A letter I doubt I’ll be sending… to Tom Cruise.

Dear Tom.

You’re weird. You know that, right? Like – you make most people cringe so hard their skull falls into their rib cage.

I could end my letter right there because I really just wanted to join the chorus of those calling you a total nutter so Hollywood will sit up, listen and realise we don’t like seeing you on or off the screen. But there’s a part of me that wants to reach out to you Tom. It’s mostly pity. Sad pathetic pity. The kind you have for someone who just got dumped – 4 days before a monumental birthday.

So anyway today news broke that your divorce to Katie Homes was settled. You’re back on the market! That was fast!  But listen… before you go looking for the next Mrs Cruise – I need to tell you some other stuff, and in order to appeal to your ginormous ego, I’ve decided to write this letter in a way you’ll feel comfortable reading.. There are 8 facts. Just like there are 8 ‘Dynamics’ of Scientology.

Please consider this a community service and also somewhat of an intervention, where an unknown middle-aged scrag with a keyboard gives you said facts; then offers you some highly unsolicited advice which I strongly suggest you take if you don’t want to lose everything but your rank in the church.

(Disclaimer: for the purpose of this letter, putting the word “FACT” in front of a statement is the same as putting George Michael in bed with a girl in the Careless Whisper film clip)

FACT 1:

You turned 50 last week so Happy Birthday I guess. Anyway, acting roles for men in their 50’s and beyond are usually drama or comedy roles – something you’ve proven to be average at.  Roles that George Clooney, Robert De Niro, Denzel Washington, Tom Hanks, Robin Williams, Anthony Hopkins, Dustin Hoffman, Jack Nicholson, Sean Penn and Colin Firth pretty much have in the bag.  They’re all Oscar winners by the way Tom. A recognition that has eluded you throughout your 30 year career, despite your box office success in the action genre.

Don’t get me wrong. You’re not totally dried up. Any parts calling for a creepy, arrogant jerk are yours. Or Jim Carey’s.  Also – now that you’re 50, you’re a lot less likely to snag a 26 year old. The Desperate For Popularity Boost Actresses are now flocking to Johnny Depp.

MY ADVICE: Quit acting, change careers. Become an agent or something. Change your name to Jerry and remember the good old days when you used to get nominated.

FACT 2:

Everyone is calling you Mission Impossible. Because get it? That’s a movie series you’ve been in. And now they’re making it an omen for your relationships. I notice you got paid 70 million back in 1996 to play the role of Ethan Hunt. Impressive. You’re currently filming a movie called Oblivion… Right? OBLIVION! Is this an omen for your career? They’re paying you a meagre 5 mill Tom. What happened? Even Vanilla Skye; possibly the worst film ever made for Hollywood paid you 20 million. Has it occurred to you and your people that you are no longer bankable, a fact that has nothing to do with your age and everything to do with your freaky psychotic ramblings?

MY ADVICE: SHUT UP!

FACT3:

Apparently you’re fairly high up in terms of rank within the Scientology religion. That’s fine. I don’t know where John Travolta or Will Smith sit within the ranks, but why are they seemingly more balanced than you? Given this, I find it irresponsible to blame your religious beliefs for your weirdness. It’s your OBSESSION with your beliefs, combined with your urge to CONTROL all those around you to partake in the tutti fruit that is scientology.  Obsessions are ok I guess… John Travolta is obsessed with planes. Will Smith is obsessed with making his children more famous than him. I’m obsessed with nice handbags and writing letters to people who will never read them. Whatever. The point is Tom… your obsessions are made up words. Xenu? Weird mate.

MY ADVICE:  Get a hobby that doesn’t include discussing time travel, aliens that exist in human bodies and ANYTHING that blows your mind.

FACT 4 :

In the last week, the media have pointed out something freakier than your front teeth before you had major dental reconstruction.  And that is this: ALL YOUR WIVES GOT DIVORCED AT AGE 33.  Well known celebrity examiner Perez Hilton delved into some numerology which Scientology is apparently in to. Whatever!  Something about the flight of the phoenix and being free. The point is, regardless of who is filing for divorce, women who marry you realise at age 33 that they’re miserable and want a successful career. And BOY do they succeed. Cher – Oscar winner. Nicole Kidman – Oscar winner. Penelope Cruz – Oscar winner. Mimi Rogers won nothing from the academy because she won the Worst Decision Ever Award for introducing Scientology to their future leader.

What you should know is that even if you get married again, I doubt this kooky phenomenon will happen again because of Fact 1. You’re too high maintenance now. Your stocks have plummeted and the only person young and silly enough to recreate the phenomenon is Lindsay Lohan.

MY ADVICE: Find someone older than you. I think Jodie Foster is available. You guys have LOADS in common.

FACT 5:

Some people are saying you’re the next star to be cursed after filming Rock of Ages. Ie. Katie Holmes filing for divorce with you, Russel Brandt split with Katy Perry, Mary J Blige’s charity went broke, Alec Baldwin got a stalker…. I truly believe this film IS cursed. They filmed you writhing around on stage with no shirt on. OF COURSE it’s cursed.

Shut up, that IS a fact.

MY ADVICE: None sorry. It’s too late now. They should have cast someone else.

FACT 6:

Dawson’s Creek: The Reunion movie would be filming now if you didn’t forbid Katie from taking part. For this alone, millions are mad at you.

MY ADVICE: You need to personally fund all production fees associated with this project, and speak to whoever you have to ensure this gets off the ground. Will Joey run back to Dawson’s tender dorky arms, or will she remain helplessly in love under Pacey’s charming spell? These are questions we want answered Tom. SOON.

FACT 7:

Secrets! I think you have a few. Like why’d you divorce Nicole? Did she cheat? Did you?  What’s in the pre-nup with you and Katie? What don’t you want us to know that might come out if you fought for custody? Why has this divorce been over so quickly? Why did she even divorce you? Was she afraid?  IS it true you scared the hell out of Penelope? How come Katie gets primary custody of YOUR child? You ARE Tom Cruise!!

Honestly Tom! You’ll happily tell a journo to put his manners back in or discuss KSW, LRH, orgs and fighting the good fight…….but you won’t tell us the name of your boyfriend.

MY ADVICE: Nobody cares Tom.  Open the closet door already.

FACT 8:

I feel it’s important to tell you something that is IN FACT a fact. You used to be hot. Like even now you’re not THAT ugly. But creepy and hot are non-cohesive traits. I remember going to the movie cinema as a 13 year old girl with my friend, and lining up for what seemed like 45 minutes because it actually was 45 minutes – to watch Top Gun. My friend Megan was 14 and we were there for one reason. YOU!!

Not Val Kilmer. Not the aeroplanes. Not even all those men in uniform. It was all for you. I remember watching you (Maverick) leaning over the sink in your Y-fronts and clenching your jaw tightly after Goose died, anguished over his death and the parallels to the premature death of your own father.  It was a special moment. Not just in the movie’s story line, but also in MY story line. Seeing your jaw ripple? Something happened. I knew I was becoming a woman.

MY ADVICE:  None. You’re not that man anymore. Sorry about that. Your fault though.

Regards

Cyclone Cindy

PS. You’ve completely ruined the whole sliding-into-a-room-in-your-socks-and-underwear-while-singing-into-a-brush thing for all of us.

PPS. I have this idea for an adventure movie based around a geriatric archaeologist called Emphysema Jones, who discovers treasures. Eventually. Interested?

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To future generations.

In a thousand years’ time, when they’re looking back at the remnants of our civilization, they’re going to say, “Wow their beer ads were awesome.”  Maybe they won’t even have beer ads by then, in which case I’d like future generations to know that the ads were also very misleading. Drinking beer does not bring on a plague of reindeer after dark. Furthermore, my tongue has never come out of my mouth to search out beer, and drinking beer DID NOT help me do the entire dance routine from the movie Flashdance.

I did that all on my own.

In fact, there are many more things that future generations should probably know. Here are just a few…

CELEBRITIES: Currently our pop stars are trying to shock us. It’s silly really –like  rocking up to an awards night in a side of beef to make… a STATEMENT!! Waste of a good BBQ if you ask me. Hopefully your pop stars are no longer attempting to shock.  If they are – holy shinoodle what are they DOING? Also, many celebrity ‘actors’ should never have made movies. If you are into classics, I would like to apologise now for Tom Cruise. He used to “act” before he got famous for facilitating the co-habitation of aliens and earthlings on Zenu. Also, sorry about Angelina Jolie. Hopefully she stopped making movies when the world realised staring at someone with your lips slightly parted while holding a rifle is not acting, but like watching a foetus attempt to change a tyre.

Speaking of movies…

REMAKES. Just don’t. I can assure you that a big breakfast without bacon is upsetting. Footloose without Bacon is a travesty.  I don’t know how many versions there are of Batman by now but trust me, that suit is on some kind of human growth hormone. Speaking of which, I also hope they stopped making The Hulk.  Hopefully they have not remade anything that starred Frank Sinatra or Gene Kelly and if they did? I am deeply offended and perplexed for mankind.   The best James Bond was Roger Moore, NOT Zach Efron. And if they’re still making Sex and the City movies, I apologise. Those women used to be in their 30’s when it was slightly more appropriate to discuss your vagina.

CONSERVATION. I’m pretty sure that through the wonders of evolution, Chocolate trees and Cheese trees grow wildly. I hope you’re respecting this amazing wonder of nature and not being all greedy and picking the cheese before it is mature, because there’s a word for you people –  Cheddarphiles!  Please be considerate and go easy on the trees.  I’m sure you learnt in history class at school about the fish that used to live in the ocean.

MONEY. Don’t let money rule your life. Live each day. Don’t sit around being like ‘Oh man this day sucks because my iWatch7 broke and my High-speed 4D Wifi Smell-O-Vision is going too slowly!!’ They’re just ‘things’ that can’t hug you back. Unless there’s an app for that now…. Don’t get mad because you don’t have those expensive shoes that shoot fire and come with inbuilt massage pads that I’m counting on scientists to invent for us. Don’t want too much more than you have. Google Donald Trump; He lived big but died from bacteria that entered his brain shortly after a hair transplant.

LOVE. I don’t care if the divorce rate is 97% and the only living proof of romance is Gary Marshall movies starring Anne Hathaway. Love is worth having. Love can change your life and make you do things you never imagined. Love will keep you alive and warm the cockles. I’m not sure what cockles are but I think I’d prefer mine warm.  I hope you still get butterflies in your stomach when some idiot half-grins at you. I hope they still write love songs and that not all ‘slow jams’ are about getting it on. I hope you’ve experienced yearning and that there’s still heartbreak, because if you’ve never had a broken heart – how do you even know you’re alive?  I hope that romance doesn’t involve only texting and vampire novels, and while we’re on the subject of romance novels; I hope Mills and Boon are still printing the classics. Because this. Fries. My. Burger.

BE SMART. I hope you haven’t become full of yourselves, and you’re educated and live in a world where there are equal rights and positive role models. I hope you’ve elected good politicians and cured diseases. I hope that the world is better prepared for natural disasters and that a packet of cigarettes costs $59 but petrol is down to $1. I hope for Julia Gillard’s sake that carbon was proven to be directly responsible for global warming, and that the globe is, in fact warmer now, because I’ve never heard anyone say, “I just love being nice and cold.” I hope that publishing propaganda on the ‘harm done’ by Vaccinations and Immunisation is illegal. I hope the sitcom, Two and a Half Men is OVER.  But mostly, I hope you are all doing well at mathematics. Because there’s a good chance you’re thinking…  ‘Pfft. When will I ever need this in real life?’ but then… Lara Bingle and Kim Kardashian.

Hopefully you’ve never heard of either of them.

Regrets? Yeah… make mine a double.

(An extended remix verison of Cyclone Cindy as seen in October 2011 issue of DarwinLife Magazine)

I used to sometimes wear red leather pants. I don’t know who deserves an apology more – cows or people… But honestly, if I had a dollar for every time I started my evening by putting on some leather pants and stilettos, moonwalked on a podium, snorted pepper, texted an ex – then made out with someone I totally should not have, and finished it off by eating something that essentially led me to investigate the floor of a room that had a toilet in it, I’d have three dollars and fifty cents worth of regret.

I wish I was one of those, “Sure I’ve done some stupid things but I put it down to experience…. Regrets? No, never!” kind of people. Because as Jennifer Aniston once said, “There are no regrets in life, just lessons.” Mind you, Jennifer Aniston probably also once said, “Hey Brad… put down the weed and come and read that script you got sent. This Mr & Mrs Smith screenplay  is fantastic. You should totally do it.”

And look how that turned out.

We’ve all done things we regret. I’ve certainly done some stupid things and… DOINK!  Forget experience and learning curves ok? I am NOT a better person for the silly things I’ve done that I regret. And neither is Charlie Sheen. Or the Australian Labour Party.  Here’s some more examples of regrets I have that DID NOT make me a better person:

Breaking up.– We’re all pillars of dignity when it comes to most things, but a good ole fashioned dumping can always turn you into an insane person. Once when this guy and I broke up, I wrote him a song because he thought I had a beautiful voice. Although… he also thought I looked like Catherine Zeta Jones so I’m kinda left questioning the accuracy of his senses.  So anyway in a bid to let him know I didn’t care, I wrote: The water underneath our bridge is a glass of no regret. I sent it to him. A few months later he told me he was engaged. I won’t go into details regarding my behaviour. Let’s just say Helen Mirren would not be pleased. And that glass of no regret? Tsunami.

Fashion choices. I’ve done the military look, the grunge look, the cowboy look, the rock chic look (enter leather pants) and blue eyeshadow. I’m not proud of who I sometimes dressed like (a moron), but I’m totally over that phase! What jumpsuit? I don’t know.

That kebab. Sure, this 24 hour take-away looks mildy dodgy and the lady serving looks like she just spent 30 minutes outside the chemist waiting for her prescription, but you’re hungry! However not all fast food is created equal and there’s a good chance your pancreas will say “To hell with it” and spurt it out your mouth, and you’ll spend the night in a sick sweat with visions of e-coli tomatoes dancing in your head.        

High School. I listened to a lot of George Michael. I talked WAY too much in class, signed my name on tests as Cindy Trent D’arby and was usually late. However, I was a good girl. And reasonably fun. I wish I hadn’t spent so much time basing my personality on everybody else’s. I wish I hadn’t worn my fringe teased so high. I wish I hadn’t been so scared of people named Alyssa Green. I wish I had just said ‘MY SELF-ESTEEM WON’T BE DICTATED by how many boys like me, or the fact that I’m not rich and famous like Madonna.’

Not telling him.  Of course I was nuts about him. Everyone knew it. Even after that Hey-This-Brief-Crazy-Fling-Was-Fun-While-It-Lasted ‘thing’ we did. I was pretending it was cool after we broke up. There were nights I stayed up listening to some crappy music, imagining us romping through fields together and hugging kittens on a cloud of rainbows. If I had that time again, I would let you know every time your laugh was the best thing I heard all day. How just being with you was awesome. You made me one cheesy piece of crap and you never knew.

Sun damage. I mean…. Solarium damage. Living through two Melbourne winters got me addicted. That bed was like cocaine to me. That brown bimbo at the counter was my dealer, and the accelerator cream she recommended was like lacing my crack with prescription drugs. Except instead of dying dubiously in my hotel room and getting a well publicised autopsy report that Entertainment Tonight filled a whole show with, I got freckles. And wrinkles. And this regret will probably be with me til I die, hopefully not from skin cancer. Presumably not from an overdose.


Treating your mum like a jerk. We all get into bad moods and take them out on people we love the most. But when we were sixteen a ‘curfew’ felt as though it was some Communist asshole imposition on us by the tyrants that are our parents. But my mother CONTORTED HER ORGANS to give me life and it was very painful. My mother is a very nice woman who doesn’t ever want bad things to happen to me, and tells me things for my own good. Yes I look like a tart in that skirt. And yes I should be careful. And yes, I should not put my elbows on the table like a caveman who suddenly had access to tables. She was right, she was right this whole time.

It’s interesting to note that Edith Piaf was addicted to opiate-based painkillers when she wrote “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.”  For the low-brow amongst you, that would be like Lady Gaga taking ecstacy before writing, “Just Dance.”   Also when Britney Spears sang “Ooops I did it again” I don’t think she seemed very sincere, and I doubt she meant that ‘oops’ part at all.  However I DO think she might now be sorry about all that red leather.

Look what I’m saying is that we all have regrets that fail to inspire self enlightenment – small and big. The eating an entire tub of Nutella kind – The paying money to see a Tom Cruise movie kind – The not serving Julia Roberts even if she’s dressed like a hooker kind… and then WOOPS!

Um… the kind where you have a car accident in someone else’s car because you were applying mascara while driving. And then… WOOPS! You accidentally have another car accident because you were taking off your stilettos while reversing because you could feel the heels getting damaged on the accelorator and brake pads. Actually he shouldn’t even have been parked there but whatever. Go ahead and make my regret a double.

And say what you want about learning curves and journeys, because not all mistakes lead to enrichment.  Regret is human nature and if we actually had a dollar for every time we did something stupid – the biggest idiots would be the richest. And we’ve all seen what happens when iditos get rich.  I’m looking at you Reality TV.

The bear and the rabbit

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]

Chuck Norris, a Paddle Pop and me.

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.

Sorry. And that.

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.

Charlie Sheen: a second letter I doubt I’ll be sending

Dear Charlie
(or should I be addressing  you as The Vatican Assassin??)

I already wrote to you back in April last year, and much of what I said then still applies, however now that you’ve awoken the sleeping giant of CRAZY, I have an overwhelming urge to tell you how we – the public are interpreting your incoherent ramblings. (Tom Cruise makes sense compared to you). But let me start by offering some well known, well researched advice…. Three words Chuck.

DRUGS ARE BAD.

Now that I think about it, most of the letters I write that ‘I doubt I’ll be sending,’ are admonishing celebrities such as you to LAY OFF THE SUBSTANCE ABUSE. You are SO NOT rock and roll. You are so NOT Hugh Heffner. You are so NOT a warlock and you DON’T have tiger blood.    Please close your mouth now.

You are a train wreck. Have been for a while. Except that while before your engine was partly damaged, your exterior was looking a bit worse for wear, and your electrical circuits were faulty… you somehow managed to stay on the track. But dude. You’ve rammed the train into an enormous ditch somewhere in bushland and there’s little chance of recovering any spare parts.

To make it clearer to you, here are some of your words of late with ABC News’ Andrea Canning in Los Angeles, followed by our interpretation of those words.

“I’m super-bitchin’and I don’t believe myself to be an addict.”
You’re a total addict. You’re in denial.

“[The drug I’m on is] called Charlie Sheen. It’s not available because if you try it once you will die. Your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body.”
A million women; predominantly hookers, have both sampled and had in large doses some of ‘Charlie Sheen’ and I believe that although they may have no dignity, they still have their face.

“I’m underpaid right now. I’m tired of pretending like I’m not special. I’m tired of pretending like I’m not bitchin’, a total … rock star from Mars.”
Yes. You are EXTREMELY special. Not many people can boast that they got completely mocked by the hosts of both the Golden Globes AND the Oscars. Not many actors (except maybe the aforementioned Cruise) can dominate this much media interest from one interview. And yes. Although your father Martin is very much an earthling, and despite the cliché “Men are from Mars” you clearly have immortal powers because how else have you escaped prison?? Rock star? Find a guitar and start strumming because I’ve only ever seen you play piano.

“I’m sorry, man, but I’ve got magic. I’ve got poetry in my fingertips. Most of the time—and this includes naps—I’m an F-18, bro. And I will destroy you in the air. I will deploy my ordinance to the ground.”
You’re sorry? Don’t apologise Charlie. Obviously you’ve been watching Platoon again. Haven’t you? Remember it was a CHARACTER. Just a character.  You were ACTING. It’s not REAL LIFE. Got it?

“There’s a new sheriff in town. And he has an army of assassins.”
There’s a new train wreck in Hollywood. And he has delusions of grandeur.

Guys, it’s right there in the thing, duh! We work for the Pope, we murder people. We’re Vatican assassins. How complicated can it be? What they’re not ready for is guys like you and I and Nails and all the other gnarly gnarlingtons in my life, that we are high priests, Vatican assassin warlocks. Boom. Print that, people. See where that goes.” 
Put the crack pipe down and step away from the whiskey.

In response to your  father’s suggestion that you need AA because addiction is a form of cancer:

“My conduct is bitchin’, my condition is perfect. OK, Pop — walk through a cancer ward right now and find any of those motherf***ers who look like me.”
You like that word bitchin’ a lot huh? Here’s a photo of you where you look pretty damn sick to me.

Explaining your new tattoo which says “Death From Above” across your chest, the slogan from your father’s film Apocalypse Now:

“It’s the banner from the death card that Kilgore [the Robert Duvall character] is throwing on his victims. But also falling from it is the apple from [poet Shel Silverstein‘s] ‘The Giving Tree.’ There’s my life. Deal with it. I’m not just my dad. I’m putting up the river to kill another part of me, which is Kurtz. I’m every character in between, save for that little weirdo with his guts strapped in, begging for water. That’s not me. But there are parts of me that are Dennis Hopper. ‘You have the right to kill me, but you do not have the right to judge me.’ Boom. That’s the whole movie. That’s life.”
The tattoo parlour should not be administering pain relief to customers who have been ‘banging seven gram rocks’ before arriving.

“Sean Penn was over at my house the other night and we had a few laughs.”
Sean Penn was over at your house the other night and you had a few lines.

On alcoholics anonymous:

It’s the work of sissies. The only thing I’m addicted to is winning. This bootleg cult, arrogantly referred to as Alcoholics Anonymous, reports a 5 percent success rate. My success rate is 100 percent. Do the math … another one of their mottoes is ‘Don’t be special, be one of us.’ Newsflash: I am special, and I will never be one of you! I have a disease? Bulls**t! I cured it with my brain, with my mind. I cured it, I’m done … you don’t look like you’re having a lot of fun. I’m gonna hang out with these two smoking hotties and fly privately around the world. It might be lonely up here but I sure like the view.
Newsflash: You have a disease. You’ve tried curing it with your brain, but because your brain is mostly in the end of your penis, your self-imposed treatment has failed. In reference to the ‘two smoking hotties…’ No Charlie. Denise Richards was a smoking hottie. Brooke Mueller was up there. Those two bimbozettes were being toilet trained when you were sampling Heidi Fleiss’s finest. They are NOT hot. One of them is barely what I would call ‘attractive’ but hey, beauty is in the eye of the man beholding his crack goggles. They are gold digging naïve young skanks who are being flown privately around the world, who LOVE LOVE LOVE your money, and don’t mind opening up their legs to get their hands on some of yours.

There. Translation complete. For now. 

I can’t stress to you enough the importance of being sobre at this point. Oh… And silent.

I know you very recently opened a ‘twitter’ account.  Shut that thing down right now. Before you get any more bats**t crazy. Like what the hell is this picture about? And why did you put the caption “Winner 2012?” You’re being ironic right? 
 

It may be too late. I said to you before that we all love a bad boy with a high libido. But at no time did anybody say that they love a drug-infested porn-star junkie who has been watching too many sci-fi/war films.

Warlock? For real?  
Just stop. Thanks mate.

Regards,
Cindy

Merry Christmas. You’re dumped!

Hello and welcome to left field. Because the information I’m about to discuss came out of nowhere. Well not nowhere. Actually like a million news and gossip web sites. But it certainly did surprise me.

It’s Christmas time. You know… that special time of year when your days are supposed to be merry and bright. A time for decking the halls, celebrating Christmas cheer and giving joy to the world.  You have a lover, boyfriend, girlfriend, partner, whatever. You’ve been wondering since early December what to get your loved one. Around the 10-14th of December, you have a fair idea, and embark on that bitch of a journey that we call Christmas Shopping.

It doesn’t occur to you to perhaps hold off. Because  say… you might break up. Because who breaks up right before a major holiday?

According to a Facebook study, most people actually do break up right before a holiday. And this week, celebrities have proved that Facebook studies are absolutely 100% on the money when it comes to predicting and analysing social trends.

In the last month, celebrity splits have included Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens, Eva Longoria and Tony Parker, Christina Aguilera and Whatshisname, Liz Hurley and Arun Nayar, and (drum-roll… because this one actually made me gleefully happy for some delusional reason)… Ryan Reynolds and Scarlett Johansson.

Look I could analyse that last one for ages. Actually I could (and have been considering for some time) dedicate an entire post just to Ryan Reynolds: Sexiest Man Alive, future Hollywood royalty and man of my dreams. But what would I write? Other than I love Ryan Reynolds all over the page, along with my future signature: Cindy Reynolds.

                           

                      

(I know…thank me later!)

The truth with his breakup to Scar-Jo is: there was way too much sexy going on with those two. Bombshells should never hook up with Sex-Gods. It never works. The only way it does work, is if one or both parties let themselves go. And if you think I’m wrong… umm – Brad and Angie.

Interestingly as I write this, it is occurring to me that I too, have been dumped right before Christmas. AND – I myself have dumped a guy right before Christmas. Does it help me understand why it happens? No.

I reflect momentarily on my own festive splits.

Getting dumped at Christmas
Quite possibly the loveliest breakup ever. Also the saddest since I had decided I was going to marry him because not only did he tick every box, but he also knew who Gene Kelly was and at 26, I was learning that was very rare among spunky straight men under the age of 50. (I know… let’s not go there.)

We were going for a drive one Sunday afternoon in December. While driving, we both agreed we’d been a little snarky at each other and questioned why. He told me perhaps it was best we break up. I was hurt, a little shocked, but have never once felt bitterness towards him. I still went to his house on Christmas day with his family, we still exchanged gifts, and to this day I think he still refers to me as “a good woman with many fine qualities.”

Because I adored his family, we remained friends and in contact, and I wondered often if we’d ever get back together, but by the time Easter came around, we’d moved on.. Mainly because I’d met John who didn’t tick many boxes except the one labelled “Must make me swoon.”

Dumping at Christmas
Best move I ever made. This guy so had it coming, the mongrel. About the third week into November, after we had been seeing each other every day for the last 3 months…. And truly – having so much fun together… he told me that he was planning on marrying some chick in America. Oh. Um…. Where does this leave me? Does she know about this?

She did not. But apparently she had ticked every box for him and he had already decided he would marry her. (Hmm… sound familiar?)

The catch? Oh, he didn’t want to break up with me (although essentially he just bloody well did, didn’t he?) No he wanted to continue hanging out, making out, just as we had been doing. He wasn’t going to be seeing her for a year, so presumed we could continue the relationship.

Normally in this instance of course you would tell the guy to have a nice life and cut all contact.  The second catch? He was my downstairs neighbour. So I foolishly and against my better judgement kept seeing him. It was too easy. And seriously, he would come upstairs; knock on my door, and say, “Umm Hi. I can’t stop thinking about you.” So like an idiot, I presumed I could make him forget said girl in America, because actions speak louder than words, and he’s not exactly getting on a plane to see her any time soon. But he’s here at my door now!

This continued until I started a new job. On the 1st of December. My hours were insane and I had no time for him. By the 16th December, I was making out with a guy from my new work who was friendly, honest, cute and charming. I told my downstairs neighbour on Christmas Eve that I was seeing a guy at work. He begged to have me back, promising me the chick in the US was a pipe dream. I was real. For that compliment I told him his hair reminded me of steel wool and that it was too late.

The guy from work is now my husband.

Neither break up had anything to do with wanting it to be over in time for Christmas. It just happened to be December. But when you look at the Facebook stats, it’s quite incredible and perhaps subconsciously the breakups had everything to do with a desire to end the year without unwanted baggage.

Here is the graph which shows breakups times at their highest and lowest.

Relationship expert Terri Orbuch, a sociology professor who is also a marriage and family councillor believes breakups absolutely do happen more over the holidays saying, “Pretending that everything is great and being a couple in front of family and friends is not beneficial for you or your partner. It’s difficult pretending to be in love.”

When you’re dumped, you just want answers.  Like… “It’s not you. It’s me. Come to think of it, it’s not me either. It might actually be Santa.”

But when you’re a pop culture junkie who has just heard about a celebrity breakup, you want reasons.

Ryan and Scarlett are claiming the ‘distance is hard’ thing but as we now know, one of them needed to ugly up, and didn’t.

Christina is claiming things between her and her husband were really unhealthy and that she was torn breaking up with him. This is actually skank for: I met a guy on set of my movie and wanted him. I also want women. I want everyone. Because I’m dirty.

Vanessa and Zac are claiming their relationship could go no further and had been ending over time, but truthfully Zac hasn’t yet been able to take full advantage of his new found fame as an adult male and probably wants to scatter his seeds.

Eva Longoria and Tony Parker are splitting because he cheated. Although they note: irreconcilable differences… she actually found hundreds of sexting messages to some other girl. My question here is: Why do so many famous male athletes cheat? My answer would be: Roids. Too much testosterone to keep it contained.

Liz and Arun claim to have been split since last month, but in actual fact, Liz can’t resist the charms of a cashed up bogan with a full head of hair and an artificial smile.

What’s interesting to note from the Facebook study, is that many breakups occur at the start of Summer. It’s a well known fact that more men cheat in Summer than in Winter.

I wonder how much higher the peak on the graph would be in December if it was only conducted in countries that have Summer in December. 

Another interesting piece of info from the study was the day of the week when the most people go from “In a Relationship” to “Single.”  

It’s Mondays.

That’s less than 3 days away.

So if you haven’t already purchased your partner’s Christmas gift, you may want to hold off til Tuesday.

Halloween and Melbourne Cup. Is there a difference?

Halloween is a silly event. Silly but fun. As one of my friends on Facebook so perfectly summed up: She loves Halloween, but wonders why Aussies still can’t embrace a reason to dress up, party and have a serious sugar fix! Amen to that sista!

Halloween has grown in popularity in recent years but there are still plenty of haters. I think it’s because we Aussies don’t like anyone knocking on our door, unless we expect them. Insurance salesmen, Seventh Day Adventists, and Trick-or-Treaters. They might as well be vermin.

I will admit to almost spitting out my juice when I opened up the Coles catalogue only to see a double page spread on pumpkin specials, and cheap lollies and chocolate to “stock up for trick or treaters this Halloween..” Wouldn’t have seen that one twenty years ago!

But what we have embraced is the excuse to party. Every year we see photos of celebs on their way to Halloween bashes, so we want to do it too.

As a result – most Australian’s under the age of 50 are fairly willing participants in the Halloween ‘party.’ Particularly some of today’s female youth who practically salivate at the opportunity to dress like a stripper.

                               Kim Kardashian, The Hilton sisters and Pink

             Heidi Klum, Glee’s Matthew Morrison and Christina Aguilera

Anyway – Halloween is over for another year. But it really is like an unwanted hair. No matter how many times you cut it or pluck it, it’s going to come back.  Probably stronger and more alive than it ever was before.

~~~

Melbourne Cup is another silly event. Silly but fun. But many more Aussies have embraced this day on the calendar. And why wouldn’t they?

It’s a reason to dress up, party, try your luck at picking a winning horse, and have a serious champagne fix. And – the only pumpkins you’ll see are the ones who failed to get a decent spray tan.

Melbourne cup has also grown in popularity. To be honest I’m really tired and I can’t be bothered checking the actual stats on that , like I so often do – because you know – I’m super dedicated to facts…..

But I know that a couple of years ago they limited ticket sales to those who purchased PRIOR to cup day. And they were capping it at 120,000. Which means they must have believed it would go over that if they didn’t limit numbers. Which means it must have been getting more popular.

Doesn’t take a genius….

And as Melbourne Cup has grown in popularity with celebrities and elite social sets, so too its popularity has rippled down to the bogans and slappers of the world. Those who don’t understand that when attending any sport involving horses, one must be a lady or gentleman at all times. One must be dignified and respectful…. Distinguished and refined.

I’ve posted here before on appropriate racewear – and how the masses tend to ignore this age old rule of race-going. But still every year they turn out. Scuzzy and sloshed. And you know, you wouldn’t have seen that twenty years ago either.

I also wrote briefly on ‘costume attire’ for the races, and how it’s kind of okay and funny in groups, but on your own it’s just freaky.

So I can only come up with 1 good reason for these get-ups.

  Ruby Rose and her Elvira hair, Jennifer Hawkins as Minnie Mouse, Kate Waterhouse as the Statue of Liberty?

            Sophie Monk as little Indian girl, Brynne Edelsten as Vegas showgirl, and designer Zandra Rhodes as Britney Spears – the crazy years.

Is this the result of a dare? A lost bet? If not – can someone politely inform them that Halloween was 2 days before Cup day, and perhaps they should’ve changed the headwear?

I really, really love my hair!

When hair is in the shower drain, it’s revolting. When hair is in your feta-cheese-and-marinated-pumpkin panini, it’s downright vomitous. When hair is on your bikini-line, it’s been a while between boyfriends. But when hair is YOUR OWN HEAD, it’s NON-STOP FOLLICULAR DRAMA. If you’re a girl, that is.

Guys seem not to care, unless they’re bald, in which case any reference to hair is usually HILARIOUS to everyone else, and secretly sad for them. Particularly when it’s their partner asking them to look again at the pillow case and see all the hairs that fell out over night.

Welcome, coiffure comrades to the Cyclone Cindy post inspired by Britney Spears, Willow Smith, The Little Mermaid, Sesame Street, and a $50,000 defamation law suit, where we learn to love our hair.

Not too many people can openly and proudly announce: I love my hair. Except for Shane Warne. I have complained about my hair for most of my life. And in my adult years, I have attempted to hide the REAL Cindy Hair. The hair that -yes. Looks as though I just walked in from the centre of a cyclone.

My everyday hair

But I’m tired of tying my hair back in a fashion that makes me look as though I’m about to leap onto a gently moonlit stage with Mikhail Baryshnikov. Or start casually, yet oh so sophisticatingly side-step with guitar in hand to a Robert Palmer song. The slick-back-bun days are over. As is the Alice in Wonderland (Oh, I’m just wearing this headband to cover the grey roots) look… which I totally rock when my hair is really straight, by the way. Which isn’t very often.

Yep, I am over the days of hiding behind my unruly locks. I will embrace the frizz by nurturing each and every wiry strand with the humidity and heat in which I dwell. I will shun the blow dryer and the GHD. (Which incidentally stands for Girls Hates Dreadlocks.)

Instead I’ll start experimenting with a little product and a lot of self love. I will embrace more of the brave hearted lion, and less of Dorothy’s perfect pigtails. And I’ve based this decision on decades of personal research. Good hair days. Bad hair days. Hair trends and hair philosophies. Celebrity hair. Cartoon hair. Puppet Hair. And hair that costs a fortune.

Let’s start with Celebrity Hair and Britney Spears.

She has inspired me on so many levels. Mainly for one reason though. SHE DOESN’T CARE. She’s one of the world’s richest entertainers, and yet you often see her with her hair floppily tied back in an un-kept ponytail. She shuns people like Ken Paves and secretly laughs behind Jennifer Aniston’s perfectly manicured locks. “What a waste,” chuckles Britney to herself. “That money could be spent on new Ugg boots.” She even went so far as to get rid of it. ALL of it. A woman who can shave her head for no other reason than to tell the world… “You wanna piece of me? Here – have some blonde hair and black roots!” is a champion in my opinion.

Willow Smith

Daughter of Will and Jada Pinkett, this somewhat talented and spoilt confident little nine year old felt so strongly about wearing her hair how she wants, she recorded a song all about it. Sony have yet to release it, but I saw a sneak peak and she’s whippin’ that hair all over the place. It’s wild and wonderful. The song is called Whip It, and she really can. Probably not what any mother of a nine year old girl wants to hear, but Rihanna: Eat your heart out.

The Little Mermaid

The first ranga Disney Princes sure has gorgeous hair right? I would trade colours to have that kind of hair. And that’s my point. Loving your hair is not just about the style. The follicular fate with which one is born goes much deeper than style alone. Colour is what people notice and I happen to believe that gingers get a rough deal. There are plenty of beautiful red heads. Ok, so my daughter is one of them, but I sincerely love it. And I love being told by at least 3 strangers a day what beautiful hair she has. Because it is. And she does. And thank goodness for Ariel.

Sesame Street

No words required here. Instead I will show you a clip I watched. Remarkable how a puppet can explain better than anyone the simple concept of loving what you have and using it.

 

My defamation lawsuit.

I’ve been hesitant to ever mention this as the published word, but I am going to be very careful here. Some years ago prior to my wedding, I decided it was best to grow out most of the layers in my hair in order to have hair options for my wedding day. I wasn’t sure what dress I would end up wearing and if I had chosen a turtle neck dress, the hair would have HAD to be up. I didn’t but… a girl can never be too prepared for such things.

Following my wedding and honey moon I moved to Darwin. A hot humid town with a tropical climate. Weary of the frizz factor I asked the hairdresser for some layering around the face, but nothing too short as my curly hair gets worse in the wet. I’ll spare the graphic details, but I walked out with a mullet. Like the posh spice hair style that was popular a few years back, but with a long piece hanging down the back beneath it all.

Tragic is an understatement. My new husband who rarely comments let alone notices my hair, pulled a face that said it all. So after 2 emails and about 5 phone calls to the salon later, and not even an attempt to make contact with me to apologise or rectify the appalling haircut… I actually did nothing.

I went to Sydney where my old hairdresser said, “WHO did this to you?” and proceeded to fix it by chopping it all off at my shoulders. Then I fell pregnant and happy hormones and the wonders of prenatal vitamins took hold. My hair grew fast and I forgot all about it.

THEN – one day after the baby was born, and I was feeling particularly depressed with whole concept of expressing milk and my newfound Dairy Farmers membership and feeling very much like a Jersey Cow, I remembered the feeling of loss. Hair loss. Un-natural hair loss. (At least baldness happens gradually). So I did what any self respecting 35 year old woman would do, and started a group on facebook.

Hello trouble!

Word got around and before you know it, my NEW hairdresser was telling ME about this girl who got sued for publishing that she had been BUTCHERED. Haha. That was me. And then the scissors dropped.

If only I’d seen the Sesame Street clip sooner. I had been very attached to my Versace hair. (I prefer the term Versace to Nanny Fine). Instead I took what small amount of vengeance I could muster in such a situation and screwed up worse than my hairdresser did.

Now I look back at those shorter hair days and think it looks ok. Even pretty good here. (Shame about those Christmas bauble earrings). In fact most days I think my hair looks pretty good, provided it’s been washed less than 2 weeks ago.  So I’m going to say it now even though I don’t fully believe it yet. But I really, really love my hair!

Do I look like I give a Duckface?

(As seen in September 2010 issue of Darwin Life Magazine)

Gone are the days of smiling for the camera. Apparently. Saying ‘cheese’ for a photo is so last decade because the DUCKFACE phenomenon has taken hold of lips everywhere. The word you should now be saying when a camera is in your face is ‘prune.’

I’m not even joking. Duckface is an epidemic, and it’s not pretty. What’s duckface? I hear you ask.

For those who haven’t see it, it’s that overly posed, lip protruding look that is supposed to make your lips look larger and your cheekbones more fabulous and defined. A combination of pout and kiss.

The Urban Dictionary explains as follows: “Stupid facial expression put forth by stupid people that don’t know how to smile. Made by moving both lips as far up and outward as possible. Commonly seen in photos of complete idiots trying to look like they have attitude when they really have a wedgie.”

Okay, I added that last sentence myself.

Looking at some photos posted on Facebook from Darwin’s party season, it’s apparent that predominantly women but also plenty of men have decided that duckface is somehow cool and sexy. Memo to all duckfacers: you just look like you’re mid-fart.

If you’re not in the majority that look flatulently inclined: Don’t be fooled into thinking duckface is okay. If you happen to be beautiful, you just look like you’re concealing a weapon… the kind of duckface that says “change the charge to manslaughter and I’ll tell you where I hid the bodies.”

In fact many repeat offenders of the Duckface were probably the prettiest girl in school… Girls like Miley Cyrus with lustrous hair, piercing eyes and adorable freckles. However pull the duckface and I find myself distracted by a mouth trying to be an entirely different orifice.

When I first realised duckface was the norm, I thought to myself: Whatever happened to aspiring for the ‘Dolly Magazine Cover Girl – So Happy I’m Delirious’ look in every photo? When did Zoolander’s ‘Blue Steel’ stop being satire? When did it become acceptable to have a photo taken at the precise moment you realise,”I look like a monkey and I smell like one too.”

Where did this atrocious trend start?

I delved into the duckface roots and my informal research told me it’s been around since Marky Mark was dropping his jeans for Calvin Klein. In fact celebrities were the founders of duckface. Stars like The Olsen twins, Renee Zellweger and even men like Sly Stallone whose mouth often resembled a badly inflamed haemorrhoid.

And we can’t forget repeat offenders like Miley and Lindsay Lohan. Shame about Lindsay since back in the day – before bad movies and rehab she was a red carpet smiler. I think her duckface started after Herbie Love Bug. The car was supposed to be Fully Loaded Linds, not you!

So next time someone breaks out the camera and says, ‘Smile!’ remember that smiles are beautiful and remind us of happy faces. Duckface makes me think of your butt hole.

DeRossi… DeGeneres… Is it DeBateable?

So I read today that Portia De Rossi has officially taken on the name of her husband wife, Ellen De Generes.  Bigpond.com news reported as follows:

Portia de Rossi has officially taken her partner Ellen Degeneres’ last name.  A Los Angeles Superior Court commissioner granted De Rossi’s request to take the last name of her partner during a closed hearing on Thursday. The actress will now legally be known as Portia Lee James DeGeneres.

The couple was married in August 2008. The 37-year-old Australian-born actress asked for the name change last month. Neither woman attended the hearing. They married during the five-month window in which gay marriage was legal in California.

What a DeBacle! I mean I’m sure they’re both DeLighted, but isn’t this DeCision of theirs a little DePressing? I don’t mean to be DeRogatory, Lesbian marriage is not exactly my DePartment, but I think this could be DeScribed as DeNial. Let’s not be DeLusional here; in this day and age MANY women are DeTermined to keep their own name. And why shouldn’t they?

It’s costly and annoying, which could be enough of a DeTerrant for some…  But there are those that find it DeSirable. Without the shared name they feel DeTached.  

Yet I’m wondering if this is the start of Portia’s DeMise? Did Ellen DeMand it? Was she DeFiant? And if so, why didn’t Portia DeCline? Is she that DeMure? Or is she so DeLeriously in love that she thinks it’s well DeServed.

Okay, enough of that. My spell check is going mental.   Let me now speak freely without the DePlorable use of the letters ‘De. ‘

Now I’m not gay, so perhaps someone who is can explain this to me while I continue to lift my jaw up off the floor. But…. Isn’t a lesbian relationship about 2 women being women who love women?  Isn’t the idea of patriarchal dominance one that might offend gay women?

 

Here are 2 ladies, successful in their own right, who were lucky enough to seize a brief moment in Californian history by legally marrying. And I get that traditionally with marriage; the woman will often take on the man’s name. ..  But aren’t the confines of traditional marriage something that gays are trying desperately to challenge? And change?

Isn’t it conservatives and traditionalists that are against the very idea of 2 women legally marrying?

Bowl me over with a marshmallow, but isn’t this name changing bizzo basically telling the world…. Portia is the woman… and Ellen is the MAN!!!???

I mean just look at what they wore on their wedding day and it’s fairly apparent that Ellen is in possession of slightly more masculine qualities. Actually I think I would have been more shocked to see Ellen wearing a dress than I was to hear they were getting hitched.

 

But again – someone explain this to me because I just don’t get it. WHY BOTHER?

Perhaps my personal resentment at changing my own name is what’s really hindering my understanding of this. If I could have kept my own name I would have. (I think). I say that like my husband is a controlling male chauvinist Nazi which he is not. But we did agree that I would do so prior to having children.

I love the idea of my children being connected in name to both him and me. And before we start listing all the other options available, like hyphenation and blending both names to create a new one… Forget it. I was not interested. I guess I’m traditional in some ways, and when it comes to family, I certainly am.

So when I found out I was pregnant with my first baby I started the process and it was expensive and annoying and time consuming. But that isn’t what bothered me.

I have blogged before about the importance of names.  Your name (first and last) becomes your brand. It’s how people know you, how they remember you. Over a period of 33 years, my names are how I was recognised. To change part of that was perplexing. I didn’t want to change my signature. Nor the name that appeared on my business card. 

The fact is it didn’t matter because I wasn’t exactly going to be handing out business cards at Mother’s Group.. and I didn’t know it at the time, but most of the people that knew me before changing my name, either knew me well enough to not need a ‘name’ to recognise me by, or would eventually cease to be in my life once the baby came.

But hello? NOBODY in Hollywood changes their name because in LALA land, that is precisely how you get work. By becoming a brand, and having a recognisable name. For example:

  • Katie Cruise? No, Katie Holmes.
  • Angelina Pitt? No, Angelina Jolie.
  • Nicole Urban? No, Nicole Kidman.
  • Catherine Douglas. Who’s that? Ooohhh, you mean Zeta Jones!

 

Portia De Generes. Of course we all still know precisely who it is. But now she is (in my opinion) defining herself by her partner. She is telling the world, “When you think of me – think of Ellen.” Now isn’t that a no-no in Hollywood, or is it insignificant to the public because we do it anyway. Like Katie Holmes. She doesn’t need his sir name for all of us to think “that poor woman, being married to a schizo.”

I guess it’s not our business. It just surprised me and I found myself questioning the WHY.  (Sigh) For whatever reason, both Ellen and Portia seem like lovely people. 

 Perhaps it just DePends on the individual couple – Gay or not!  It’s for them to DeCide. Either way I am done DeLiberating over it.

A letter I doubt I’ll be sending… To my beloved George Michael.

Beautiful George

As you find yourself behind bars, I find myself craving chocolate ones. Meanwhile you are possibly wishing you could be in one; dancing under the influence of ecstasy while embracing a Zac Effron look-alike under a strobe.  Ahhh, good times… But you know what I’ve discovered?  Life, relationships, illegal activities and tampons are all the same. There’s ALWAYS strings attached.

In all the years you’ve been part of my life (about two thirds of it now), I never thought the time would come that I would be sending you a letter to say something other than “I love you, and yes. You can have my sex.”

However G, it’s time.  I only write these letters (the ones I don’t send) to those who I feel need some guidance or advice from one who is removed and has nothing to gain. I’m just an ageing fan of an ageing pop star here to tell you how I see it.

So today I read you were denied bail. Denied bail? Not even Paris “I thought it was gum” Hilton was denied bail. And Tuesday night you were sentenced to serve four weeks in prison and spend the remaining 4 weeks on licence, (whatever that means…)

Here you are arriving at court...

You were also banned from driving for five years, fined £1,250 and ordered to pay £100 in costs. All because after smashing into a shop front window, you were found slumped over the steering wheel of your Range Rover (exceptional choice of vehicle by the way) whilst high on cannabis.

Just goes to show that high isn’t really the correct term because last time I was slumped over anything I most certainly was not feeling high.

Anyway drugs. They’re bad. They might make you feel good temporarily… fleeting moments of calm and happiness or excitement and fulfilment. But as you know it’s not permanent.  A criminal record is. Not that big a deal when you’re rich and famous I suppose….

 “Give a WHAM, give a BAM, but don’t give a DAMN!” Great lyrics to dance to, but you seem to have taken it on board as your personal daily mantra.

It’s apparent that you’re not learning anything from your mistakes. Strings, George, STRINGS! There’s always a consequence.

So this jail time is for hitting a shop front back in July this year.  But in August 2009 you smashed into truck pretty bad and were apparently ‘out of it.’ This happened right after you got your license legally reinstated, after having driven under the influence back in 2007.

Look it’s hard for me to tell you anything that doesn’t include praise or admiration. Back in 1988 when I was 14, you changed my life.

With fluke tickets to your FAITH tour and a ‘well beyond my years’ sense of maturity and sexuality… by the third song into your show, you’d told me you wanted my sex. You looked right at me and I know you meant it.

It didn’t matter that Marcus Eley: the new boy in tenth grade from New Zealand who joined the school basketball team, and was in my opinion; hotter than the bonnet of a Ferrari after completing a formula one…. wouldn’t look at me other than to tell me I was a hairy mammoth. Because what did he know?

Was HE famous? Was HE a pop star? Puh! I didn’t need him to want me because I knew deep down that you did. That moment at your concert, you gave me a superiority complex sense of confidence that carried me right through to womanhood.

I owe you George. So telling you this is not easy for me. But I have to say it. There are 3 kinds of ‘hits’ and you need to know the difference.

  1. Hit as in smash.  Example: My car hit the window but I have no recollection…”
  2. Hit as in toke, pill or injection… with reference to using drugs. Example: “I just need one more hit and I’ll be fine.”
  3. Hit as in number one song or record. Example: George Michael has another hit record with his 5th song on the album going to number 1.”

LESS of numbers 1 and 2. MORE of number 3. Maybe even consider rehab. You’re getting predictable and boring and stupid and old and even slightly (don’t hate me) chubbs…. But I blame the munchies for that.

Your career is basically at the cleaners. You’re not totally washed up yet, but the soaps out and ready. You can’t exactly tour again without new stuff, but you have nothing new that’s any good. Was anyone but Perez Hilton and me even aware that you released a song last Christmas? Not the actual song, “Last Christmas.” I mean the song you wrote in December last year called “I Dreamed of Christmas.” 

Your songs may get played at weddings and in gay clubs and at my house and in my car and in my head, and even at some popular venues on retro night, but it’s time for something new.

New music. The New George. Never to be arrested for drugs again. The George who knows all about strings.

Speaking of strings, and soap…. And getting arrested…

You might want to consider soap on a rope for the remaining weeks in prison. You and public bathrooms don’t have a great track record, and know what they say about dropping the soap….

So take care, and remember that you do have fans. We still love you but are concerned for your future.  And we’re waiting George…. Waiting for your next real hit.

Much love
Cindy

xoxo
PS. Yes. Still can.

I’m not a piece of meat!

Forget John Malkovich. Being Lady Gaga must be utterly exhausting. Her commitment to making sure every outfit is a statement of some deep personal belief is admirable, however this time I think; (along with half the world) she went too far.

So what’s my beef? Exactly!

Let me just say I’m not a vegetarian but both of my sisters are and I fully respect a person’s moral decision to refrain from eating animal bi-products. Whether it’s a 400gm porterhouse, or candy – like marshmallows that contain gelatine. (A protein produced by partial hydrolysis of collagen extracted from the boiled bones, cartilage, organs and intestines of animals like cattle, pigs and horses.)

I apologise now if you were just sitting down to a delicious cup of hot chocolate – with marshmallows.

Anyway – if Lady Gaga had covered herself in marshmallows, it would have practically gone unnoticed (for her). Hell, even a dress made of tampons would have been less shocking. But instead, she chose to make a statement covered in actual pieces of raw blood soaked meat.  She even went so far as to have matching shoes, bag and hat.

The designer behind the dress was Franc Fernandez and he told MTV that indeed, the meat was purchased from his local family butcher. He was apparently.. “glad it went so well.”

If you want to know about how he created the dress, you can read it on his blog here.

The look was styled by Nicola Formichetti, Gaga’s resident stylist who no doubt barely arched an eyebrow, let alone her back in disgust.

WHY WHY WHY? Was the question most asked.

When appearing on Ellen DeGeneres special MTV episode, Gaga explained,

“Well, it is certainly no disrespect to anyone that is vegan or vegetarian. As you know, I am the most judgment-free human being on the earth. However, it has many interpretations, but for me this evening … If we don’t stand up for what we believe in and if we don’t fight for our rights, pretty soon we’re going to have as much rights as the meat on our own bones. And I am not a piece of meat.”

You know what? Despite some people’s opinion, I’m not a tart either. But you didn’t see me contacting my local patisserie to see if they could fashion me a gown for the last awards ceremony I attended, from short crust pastry and lemons. Hmmm, although that could be – rather nice, although I do believe you need gelatin to make tart correctly.

Lady Gaga’s dress insulted many. Undoubtedly PETA, who also criticised her Japanese VOGUE magazine cover where she wore a meat bikini. But if you were not personally offended (I was not), you were probably just plain disgusted.

Thank goodness for the Oscars, where dignity and glamour are maintained. The MTV awards seem to be all about shocking, as per Gaga’s previous outfits.

Heaven help the day somebody puts Lady Gaga in an award winning movie. Because I just don’t want to see her on Hollywood’s night of nights sashaying down the red carpet in a controversial gown made of who knows what designed to press people’s buttons.

She is a pioneer in many respects when it comes to making a statement with fashion. She is extreme and outrageous and slightly perverted and mostly ridiculous. And this makes us sit up and take notice… And ask WHY? So in terms of marketing techniques to get her point across, she’s a genius.

But the only buttons she pressed for me in that meat dress was the OFF button. I’m sorry, I’m just not buying her justification for it. I think it was a follow on from a magazine cover that got huge press worldwide, and was designed to make us talk (which we are) about HER. Not the supposed statement she was making regarding standing up for our rights.

I love her message, I do. But her execution this time was just plain off.  In fact this meat dress is possibly the most perverted and narcissistic thing I’ve ever seen an entertainer pull off.  Sure. Many entertainers are permitted a certain license of eccentricity to get away with outlandish antics – but this is just way overboard I’m starting to think that Stephanie Germamotta is a shy Italian girl with a big nose who has to hide behind Lady Gaga to perform and to be heard.

(And am I the only one who thinks she’s had more work?)

What’s worse is that when entertainers get positive attention from stuff like this, kids notice. Gaga is idolised by millions of young and impressionable people who look to her as an example of ‘cool.’ She knows this right? Does she think she’s doing humanitarian work here? She must know there are children’s future at steak. (Sorry – stake.) Marinate on that for a while Gaga!

And now I find myself asking WHAT NEXT?  I mean c’mon. You’re only as good as your last outfit, everyone knows that!

I think the only thing that Lady Gaga could actually shock us with now is a gorgeous flowing gown by Valentino, hair up and no silly hats or masks or accessories like tea cups or frog coats. And what would her statement be??

If we don’t stand up for what we believe in and if we don’t fight for our rights, pretty soon we’re going to have to conform with the masses and look lovely like everyone else.

Shocking!

When the dog barks, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad…

I’ve already done a post on a few of my favourite things, and in it I was referring to actual tangible things. I’ve decided to write today about some other pleasantries in my life, because truthfully I’m feeling annoyed and need to remember there’s plenty of good stuff in life.

Why am I snarky? Could be that I’m in the process of doing my tax, which includes deciphering between paid monies and expenses from 3 different areas of employment.

Could be that I’m craving all sorts of soft cheese and sorry; pregnancy rule book says a big fat NO to that one. (Yes I’m pregnant – Miranda Kerr, Isla Fisher and I just have SOOO much in common.)

Could be that in Darwin, the dry is over and the sweaty sticky months are close at hand.

Could be that my husband is going to Melbourne Cup INSIDE THE BIRDCAGE without me!

Could just be that I’m frustrated by our government (or lack thereof). It’s like our system of government is impotent. It exists, but it’s good for nothing right now.

So here are my 5 current favourite things that are not necessarily tangible. Hopefully as I refelct on them, I won’t feel so bad.

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1. Microdermabrasions:
I never realised how essential these were. Okay it’s a bit like sticking the end of your vacuum cleaner on your face, but the after effects are life changing for at least 2 days. Plus you get the added bonus of a mini facial every time you have one, and there’s nothing better than looking over at the machine and seeing all the dead white dull skin that has been removed. Yuk, I know but it’s the same satisfaction you get from seeing the wax strip covered in hair follicles, or pouring dirty water down the sink after you’ve mopped your floor.  You say out loud, “Eeeuw,” but you’re secretly thrilled and think to yourself, “Gotcha!”

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2. Earrings:
Not something I change on a daily basis, especially lately, but it was Elizabeth Taylor who said “Life without earrings is empty.” Before you go calling the Great Dame shallow, think for a moment about times when you’ve put on the perfect pair and realised you’ve totally changed your look from blah to brilliant. If you’re not sure what I’m talking about – here are some pics of celebs who knew how to work their ear bling. Imagine their ensembles without the earrings. See?

   

    

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3.       Sunday morning pancakes:
What can I say about a 3 stack of pancakes drenched in maple syrup on a Sunday morning. Perhaps just this: They remind me to stop, enjoy, indulge, relax, and forget. Incidentally they’re better when someone else made them. Like a café that overlooks boats floating peacefully on the water.

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4.       Dancing with my daughter to the Glee soundtrack
As if listening to the Glee soundtrack wasn’t awesome enough already… when I realised my 2 year old daughter was a total willing participant in singing and dancing around the lounge room with me (she tends to high-pitch squeal) I had one of those moments. An epiphany. I thought how at that moment there was nothing else in the world I should be doing, (yeah to hell with the laundry), and that this is what all those years growing up spent dancing and singing were for. All those childhood days spent in leotards and ringlets. All those teenage and early adulthood nights spent perfecting my craft on club dance floors. All of it – was just for this – with my girl.

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5.       New book smell:
I love getting a new book. I love reading when they were 1st published. I love the bit where the author thanks everyone… but mostly I love taking the open book up to my nose and having a good long whiff. Mmmm… Is that what “hot off the press” smells like?

If so, then maybe I should speak to someone and bottle that smell as a fragrance. Obviously it would be called “Hot Off The Press” and I would have to get Jen Aniston to be the model for the fragrance.

Only she can rock the mature book reading, glasses wearing but not too cliché to be ridiculous look.  I realise she already has a fragrance but I think given her constant presence in gossip mags, she knows all about being hot off the press. Anyway I digress.  The problem with new book smell is that after you’ve read the book, the smell disappears. So you have to keep buying new books, which is fine by me.

So I wonder if anyone else is feeling crappy. If you are then feel free to share your current favourite things here.