every year, and will be agreed upon by both parties and signed in the presence of a witness. It will also be based on the circumstances of that specific year and time. Last year for example, my contract would have included certain clauses pertaining to my pregnancy and mandatory foot rubs. This year I have 2 children and life just got super chaotic interesting. There are certainly parts of the contract that will involve both of them now.

For example.

That partner A (my husband) will take all reasonable steps to eliminate/reduce partner B (me) being committed to a mental home by: 

1. Providing support in person between the hours of 7pm and 9pm, during which time both children will be fed, bathed and put to sleep. Following 9pm, should partner A be required to continue work pertaining to his employment, partner B will happily understand without bitching about his hours of work. In addition, partner A will understand that partner B only bitches because she doesn’t get to ‘finish work for the night’ and continues to work right up until the moment her head hits the pillow. Partner A will be required on *regular occasions, to praise partner B for her hard work and surprise her with gifts for her efforts. (regular being no less than once a month)
2. Happily taking the rubbish out and destroying all creepy crawlies without the PETA-style lecture. In return for this partner B will provide sex. For real.
3. Understanding that despite partner B complaining about the way in which partner A attempts to assist with household duties but does so incorrectly (ie. Failing to hang washing out in the manner and quality to which is expected), it is not because partner B does not appreciate it. Partner A must remember at all times that partner B is grateful for the attempted efforts and partner A must relentlessly strive to assist partner B in household duties in accordance with the techniques and systems in place.
4. Providing funds with which partner B may continue to be healthy, happy and beautiful. Likewise for the children of partners A and B. Partner A will understand that although Partner B earns a small amount, it’s not enough!! Partner A will not lecture on spending within reason, and will instead give praise to partner B for her budgetary sacrifices. For example waxing her own legs.

See where I’m going with this?  Genius. That way when someone is in breach of the agreed terms of the marriage, there is a real, written contract that can be referred to and discussed without the emotions and fly-off-the-handle remarks. Instead, a civil discussion can be had regarding the details agreed upon. Both parties must admit when they’re in the wrong. It simplifies issues and expectations.

My husband doesn’t know yet. Like I said, today is our 4 year anniversary and he is still at work (it’s 10.50pm).  You can be sure there’ll be a clause on “celebrating special occasions” that will go something like…

Should either party be unable for any legitimate reason to be present for *special occasions, the partner that is MIA will be required to make up for it BIG TIME! The partner that was NOT MIA on the special occasion will determine HOW the partner that was missing will make up for it. Their decision is final and no further discussion will be entered in to once a request has been made.

*Special occasions to include anniversary, birthdays, Easter, weddings, funerals etc. Christmas day is not negotiable. Attendance is mandatory. 

Wedding pictures by Impact Images

I wish I was writing about a brilliant film based on Shakespeare’s “The Taming of The Shrew” that starred a yet to be discovered Heath Ledger. It’s not. Because I loved that movie and I loved Heath Ledger. But to write about the movie, I would have to watch it again. I can’t do that anymore because the DVD got scratched and ten minutes into the movie the screen pixilates and eventually freezes. And I HATE it when that happens.!

This is a post about things I hate. People… stuff.

Things that happen on a daily basis, like pet hates. Except why are they called ‘pet’ hates?  Because last time I had a pet, I very much loved it and fed it daily in the hope that it would flourish and continue to bring me joy.

There is nothing I hate that I want to flourish. Nothing I hate that brings me joy. There is nothing I love that I also hate. Except Kyle Sandilands. And feeding hungry babies outside daylight hours. Love the baby. Hate waking up. Love it when he smiles. Hate is when he cries. Love buying him cute outfits. Hate changing his crap-filled nappy. You get the drift….

Perhaps I should’ve bought a doll. Obviously not one of those baby alive dolls that cry and poop. One that’s made of plastic whose eyes are permanently open and mouth is permanently closed.

Anyway so I’ve been using that word HATE quite frequently lately.  Ahhh yeah I know. Whatever! Strong word and all that…

But how else would you describe waiting in line at the post office to buy an express post envelope, with 2 children on board: one crying and the other pulling everything in sight off the shelf, while the guy in front of you has a mysteriously large pile of papers. I’m guessing he hasn’t heard of Bpay.  Why did you get behind him Cindy? Why are there not more people serving? I hate the post office. I hate that man. I hate that I can’t buy express post envelopes and stamps elsewhere.

I’m not a hateful person. Not normally. But lately it seems that my Cranky Pants are the outfit du jour and I really can’t be bothered taking them off because then I’d have to wash them and I’m not really keeping up with household duties at the moment.

Anyway, in order to vent, I thought I’d let you know some of my pet hates. Ten of them. Ten things I hate.

Maybe in a day or two, I can come back and tell you all some things I love (which I have done before here and here) or maybe even just things I’m super grateful for. Because there are plenty of those too.

1. Southern Cross Tattoos – Hands up. How many Japanese people reading this have a big red circle tattooed somewhere on their body? What’s that? Nobody? Right. Because that would make you a dick head. Misguided patriotism in my opinion. While I’m here, I’ll add that I hate it when you see people wearing the Aussie flag as a cape, and also – wouldn’t say hate, but really not fond of the Aussie flag either. Like Jerry Seinfeld once said; Britain at night time – you have the Australian flag.

2. Automated voice systems - I don’t think I’m alone in hating this one… You know when you ring some government department or phone or electricity company and you get that monotonous pre-recorded woman who eventually says to you:  “I’m not understanding what you’re saying. Please repeat your answer.” They obviously haven’t programmed the F bomb into their system, or she WOULD understand VERY MUCH what I was saying and go and get a human being for me to speak to.

3. Victoria Secret Models – Obviously I want ALL of them to contract a disease that makes them get cellulite, but more specifically the ones who are back on the catwalk a week after giving birth making the rest of us feel like big chunks of lard. I won’t mention names but Heidi, Miranda and Giselle – I hate you. Because it’s simply wrong that you make that type of declaration to the world. I know what you’re thinking as your hips are sashaying the crap out of each other on the catwalk…. “If I can – you can!” Pfft. Piss off and eat a Snickers Bar. Because I just did and it was delicious!

4. Collingwood Football Club  – I can’t really justify this one. Except to say I once worked for Craig Kelly and some days it felt like I had Collingwood shoved down my throat. Other than that, I think I just like the idea of agreeing with 90% of Australia on a single issue – which is that Collingwood SUCKS.

5. Geckos – I realise most people think they’re cute. And they are when you’re on a tropical holiday at some delicious 5 star luxury spa resort, and one just happens to be on the wall of the restaurant that overlooks turquoise waters. But I live with them. Well I try not to actually…But where I live they’re everywhere. So? Well once in the middle of a yoga class, when I was flat on my back doing some breathing technique that was suppose to take me to a higher place, there were 2 geckos fighting and barking at each other on the ceiling, right above me.   They ended up falling off the ceiling, onto my leg, whereupon landing, they slithered off in a frenzy. (Cue phobia here) And guess what? I WAS on a tropical holiday at a delicious 5 star luxury spa resort. Not cute.

So I now long for a world where all the walls are insecticided and the invading gecko army dies a tragic death and little girls are free to play in gardens under the shady palm trees without the repercussions of tiny slimy reptile alien grossness.

6. Fruit you can’t trust – I’ve been burned too many times man. Can we get some consistency here? I mean I love fruit, it mostly tastes nice, but sometimes fruit lets me down with being too ripe, too sweet, too sour, not ripe enough or bruised.  Fruit… you are delicious – but it is hard to tell whether you are going to be bad or not. You hide behind your skin – that’s right, I’m talking to you oranges, apples, bananas, avocados and watermelon.   Why can’t you be more like strawberries? They don’t try and deceive me. When they’re bad they show it. Time to get the message fruit. Because I hate that I can’t see your inside.

7. Traffic Light OCD – I’m referring to those people that constantly press the button to cross the road at the lights. Just the once will do. I understand that sometimes when you approach an intersection, and there are already several people waiting to cross, you can’t know for sure if any of those people have already pressed the button. I mean they probably did. But what if they didn’t. So to be sure, you press the button yourself. (Because who know HOW long you’ll be waiting if you nobody presses it!) Of course in this instance, the button gets pressed more than once. But people who go up and press it like 57 times are ridiculous right? Oh. Actually I do this sometimes myself when I’m in a hurry, but for some reason when other people do it I want to break their fingers off.

8. Sunglasses inside - You wanker! Anyway I’m of the opinion that if you have something of exquisite beauty, you don’t hide it, or cover it up purely to protect it from being damaged. This is the reason I rarely wear sunglasses … Especially not inside. So when I see you sporting shades indoors I presume you are blind, have been king hit, or have abnormally ugly eyes.  I’m not against sunnies altogether, but I must make an honourable mention to Alex Perry. Not because he wears them, because he doesn’t. But the fact that he’s decided his signature look is to have his sunglasses perched on his head like some kind of hair accessory.  Except that he has no hair so how does that work?

9. The Tea-towell Whip – There is nothing in all of modern life quite as annoying as this. The holler; the involuntary clutching of the buttocks; the mini jump forward; the pain; the pathetic attempt at revenge; the act of mercy on behalf of the bully where he tries to show you how to do it; the free shot at his arse he subsequently offers; the failure to make anything like a decent connection…The sad fact is, all it takes is a rolled-up tea-towel and a quick snap of the wrist. Maybe what I really hate is that I am useless at it. Did I mention I have brothers?

10. Washing – I sometimes wonder how much I spend on stain removers for clothes. The fabulous world of stain removal is relatively new to me.  Pumpkin, banana, vomit and poo never used to be an issue. But when you have kids you discover there are a kazillion substances that stain. I miss the days of chucking the entire load into the tub with a scoop of powder and walking away.  And while we’re discussing the washing: Tissue in pocket that goes into the machine… TRAUMA! He who sins had better be wearing sunscreen because he is going to HELL!

(As seen in March 2011 edition of Darwin Life Magazine)

You notice some interesting things at the beach. Things that should be waxed, contained, or at least spray tanned. Things that defy gravity and should move five meters away from you. Or if you’re male; a little closer please?

Then you notice something that makes you sit up, remove your sunnies, brush the sand off, and say, Hmmm… Huh?

This Summer at the beach, I noticed how many people have tattoos. Wait, not just people. ‘People’ have been getting tattoos for decades. Like biker babes and sailors and rock bands.

No. What I noticed was a fascinating generational change.  Indeed, if they’re making them for Barbie; if CHANEL is flogging them in their accessories collection; if Ke$ha is boasting about the five she has…  There must be such an intense shift in the culture paradigm I must write about it.

Here’s my 3 observations on Tattoos – The New Generation.

Tattoos love women. All kinds.  All ages. Glamorous women. Pregnant women. Women with sensible haircuts. Women with kids who drive Ford Mondeo wagons and go to Michael Bublé concerts… They all have ink! Was there a ‘Free Tattoo with every Wiggles DVD’ coupon I missed? Bikies and punks will need to source new ways to look badass, because when tattoo parlours practically require a crèche… buddy!  Your tough guy image holds no substance. Your street cred is in serious jepeordy.

Research shows that after a lull in the 90’s, tatts are back; and 65% are done for women.  Just last month I met an expecting mum that could have given ‘Bombshell’ McGee a run for her money, confirming my second observation.

Tattoos are bigger. No longer petite roses reserved for discreet areas of the body, tatts have become bold statements. Even the ‘tramp stamp’ is on the decline. (That; to those who don’t know, is a tattoo across the lower back. I’m guessing those who have one didn’t know this either…)

Tattoos used to be about rebellion or shock value. These days it’s art; a declaration of something momentous. So why hide it? I mean, ‘Such Is Life’ means MUCH more in large bold print across a hard rippling stomach than it would have on a wrist.

Tattoos are addictive. Does the ink contain crack? Some people appear to have substance abuse issues when it comes to tattoo ink. Nobody’s content with just one anymore and most people leave the parlour with fresh ink wounds, already planning their next!

I imagine this is similar to how I feel walking out of a shoe shop with new heels. Only, my future purchase plans don’t include having 200 needles going into me all at once.

To me, many tattoos are like Facebook Status Updates when you’re drunk.  At the time, you think you’re sharing deeply meaningful words filled with unfathomable personal significance.  You write something like, “slow burn watching the world turn from my arms” and nod solemnly as you hit ‘share,’ but you’re actually just listening to too much Powderfinger.

Explain that when you’re 75.

WARNING: I realise a lot of my posts have warnings lately, but I have just been informed by my husband that this post makes me sound like a nut, and that my blog should be called Psycho Cindy. So – please (as per my about page) take these comments as entertainment…  a grain of salt and all that. I’m sure there are plenty of people who’ll agree with my husband, but there you go. It is what it is. My happy pregnant hormones have gone out the with the rubbish and I’m not getting much sleep so Miss Snarkety Snark is back bitchez. 

‘Che Dovrei Aver Detto’ is Italian for ‘What I Should’ve Said.’ Not that I speak fluent Italian, but I dated a Sicilian once and ever since then I pretend to know a lot about Italian things that I know nothing about at all.

This phrase, if pronounced correctly; sounds like something you’d hear some husky woman voice-over saying while watching the latest Armani collection on FTV. But it also happens to be the plight of Meg Ryan’s character in the movie You’ve Got Mail.

And – I do it all the time.

Some massive piece of useless $2 gutter scum will say or do something to me, and my response is ALWAYS so feeble, damn it!

Then, I drive/walk/run/shrink away and think to myself…. CRAP! You SHOULD have said…..

Actually, sometimes I spend hours having pretend conversations with somebody nasty – thinking of all the awesome, cutting things I could have come back with. The Last Word. The final phrase that would have left them devastated.

I guess it’s apparent to all now, that I am not one of those ‘turn the other cheek’ kind of girls. I am fully ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, revenge will be mine, I hope you choke’  kind of girl.

So you know how every now and then you come across people that are just so lovely, they couldn’t be nasty if they tried?  Those people that don’t have a mean bone in their body?

I am not one of those people.

I suspect that several of my bones are fully fledged bitches. I’m guessing my finger bones, (metacarpals), because they’re the ones that type insults and sarcasm right here on this blog. But, they’re also the ones that shake the most when I attempt to verbalise fury in the moment.

The thing with writing is – it gives you time to think of all the fierce come-backs that essentially leave you on top. But when somebody has been a major jerk to me, right at that moment – I’m usually so flabbergasted that someone can be so appallingly rude, that I just go, “Uh, ahh, pfft. Whatever.”

I wish I could be more like Sue Sylvester from Glee. She’s FANTASTIC in the moment. Cool, calm and BOOM! Insult.  Except that it’s people like her that I have trouble responding to.  It’s the Sue Sylvesters of the world I have no comeback for.  Instead, I leave the scene – shaking in rage, annoyed at my own impotence. I’m like Emma. I run away and hide in my office and cry, until I think to myself; I SHOULD have said….

That’s usually when the cyclone starts brewing. I become, unpredictable and erratic, and suddenly I’m overwhelmed with an abundance of terrific comebacks. DAMN!

Why do assholes always leave us speechless?

Look, whatever the reason I know I’m not alone. Because my inspiration for this subject came when one of my Facebook friends asked this very question.

So. Cyclone Cindy is here to lend a hand to those of you who – like me, are powerless mutes at a time when you most need NOT to be.  Here are some phrases to memorise next time some colossal jerk pisses you off or upsets you, or makes you want to cry or want to punch something.

The jerk on the plane: I know that I said sorry when I accidentally bumped the back of your seat, but it was an instinct and I didn’t mean it. Obviously you can’t afford business class so stop pretending you belong there. Please stow away your tray table and your pretentious attitude, or I will take that oversized newspaper and shove it so far down your throat you’ll be reading it with your brown eye.

The jerk friend:  I know you keep Vagisil in your top drawer, eat sweetened condensed milk with a spoon direct from the can, once had a sex dream about Justin Bieber, and have Shania Twain and Celine Dion on your iPod. Even though I’m not as bitchy as you are being right now; doesn’t mean I won’t tell our other friends these things. You’re still my bestie but seriously – let’s eat Sara Lee and watch The Notebook and we can talk about it.

The slow jerk in front of you in a line:  Just so you know, I was tapping my foot, rolling my eyes and sighing angrily because I had to wait for YOU. I had to physically refrain myself from tapping the back of your knee so you jolt forward, but then I concluded you’re either foreign or slow, and I don’t want to discriminate. Instead, I texted ‘kill me now’ to three of my friends.

The jerk roommate: I use your expensive shampoo. I pluck my ingrown hairs with your tweezers and don’t wash them. I use your milk and top it up with water so you don’t notice. I use your detergent, which reminds me… Asshole, clean your dishes!

The jerk kid: Santa isn’t real. Neither are fairies or the Easter bunny. Not even Bob The Builder can fix your stinky behaviour. Now go and find your mother and ask her what a Mongrel is. Can you say that? Mongrel?  Off you go!

Your jerk landlord: Fix my fricken’ plumbing TODAY please, damn it! Or I’ll… I’ll… I’ll find a hiding spot somewhere in the permanent fixtures for all my off cheese, and leave it there when I terminate my lease.

Your jerk boss: You are so unfair! Then again, so is your cottage cheese ass. Incidentally, you have a little crazy on your face. And yes, it’s been there all morning, and … was there during your meeting with ‘the big clients.’ But don’t worry, I overheard them in the lift saying how you can always count on demented circus monkeys to do what you tell them.  

The jerk that tried to steal your lover: Bitch please. Your thighs are the poster girls for Krispy Kremes. Okay so you’re a bikini model and your body is flawless.  So good in fact that I’d like to dip it in garlic aioli and take a bite. Because that’s what I like to do with prawns. Mmmmm…. Delicious bodies. Just a wasted shame about the head. I guess that’s what they were saying over at the airbrushing department of Ralph. Because your face looks like an extra from Toy Story 3. Weren’t you Mrs Potato Head? Now please move along before you vomit celebrity perfume all over me.

The jerk that broke your heart: If I could start fires with my mind, which I believe would be a useful skill to have; I would use it to set fire to a small part of your body so you could feel enough pain to know how I felt and to make you sorry. Actually, that was before. Now I just like to think about you contracting some nasty disease that makes your disco stick lose all power.

The jerk who cut you off in traffic then stuck his middle finger up at you: This one is hard because if you’re windows up and you’re far away then there’s not a lot you can say. Other than to blow a kiss, which aggravates them every time. Well you could blow a kiss, or if it’s a man – do what I do: Lick your lips all sexual like, and run your fingers down your chest. If it’s a man then you’ll absolutely kill him with confusion. Seriously. He’ll hate you but he’ll want to turn around and check you out in his rear view mirror until someone else on the road abuses him. And don’t worry! If he’s gay it still works because he’ll be fascinated. The same way we are fascinated by people with Tourettes Syndrome.

The jerk that is so pig-faced, so horrid so cruel, that ‘jerk’ is a compliment for them: Miiiiinchia! Che cazzo stai dicendo? Non mi rompere le palle. Vaffanculo a Lei, la sua moglie, e’ la sua madre. Lei e’ un cafone stronzo. Vada via in culo!

See? See there’s some Italian stuff I actually DO know!

Can anyone else think of any good ones? Or am I alone in my quest for vengeance?