Wet yet?

wet yet

This appeared in the January (this year) issue of DarwinLife Magazine, however having just noticed that Darwin had their hottest day in 36 years, I remembered what it was like and felt a little bit pathetic for complaining about Perth’s latest little spurt of mini-tropical-cyclone-style-humidity. It was nothing in comparison.

Darwin’s humidity is worse than any I’ve experienced in anyother tropical location, and I’ve been to a few. Essentially, don’t come back from Thailand or the Maldives or India or even Bali bitching about the humidity until you’ve spent 5 days in Darwin in the middle of the ‘build-up’or wet season without airconditioning.

And here is the article…

Of all human qualities my favourite has always been absorbent. But last month my air-conditioner broke and I discovered there’s no such thing. I spent 5 days without cold air. Do you know what that’s like? To experience that fear, then relief, then sadness when you realise the red-faced, slimy, corpse walking around your house is actually your reflection?

sweaty 1

I could have bathed a baby in my cleavage sweat. I spent the days waiting for new air-con in a haze of discomfort; the humidity molesting my skin. By day 4 my thunderpants had worn thin. I felt angry. Confused. Alone. I pondered evaporation for a little bit too long and scared myself.  I sat for HOURS, insufficiently refreshing drink in hand, wondering why laundry baskets have holes, how hammerhead sharks put mascara on and whether pandas get upset about their tattoos not showing, until I couldn’t move and had to cry.

I’m reasonably certain I’d gone ‘troppo.’ It confirmed my suspicion that the wet season was upon me and that humans were never supposed to inhabit Darwin. Because no matter how many wet seasons I endure, it never gets easier. Anyway, in case you’re new to Darwin, or visiting, or just feeling slightly deranged like me, here’s a wet season checklist.

sweaty 3

Appearance: Some girls glisten in humidity. I am not that girl. There’s nothing beautiful about me when I’m hot and wet.  I leave home looking delightfully fresh, but return looking like Maybe she’s born with a melting face, or maybe it’s a coagulating river of Maybelline.” My hair is what happens when you throw Benji the dog into a lake. I look like a Pro Hart painting, but I’m not alone. I’ve seen you. And like me, you sometimes smell like a BBQ truck.  Also, crotch/boob sweat is a THING right?

Melting

Melting much?

Power Bill: Running air-con isn’t cheap. Have you received December’s power bill yet? If it wasn’t that high, it’s because you caught a plane to somewhere else for half the month so shut up.

sweaty 5

Wet Season Media: You live in Darwin. Home of crocodiles, cyclones and UFOs. NONE of them consider you or your nice stuff. (Friendly aliens pending further evidence by local newspaper.)  They shouldn’t have to advertise that. Surely you heard of Cyclone Tracey! No relation to me FYI.  If you’re not prepared for the ‘wet’ you should get fined for being stupid.  And the ad warning me not to play in pipes and drains? Am I missing out on something on something here?

Then you have the headlines. Yep, NT News and their ‘3 c’s’ formula. Cyclones, Crocs and Conspiracy. FACT: Biggest selling paper of all time had a girl in a bikini with the headline “I THOUGHT I SAW A CROC.” I thought I saw Vladimir Putin once at my local shops but that never made the papers!!

nt news 2      croc_02

Outings: Last January I went to Darwin’s Hottest 7’s Rugby. All the teams were wearing the same MUD-coloured jersey. Every player’s face was splattered with, what looked like poo. Despite that it was awesome, but my point is: Outdoors and wet season don’t mix. Drive through town on a Sunday and you’ll notice one horse and some ghosts because everyone’s catching up INSIDE, in the sweet cold air. Except the people who’ve ‘gone troppo.’ They’re outside collecting other people’s garbage for fun, transporting their pigeons by foot, or sitting outside wondering what snakes do when they get itchy.

You know what? There are other signs it’s The Wet, but I just got distracted imagining what a cow’s bra would look like, and now I can’t breathe. I’m fairly certain this is how wars start. Wet? You bet!

The Hunger Games

I’m supposed to be on a diet at the moment, so I’ve been eating mostly steamed confusion and rage.

I’ve been hungry. Which is good when you’re playing the hunger games. Except – so hungry I just ate a whole box of Jatz crackers. Not quite as bad as a whole bag of lollies or a whole block of chocolate; a feat that I have accomplished before, but still gluttonish all the same. My Jatz moment was proof that I have not yet mastered the game of going hungry.

I’m just not at one with that starving feeling. Especially when it’s self imposed.  My stomach tells my brain, “Pfft! Whatevs, you’re the boss, you’ve been awesome all day – just eat it.”  And then my brain goes “Ooookkaaay!” And then I go into a carb-induced high and forget to stop eating.

And now this! Jatz guilt. Why do we do this to ourselves? Because Summer is coming and everyone knows what that means. BUSHFIRE SEASON, and also bikini season. THEY ARE BOTH MURDEROUS!

And if you want to avoid DYING OF REMORSE in the swimsuit fitting rooms because you don’t look like this:

Because when I sit like this, twisting my ribs sideways… It is a sight to behold!

…then you’ll have to DIE every time you feel like a piece of chocolate chunk cheesecake. Or a salted caramel macaroon. Or wedge of gorgonzola dolce with spiced pear paste. Or chocolate chip cookie dough cheesecake bars. And WHEN DID PEOPLE USE SO MANY ADJECTIVES FOR FOOD.

And so we start the hunger games. There are no set rules. We make our own rules according to our own previous successes or failures at losing weight. Some play by skipping breakfast or lunch. Some eat all meals but tiny bird-like portions. Some replace meals. Some skip carbs. Some refrain from sugars. Others from meat and dairy.  Some sadly, forget it’s a game and do get very sick. **

Think I’m being ridiculous? Irresponsible even – for suggesting that I won’t enjoy Summer unless I’m a socially acceptable size 8-10? I’m not. This is the world we live in and the generation in which we live. We – the women who are subjected to the judgement of all who pass us by when our cottage cheese knees are showing.

Like it or not, our generation are the dieters, the binge eaters, and the ‘must always watch what we’re putting in’ generation. Blame it on magazines, the media, the fluctuations and constant body makeovers of the Kardashian sisters, or just Victoria Beckham. Either way, we’ve all been grabbing our stomachs to see how much flesh we can get a hold of since we were teenagers, and at that point we vow to lose those extra kilos “in time for Summer.” We start playing the hunger games.

It’s a game I started playing a week ago, and today I betrayed myself…. seduced by a salty cracker. And then, the entire box of salty crackers. I feel so dirty. I’m such a snack-food slapper.

If you have never played the hunger games, lucky you! You probably have testicles. Or – you’re on the verge of womanhood and this is a new and exciting game you’ve been dying to play since you were 11.  So, like I said – you make the rules – but here are some suggestions that will help you WIN.

1. Check your measurements: We’re the measured sex, measured by waistlines and scales and flat stomachs, and by how many meals we have to skip to be a size 6-8. We’re judged by our ability to go hungry, and then celebrated in large measures. If you don’t measure up – keep on measuring.

3. Supplements: These help to suppress appetite and prevent actual eating. Choose from pills, shakes, or powders. These sometimes have a double effect, because according to advertising, if we have success with these products and lose centimetres, we’ll never lower our eyebrows again.

4. Count: If you’re good at math, you will excel at the hunger games. Otherwise there’s an App you can download that does it for you.  (When is Apple changing its name to Bacon? ‘Oh no, I just dropped my Bacon iPhone. It’s totally fried now.’)

The app can tell you: There are 100 calories in a piece of bread. You burn 100 calories running 1 kilometer. ONE! For fun, you can work that out as a decimal. Because losing weight is SIMPLE! It’s just MATHS.

Counting will also help you with portion sizes. Today you may enjoy 3 litres of water, 250gm of cooked brown rice, 2 cups of cooked spinach, 5-7 almonds, 1 nanogram of camembert and I piece of paper you drew a chocolate fudge brownie ice-cream sundae on.

5. Exercise: A seasoned player will tell you that exercise helps you win The Hunger Games. It burns centimeters and melts fat. Running is apparently superior because fresh air? Once when I lived in Melbourne I ran a 15 km ‘mini’ marathon. The morning after, I woke up and my body filed for divorce.

You should probably know however, the alternative to fresh air is sweaty camel toe and techno pop.

6. Food: If you absolutely MUST eat, here are the guidelines. Do you know what quinoa is? Take a good look at it because you and that quinoa are going to really get to know each other. Boil some quinoa, add lemon zest because butter and salt are the devil. You may wish to add some raw, tasteless greens and other bland tasting barley-lentil nightmares.

Do not assume a vegetable is safe. I once ordered something called, “Winter vegetables roasted in duck fat.” Pumpkin never tasted so sublime. Food to avoid? Anything that makes your panties drop. Say goodbye to the euphoria of prawns in garlic butter arriving at the table sizzling hot. Deprivation is the key. Order a hot water and lemon you big fattie!

7. Pretend to be Foreign: Asians eat rice from two little wooden sticks and fish for themselves. Italians have 16 espressos all day before they eat one bowl of pasta. The French smoke 38 cigarettes, drink champagne and then eat a mouthful of baguette. Indians walk everywhere and eat curry, or as I like to call it – laxatives. In South America they eat well, but when you spend that mucht time jiggling your booty in a sequined g-string, you burn it off. These are ridiculous stereotypes but we eat like lunatics and drink liquid carbs.

8. Don’t listen to celebrities or Jenny Craig. This one is important because both celebrities and Jenny Craig tell lies. Lies such as: “Oh I just eat what I want… I have good genetics, I eat in moderation but have a sweet tooth, I love my curves..” And this one, “Before Jenny, I never thought I’d eat cheesecakes again.” Jenny Craig is the dark lord of diets. She is an insane, mystical being convincing us that cheesecake is ok. In fact, anyone that goes on TV or in magazines sprucing their before and after techniques should be made to show us thier lipo scars.

Now, if you were paying attention, you’ll notice in my list of guidelines, there was no number 2.  That’s because when you starve yourself – number 2’s are hard to come by. Please keep your constipated face at home.

That’s about it. Good luck. Let the games begin. May the forks NOT be with you.

IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: The Hunger Games is prohibited for players that have just been dumped.  To those of you with a broken heart…. Ladies – this is your time to shine. To hell with calories. You better have some of that new Philadelphia Cadbury’s chocolate frosting on hand in your fridge for this kind of occasion. You’re entitled to down whatever your sad little heart desires because you’re going to wear tracky-dacks and cry your mascara off anyway. Eat on darl’.

Interestingly, statistics show in a survey I just made up, that those playing The Hunger Games are more miserable than those who just got dumped.

** This blog is supposed to be silly, hence the idea that going without food is a game, not a way of life! I would NEVER endorse starving oneself – and would urge anyone reading this with an eating disorder to seek help and stop wasting your time and emotions on food. Being a particular size does not make you happy. Sharing happiness makes you happy and I can tell you now, starving yourself is only making people around you severely worried and unhappy. So chin up – go buy yourself a Happy Meal.

Act your age, mama.


As seen in August 2011 issue of DarwinLife Magazine

A Strange thing happened to me last month. I made appointments and kept them. I roasted a chicken. I wore eye-shadow, bought vitamins, and said words like “attenuate” and “malevolent.” I even exercised and read a whole non-fiction book, and I know it’s probably too early to tell without proper tests, but I think I might be coming down with a severe case of maturity.

Seriously – I’m like, one homemade organic muffin away from being Gwyneth Paltrow. I’d really appreciate it if someone could call a doctor or a barman as soon as possible. Unless… it’s permanent, which is unlikely. But also possible, since I’m nearly forty this month. Although I’m not sure what forty looks like anymore; or how it behaves.

Like, is it okay that I still laugh at farts? Because I bought this new anti-bloating yoghurt and was tootin’ like a toy train. And laughing. Because when is the sound of a kazoo not funny? Or a fart that sounds like it’s asking a slow question. I like those ones. Or less popular, those farts that sound like someone suddenly ripping through a large piece of corrugated cardboard. And the almost certain to be lethal farts, that sound like a German radio announcer waking up from a long nap.

Sorry, where was I? Oh, right! Maturity. So. Perhaps it’s time to cull some more activities. Like….

Party tricks: On a girl’s weekend recently, I was performing various dangerous activities to amuse the ladies. Like excessive overconsumption. And planking. And the ‘running man’ and ‘the worm’ and splits up the wall. Huh! Who knew? Oh. I also licked my plate.

Answering the phone with wassup biatch: It tells you everything you need to know about my crush on Zach Efron.

Biting my nails: Some days my nails are like snack food. I try manicures, I try creams, I try colour. But then I pick off the nail-polish like I’m Avril Lavigne getting rejected by Sk8tr Boi. My hands are so depressed! They probably talk about me whilst I sleep!

Squeezing pimples: My definition of gloom is going to pop a zit that has its own soul and emotions, and getting distracted by giant grey hairs. Or old-man nostril hairs. Shouldn’t all the grey hairs form an army of destruction and wipe out all the zits to become rulers of The Facial Pollutants? *sigh* I should probably just leave my face alone, and replace my toothbrush.

Getting scared: What if all the cheese died? Or chin hairs. Or geckos. Or what if I have a dumb kid. Or people can see where I scratch when I’m alone. Or Ludacris stops doing guest verses?

Incorrect pronunciation: Despite my love of words, there are some I can’t pronounce. Like ‘croissant.’ Apparently ‘cross-ont’ isn’t correct, and nobody understands me when I say ‘curvy piece of buttery wank.’ I should also learn the words to Khe Sanh, or stop belting it out every time it comes on.

I’ve just realised my list is endless. When am I going to: replace my toothbrush more often, SPF myself sit like a lady and not like a halfback that watches UFC, wear a white shirt without spilling my drink on it, stop crying at The Lion King, return phone calls, use eye cream, go to the dentist regularly, stop fantasizing about celebs.

Yeah, I should grow up, and write a will, and wear clothes that need ironing. And if this new found maturity IS here to stay, I’m really looking forward to finally showering correctly. Because according to advertising, when grown women wash their upper-bodies, they get orgasm face.

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.

Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to.

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?

Woulda… Shoulda… Coulda…

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?

My looming date with my obstetrician.

Last Friday night I was sure I was experiencing the early signs of labour. I’d been feeling tight uncomfortable squeezes on my tummy that felt like contractions. It turns out that’s also what happens when you eat a ginormous bowl of creamy pasta covered in cheese followed by practically half a chocolate pavlova loaded with whipped cream and berries.

I was officially due on Friday, so I was thinking there was a possibility. And I was ready. My bag had been packed and I had spent all of the previous week preparing (as you do) for the arrival of my new baby.

Wait.

Back the pram up and let me re-phrase that….

I have spent the last week preparing for a date with my obstetrician.

You know when you have a hot date or special occasion with someone and you make sure every last part of you is groomed and plucked and primed? That’s me right now.

This last week I’ve been waxed, coloured, filed, cut, scrubbed, polished, and painted. I’m like a frickin used car for sale. I’ve even gone out and purchased new scented body washes, moisturisers, oils and knickers… highly anxious that physically – I might not be ready in time for this date.

So yes, my doctor and I have been seeing each other for about 7 months. Just lately we’ve really hit it off. Our time together and our conversations have been much more intense.  I can see that he’s really starting to care from all the questions he’s been asking me. But last week when I was with him, the last thing he said to me was: Well, I’ll see you whenever!

Huh? Noooo! We always make a time. Oh. It’s because…. Riiiight!

This thing we have going is winding down. He only plans on seeing me a couple more times and then it will all be over and he’ll be out of my life forever. But like all relationships, he won’t officially end it until he’s seen me at my absolute worst.

On our next date, he will see me in a way he’s not yet seen me. I know because I’ve been on this kind of date with an obstetrician before.  He will look at me in ways I’ve never been looked at before. He has a tendency to bring out the worst in women, turning them into ferocious scruffy beasts. So if this is how it will end…..

Shouldn’t I at least TRY to be looking my best?

I realise not every girl feels this way before she’s about to give birth. Some women don’t see the same doctor for the duration of their pregnancy and therefore, have not formed close trusting bonds of respect and admiration. Many are overwhelmed with the excitement of their pending arrival.

I’m not. I’ve done it before and I know what’s coming and it‘s not pretty.

Labour is often long, arduous and painful. It’s actually nothing like a real date. It’s uncomfortable, it’s unpleasant, and the only ‘action’ you get at the end of it is a baby biting down with its gums and quite possibly ruining forever sucking your boobies.

Essentially, child birth is icky, mucky, bloody, sweaty, pukey, and primeval. It’s ugly and it’s wild. So wouldn’t spending time and money on ‘getting pretty’ be considered a waste?

Probably but here’s my theory in romantic prose:

(WARNING: Not only is this ridiculous, it’s quite graphic in places – just like most child birth stories)

It’s early evening and the sunset outside is resembling that night on the Maldives where the sky took my breath away. Too bad I’m indoors. The midwives, the obstetrician… they have all been and gone countless times. All of them with the sole intention of taking a look beneath the velvet folds. Thank goodness I am lady-scaped.

But this time is different.

The looks have gone from interested in what they see, to intensely focussed gazes. Except for my husband who looks intrigued, excited and mildy entertained.

My legs are spread eagle, my hands are gripping the sides of the hospital bed. My teeth are clenched. My hair is a matt of sweaty bedraggled wisps framing my face, which is now screwed up so tightly that every wrinkle and imperfection is exposed. And there’s a good chance the veins are popping out of my entire body.

Did I mention, I’m wearing a sexy pale blue and white pin-striped backless number?

I pause for a moment with thoughts of tenacity before pressing my lips together. At that precise moment he; my obstetrician, readjusts his spectacles and quickly glances sideways.

He notices my perfectly manicured feet; my smooth slightly tanned moisturised legs. The expression he wears is unmistakably synonymous with enough time to pour a glass of what little he had left of the bottle of 1958 Glen Garioch.

Pleasantly surprised, his eyes glance upwards towards mine, but only to tell me to push.

Finally, after procuring what everyone is calling a head, I take a long, slow purposeful breath. He acknowledges the peppermint scent with a smile, and sees that despite the messy flock of golden chestnut locks, my hair is shiny, healthy and beautiful. I attempt to smile back; as much as one can when in this state – my white bleach enhanced smile.

Then in what only takes a moment, his eyes wander to my face with intrigue. Is that mascara? He wonders…. Her eyes are totally popping! True. I had made sure the mono-brow had been made obsolete, and had taken great care to at least open my eyes up with a little black water-resistant Lancome magic.

There was still work to do. With an oddly peaceful demeanor now, my hands grasp my kneecaps ready for the end. As I do, the midwives exchange expressions that I can only assume are loaded with respect. They have noticed the French polished gems on the end of my hands and know I’m hardcore.

The intensity (and my disheveled appearance) worsens until the moment another human being enters the room. No, not from the door. The voices in the room are filled with relief and acclamation, but my obstetricians face is nowhere to be seen. Then he turns to me, needle and thread in one bloodied glove, hemorrhoid cream in the other.  This is not how I envisaged our date ending!

And then – it’s over. The room; once filled with coaxing adulation is now quiet. He’s gone now.

My obstetrician has vanished. And so has my dignity! How could either still be present after what had just happened?

But my hands and feet and face remained in top form. My legs are still silky smooth. A quick wipe of the brow followed by a much rehearsed maneuver of the hair and I would be once again perfectly coiffed and presentable.

Plus – the pants I was about to put on were superbly stylish yet comfortable.

‘Ahhh well,’ I think to myself…  ‘it would never have worked out anyway.’

There’s a Baby-Boy-Bun in my oven. Try making THAT on MasterChef!

Perhaps you’ve heard me mention, but I’m pregnant. With child. A masculine child. While nurturing a male son within one’s womb is not at all uncommon, it is for me. My only experience with pregnancy and motherhood so far has been to bear the fruit of my loins with a feminine child. A girl. Feminine fruits. Like strawberries and peaches and pears. Goddess fruits.

I don’t know what kind of masculine fruit my loins are currently bearing. Bananas? Pineapples? Maybe my new son will come out wearing a Hawaiian shirt?

Here’s my issue. And before you start referring me to your shrink, please understand that I KNOW these thoughts aren’t normal. I KNOW it makes me a sure fire candidate for Freudian studies and his theory of ‘Penis Envy,’ and I KNOW it will pass the second that I hold my little baby boy in my arms, upon which time he will no doubt slip into my heart – where my issue will cease to exist.

However – I am utterly grossed out by the fact that within me now, INSIDE my stomach floating around in there… is a penis. And a ball sac. Even typing it is making me freak out a bit.

It might sound peculiar, given that OBVIOUSLY for a baby of ANY gender to be inside my stomach right now, there had to have been both a penis and a ball sac’s participation. But please understand this is something I associate to a man. Imagine giving birth to a baby boy with a five o’clock shadow. For me it’s the same thing.   

I am actually thrilled to be having a boy. I already have a girl and so although it means parting with some precious pink pieces; it’s nice to have one of each.

Like tiramisu one day and chocolate brownie the next. I would never NOT love another piece of tiramisu, but fudge brownie is something different. A whole new experience. Even if the tiramisu tasted different because it was made with a different recipe, it’s still tiramisu. Chocolate brownie has different ingredients and involves different methods of preparation. Different baking requirements.

And that is true. This time around the bun in the oven has required VERY different preparation.

I’d like to say that for me – making this baby boy has been like attempting to make polenta crusted spatchcock with a green olive, fennel and parsley salsa, followed by twice cooked sticky fig pudding with homemade nougat gelato.

It’s exhausting, messy, tiresome, and throughout the process which seems to take FOREVER, you’re so starving, you end up scoffing a packet of Violet Crumbles instead.

I won’t get too scientific on you all, but there have been studies that prove there are genuine differences in the X and Y chromosomes and their effect on the pregnant mother. 

And while we’re on the subject of science, how about this for added pressure? It’s not enough that I can’t eat King Island double cream brie, or freshly shucked oysters with sea salt and lime, or sashimi, or McDonalds Oreo McFlurrys… or a million other delicious things….

I also need to steer clear of the chemicals phthalates and Bisphenol A, found commonly in plastic products, drinking water, cosmetics and household dust.

Why? Oh because exposure to both chemicals during pregnancy can result in changes to your baby boy’s genitals; like un-descended testicles and smaller penises.  And I sooo don’t want to be responsible for that!

I mean if they have to be inside of me growing – at least let them be decent and normal. Making a penis is strange enough already without having to think about the possibility that the one I’m making is deformed.

So anyway, like I said this is surely not normal thinking. I’m positive I have issues, but know that once he’s out, I will adore him and my ONLY issues will be cleaning poo off all the appendages and avoiding wee in my face. Oh, and shopping for blue stuff.

Let me leave you with a poem I grew up with which happened to traumatise me beyond repair until I turned 12. The author of this was clearly a very bitter and twisted animal/man hater who had a penchant for nutmeg and cinnamon type things. Like fruit mince pies.

What are little boys made of? Frogs and snails and puppy dogs tails.
What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and all things nice.

Must love dogs. And horses. And romantic walks on the beach…

Sometimes I see something that is so astounding, and so full of insight, intelligence and sophistication that it resonates with me all day, affecting my world view and political stance at the deepest level, that I think perhaps my life might change because of it.

Just to be clear, I’m talking about those times when I see or hear or read something that astonishes me so much I have no words – just thoughts.  

But then – without much coaxing, my thoughts quickly became startlingly cohesive concepts, which soon arrange themselves into one or two theories that actually make me stop mid-stride, raise my eyebrows and go “Huh. Wow” until before you know it – many words later – I have written a blog entry.

Here is a media release I came across this morning which was sent to NSW media yesterday.

Tell me what you think of the person who might have written this, because I’m leaning towards FREAKING GENIUS.

 

And that was all.

Here go my theories…

  • Its Melbourne Cup week, and the author thought introducing horses to the mix would be not only relevant, but a good way to spark interest with the media in what might otherwise seem like an age old cliché. Yes. Dogs are man’s best friend. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. But horses! Bet on the right one and you could win a bloody fortune. Oh, and they make good friends too.

  • Pertaining to the book ‘Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy…’ Hercules Morse who is apparently as big as a horse – would indeed make a fine friend for an actual horse. The author of the media release wants us to consider that perhaps larger dogs like Hercules Morse are better suited to play time at Mr Ed’s, than they are with dogs like Hairy Maclary. Or ‘Schnitzel Von Krum with the very low tum’ for that matter.

  • The author is in love with someone but it’s a messy relationship. He/She is tired of game playing and is actually writing in code, hoping to appeal to his/her lover in a way that might make them reconsider the union with a more simplistic approach. The woman in this scenario is a bitch. The man is a big man, with big gums and shiny hair and a really unbearable laugh.

What do you make of this?

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.

I cut myself shaving… and my legs look FAAAABULOUS!

 

Okay so we’ve vajazzled our va-jay-jays, bejazzled our butt cracks (yep, failed to post on that one but yes – you can), and apparently (not to be sexist) men can now ‘penazzle’ – which is something I just NEVER want to see. I mean has any bloke yet to be penazzled? Because I would like to meet the brave soul willing to make sparkling history for all mankind…

bajazzled butt cracks

Actually it seems that lately, wherever there’s flesh, what the heck – BLING IT ON!

Because now fashion designer Cynthia Rowley has designed bling for boo-boo’s. She worked closely with Johnson and Johnson to create the sparkly bandaids for charity. Well kind of charity. $1 from proceeds (they cost $10 a tin) actually go to ‘Design Ignites Change,’  an organisation engaging high school and college students with design and architecture specific to social issues in local communities.

Regardless of the purpose behind these… I want some.

I’ll admit I thought the leather look bandaids were a bit erch…  Unless you’re cutting your wrists, in my opinion they would look out of place. Who wants leather look patches on their ankles or fingers or knees?  Same goes for the Louis Vuitton bandaids – Oh Yes. I’m super rich and successful because look! My Bandaids are designer! And then you’ve got your Twilight Eclipse brand of bandaids, for those annoying times when your vampire boyfriend can’t keep his teeth to himself!

 

But the Dress Up Bandaids would look good on any body part. But there’s a good chance you’re thinking right now, Why bother – who cares about bandaids?

Maybe I’m clumsy but I tend to require the use of a bandaid often. Whether it’s for a blister from wearing heels, paper cuts, cutting up onion cuts, shaving cuts, etc… I do use them. But they’re ugly.

You know clear bandaids, the ones you supposedly can’t see? They’re very visible. And the skin-tone ones never match your skin exactly. It was once even said that bandaids were racist because they were all made for Caucasian skin tones. Bandaid makers corrected that and made an array of shades, which I’m guessing are still way off.

There is the common belief that it’s best to let a wound ‘dry out’ in order to heal. But cuts and scrapes can become contaminated with dirt and germs. Bandaids protect the wound from water, dirt, other nasties that can cause infection, thereby helping to promote faster healing.

So now that we know bandaids are actually useful, unless they’re floating randomly in a swimming pool, or inside your chicken and avocado sandwich – in which case they’re just revolting, wouldn’t you rather wear bandaids that feature designs like strips of sequins, gold chains, lace and sparkling jewels? Like these?

HURT COUTURE – yes indeed!
So tell me…. What do you think of these?

Faking it…. Does chocolate help?

We’ve all done it, some regularly – which if you ask me must be exhausting! I’ve done it a few times, but only really fully faked it once.  In my twenties.  Afterwards, I concluded I faked it because I wanted them to think I was good.  No not good.  THE BEST they’d ever seen! There I was assuming it was an academy award winning performance, but in the end I’m pretty certain I got laughed at. Perhaps I was jumping around a little too much…

If you think I’m discussing something I might do in private with a lover, please bend over and pick your mind up from out of the gutter because what I’m talking about faking here is very much public. No it’s not fake boobs, or any other body part. It’s not fake tan either. Neither is it fake designer handbags or fake smiles; the kind that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are renowned for. Let me elaborate:

I was working for ABC television in Sydney as a PA and had heard about some auditions for one of my favourite shows. Playschool. The audition process was simple: Send in your resume and an audition reel.

Why, audition reel you say? Ummm.  Can I use the video of my 21st speech? Because by all accounts it was rather entertaining.

Given that the PA job was my first full time position out of university; my CV included a few part time and casual positions in retail so I was left with only one option. Fake it.

I won’t bore you with the cringe worthy pile of BS I actually wrote on my ‘resume.’ Nor will I tell you about the audition video I made with my friends (as I referred to in my opening paragraph) where we transformed a room into a kiddie wonderland and I sang songs such as “Boom boom, aint it great to be crazy.” Because clearly – no.

But I will say this: Faking your qualifications and abilities to land your dream job CAN work… but mostly you get caught out.

Hopefully soon Australia will have a PM. However the problem with last month’s election was, the candidates who were applying for the job were in some ways – faking it. So we Australians, like a merciless recruitment consultant, informed them that they weren’t qualified and lacked the experience and skills required to fulfil the role on offer. However, we would keep their details on file if something suitable came up. Famous last words for the inadequate resume. 

According to SEEK, 75% of all resumes include embellishments and lies. The main components we ‘fake’ are our skills, our education records, and our current salary details. Employers must know this, yet there are hundreds of websites and articles that tell you “how to…”

The guy who runs fakeresume.com says human resource types are looking for the slightest excuse to throw your resume in the trash, but a little embellishing convinces them to give it a second look.  I’m not so sure you need to fib in order to stand out. A friend of mine used to attach a Cadbury’s TIME OUT bar and instant coffee sachet to her CV with a note reading: Thank you for taking the TIME OUT to go over my resume.

It’s a trick I used, and it worked wonderfully. Particularly when you consider most recruitment or HR professionals spend their day in a fluorescently lit office cubicle pouring over hundreds of resumes a day… many chocolate loving females who – as they came across my resume thought, ‘Ahhh… chockie. That’s noice, that’s different, that’s unusual.’ (Thanks Marns)

                             

I’m pretty certain that if either political party had sent all their eligible voting constituents their policies in such manner: the election would have been a landslide.

Oh if only I’d known the chocolate trick back when I auditioned for Play School. Vending machines were hard to come by at the ABC. Snack time was only ever at about 10am when the morning tea trolley came around – and the best they provided were day-old blueberry muffins. If you wanted chocolate you had to haul ass to the cafeteria which shut by 3pm. So there’s a good chance the producers of Play School (4 x women) would have been loving a chocolate enhanced resume.

Instead, Miss Rhym-A-Lot here decided that just incase they realised my ‘performance resume’ was a total fraud, and that my ‘audition reel’ was better suited to Funniest Home Videos: I attached to my resume a poem. Because over at Playschool, they don’t spend their days looking at poems at ALL. EVER!

And so here is the third part of a totally embarrassing experience:

When I was a little girl of three or maybe four
I first tuned into Playschool, and I loved what I saw.

Humpty and Jemima, Hambel and Big Ted
And all those snappy rhymes and verses buzzing through my head.

I was so completely mesmerised by Noni’s fun and flair
And John Walters and John Hamblyn and Benita’s thick black hair.

I could not be distracted. I loved to play along.
I’d stamp my feet and clap my hands and sing the happy songs.

For Playschool was a magic place where everything was fun.
My toys could not compete so instead I watched with mum.

The presenters and their smiles and their story telling too,
Really had me thinking…. “That’s what I want to do!”

And at the age of five or six I made myself this vow.
That I’d get onto Playschool: Somewhere, some day, somehow!

Upon making that promise came desire to entertain.
I knew to be on Playschool, I would have to train.

(Confession: Even as I type this it’s very hard for me not to cringe in disbelief….)

So I danced my way through childhood. I sang throughout my teens.
I took the art of entertaining to most extreme.

(Clearly. I mean I was way too busy entertaining to study performing arts at NIDA or WAAPA. Please insert further cringing here….)

Then fate brought me to Sydney, and to the ABC.
And to hear about auditions? What an opportunity!!!

(Obviously. Let’s all thank fate. Not Qantas or my University transfer)

Now I’ve never been to NIDA, never worked on Summer Bay.
I’ve never done commercials… but I think that’s okay.

(Here we see evidence of my superiority complex!)

My experience may be limited, but talent though is not!
SO GIVE ME A GIG ON PLAYSCHOOL – AND YOU’LL SEE WHAT I’VE GOT!!

Oh dear! It’s actually quite cathartic reliving this moment of my life because it makes me realise that with age comes perspective. As in: Good grief, how much of a dork WAS I?

So the moral of the story?
Don’t bother faking it, especially if it involves lots of words.
Fudge your way with chocolate instead.

If I was running for Prime Minster

I’m a political nerd. While the rest of the country is thinking, “Enough already!” when they see an ad come on TV, I stop and turn up the volume so I don’t miss a single word, even if I’ve already seen said ad ten times in the last 2 hours.

I LOVE soaking in all the newspaper reports, news reports and social commentary around election campaign time.  I haven’t always done this and admittedly I’ve voted plenty of times in ignorance. But perhaps since studying politics at uni, my appetite for hearing and reading from political leaders and their policies is insatiable.

Have I lost you? Don’t stop reading just yet. I promise I won’t delve too deeply into actual politics.  But I MUST give some background….

In my first semester of politics we learnt about the sacking of then PM, Gough Whitlam by the Governor General:  It went against every constitutional practise in our country. The historical moment in Australian politics opened a can of filthy worms and left political experts wondering: Where does the real power lie? Who has ultimate say so? How can this happen?

Surprisingly, an equally shocking event happened less than two months ago when a Prime Minister serving his first term was sacked by his own party.

My only conclusion from these events is that Australian politics does what it likes. Sure – there’s a constitution… but that was out of date the day it was written. Sure – there’s political practise that seems like a very well oiled and tightly run ship… but even that ship gets leaks and cracks.  

So when the lights go out at Parliament house, I wonder… is it really just about WINNING?

It seems to me each party find a topic of public interest, support it either for or against and hope that the majority of the public agree with their opinion. Which got me thinking.

 I COULD TOTALLY DO THAT!

With that understanding of politics, and a vast knowledge of my own strengths and weaknesses – here are my policies for leading this nation. Do not be alarmed if you find yourself agreeing with me.  I’m naturally gifted at making my answer the ONLY answer.

—————————————————————————————————————————————-

THE REAL ME

Because that’s what Australia wants isn’t it? To see the REAL candidate running? The REAL person leading our country? Vote for me and I’ll let you watch me squeeze a zit on my makeup free face in the mirror. I may be a woman, but Women’s Weekly BE GONE! You can shove your airbrush and ‘guest editor gig’ where the sun don’t shine. Because that’ not me. In fact, if you want to see the real me you should arrive outside my house with a chainsaw at 7am in the morning and turn it on. Or you could cut me off in traffic. Oh yeah – that crazy bitch that looks like she’s talking to herself– that’s the real me.

NATIONAL DEBT

There are two types of people in this world (and coincidentally, 2 types of political parties). Those who produce and save, and those who consume and spend. Being the tragic shopaholic and ginormous spender that I am, clearly I fall into the latter, so why would I commit to policy that went against the real me??

Yes debt. We will have it.  What’s the big deal people? I’ve heard debt is good for a nation because it’s money spent on an investment in our nation’s future. THANK YOU to the economic wizard who said that! I have been trying to convince my husband of that same truth ever since we got a joint bank account.

Look, as a nation we can’t afford to buy cheap. We need to spend big on EVERYTHING! And EVERYONE! Who cares if we go into debt? Clearly from accounts I’ve read and heard – not many!

For example: The $150 shoes I buy from Nine West break in three months and become irrelevant.  The $450 shoes last well over a year. Sure – that’s more than average to spend on shoes, but the fact that they will see me though numerous seasons make them actually very affordable when you consider the alternative.

I’ve been in debt before….  I can proudly say I had a black spot against my name on credit lists around the country before I was 23. Because when you see something broken that needs replacing, or you notice a newer version, or you are made aware of new trends in fashion – you don’t want to miss out.

I would not want anyone in Australia to miss out on anything.

Not hospitals, not schools, not refugees, not small business, not big business, not unemployed, not expecting mothers, not young children, not the indigenous, not public transport, not the housing market, not those living in big cities, nor those living in remote areas… NOBODY MISSES OUT UNDER MY LEADERSHIP.

Because if we’re brutally honest, we only vote for the person that looks after OUR OWN interests. We’re a selfish bunch.

I’m not mentally ill, so why should I vote for someone who’s committing millions to that cause. But tell that to the guy who’s been suffering depression for 15 years. See? You have to please EVERYONE. And I will go into BILLIONS of dollars of DEBT to do that. Consequence? Puh! I’ll let the next government work that out and they can be the wankers that give nothing to nobody.

I know Australian families work hard to earn money, but in order to make us thrive, I need to spend that money.

TAX

Well someone has to pay for all my spending.  

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Of course an election campaign is nothing without involving the media. Do you think the media would eat me ALIVE during my campaign?

ABC’s Tony Jones would …. Although given the massive consumer I am, I would probably eat him first. Or offer him $100 bucks for his tie. $200 if he threw in those spectacles.

Channel Nine’s Laurie Oakes could not call me bile. Bile is produced by the stomach, and therefore a product. Consumers tend not to produce anything but debt. However he could very well call me a joke and a disgrace. Which if he sees me rant abuse to the dude with the chainsaw…. Yeah. Not pretty.

Then there’s the Channel Ten journos… The Bald and the Beautiful: Paul Bongiorno and Sandra Sully. Paul would grill me on my plan for the economy and discredit my campaign with past history of an unpaid Optus Mobile phone bill that doubled, then tripled when the debt collectors added their fee. Then – he’d have a good ol’ laugh when I told him the phone was in my ex boyfriends name. Sandra on the other hand would go easy. Knocking me down with a feather she likes to call: The Hard Hitting Question. “So Cindy, IS THIS the real you?”

ABC’s Annabel Crab, that savvy little mynx, would no doubt twitter to the nation that she saw me in Witchery, recklessly spending on the new season’s slouch pant. Damn the slouch pant. It’s so hard to be an upright political leader when you’re slouching.

Kochie. Oooh, tough one. Financial journalist turned morning show host…. Please don’t ask me serious questions. Please just ask your segment producer if I can skip the economic banter and political spin and be on your Angel panel. I give good advice on many issues – especially WHERE to shop for a bargain. I’ll let the nation see the real me and wear my PJ’s on set – sans bra!

And finally back to Channel Nine’s Today show. They know better than to get all serious. Nobody cares over there about my political background and qualifications. Take Karl for example.

Believe it or not he actually comes from a large family of news-men, his parents have seemingly produced deep-voiced, hair-challenged spawn in plenty: well respected media men around the globe. So no wonder that every now and then, Karl will deliver a journalistic pearl so full of insight, intelligence and sophistication that it resonates with me all day, affecting my world view and political stance at the deepest level.

But I have a feeling the segment producer would prefer me to come on the show and cook my world famous, master chef worthy meatballs.  Should I worry about policy questions while I’m elbow deep in pork mince? Will he choose that moment to enlighten me profoundly? Or shame me mercilessly? What will he say?
“Ooooooh, meatballs!  How good are meatballs?”

 And after reading the Australian, listening to talk-back radio, watching the Press Club / Town hall meetings and debates…

I’m almost certain that the media would take me about as seriously as a certain middle aged red head with a penchant for wearing pearls and attempting to look pretty at all times, who possesses a slow and slightly ocker accent, while puppeting the views held by other senior members of my party.

I’m referring of course to Pauline Hanson. You knew that right?