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?

The reason for the season

(As seen in December 2010 issue of DarwinLife Magazine)

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

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

Parties. Hmmm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

Girl on… Girl.

(As seen in May issue of Darwin Life Magazine)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10 Things I Hate About…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Waving the Aussie flag….. Somewhere across your torso!

Australia Day has changed a bit since I was young and free. We’d rejoice by going down to the Perth foreshore and watching the sky light up while a local radio station did live simulcast with INXS, Jimmy Barnes, Kylie Minogue and ACDC.  I’m sure that plenty of Perth’s population continue to do just that. It’s a fun day that includes a picnic with friends overlooking a stunning horizon.

The difference is…  Back when I used to go, I wore what I wanted.

Over the last decade I’ve noticed a very interesting trend on Australia Day, and one which I believe started after the spike in patriotism during the Sydney 2000 Olympics…

Hmm. What to wear today…. I know…  A flag!

Yes that’s right. I’m talking about the hillbillies who cover their skin with temporary flag tattoos, not content with the massive Aussie flag-cape draped across their shoulders. Who do they think they are? Oz-Man? Here to save the country from foreigners or migrants; one Tooheys New at a time?

Or the flag wearing slappers who think wearing the Aussie flag around their boobies makes them look super patriotic. Hell Yeah it does, because look!  They’re wearing flag earrings, and red thongs to match the union jack, with their miniscule denim shorts that go right up their clacker separating the 2 sides of their brain; shorts that should probably stay in their wardrobe until they’ve spent 4 weeks with Tony Ferguson.

But not everyone has access to a flag. They’re the ones who rummage through their closet to find anything green and yellow. Not gold. Gold is a precious commodity. BRIGHT Yellow synthetic polyester fabric that if you ask me; should be reserved for emergency and road workers. Then for some reason they team it with a wig. At least they recognise they look like clowns.

Look I don’t have a problem with our flag. Or the Australian colours. I have cried watching that flag wave. I have had proud patriotic moments seeing my flag flap about in the warm breeze. The Sydney Olympics was one of those moments. Anzac Day is one of those moments. The time I was in a Thailand 7/11 and saw an Aussie flag that led me straight to the packs of Tim Tams and Cadbury chocolate was one of those moments….

And watching some of our athletes wear green aqua and gold yellow have been some of the most inspiring, capturing  and memorable experiences of my life. Like Cathy Freeman’s run at the Sydney Olympics. Or Tim Cahill’s goals in the World Cup. Or The Wallabies beating England… any time really.

Or Matt Shervington.

I’m not judging those who embrace Australia Day as a day to celebrate our incredible country. And it really is. You only have to look at the last few weeks following the flood disasters in Qld to realise what a generous, friendly, and supportive bunch we are.  Our nation is young, and we’ve been built tough.  We’re informed, we’re savvy and we don’t like taking crap from our own, or anyone else.

And our land, despite the erratic biatch she’s been lately, is remarkable.  Just ask Oprah.

So who wouldn’t want to get out there and celebrate and get smashed and have a barbie and eat lamingtons and adorn themselves in patriotic paraphernalia because we’re bloody A-strayan, and f**** oath mate, we’re proud of it!

I’ve been fortunate enough to have lived in 4 different states of this country, and each capital city seems to have their own way of celebrating Australia Day.

Perth as I already mentioned – was based around the evening fireworks with a game of cricket in the park and a picnic while we waited for the sun to set.

In Sydney, it was more of a day event and we would take the boat out and eat French cheese, crudités with hummus and Italian sausage, and watch all the other boats and people while floating along the harbour.

In Melbourne we did picnics provided it wasn’t raining.

And in Darwin? Well most people go the pub or have a barbecue at home while listening to Triple J’s Hottest 100, because it absolutely IS raining, and unless you want to “Picnic At Water-logged Rock” outdoors is no place to be.

And in every state, there is certainly flag presence. We see the flag being dragged across a perfect blue sky by a chopper, or watch the flags rise on either side of the Harbour Bridge, and we cheer. We might even break into a chorus of Waltzing Matilda, because we like to remember that in this country – you steal, you die!

BUT – the overbearing presence of flag-wear is to me a little disrespectful. Like blasphemy. Misguided nationalism. Using it as an excuse to everyone you come into contact with today that – “Yes, you’re celebrating, and you’re going to be very drunk and disorderly later, but it’s ok because I bear the Southern Cross” Or “Yes, you’re celebrating so you have every right to walk the streets being boisterous and disrespectful and a general pain in the arse because see that? That’s a wig. A green one!”

In Australia we are lucky to even have the option of “donning” the flag. The US Flag Laws and Regulations, states: “The flag should never be used as wearing apparel, bedding or drapery . . .”

In China wearing the flag is seen as form of major disrespect. And although Australian’s are much more laid back when it comes to matters of national patriotism; and banning the use of our flag for apparel might seem ridiculous and OTT, you have to recognise a greater level of respect for a flag that’s not made into string bikinis.

Vegemite wrestlers wearing the flag. Just.

I probably sound like an uptight, stuck up judgmental cow about now. Actually, when I was younger, I’d be the first one in there – looking for an excuse to ‘dress up for the occasion.’

But how we dress affects how we act, (I’m not even going to qualify this well know fact with research or stats. It’s proven ok?) And I don’t know why, but people who wear the Aussie flag on Australia Day act like big tools.

How about this: If you’re going to make or sell anything bearing the Australian flag, you attach a label that reads as follows:

WARNING: This item of clothing may cause the person wearing it to act like a complete yobbo, drink too much, be offensive and possibly get arrested.

CARE INSTRUCTIONS: Do not bleach. Do not tumble dry. Do not iron. Do not dry clean. Don’t bother. It’s probably covered in beer, piss and vomit and should be discarded immediately after use.

MADE IN CHINA

Breaking up: Have the damn couch, but the friends are MINE!

Breaking up after a serious or long term relationship is always mucky. Whether you’re the dumper or the dumpee – it’s a crappy time, and no surprise that you feel like you’re up to your arse in MUCK.

Putting aside the ‘sad muck’ or the emotions of grievance, heartache and loss… (that is if you are actually feeling any of those emotions; as it seems there are plenty of breakups where one party is delighted and relieved to be outa’ there)… there is oh SO MUCH more MUCK that has to be dealt with.

There’s the money muck. Shared finances, shared property and other investments, who bought what, who had what BEFORE they entered the relationship… it’s all just a small portion of the muck. Thankfully there are third parties that can be hired to help you get through this muck. Like accountants and lawyers and underworld crime figures from Carlton, Victoria.

And actually now that I think about it… there are third parties that can help you through the sad muck as well. Like councillors and therapists and 1 litre bottles of Tanqueray 10 Gin… or in my case: slow jams by George Michael and Nutella.

But when it comes to separating the nitty gritty of your LIVES TOGETHER: the YEARS you spent as a couple, making and building friendships and pass times together…. There’s no legislation. There’s no third party. There are no set rules. And THAT is the biggest piece of mongrel-coated-muck you will encounter during the break-up period.

I went out with a guy for about 6 years. We were never married but it was assumed that we would be – by his family and all of ‘our’ friends. When I broke up with him the first time, I didn’t expect to lose my entire life. I didn’t know it meant I couldn’t go to our favourite restaurants anymore because that was his stomping ground – his territory. He was a regular there before he met me, and so I had to stay away.

I also found that I missed his family. They had become a second family to me but I felt that if my ex was to take me seriously, I had to avoid ‘hanging’ with the fam’ on weekends. Even if he wasn’t going to be there. Just wrong.

And then… there were the friends. Now this is where it gets really tricky. Obviously his family are his family. I couldn’t make a claim to them no matter how much I loved being around them. But many of the friends were OURS. So how do you know which friends you’re allowed access to, and which ones you should avoid out of respect. And if you’re a friend of a couple that have broken up (which I have also been), how do you know if it’s disloyal or unfair for you to be catching up.

The online Jerry Seinfeld dictionary (of which there are a few, and which I find to be bursting with useful terms), clearly states that Break-up By Association is what happens when a man and woman break up, and the man’s friends no longer associate with the woman. It’s a common phenom, but one that so many ‘friends’ keep getting wrong.

I’ve thought a lot about this over the last couple of days, and have broken it down to what I think is the ONLY fair and legitimate conclusion. Unfortunately, in most instances IT IS about PICKING SIDES. But that’s life.

You can’t vote for labour AND liberal at election time. You can’t have Optus AND Telstra as your network provider. You can’t work for Ford AND secretly drive a Holden. And if you do then you have no loyalty and you’ve probably backstabbed your way through life.

Anyone who thinks alternatively to my very thought out and well balanced point of view, can go suck it. Because karma’s a bitch, and if you’re not sucking it now, you will be later.

My theory concludes that there are 2 types of friends. Both types have a unique set of rules when it comes to remaining friends with your ex-partner after break ups.

Type 1: The long time (life-long) friends.

If you have had a friend since school, or uni, or your first job – and you’ve been friends with that person throughout various flings/lovers/relationships, then that friend is YOURS! No matter how much your partner loved them, or they loved him/her… too stinking bad! The fact is: they were your friend BEFORE you entered the relationship, and they SHOULD be your friend afterwards.

And yes, this means that your friend should likewise respect the fact that although they loved your partner, they should probably stop calling him/her to catch up for dinner.

You don’t see Brad Pitt and Courtney Cox chatting on the red carpet do you? And actually now that I think of it, you probably won’t see images like this one anymore either. You know why?

Because there are no catch ups with exes of long time friends. If you are the friend then obviously seeing them out and having a friendly chat for ten minutes is fine. I do also think there’s a brief cool off period following the break up where you are at liberty to sympathise/discuss with them the break up and express your deepest sadness that they are over. But the cool off period is brief.

Don’t go making long term plans. Inviting them to your house for a BBQ or away with you on holidays or to your birthday party is just plain RUDE! To you – I say your loyalty should remain to your lifelong friend. PICK A SIDE, not you’re a-hole.

There ARE exceptions to this rule. Just say your lifelong friend turns out to be a paedophile and goes to jail. Obviously his partner would be devastated, as would you. Being on their side is not only acceptable, but suggested.

Same goes for if your lifelong BFF was cheating on her partner… with your husband, or an entire NRL football team. Check yourself for herpes and say goodbye to that BFF forever.

Ie. When one person in the relationship has been a turd, as the friend you are completely justified to be friends with the non-turdy party – even if you’ve known them less time.

There’s also another exception which applies when you and your ex are still being friends and hanging out or sleeping together…without officially being together. I would also like to say “Hello stupid??” however everyone has their own unique way of breaking up, and in this instance, if you are the life-long friend, then remaining in contact with both parties is ok, since they are remaining in contact themselves.

Example 1: My husband has a lifelong friend who is a mate from school. He and his girlfriend had been together for 9 YEARS. I met this friend while he and his girlfriend were together. After 2 years of knowing them as a couple they broke up. His choice. She was heartbroken.

As a fellow female and former president of the “I’m A Lonely Loser Who Can’t Keep A Boyfriend Club,” I wanted so much to be there for her entirely. Despite the fact that he was going out to clubs, meeting new girls, moving on… he was also still seeing her as ‘friends’ on a regular basis and chatting almost daily. So when it came to deciding if we should invite BOTH of them to OUR wedding, we said yes. She was still very much part of our ‘social circle’ because her ex (my husband’s friend) kept her there.

Example 2: My previously mentioned ex boyfriend had made a friend just one month before meeting me. Over the course of our 6 year relationship, they became BEST mates. They travelled together, saw each other every weekend, and went to each other’s family gigs. The thing is, while they were bonding, so was I. His mate became like a brother to me.

After breaking up the first time, I will admit to calling him a few times. Mainly to see how my ex was going. After the second break up he moved to London to live and maybe on his birthday, I’d send him an email. Following the FINAL breakup, I discovered he and I were both going to be in the same town for New Year’s. We agreed to catch up. It was all a bit strange. The common denominator (my ex) was so far out of the picture that we found there wasn’t much to discuss.

Then my ex called him from Rome to wish him a Happy New Year. Awkward. THEN my ex put his fiancée on the phone to which his friend said, “Hello beautiful!” It was like a punch in the gut. That used to be me he would greet like that. Wow, did I feel like an intruder! Twenty minutes late I was in a cab on my way to anywhere else.

I realised it was wrong for me to want to catch up with my ex’s best mate. It was HIS mate, his friend, even though we’d known each other roughly the same amount of time. Since that night I have never seen him or spoken to him again. As it should be.

Type 2: The new friends.

This one is tricky. What about if the friend is someone you’ve met and befriended only since being a couple? As the new friend, in this instance it’s harder to choose sides because there were no loyalties or bonds of friendship prior to meeting the couple. As with lifelong friends, there are sometimes factors (like the turd factor) that help you decide. Other times I think it’s ok to stay in touch with both parties, but over time you will probably find yourself seeing more of or getting long better with only one of them.

Example. My husband and I met a couple who were engaged to be married. We caught up on a fairly regular basis and because of my work at the time; I found that I was also dealing with them separately for different events they were organising. We were invited to their wedding.

The day we were supposed to go to their place for a BBQ, we got a text from the female party telling us that the male party had come home at 6am and admitted he’d been cheating on her. He told her such things as “I can’t help it – I’m like the Ben Cousins of this town.”

That was 2 years ago, and while professionally, I was still required to speak to and be pleasant with both of them… Guess who my husband and I are still friends with, and guess who we think is an idiot?

So I think that should cover most break-up scenarios. Please comment and let me know if you are a friend of a recently split couple, and are still not sure who of the 2 friends you should avoid having dinner with this weekend. Not only will I direct your loyalty to where it should be, I think your scenario may add substantial research and evidence to my thesis on this very MUCKY and un-legislated aspect of breaking up.

And finally, if you are reading this from your iPhone while you have your feet up in Queensland for the week, or worse – you’re reading it from your ex-husbands best man’s computer while he and his family are away –because you’re house sitting for them… because you failed to understand simple break up protocol by continuing to stay in touch, and his mate failed to follow protocol because he’s a scum sucking jackass?

Well may you all live fatly ever after. And here is some more information for you, your ex-husband’s best mate, and his wife: The day will come when I WILL BE BURNING THAT TREE TO A CRISP AND SETTING THE ASHES FREE…. towards Kho Phangan in the gulf of the Thailand river – with all the floating dead pigs and cows and ferrel third world diseases.

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!

The face of Australia… CRIKEY!

After an Australian wins (or places) in a a world wide contest or competition – their face is everywhere and soon becomes immediately recognised. Jennifer Hawkins had her moment, as have countless athletes and olympians.   Similarly, after a country elects a new leader, and that leader is deemed a winner… for a time  that person becomes the face of the nation.

So back when George Bush was voted in as President of the United States for a second (and final) term, millions of people around the world including Australians gasped in shock. Nooo! IDIOTS! How could they? Is everyone over there taking a page out if his past and smoking the reefer? Songs like Greenday’s American Idiot became an anthem around the world, because it reflected our genuine (and somewhat detached) belief that if you voted for George W, then you are an idiot!

Of course I don’t live there – never have, and I’m sure the information I received on policies of the US Republics in this country was slightly filtered. But the guy seemed like a massive tool.

But this post is not all about the American elections.  It’s about how other countries make judgements on each other based on the leader they vote for.

So mostly I thought Americans were all high when they voted for George. I was amazed and also sceptical when I once asked a Taxi driver in Thailand how long the current leader has been there. Twenty years. No need to change. We’re very happy. I am constantly astounded at Cuban’s lack of democracy and wonder how a dictator can stay in power for almost 50 years.

But what do I know?? I’m an outsider to these countries and unless you’ve lived somewhere long enough to understand what impact the different leaders and parties have on the country, there’s a good chance you’re basing your opinion on propaganda, filtered news and political spin.

Cut now to Australia’s current political shambles.

I am one of those that was not overly impressed with either candidate from the two major parties, and I found myself agreeing and disagreeing with policies on both sides. I don’t think I was alone, and perhaps us being TORN is why we are now officially HUNG.

A large part of the problem with this election was the fact that neither candidate had proven themselves. Both were running as opposition leaders in the sense that we could not judge the current PM on the past term in government, because she only led that government for 6 weeks prior.

And now you have 4 Independents and one Green determining where our split votes go. Confused much? Yeah, and we live here. So what do other countries make of it all.

This video was made PRIOR to the night Julia Gillard and the Labour Party dumped K-Rudd’s sorry arse. I don’t normally agree with Hitler, but his take on our election is remarkably exact. In fact it’s a revelation, and it’s on You Tube for the world’s viewing pleasure.

So as this historical moment in Australia’s political history unfolds this week/month, as our county is left essentially leaderless because we were torn right down the middle, I find myself wondering what other nations are thinking of us right now.

 Are we too fussy? Are we just over it?  Do we all have options anxiety? Why can’t we agree? Why can’t we work it out? Do they think WE the people are unstable? Do they assume that both leaders are useless?

Here’s how an on-line News station in China reported PRIOR to the election.

Huh?

After watching that all I can say is…. thank goodness for Miss Universe Australia 2010, Jesinta Campbell! Second runner up (third place) and voted Miss Congeniality – I’m hoping the rest of the world are looking at her for their judgement on Aussies. Young, fresh faced, and full of confidence, energy and charm. And more importantly – a kind and friendly person. (Miss Congeniality alludes to that).

Otherwise –the following faces will be broadcast to the world as those we look to for our leadership.

         

Crikey!  Australian idiots? God bless Donald Trump!

Thanks Dannii… for keeping your clothes on.

But where, O where is your baby bump?

Dannii Minogue has posed (apparently pregnant here) for UK’s In Style Magazine. Unlike many an expecting woman, she has decided to pose with her baby-to-be – fully clothed. I’m thinking she was only about 4-6 months along here. Often with your first it takes a while to ‘show.’ Many people told me I didn’t look pregnant at all when I was actually 5 months along. 

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not against the idea of a pregnant woman on a magazine cover. I think it’s great! Also, I think women with enormous big tummies carrying around a little life is nothing to be ashamed of or something to be hidden.

However, there are ways of showing us your baby bump – without showing us that much skin.

I wonder if the celebrity, or the photographic stylist think that showing us an actual pregnant stomach is sexy. Again… I’m not saying pregnant women can’t be sexy. They absolutely can.  In fact some women claim to feel sexier whilst pregnant. (Not me. I felt like swaying elephant, but each to their own…)

Here are some pregnant women posing:

                 

                  

                 

BUT….. (and maybe I’m completely on my own here) showing us your actual stomach with the baby inside is not sexy. It’s tacky.

Look, when Demi did it back in 1991 – it was revolutionary. Nobody had dared ever been photographed that way before. In fact, in those days, not many women were photographed for magazine covers if they were pregnant at all. Full stop. So I guess it’s great that we are presented with a diverse range of women – including pregnant ones – on women’s magazine covers that aren’t Pregnancy Magazines.

I tried to see if there were any non-paparazzi shots back in the day of Princess Diana, Elle Macpherson or Madonna… when they were pregnant. They were the three most photographed women for mag covers in the early nineties. But no. Not one shot that was posed for.  So I think it’s wonderful that women are now being accepted as cover-model material bump and all.

But why do we keep seeing naked bellies. I’m not really interested in seeing that.. Are you? I mean, when I was pregnant, I didn’t go around lifting my shirt to show people how far along I was. You could kind of tell. And there were times when I felt… well – quite beautiful actually. (Do I even need to tell you that I’m extremely limber and can very easily kiss my own ass). I don’t understand why showing someone the flesh itself… makes a woman more beautiful than she already is.

Here are some more pregnant women posing, clothed.

               

                    

Here is me posing pregnant – also fully clothed. Do you really think I need to lift my shirt or dress to show you anything not already freaky enough here?

 I will say this again to clarify my point: I don’t think a pregnant stomach is anything to be ashamed of, or hidden. I also don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting a couple of photos of your pregnant tummy for your own personal records and private collection of pictures…. or to show to your closest family and best friends.

But blowing up the images and putting them in your front entrance or lounge room? Kinda tacky! Posing on the front cover of a mag? Unless your name is Demi Moore …. tacky, predictable and done to death.

A pregnant woman in lingerie is not sexy to the stranger’s eye. It’s just not. It might look sexy to your partner, or to you… but not to us. Would you pose half naked draped across your bed with your new born baby? Or would you cover up a bit more? To me it’s the same thing. It’s a very Kath & Kim thing to do.

I realise that lately I’ve been making quite a few judgments on people’s actions. It’s hard to remain completely non-judgmental when you have an opinion on something. Some of my opinions are stronger than others. Sometimes my opinions can be changed, or broadened, as per my last post on those who light their own fireworks.

My opinion on ‘Pregnant Tummies On Show’ is one that I don’t actually feel terribly strongly about. It’s just that I saw Dannii on the cover, and my first thought was: Oh how refreshing that she’s kept her clothes on. And it got me thinking.

So, if you are one of those who have photos plastered all over your lounge room wall of yourself and your partner groping each other’s semi-naked bodies whilst pregnant. Good for you. I think it’s a tad nasty, but that’s me.  My opinion is (as you’ll see if you read my ‘about’) is often distorted and outrageous.

And with that, I conclude my remarks on cheap Shazza types who think we want to see them in a stock standard, you beaut photo wearing black lace knickers and hands strategically covering their pink bits, looking like they could explode if they sneezed.

Have a crack! Go on… They’re just fireworks!

WARNING: There are graphic images of firework injuries below….

Yesterday Territorians celebrated Northern Territory Day, marking the commencement of Self Government in the Territory on 1 July 1978. Most states celebrate the day they became independent by having a public holiday. In Darwin, we celebrate by turning the evening into a disaster zone.

Let me tell you what happens…. For 2 days, fireworks are sold to members of the public over 16 years of age, and sales must cease by 9pm on July 1st.  These people are then free to ignite and set off their fireworks.

The government and Council always have a list of guidelines when lighting your own fireworks. I have made some comments in bold italics after each point.

* The sale of fireworks will be restricted to two days. Fireworks can only be purchased between the hours of 9am and 9pm on those two days, from approved fireworks retailers. They cannot be sold to persons under 16 years of age. (Well this is basically what does happen. The firework retailers make a fortune and to have their selling license revoked to stay open an extra hour, or to sell to a minor would not be worth it for them)

  • * Fireworks can only be ignited between 6pm and 11pm on Territory Day. For all other occasions a special permit is required. (Can someone explain why I could hear fireworks going off constantly throughout the night, at one point, waking my sleeping child because it sounded like a canon)

* Unused fireworks can be handed into NT WorkSafe or your local Police and Fire stations. (Riiiiigght. Sure. Like this EVER happens. Left over fireworks get used at the discrepancy of those who have purchased them. Meaning – whenever and wherever the hell they like.)

* Strict penalties apply under the Dangerous Goods Act for breaches of fireworks regulations with fines of up to $3000. (Great, but how many people actually get fined? I would LOVE to know the stats on that one!)

Let me just say, I’m not against fireworks for celebrations. I love fireworks. Always have. What I’m against is selling them to anyone.  Because for every responsible person that does the right thing, and abides by the guidelines to increase safety, there are about 10 who don’t.

My question is:  Why can’t the government put on a HUGE display for all people in Darwin. That’s what they do in all the regional areas of the Territory. Why do city dwellers get a license to explode? You only have to go to the NYE fireworks in Sydney to understand that having one big display encourages unity, consideration and makes the night so special. Sure there are drunken idiots there too, but they’re not armed with dangerous explosives.

Having pockets of people scattered not only creates competition, “There’s are pretty big, let’s get out our big ones and blow there fireworks out of the water,” but it is also impossible to police how much those using the fireworks are drinking.  Surely after 6 beers, lighting a firework in a public place can be as hazardous as driving a car.

So anyway, last night when I realised watching television or reading a book was futile (because it sounded like World War 3 outside in my suburban neighbourhood), I do what I always do when I feel an inner cyclone coming on. I put scribble to paper and wrote this:

 

 

Right now I’m just so furious I want to punch something hard!
But that would only aggravate the blatant disregard…

of all the stupid bogans that are outdoors tonight.
No they are not drinking, neither are they in a fight.

But they are causing havoc, making trouble, being clowns.
Is this what I should just accept living in Darwin town?

I wish I could invite you now, into my Lounge Room…
And this is what you’d hear: Whistle, crack, bang, chk-chk BOOM!

We’re apparently celebrating Northern Territory Day.
But it’s really an excuse for the idiots to play.

You see in the Northern Territory anyone can buy…
as many fireworks as they like and for a price that’s high.

They sell them for a whole two days prior to tonight.
Our officials in the government think that makes it alright.

“Surely if there’s just two days to stock up on supplies..
The fireworks will be limited as will pollution to our skies.”

I guess they just don’t realise that many go to shop
For the biggest loudest fireworks that go : Snap Crackle & Pop!

So these bogans – cashed up bogans, have spent serious truck loads!
And council cleanup tomorrow will cost serious f**k loads!

photo by NT News

But you know – the government (that silly bunch of fools)
Release a statement every year about the ‘Firework Rules.’

“You must not set a firework beyond 11pm
And remember there’s exclusion zones; they’ll be policed again.”

But with alcohol flowing freely the rules are just forgotten.
I feel sorry for the fire-fighters who must think this night is rotten.

The fire danger’s always high, and every year there’s reckless flames.
Cause surely… lighting fireworks yourself is fun and games.

Yet every single year the average number is thirty five.
Those who spend the night in hospital trying to survive.

Every year there’s injuries to limbs, fingers and eyes.
And I wonder… how many idiots actually copped a fine?

  

Like the brainless twat who last year didn’t give a damn.
He sent a baby to emergency when he shot fireworks at a pram!

So the fire-fighters, paramedics, doctors and police…
…are all on hand in quantities to try and keep the peace.

And minimise the damage, and try and maintain the law.
So I’m asking now – Where are you? Cause there’s fireworks at my door!

They’re almost in my backyard, there are fireworks galore!
They’re noisy and obnoxious. It sounds like there’s a war!

I want to go outside and shout out loud: “You stupid dicks!
You careless bunch of bastards, you reckless selfish pricks!”

I should mention there are those who responsibly spend…
…the evening being careful celebrating with their friends.

They only go to areas where fireworks are allowed.
They’re cautious with their explosives and respectful of the crowd.

But sadly that’s not everyone. There are way too many jerks.
So I’m pleading with the government: Stop the free-for-all Fireworks!

Now I’d be the first to tell you that fireworks are amazing
They’re sparkly and they’re pretty just like little bits of sky bling.

photo by NT News

But with boundaries there is safety. With restrictions there’s control.
And this mess and noise and damage are starting to take its toll.

Isn’t that the reason, NT finally fell in line?
And introduced demerit points in like – 2009? ***

And changed the speeding limit so there actually was one?
Because the road tolls and the accidents were no longer any fun.

It just makes sense to me, to keep it one big show.
And no longer sell fireworks to any Tom, Dick or Jo.

STOP the Private Fireworks. That is my new slogan.
The only ones who’ll be upset are all the stupid bogans!

*** Demerit points were actually introduced to the NT in July of 2007, 2 years earlier than stated above.

Slinging MUD… When words become weapons & the NT News becomes TRASH.

UPDATE: This post has been EDITED more than my suitcase had to be prior to travelling home from Bali.

I apologise if you came here to read my opinion in its entirity, but I guess with the repsonsibility of publishing anything these days, you have to be accountable for what you say. I also wrote earlier very much in the heat of the moment and many of my remarks (I now believe) were a knee-jerk reaction to what I felt was injustice.  

I would therefore like to apologise to the journalist now for calling him vicious names earlier, names I have now removed. He’s possibly lovely and kind in person. But I stand by my comments that his words in the NT news on Tuesday were cruel and unnecessary, and that much of that has to do with ‘filling space’ for a publication hard up for REAL NEWS.

_______________________________________________________________________

I’m not perfect, far from it. I have often been the bearer of thoughtless, unkind and hurtful remarks. I’m not happy about that. But age is funny. It does more than make you wrinkley and saggy. It also means you start to grow freakishly long random eyebrows….  AND more importantly, it allows you to see the world through less judgemental eyes.

Yes. grey hair is the price I pay for perpsective and hindsight. Marvellous.

Why? Because when we’re 16 we think we’re perfect. By the time you’re 36 like I am, you realise ‘that could so easily have been me,” or “that happened to me,” or “I know how they feel.”

It’s called experience – wisdom – understanding , and it’s why our mums and dads were SPOT ON when they told us WE KNOW BEST. In most cases they did.

 

So I still happily maintain my imperfection.  I KNOW there are times when I could be nicer. When I should close my mouth and tune out of a nasty conversation. There’s also times when I should keep my (sometimes self righteous) opinion to myself.  

Yes, I can be nasty, bitchy, and unkind. I can be mean. I can be your worst enemy. BUT most of the time I’m nice, and try to be less judgemental. Most of the time when I realise I’ve upset someone, I’m devastated. MOST of the time.

In case you were wondering… no I’m not off to confession. I’m not on some deep personal self journey of emotional discovery either.

But I have said things (and published things) I regret. Like – the fact that I went to a hair salon in Darwin that starts with a K and my hair was ruined for a year. Apparently those words caused $50,000 worth of damage.

So when is it ok to share an opinion that could be hurtful or damaging?

With a friend over coffee? On facebook? While accepting an academy award?  What about in the instance where you have a space to fill in a newspaper and might as well fill it with hurtful lies? That’s not new…  Gossip mags have been doing that for years.  So it’s not surprising that something so cliché and cheap might be the common practise of my local paper.

Yesterday, a journalist from the NT News’s and clearly a correspondent for all things RIDICULOUS, published some hurtful, cynical and unnecessary comments. My guess? He got his journalism qualifications from a ‘cut-out’ on the back of a box of cornflakes.

The NT News decided a while back to do something truly original and start publishing a weekly CONFIDENTIAL section. They have the same section in most other newspapers around Australia. They serve to keep us up to date on home-town celebrity gossip. Of course when you live in Sydney or Melbourne or Brisbane… there are actually valid celebrities to write gossipy things about.

Here is an excerpt from Sydney Confidential today:

MICHAEL Clarke and Lara Bingle have reached settlement following their break-up in March.

A statement released by Bingle’s lawyers last night stated the couple had resolved their “property arrangements” amicably and remain good friends.

Despite a report here earlier in the week, Confidential understands the model agreed to a conservative settlement in the end, although there were no details forthcoming last night.

Clarke’s camp confirmed the matter had been dealt with privately.

Notice there was no name calling, no judgement, no accusations.

Here is NT Confidential from yesterday:

Ed makes a very public proposal

THE Territory’s latest glossy fish-and-chip wrapper has taken less than a year to descend into full-blown self-promotion.

In a move that has caused many to cringe, Darwin Life editor Leasel Avila proposed to her boyfriend Matt Cielens – who writes the editorial for the pair’s latest venture, Darwin Home – with a full-page photograph of herself.

Traditional social-sorts were shocked to see Avila making the proposal rather than Matt.  ConfideNTial can reveal that he said yes.

MEANWHILE, Cielens has made a splash in the second edition of his mag.

While rambling on about “imitation being the highest form of flattery”, he wrote: “Maybe we will do the same some day and put a croc on the front cover.”

Given that most of the stories in his magazine are built around selling the wares of advertisers, ConfideNTial wonders who will foot the bill for that cover.

 

If you would like to see what I’m referring to click here and refer to page 6.

Now watch out: I’m ready to sling mud.

 In one small gossip item, he’s managed to do the following:

  • Insult an independent publication by calling it ‘fish and chip wrapping.’ This journo forgets he works for a paper, one that is discarded DAILY, one that is full of FANCIFUL FABLES, one that has LITTLE CREDIBILITY and one that has no pretty glossy pages…. I wonder who’s stories end up wrapping greasy food? Glossy full colour monthly mag? Or trashy 20 page waste of paper that is NT News?

 

  • Accused Darwin Life editor Leasel Avila – a young woman with guts and fortitude who took her destiny into her own hands and proposed to her boyfriend, as being a ‘self promoter.’ Yes, of course she totally proposed for publicity. Totally. Not love. Not because she wants to share her life and be married to a great guy. Just to get more readers.  If the journo understood women at all, he’d know we women don’t muck around when it comes to proposals and weddings. We simply want it to be memorable and special, and I think Leasel achieved that. I admit to being shocked by it, but on reflection I think what she did was brave. I think good on her. I think the journo is a little out of touch with human emotion…. perhaps a result of spending hours couped up in a tiny little cubicle with no windows, and nothing to look at but the old front page clippings blue-tac’d up, about Yowies and UFO’s and Aliens. The makings of a sad person, making a living out of pulling others down.

 

  •  Assumed the thoughts and actions of others, by stating that this proposal made many people ‘cringe.’ Did it? Like who?   Traditional types, he says, were shocked. Yep, they probably were. And that’s news or gossip how?

 

  • Accused an editor of a competing publication (Matt Cielens) of ‘rambling.’ Because this journo in question NEVER rambles. He’s not threatened at all by the fact that there’s a competing HOME magazine on the market?

 

  • Accused a competing magazine for being built around advertisers and having no real substance.  Ummm, this is a message for the journalist and all his mates at the NT News.  YOU DO THE SAME THING. You are totally dependent on advertisers. As most publications are. Don’t tell me that the sale price of $1.20 for the paper pays your salary. Advertisers pay your salary, and you know that. In much more subtle ways, your paper does the same. As do ALL papers. Your publication is often laughable, and so are the prices you charge for advertising.  Perhaps that’s it! You’ve lost advertisers to a publication that doesn’t charge champagne prices for light beer quality.  Darwin Life and HOME magazine (while still in its infancy) are a lot more customer savvy than you lot. I know where I’d rather spend my marketing dollars.  

I also think most people buy the silly paper to see what irony or stupidity they can laugh at for the day.

I think I’m feeling much better, although there’s every chance this post will get me in to severely hot water.

DISCLAIMER: The above words are a personal opinion only. They have been published for cathartic purposes, and to fulfil a personal need for vengeance. They are not fact, but just one hot headed girl’s view of a sad piece of journalism. This post should be treated with as much seriousness as the report from the NT News some time back, on the kangaroo who was horny and on the prowl.

Memo to all women : Get baking, get naked, or GET LOST! Footy doesn’t want you.

Right now is probably not a good time for me to be writing this. I am super furious and have just spent half an hour reporting to Facebook administration some ATTACKING, SEXIST, DEROGATORY remarks made about Kelli Underwood. Some, alarmingly made by women.  (And no, I’m not ‘one of those’ people who report others, in fact this is the 1st time I have ever reported anyone on Facebook).

If you follow the AFL, you will probably know exactly who I’m talking about, but if not – let me tell you about Kelli Underwood.

She is the FIRST EVER female to commentate a game of AFL.  Sadly, Kelli is NOT the proud owner of a penis and because she lacks this apparent MANDATORY apparatus, has received a bucket load of completely UNFAIR and outright SEXIST backlash.

(Incidentally, Kelli should totally sue for defamation. I once started a group on Facebook about getting butchered by hairdresser and me and my 5 members apparently caused $50,000 worth of damage.   I would LOVE to see how much she could get out of the MONGRELS on Facebook who are attacking not just her ability to commentate, but her personally).

Last week the Daily Telegraph reported the following:

LAST weekend a young sports commentator by the name of Kelli Underwood made her calling debut on Channel 10 in the AFL pre-season competition.

If Kelli was a bloke, that event would not have attracted much attention. In fact, if Kelli was Kel, he would have been welcomed into the fold with open arms and nobody would have battedan eyelid.

Sadly for Kelli this week, she is not a bloke. Kelli Underwood (pictured) has been subject to the sort of scrutiny that only underworld criminals and out-of-form Australian cricketers normally face.

It is a different matter when Nicole Livingstone calls the swimming. You see, she was a swimmer. Liz Ellis calling netball. Fine – that’s a chicks’ sport. But heaven forbid any woman who dares to dream and cross that big thick white line into the male football domain.

Kelli will find out the hard way that the path she has chosen will be very rocky indeed. The bloggers are just the beginning. Macho radio commentators have expressed grave concern about Underwood’s future. Even sensible male journalists believe that she has absolutely no chance of succeeding in this most brutal of worlds. This has all been expressed in week one, before we even find out if the girl has talent.

I must admit I turned on the AFL last weekend and was shocked to hear a female voice calling the game. We are so finely tuned to hearing men that any female, no matter what she says, is going to sound strange and foreign.

But that doesn’t mean we should put a line through her name just yet. Underwood deserves exactly the same chance as any one of her male counterparts. From the small portion I heard, it is obvious that the girl knows and loves the game.

The mere fact that she has decided to pursue her goal shows a determination and gutsiness that is admirable. Underwood would be well aware that the female experiment lasted two minutes on Channel 9’s cricket commentary.  Kate Fitzpatrick was such a disastrous choice as the pioneering woman on the cricket commentary team that no one has ever dared to venture there in the two decades since.

Firstly, well said Rebecca Wilson who wrote the article, especially the bit about nobody batting an eye if it was a new bloke commentating.

But Kelli didn’t enter into this role blind folded. She was well aware of the attention she might receive saying, “Obviously the whole ‘woman’ thing will be a talking point and I understand it’s an issue that polarises people and a lot of people have an opinion. But I’m a woman and I’ve earned this opportunity and I’m going to go for it.”

Here is a snippet of Kelli commentating. Keep in mind it was right before the final siren.

Some complain it’s not the fact that she’s a woman, but rather – that her voice is annoying and painful to listen to.  For real?

Have any of you heard Rabs (Ray Warren) commentate a game of NRL? Talk about annoying. If you don’t know who I’m talking about, tune into Game 2 of the State of Origin on the 9th June and you’ll know the second he opens his mouth.  Because I would rather hear a recording of someone vomiting excessively than listen to him, but you don’t see many HATE groups on Facebook for him do you? 

To give you an example of some of the atrocious and abhorrent things being said about Kelli, I’ve cut some out below.

   

From the Facebook group: Operation Sack Kelli Underwood from Commentating (members 11,026)

  • F**K UP BITCH!
  • Dumb f**k she is! She is ruining the Cats vs dees game. Just f**k off biatch! You are single handedly ruining Australian Rules Footy!!!!!
  • Get in the canteen and off my f***ing tv!!!!!!! You are boring and crap!!! Women should stick to cleaning and serving food – NOT commentating!!!! What next a f***ing female coach get a grip!!!!!!
  • She’s a fu**n slag f**k her off real quick
  • Kick the bitch in the guts!!!paaaa smelly kelli get outta here C***!!!
  • Back in the kitchen BITCH, and cook me some PIE!
  • Women are good at lots of things, but leave this job to a man who knows the know. Like Dennis!

From the Facebook discussion group: Underwood was employed BECAUSE she is a woman

  • I have seen her do two games, go away girl and do a story on cooking as you are boring as a football commentator
  • I agree footy is a game played by blokes so naturally someone who commentates should have personal experience in the game! Seriously how many blokes would get to commentate netball?

His name is Luke Darcy, and he commentates netball you brain dead hack. Also, there are loads of male AFL commentators who have never played a single game.

From the Facebook discussion group:  Women in Football????

  • It doesn’t work….now we gota put up with this raspy voiced, throat clearing mess while she commentates Geelong’s finest games…any1 know of a female in the football media that’s worth knowing??? even malthouse fell by the wayside after she finished giving handjobs in primary school carparks
  • Women should stay out of footy. its only 4 men.
  • I agree with everyone and everything said – females involved in AFL is wrong – umpiring, goal umpiring, commentating, anything (only if the girl is blonde with a tiny waist and big boobs then I’m pretty sure they are allowed to be the physiotherapist)

And that’s not all. There are so many hate groups aimed at this woman, you would think she was the master mind behind the Bali bombings.  And it’s not just Facebook groups. There are TONS of on-line forums on the topic like this one that say Kelli should’ve been drowned at birth! 

So the main message we’re getting from the semi-deranged masses is that women and football don’t mix. Women should stay FAR AWAY from the game. We should instead, be venturing off the field, and into the kitchen. Yes, because The Kitchen is where ‘we belong.’

Well knock me down with a feather,  that’s a new concept!! Women in the kitchen…. and the millions of male chefs who incidentally; often get paid more for cutting the same onion.  Have you noticed on EVERY competitive cooking show, the judges are MEN? 

To those who say that Kelli get in the kitchen… are you suggesting that women should be like that of a 1950’s housewife? If so, it’s too late! Read your friggin history books. The men went to war – the women kept the rest of the world turning, and we were changed forever.  Have none of you seen the movie A League Of Their Own? 

I would like to bet my left breast that Kelli is getting paid less than her male counterparts. As do all women on TV. Koshie gets more than Mel. Karl gets more than Lisa.  It’s a sad fact.

So anyway, on Saturday after reading a comment on facebook by one of my friends, saying if he wanted to watch a chick imitate a bloke, he’d watch Ellen, I decided to watch.   Admittedly, I only usually watch my own team play, unless it’s finals, and the week Kelli was commentating a West Coast Eagles game, I was in Sydney where AFL is like honest politicians.

I couldn’t see the problem. Yes, she did a fair bit of the grunting macho voice when the on-field plays got heated or close to scoring, (as do male commentators) but she undoubtedly knows her stuff.  I can’t understand what’s so annoying about her.  

Yes she sometimes stated the obvious – but EVERY commentator does that, and I’m wondering if those who think she is annoying to listen to, are actually (consciously or subconsciously) irritated by the female voice, rather than what she is saying, or how.

These people would like Kelli – and in fact ALL women to leave their game alone, and give the job to one far more qualified. One with an Adam’s Apple and a set of testicles to boot. 

In fact, women of Australia…. let us leave football THE HELL alone. Let’s cancel our team memberships. Let’s stop watching games on TV. Let’s stop going to LIVE games. Lets’s STOP buying any merhcandise.

And you know what men – your beloved game will choke and die. Because it’s a well know fact that women make up a large percentage of memberships, of crowd numbers and TV viewers. And it’s also been documented that women are the ones who buy MOST of the team merhcandise.

So let’s stop. We should get back to the kitchen where we belong and bake pie.  How DARE we enjoy a game of footy! How DARE we be watching, let alone commentating.

I’d now like to bet my right breast that if Kelli had been sitting in the box wearing a bikini with her jugs out, men Australia wide would be saluting her. If she followed it up with a photo shoot for Zoo Weekly?  Why men would be praising her. 

“She’s a good sort” they’d say!

                                

And we’d hear all about her love of being naked, how she loves to have sex with her boyfriend during half time, how she once did it in the MCG locker rooms, and actually, how she loves it when she gets tipsy and ends up rooting the entire team – because you know, if you want to be part of AFL – that is where you belong.  Not as a contributing member of a fantastic game and a great Australian sport; but as a piece of ass.

And then they’d dedicate the legendary song “Up There Cazaly” to her but change the words as follows:

Up there Kel Underwood
Please will you quit?
Up there and at ‘em
And show ‘em your tits

Up there Kel Underwood
Keep quiet or die
You’ll get more admirers
By baking a pie

A letter I doubt I’ll be sending… to Kevin Rudd, PM

Dear Prime Minister

On the eve of your new budget, I thought I’d write to tell you some of my opinions, because everyone is entitled to my opinion – even you! 

First of all I should probably make one thing clear straight up. I didn’t vote for you because I heard you picked wax out of your ear and ate it. Sorry, but that was kind of a deal breaker for me.

To be honest Mr Rudd, the first time I had to vote, and was unsure who to vote for because I didn’t understand the policy, I referred to the dictionary, and this is what I read:

LABOUR

  1. to burden or tire
  2. the physical effort and periodic uterine contractions of childbirth.
  3. to act, behave, or function at a disadvantage

LIBERAL

  1. favoring or permitting freedom of action
  2. open minded or tolerant
  3. progressive, broad minded, charitable, unprejudiced

Actually, your ‘KEVIN 07’ campaign didn’t really give me much indication of what type of PM you’d be. Other than the fact that perhaps there’s be times when you like to rhyme.  Your campaign mantras included cliché phrases like:

  • The reckless spending must stop.
  • The Buck stops with me.
  • The best choice for working families.
  • Creating an education revolution.
  • Addressing the biggest challenge of our time… Climate Change.

I find empty words like that harder to swallow than fermented fish guts soup. So I voted for Howard, which was essentially a vote for Peter Costello.

That day we had to vote was a shambles, and I should have realised then; that if this is what DAY 1 of ‘Kevin Rudd as PM’ was going to be like, hold on to your stock portfolios because you ‘aint seen nothin’ yet.

I left my phone in the voting booth, and by the time I’d realised, and returned to collect it, the booth ceased to exist. Those volunteers at the voting stations were eager to get out.  So given that I was to be meeting friends for dinner that night at a Tepanyaki restaurant, of which I knew neither its name nor exact location…. I wandered the streets of Sydney searching for Tepanyaki where my friends were. I found them eventually – only to get raw egg thrown down the front of my brand new jeans.

Eggs are precious, and not supposed to be thrown at someone’s unsuspecting bowl. I’m telling you this because it’s a metaphor which I will explain soon.

So anyway, leading up to your election, I had only the above information, and the following understanding of what KEVIN stood for….

K – Kind of feminine looking.
E – Ever been to a strip club?
V – Very good at clichés and rhyming.
I – I eat ear wax!
N – Nasally, Nerdy and Not very old.

In the last 3 years I have learnt much more about you, and I hope you sacked your campaign advisors and speech writers because here is what they didn’t tell us. 

The reckless spending must stopreally meant: The reckless spending by the liberal government on tax cuts must stop. YOU will take a 20 billion dollar surplus and create a $50 billion dollar deficit. You will spend recklessly on other things and then frantically look for ways to recover some of that money.

The Buck stops with mereally meant: The economy stops with you.

The best choice for working familiesreally meant: The best choice for anyone who is unemployed and wants to stay that way. It was also your fave quote of the campaign and we continue to hear it in every address.

Creating an education revolutionreally meant: You are hugely ambitious with grand promises, but your game plan will be slow, and a website called MY SCHOOL will be a new way to create ‘fear and propoganda’ in ‘working families.’

Addressing the biggest challenge of our time… Climate Changereally meant: You’ll throw around some ideas, travel abroad to discuss these ideas, and see what happens. If it’s too hard, you’ll let someone else work it out.

Mr Rudd, your beliefs seem to be disposable. You were there at my doorstep but you have failed to deliver me anything but junk mail. A lot of people like you.  But what I look for in a PM is performance not personality.  

Your announcements lack substance like you think we’re not ready or too dumb to hear the head spinning details.

Here is what I think KEVIN stands for now.

K – Kryptonite. You may have felt like Superman giving everyone 900 bucks, and telling us you’re here to tackle the tough issues. But you’re not faster than a speeding bullet, and you can’t leap tall buildings in single bound either. When you finished saving the economy with cash hand-outs, like Clarke Kent you went back to the office with your glasses on all sheepish and told yourself “I’m such a good person” until Lex Turnbull Luther exposed your stimulus. If the debt you’ve given this country doesn’t kill you, I don’t know what will.

E – Education Revolution. I had an education revolution at my place last week. I bought a new laptop too. E is also for ETS, but I almost forgot about that because it was sitting right at the back of the shelf somewhere.

V – Vendetta. You seem to have one for WA. Is it because they’re the only state led by a Liberal premier, or the fact that they failed to sit prettily on your proposed health reform? It’s like you’re determined to destroy their economy as you have destroyed the other major states’. I wonder who helps you dream these ridiculous plots up. Do you have Dr Evil on speed dial? Did he say to you: “Hmmmm, WA economy is booming hey?  You can destroy them.  Hit them where it hurts… the Resources and Industrial Sector. Force them to pay more tax, the oldest rule in the book.  (pats his kitty) The mining companies will have no choice but to take their business oversees, leaving thousands unemployed and the state in complete asphyxiation. Aahh ha ha ha ha ha“ 

I – In flight Entertainment. You seriously must have saved so much money on going to the movies with all the films you must watch on all those frequent 12 hour flights. So tell me..What did you prefer… The Hurt Locker or Avatar? I’m envisaging you as more of an Avatar kind of guy. It might have something to do with you apparent love of fantasy.

N – NEVER. Are you ready for this one? Never salute to the most hated man in politics – GW Bush. Never arrange insulation for anyone again. Never twitter porn. Never dine in public places with Rupert Murdoch’s men on a popular strip in a restaurant owned by a movie star. You’re going to get noticed. Never criticise the air hostess. Never laugh into a microphone that’s turned on again. Please? It’s like fingernails down a chalkboard. It hurts my teeth. Never criticise the leader of Opposition for exercising instead of discussing health reforms. Actions speak louder than words Kev, and on the subject of health, Mr Abbot appears to know more than you.

  

So back to the day I voted and my metaphor.

Like my phone – you seem lost. You’re wandering aimlessly looking past your shoulder and asking yourself, “Haven’t I already been to this spot?”

You have. It’s a place you probably saw when Gough Whitlam was in charge, and you are there. You’re actually smack bang in the middle of Way To Screw The Economy Prime Minister – Highway.

Back in your election campaign you gave the promise of a Tepanyaki dinner. A good healthy meal for all ‘struggling working families.’ But some of the meal is under cooked. Some burnt to a crisp and completely inedible. We’re getting stuff we didn’t order, and you’re telling me that what I did order, you’ve not got?

I won’t be coming back to this restaurant again. Because to make it worse, you started throwing raw eggs about, and I have a feeling that tomorrow when you announce the budget, that raw egg is gonna’ fly.

Yes Prime Minister. The eggs in my metaphor are your budget. Eggs are precious.

Every year you pollies create a budget that changes the shape of our economy. Last year your budget reminded me of when I was 18 and lied about my income to get a MYER card. I had a great 6 month spending spree and nearly poo’d my pants when I saw how much I owed at the end of it. It took me 6 years to pay it off.

So I’m begging you – to stop throwing eggs around like it’s a joke yolk… You’re making a huge mess. The economy is not a big fry pan that you can make scrambled eggs in. It’s more like a Pavlova, and the egg part is delicate and central to the success of the dish.

I’m hoping that by this time next year we’ll have new leadership, and that tomorrow will be the last time I have to endure this Kitchen Nightmare.

You’re popularity is at an all time low. It’s because you lied. You sold us Dom Perignon and gave us Brut. If you want to win the next election – be honest. Tell the truth.

Because I know how much you like to rhyme, here are some ideas. (Forget “Kevin in 2011” – it’s been done, and besides, you need to call that election SOON)

There were few good men in 2010
So you might as well bloody vote for Ruddy.

I’ll travel the world in first class
My policies will be a bit of a farce

But I’ll have a laugh, I’ll give you cash
I’ll probably make the market crash

I’ll kill small business and enterprise
I’ll tax you high, and tell you lies

I’ll reward the ones who just don’t try
And healthy, hard workers will fry

I’ll talk of challenges in our time
But most importantly – I’ll rhyme.

And there you have it.  

Anyway, I must go. I’ve just seen a headline on tomorrow’s budget that is making my head spin so fast it’s giving me whiplash.

Sincerely not yours,
Cindy

PS. Has anyone ever told you – you look like ‘Smithers’ from The Simpsons?

I’m Sorry Anna Nicole

Everywhere you turn these days there’s a girl in her knickers. A young actress who just scored the Armani underwear model gig; an ungracefully ageing pop queen; a reality TV star who wants to show us her new surgery enhanced bikini body; and a pop sensation who’s taken the world by storm with her lack of clothing and simply bizarre ‘performance art.’

Well there’s a few off the top of my head. Some other celebrity types go above and beyond – and DON’T show us their knickers, because they’re not wearing any. Mmm, yes these girls prefer to show the worlds waiting paparazzi how they pay homage to Brazil.

I’ve noticed over the years that the images presented to us have become increasingly raunchy. What was once an advert for jeans (albeit with sexual overtones) and included models wearing jeans AND tops….… is now models who; in the throws of a ménage a trios, look as though they’re about to climax – wearing nothing. Except jeans.

Here are some jeans ads from the 80’s

     

Here’s are some jeans ad from last year

So is this sex in the media getting out of control? Or are magazines, music, tv and advertising just the messengers in terms of what has become acceptable popular ‘raunch’ culture?

Raunch culture is definitively thriving, but some say it’s been around for decades. Truthfully – the mantra SEX SELLS is by no means the new black. Many believe its pretty much Chapter One of the Grand Advertising Bible that says: Push Boundaries. Use Sex. Sell more stuff. Get rich.

And you know, sex may have been in advertising for years, but you can’t deny the boundaries to push have totally moved.

And those opposed to seeing these overtly explicit and borderline pornographic images are labelled as matron like customs agents, standing on the outskirts of Conservative Nerd Land, waiting to stamp all the bulimic model asses and pop star booties as they cross over into the glamorous Kingdom of Raunch.

“There you go Ms Christina Aguilera. There’s your passport, and your Visa. Until you make a new album with songs that don’t include the words Dirty, or show you crawling subjectively in a boxing ring in your red knickers… you’re officially RAUNCHY”.

(ooh, I do like that song… great beat)

At age 36, I am one of those people who sometimes remember the good old days. I realise this makes me a TOTAL NANA, but something has happened to me and I can’t watch most film clips without a million cynical and judgmental thoughts.

Ok, seriously do any of you remember the following….

  • When Olivia Newton John’s “Lets Get Physical” was considered risqué.
  • When Madonna sang about feeling “Like A Virgin” as she crawled all over a gondola like a cat on heat and was labelled as lewd, suggestive and inappropriate.
  • When Cher, in a see through seat-belt-jumpsuit straddling on a cannon aboard a navy ship, was thought to be racy and too sexy.

Yes they were the good old days and I barely blinked an eye, I didn’t register at the time any sex or inappropriateness, and I’m sure there are plenty of teenage girls that didn’t know what Fergie’s song My Humps was about, and they probably don’t realise Kesha is acting like a $2 whore when she sings:

Don’t be a bitch with your chit chat
Just show me where you dick’s at….
I wanna dance with no pants on…
I wanna be naked and you’re wasted.

Seriously? It’s like Gloria Estevan never happened.

My problem is that as I sit here from my almost-middle-aged perch, I notice young girls everywhere seem obsessed with making penises that belong to men they don’t know – hard.

It’s as if women have become so fed up trying to prove they’re equal, they’ve just thrown in the towel saying, “Stuff it – I may not get paid as much as you for the same game of tennis, but I can make you want me. I can make you beg for it. I can make you wish you had me, and if you’re lucky or if I’m wasted enough – you can.”

It’s a common theme in many film clips today. That – and the luxurious life of fame, sexual promiscuity, and violence. But film clip directors dress it up with styled sets and glamorous inventive costumes and hot looking guys and girls, and amazing choreography.

And we (and the media) applaud them for their creativity, for pushing the envelope, for their artistic expression, their originality.

For their ability to Shock us. Rock us. Roll us. RULE us.

 Are we that desperate for a surprise? Is our appetite for sex and beauty and danger and glamour so enormous that if we are presented with images that aren’t part-pornographic and polished and pretty we turn away?

Truthfully, I think there are many ‘consultants’ who tell these companies that if they don’t incorporate sex into the campaign, they won’t sell product. (Sadly, I’ve seen it happen first hand, and the consultants are right!) Likewise with pop artists… If they don’t get their raunch on and show the world they can change, the world will forget them, they won’t sell albums and they’ll stop being famous.

Right Miley Cyrus?

Right Gabrielle Cilmi?

Right Britney? Oh my beloved Britney… you sang, “All the boys and all the girls are begging to F. U. C. K me…” (If You Seek Amy)

Maybe they are Britney. And with one song, you’ve just made a million teenage girls wish that all the boys and all the girls wanted to F. U. C.K them.

Is that power? Having a million ‘unknowns’ want to get down your pants?

Art Buchwalkd, the Pulitzer Prize winning author says we need to stop comparing pop culture of today with ‘the good old days.’

He said: We seem to be going through a period of nostalgia, and everyone seems to think yesterday was better than today. I don’t think it was, and I would advise you not to wait ten years before admitting today was great. If you’re hung up on nostalgia, pretend today is yesterday and just go out and have one hell of a time.

Hell of a time???? I wonder if the girl who’s attackers got away with rape because she was wearing skinny jeans is having one hell of a time? Yes, a LIVING HELL I bet.  Because it’s possible that at the time she was just perpetuating the idea that it’s so cool to turn guys on. Yeah, maybe she was acting like she ‘wanted it.’ But isn’t that how she’s being told to act? Everywhere she turns??

In terms of how woman are portrayed and promoted as sexual objects and the fact that advertising and even the products themselves are aimed sexually at women younger and younger every week, I must disagree with Art Buchwalkd.

Here is an ad for Mr Leggs Trousers from the 60’s. The fine print reads: ”After one look at Mr Leggs slacks she was ready to have him walk all over her.”

It’s wrong, offensive too, no doubt about it.

HERE is an ad for American Apparel that had to be taken down after someone graffiti’d on it, “Gee, I wonder why women get raped?” Other than the graffiti, there was no fine print.

Both ads are for clothing. Both send DREADFUL messages to young girls and women, and men too. But only ONE image shows a woman posing passively in an attempt to make herself sexually available to whoever wants her? And THAT is what’s changed.

Just as Kesha said, she wants to be naked, while you’re wasted. Nice one. And who’s filming that?

And what about these photos?

Do these make you want to go and scrub your retinas with oven cleaner too? Or is it just me?

Lindsay Lohan didn’t just hit rock bottom when she did these. She smashed, crashed and made one hell of a mess falling. Because you know, bleeding wrists are like – so hot right now! And guns pointed at my face are such a turn on.

Here’s a girl who needs to lose her team of advisors and stop listening to other people. Because Linsday Lohan did not dream up these images. The photographers and stylists and set directors did. She’s a puppet, but she’s the one we all point the finger at and call a mess.

I first learnt about the term, ‘sexualisation and objectification of girls’ from some amazing blogs and websites like The Butterfly Effect & Melinda Tankard Reist. Slowly it’s a subject that’s reaching people….slowly.

Back when I was growing up I knew vaguely of women called ‘feminists’ who objected to other women entering beauty pageants and bikini pageants. I presumed these women were uptight, miserable and probably spent way too long at the library and not enough time having body hair removed. Cliché or what?

But over time, the penny slowly dropped. I once had a boyfriend that made me feel like an object. It’s a pretty random feeling when you’ve grown up being confident and sure of yourself, only to be told that your outfit is ugly, you need more lipstick, told to go put earrings on, told you’re putting on weight and might want to start exercising, and asked why you didn’t do your hair the way he liked it.

Suddenly I was basing my own self worth on how I looked. I became obsessed with being skinny, tanned, and buying clothes, and still joke that back then; I had a BMW in my wardrobe. Working for a Luxury French cosmetic house probably didn’t help either. My appearance was EVERYTHING, and who I – Cindy became, was about as clear to me as a Monet up close.

I sometimes wonder about Anna Nicole. I remember her reality show when she was possibly at her heaviest and the world was accusing her of being on drugs…. DER!

Then she lost all her weight again and finally, we could stop feeling sorry for her and laugh in her face again….Trailor-trash-train-wreck that she was.

Ahhh, Anna Nicole – back to your old ‘bad girl’ ways. You sexy blonde bimbo bombshell you!

(Incidentally, I’m wondering at what age the term BAD GIRL goes from being a scolding to a compliment? Because it is now you know? A compliment! Just ask Rihanna!)

And now here’s this. One man’s brave, brave apology to all women, for what has now become so accepted and normal.

It’s this clip that has inspired the above 1600 words. Sorry it was so long and possibly blah in places.

But I watched this and it opened up an envelope inside my brain. And envelope that has been stuffed with images and words that are always telling me I must look sexy, and hot, and desirable. Even after giving birth – I must lose that weight SNAP – so I can be one of those lucky enough to be called a MILF or a Yummy Mummy.

I’m sorry too Anna Nicole. Because I’m one of the people who called you trash, fat, drugged, cheap, and slutty. And sometimes you were – but I’m starting to realise it wasn’t all your fault.