Published in On Our Selection News November 14, 2013

I have a speech to write.

But it’s not just about writing a speech, it’s about winning. That’s right, there is a lot that I need to achieve with this speech. Sure, I’ve written speeches before, I’ve even done them off the cuff. I had two really close friends’ speeches to do in the month of October. One of those speeches had to be repeated twice because my friend had a second “family” 21st party, which meant more people to embarrass her in front of, and more cake for me.

I usually love speeches. I did one at my cousin’s wedding a few years back. It was quick, witty and ended with my giving the bride and groom personalised underwear with my face on it (it’s a family thing I started, don’t read too much into it, expect that it’s not weird. Promise). I even had the honour of doing the “funny speech” at the end of Year 12 (my emphasis on our past love of raa-raa skirts earned me a standing ovation). But none of that matters now. My speech giving past isn’t worth a damn – not unless I can out-speech this girl.

You see, she gave a speech at my 21st. It was awesome – it was funny and it was damn well researched – did you know that on the exact day I was born, President Bush vomited into the lap of a Japanese Prime Minister? Well this girl did. And she made it excruciatingly funny and even a little bit touching. That’s what my speech has to go up against. I need to pulverise her. However, this is going to be a task because not only is this girl an amazing public speaker – she won a mooting competition, those things are HUGE – but she also has really expressive eyebrows. The kind of brows which would have made her an outstanding candidate to place Hermione Granger had she been in England at the time – I’ve always harboured a violent jealousy over that trait. My eyebrows are barely visible. In fact, I’ve been told that it looks like someone had glue on their thumb, smeared it on my brow and threw little pieces of hair at it. Yeah. My brows do not compare.

It’s not like I don’t have material on her. I was with her on the first night she was ever drunk. I can go into cahoots with her sister to snag the audio file of her talking about wanting to, “hang with the boys on the fence because that’s where cool people go” to play and refer to. I remember her hair-do on the first day of high school. I know about her love of Tweety Bird and stupid animal pillows. I have endless supplies of ammo.

But it’s not good enough. I want to make her cry, not only from being touched emotionally, but also because I showed up her speech – big time.

I don’t know what this says about our friendship. Going over what I’ve written, it reads a little aggressively to the untrained eye, but I think there’s something beautiful about friends wanting to metaphorically beat the other to a pulp with the clever stringing together of anecdotes. Friendship is supposed to improve the lives of both parties, so if she gets a heart-warming, hilarious speech and I get the satisfaction of knowing I beat her, than surely that’s a win-win. Isn’t that what this whole “friendship” thing is supposed to be about?

Published in On Our Selection News October 24, 2013

Manners are important.

I was at the print shop at uni the other day and had to I ask the lady behind the counter for some print assistance. I didn’t think that I was being overly polite, but the lady commented several times how glad she was that I was using manners.

I felt really sorry for her. At this point in the year, there would be hundreds of exhausted and stressed out students printing out their theses which, according to my pysch friends, can be a harrowing experience (when you’ve worked on a report for a whole year and the printer screws up the margins in a graph, it’s pretty dramatic). Tempers would have been short and manners would have disappeared along with the thesis printer’s standards for hygiene and will to live.

I’ve always been a big advocate for manners to a point where I come off as perhaps a little bit intimidating. I don’t really make it my business to be around small children, but when I do I guarantee you that I will make them say “please” and “thank you” before passing them the treat they asked for. Yes, I use my advantage of height (note: this is the ONLY situation in which I have a height advantage) to force them into politeness.

But it’s not just children. Many moons ago, I was in the magical role of customer service in the fast food industry. As glamorous as it seemed on the outside, you would be surprised to read that it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows (in fact on one of my first late night close shifts, I discovered that one of the impossibly hairy-chested employees preferred to wash up without a shirt, which was rather uncomfortable). I learned that people can be remarkably rude. Thankfully, this didn’t crush my spirits, as eventually my sass and disregard for my job kicked in and I began to realise that as the person who has the food, I had the upper hand – much like the situation with the child at a family party. And while it was perhaps not genuine, the “thanks” I received while maintaining eye contact and sternly saying “you’re welcome” while maintaining a firm grip on manner-less person’s bag of grease was satisfying enough.

I also hate it when I’m with a friend who doesn’t use their manners when talking to someone behind a checkout. I have one friend who is particularly unfriendly to checkout people, and I find it this excruciating. I find myself over compensating for this by being extremely friendly to a point where I come off as plain creepy to the teenage cashier who feels uncomfortable.

I know that “please” and “thank you” are just words, but damn it they are important words. Look at these two phrases: “could you pass the salt!” and “could you please pass me the salt?” The difference is that one is a demand, and the other is request. It’s an acknowledgement that the other person is doing you a favour, even if it is their job. And a “thanks” is just as important. It says “hey, you’ve got a lot on your plate at the moment, but I’d really like that salt and I appreciate you giving up your time to ensure my meal is sufficiently seasoned – you’re a kind soul.” Surely that sentence is much more of an effort to say than just a simple “please” and “thank you”.

Published in On Our Selection News October 17, 2013

I love a good “first meeting” story.

A very good friend of mine had a 21st over the weekend, which means a couple of things – free terrible tasting wine (as someone who’s first introduction to white wine was sourced from a silver sack that came out of a box, all white wines taste terrible in comparison…), bored younger cousins being forced to carry around platters of fried food to guests and embarrassing stories coming out in speeches.

As I had a fair bit of embarrassing ammunition to shoot out of the truth gun, I nominated myself to speak. The tale of our first meeting was a good one. I won’t go into the details, but it involved a sweet 16th, an unusual projectile and some incredibly bogan antics on both of our parts. Now we can all look back and laugh at how feral we were, but as someone now officially classed as an adult, I fear that similar humiliating first meetings won’t result in lifelong friendship – they will merely make you an hilarious anecodote at dinner parties.

The filthy days of youth are gone and now all that’s left are good impressions and sensible conversation. Which is sad, because thinking back to all the times I first met my nearest and dearest, they were all pretty damn unsightly or creepy.

On several occasions, I’ve photographed friends before I became friends with them. Yes really. I was at an Australia Day event demonstrating the awesome water-proofness of my new camera by dunking it in jugs of beer and taking submerged photos, which then resulted in me forcibly taking selfies with impressed patrons. A month or so later, a girl I’d taken photos of was moving into the room around the corner from mine, and we were instant friends. I’ve also got a snap of another friend playing with string in the background of a I’d picture taken at a concert. Another friend and I first bonded over a big manky scar on his neck, and due to a questionable initiation process, I’ve met countless friends by going up to them to mock their horrendously choppy shaved heads.

These are the friendships that have perhaps been the most rewarding, and while I wouldn’t put it down to just an hilarious and filthy meeting, the first meeting story definitely helps. Perhaps it’s because embarrassing situations break the ice for you. Because we all know that when you’re dressed up as Jesus and every other girl is wearing a cute fairy costume (Year 9 Dannielle didn’t get the memo), you’re going to be less closed off when someone extends an arm of friendship.

Now, as a judgemental young adult, it would take someone with a heckload more personality traits than a dank neck scar to strike me as a potential buddy. But I do hope my newfound notion of maturity doesn’t deter me from forming the strong bonds of creepily founded friendship. I hope that my wisdom is less of a friend-blocking fence, and more a friend selection filter that helps me sieve out the weirdos with hearts of gold from the plain weird. And taking into account my preference for wearing “odd” costumes, I sure hope my fellow judgemental youth are much the same.

Published in On Our Selection News October 10, 2013

Hot summer nights are impractical and disruptive.

Sure, it’s nice for the air to be warm as you’re cutting a sick on the d-floor, because it means that you wont be chilly in your surprisingly scanty ode to sauerkraut costume – but that warm “pleasant” air can quickly turn from ally to enemy. As glorious

as they can be, the Summer nights bring serious annoyances. As well as the constant fear of leaving a visible sweaty wet patch from your bare thighs being on the plastic public seat, Summer also brings with it the joys of sleepless nights. And I’m not talking sleepless in that they are grand parties going on, I’m talking sleepless because despite your best efforts, you’re too much of a hot mess to go to sleep.

As someone who enjoys cuddling up with big blankets, the heat has always been an issue for me. Due to my genius “if-I- can’t-hear-her-the-girl-from-The-Ring-won’t-kill-me” defence strategy developed as a child, I now can’t sleep with my ears uncovered. This means that I either have blankets up over my head, or I’ll sleep with my head under the pillow (after sharing a room with a friend, I found out that I prepare for bed by sliding under the pillow in one slick movement – much like a caterpillar).

Now, this is all well and good for Winter, but as warm weather rolls around, this can present some problems. And because we’re only in Spring, I had banned myself from the air conditioner: the worst was yet to come so I had to build up a tolerance to the sticky warmth. Last night I decided that the only way around it was to make myself so exhausted that I would pass out blanket free and blissfully unaware of the dangers of my exposed ears.

This worked in theory, however in practice things went awry. I started reading a book for a uni assignment about the horrific violence in South Africa in the lead up to the end of apartheid, which incidently is not the best way to calm oneself down for a night of relaxation. The reading light also meant the coming of another of Summer’s joyous irritants: bugs.

I don’t know where these bugs were originally, but as soon as you flick on a light, the little jerks some screaming out of nowhere like a bunch of winged, six-legged One Direction fans at an airport. All of a sudden they are there buzzing around like mindless idiots, repeatedly landing on your face.

I would very much like to say that at this point I behaved like a sensible adult, turned off the light and forced myself to sleep with only a sheet on, but I would be lying: instead I distracted myself with my phone and caught up on a bit of social media. This was a bad idea, as one friend’s photo put me onto the destructive path of #rottweilersofintsagram. Subsequently, I spent the next half an hour looking at smiling rottweiler and giggling to myself. I clearly I had a problem.

Curled up in a ball of perspiration soaked rage, I finally had to give in and use the air conditioner. I’d tried not to resort to the easy way out, but there was no use. I had to admit defeat, and defeat was gloriously cool.

I woke up two hours later because I freezing.