Monthly Archives: February 2017

This one did not

Apologies 

Look, I’m aware that I have yet to upload a post to my usual eloquent and charming standards, but I have to point out that I was at a hen’s party all weekend. 

And it’s hard to be anything other than a stinking mess incapable of stringing words together after downing two bottles of sparkling wine on a boat so please cut me some slack. 

Although, I must say I do appreciate your support in having checked to see what I’ve been doing lately. You are most kind and I assure you that my snarky tone is a sign of endearment. I’m allowing myself to think that I have become something of an addiction to you, in that you keep crawling back for whatever filth I happen to be peddling of a Sunday or Wednesday. I don’t want you to be hooked in a narcotic way, but maybe like a nice gentle Diet Coke addiction that slowly rots your insides and puts you at risk of developing dementia. Don’t get me wrong, I want you to get the shakes and suffer withdrawals without me but I’m not a monster.

I flatter myself to think that you might even depend on me for your happiness (whether that be that warm realisation of knowing you’re not as much of a shit as you thought you were by comparing yourself to me, or because you like my conversational tone – I really don’t need to know). If by some miracle you have developed a habit, I can assure you that Sunday and Wednesday hits will be regular, if not deflating. 

Anyway, suffice to say that I’m coming back on Wednesday and I might even have a yarn about a toe ring made from the hair to two strangers who became friends. I’m thinking of pitching the idea to filmmakers. 

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This one made it to print

Supermarket superstars

Originally published in The Clifton Courier February 8, 2016

I’ve had my first starstruck moment in Sydney.

I’ve seen people of high profile around here before. I once walked past Andrew Bolt doing a piece to camera in Pitt Street Mall. I passed a lady who used to be on All Saints at the ferry terminal. And I nearly ran into the lead singer for The Rubens (they’re a band that gets a lot of Triple J airtime, not a collective of corned meat sangas).*

*I had to explain this to local readers, because while a lot of them listen to public radio, it tends to be ABC regional. A great station, but it’s aimed a different demographic. Now I’m also concerned I had to explain the Rueben sandwich to them as trendy sauerkraut-related lunches also don’t get too much of a run out there.

I’d crossed paths with these impressive people* before, but never have I actually exchanged words with them.

* I wouldn’t consider Andrew Bolt impressive, but anyone who used to be on All Saints is always welcome at my table. I mean, they wouldn’t get the first shot at the gravy job but they’d be more than welcome to scoop up the dregs.

The last high profile person I spoke to was Andy Griffiths, who wrote the Just Stupid books,at a meet and greet. My sister and I were the oldest people there who were neither parents nor guardians, so we looked like crazy super fans.

But when we went up to take photos with him, I really made us look like creeps. I don’t remember exactly how I said “hello” to the person who encouraged both my love of the written word and graphic descriptions of bodily excrement, but it wasn’t great. I was in no way smooth, articulate or even remotely human. The whole experience was a mixture of being about to vomit and meeting the dentist about to give you several fillings.*

* I know this look, because, thanks to my brilliant childhood brainwave to not use toothpaste while brushing my teeth, I’ve had a shitload of fillings. I spent so much time in the chair when the government dental van came to school that I think it is fair to attribute the missed class time as the cause of my incompetence in fractions.

Sure, I’ve talked to famous people before. When you’re interviewing them you have a purpose to speak to them, so it isn’t that bad. Armed with a list of questions, it’s easy.

But having a chat with someone waaay out of your rank when you have no reason to be there is uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable.

That being said, let me tell you about what happened when I went to the shops just now.*

* Obviously  not “just now” as this column is a few weeks old. 

I walked past this bloke with a Sea Shepherd shirt on. Being someone who insists on shopping with reusable bags, I assume I’m going to save the world and I remember thinking I should volunteer with them to scrub oil off rocks or something.

But as I got closer, I realised I recognised old mate from somewhere.

Maybe he worked in my building, or I’d stolen a chip from in during a night out. But then it hit me.

It was Jake from Packed to the Rafters. 

Now I loved that show. I mean, it had Michael bloody from The Castle Caton in it.

I was so invested in it, I remember hoping pointless baby Ruby would die in the car crash instead of Mel. In fact, I actively campaigned for this baby’s slaughter just so my beloved characters could be happy.*

* And by “actively campaigned” I mean “vented on Facebook in lengthy and obnoxious comments. As such, I got a bit of a rep at college for wanting a baby dead. Horrible? Sure, no one wants a death on their hands and funerals are bloody pricey but that baby had no business being on the show.

But not wanting to get in the way of someone just trying to grab some milk, bread and whatever special essence of youth celebrities thrive on, I decided to take my purchases to the counter and mind my business.

But as I was waiting in line, a fellow came up behind me, accompanied by a staff member giving him special attention. We made eye contact. I was gobsmacked. I was in awe. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to ask for a photo, but something told me not to.

I had to say something.

I’d spoken to some prestigious people before, but this guy was absolutely top shelf.

I tried to play it cool while still being funny and said “that’s a lot of avocados”. Guarded, but not altogether dismissive, old mate politely told me how many he had, as I fumbled with my debit card and awkwardly collected my purchases, blundering out of the store.

I had just arsed up a chance to be super cool.

But I didn’t care.

I’d just met a bloke who bought 80 avocados in one hit.

Don’t ask me where Packed to the Rafters guy was during this – actually, his appearance in this piece was in no way relevant to the point of the story.

I mean, a guy with a trolley FULL of avocados. No wonder I was speechless.

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This one did not

I ain’t into that

There are a lot of things that aren’t my thing.

Public masturbation is one of them. Thankfully. I mean, if that was my thing, I’d be in some real strife. I never realised how lucky I am that I’m not a public wanker before now. That’s something to add to the gratitude list (if I had one).

But when I talk about “things” I mean it more in a cultural sense.

My housemate is a Seinfeld fan. And that’s just fine. But as she was watching it today, I wondered about how I somehow managed not to have seen more than 10 minutes of the show throughout my entire life. I mean, it was everywhere when I was a kid. It was on about as many times as The Simpsons, but it never entered my consciousness. It’s one of those things that everyone assumes everyone was into, and maybe “everyone” was. But, as it turns out, I’m not everyone.

Perhaps it was because of conflicting time schedules with Home and Away. Perhaps it’s because my younger self set off to sabotage my ability to connect with people in my adulthood via shared interests. Or maybe it was because my oldest sister controlled the remote, and therefore my thoughts.

But for better or worse, it just was never my thing.

So in honour of the lack of Seinfeld in my life, here’s a listical to cover up the fact that I’m too tired to write a cohesive essay this afternoon. Enjoy!

Things that, for whatever reason, I never got into:

Practical Magic: We completely missed this movie growing up. Perhaps it’s why I’m so indifferent to Sandra Bullock as an adult. I wonder if that’s something I need to address with a therapist?

Having an imaginary friend: I used to pretend that I had an imaginary friend because I saw kids on television with them. I thought I had to have one to be normal. But the truth was that I thought the whole thing was bullshit and couldn’t understand why children did such things. I didn’t need an imaginary friend growing up; I had myself. Like, why waste your time with some fictional loser when you had the full package all along? This definitely sounds like something I should bring up with a psychologist.

Bambi: This wasn’t a video we had at home. Of course I know the general gist of what happens – Mrs Bambi gets shot, a rabbit turns up, there’s a fire of some sort and the socially awkward fawn turns into a strapping adult that kiiiiind of crosses those interspecies hotness boundaries. Like how you prefer the prince in beast form on Beauty and the Beast and you’d totally submit if Sully came creeping through your wardrobe door one night. Don’t pretend you’ve never been sexually attracted to a cartoon animal (please, I need to  believe that I’m normal in some sense of the word)

Peter Pan: The Disney version, again, was never in our VHS collection. I’m not sure way, perhaps it was too masculine for a household full of girls to be interested in. On a related note, I am very familiar with the live action version featuring pre-teen dreamboat Jeremy Sumpter. Go figure.

Rolf Harris: We were a Don Spencer kind of family. So I know nothing about what that creepy as fuck extra leg business was all about, but I do know that you just need to give a whistle to call Bob the kelpie. This absolutely paid off in the end, because my childhood wasn’t ruined by the fucking sickening revelations about him. I honestly didn’t know who this clown was until he was being dragged through the courts. Apparently he was on some paint ad? Big whoop mate.

Star Wars: Growing up we were really close with this family who lived around the corner. We liked them, but heavens to Betsy they were a different bunch. Living in a tiny, 97 per cent white town, they were the closest thing to exotic we grew up with, starting with that whole mixed-gender family thing. Weeeeird. They had a pet cockatoo, liked their piklets with Vegemite smeared on them and were right into their Star Wars. They leant us their deluxe gold foiled VHS trilogy once and it sat in our entertainment cabinet (yes, my parents still have one and yes it does contain 100+ video tapes and a Nintendo 64) for literally years. This has really bit me in the arse with all the new reboots coming out and the Trump Star Wars crossovers through. I really need to watch them to keep up with the cultural references at work, because there’s only so many times you can drop “droids” and variations of “may the force be with you” before people can see through you.

Lord of the Rings: This family also frothed The Lord of the Rings. One time we went with them to the movies to watch it, and it seemed to never end. I mean, I liked it and it was great to finally understand the Gollum/Sméagol thing (wow, I had no idea it had an accent above the “E”, there’s further proof this has never stuck), but good grief it was drawn out. I remember not hating the movie, but the sheer length of it was too off-putting to go back for round two (I will not make a dick joke, I will not make a dick joke, I will not make a dick joke…).

Aperol spritzes: Every trendy person is dropping Aperol into conversations like they’re a middle-aged woman who slightly wealthier than the other townsfolk mentioning Moet. Aperol is fucking everywhere. It’s the cosmopolitan of the early 2000s. But you know what? It taste like the farts of old oranges and medicine. You’re not missing out on anything at all.

Belly button piercings: I was far too fat to pull that off when they were trendy. I’m glad I had the self-awareness to know this.

Wheatbix: I had Wheaty Bix Bars as a kid because they had a sugary, fattening yoghurt coating, but I could never get into the actual bricks of shredded wheat. This may have had something to do with the fact that my mother used to eat her Vita Brits (yeah, the Sanitarium kind that was Aussie owned) with boiling water from the kettle and milk, melting them into a sickening brown sludge. I was more of a sultanas and sugar on my Rice Bubbles kind of girl.

Mary J Blige: Apparently she is an iconic singer, but all I know from her is that Family Affair song, and even then I can only mumble jibberish to the tune. How does this woman make her money? It’s a mystery to me.

Twilight: I literally just had to Google “that vampire series with Edward”. In a way this makes me concerned in that it pretty much confirms that I can expect to be hit by the Alzheimer’s train, but it makes me happy that I was never that much of a fuckwit. Thank goodness.

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Profiting off procrastination

I have another hobby that doesn’t count as an actual hobby.

We all have those things we do with our time that don’t really count as recreation or self-development, but we justify our addictions by lying to ourselves that they vaguely fall into those categories. We can’t really explain why we do these things, but we seem to give them preference above all other necessary tasks in our lives. For some people it’s scrolling through the ‘gram. For me, it’s feeling how smooth my hair is and sniffing phonebooks (thankfully phonebooks are rapidly disappearing from society, so the risk that someone will see me doing this is lower than it used to be).

My latest non-hobby hobby is scrolling through Airtasker. It’s a bit of a problem, I was up until 11pm doing it the other night. And it shouldn’t be so alluring, but it is.

Airtasker is that app that puts you in touch with people who will pay you do things that aren’t sexual (hopefully). It wheals and deals in menial tasks, which is really helpful for someone whose only marketable traits are her glittering personality and her ability to hold things – although most people tend to have opposable thumbs these days so it doesn’t really give me as much of a competitive edge as I’d like. And sometimes my glittering personality is more like the kind of dull shine you get from used aluminium foil.

Anyway, scrolling through the app to see what kind of shit people will pay other people to do is fantastic. It’s kind of like a hobby, but to validate my time wasting, I’m going to say that it’s more like anthropology than mindlessly thumbing through job postings. And as much as that label sounds like my usual bullshit, it actually is a real insight into humanity.

For example, you could use the jobs posted by app users to build an academic case study on the way holidays influence the behaviour of otherwise rational human beings.

And taking into account the jobs listed for Monday night and all of yesterday and the significance of yesterday’s date you could form a hypothesis that human people get weird around when it comes to showing affection.

I mean, you’d only need to study at the way I use “nugget” as a term of endearment to see that, but I digress.

Yesterday, as some of you would be aware, was Valentine’s Day.

A day where you avoid Tinder at all costs and try not to allude to anything about your personal life to anyone so they don’t hit you with noisy sympathy or say things like “hubby” to you.

But out it’s also a day for panicky people to send stupid amounts of money on pointless gestures. As such, there were some ripper jobs up for grabs yesterday.

Of course you had the random flower deliveries, but you also had people looking for someone who could deliver a three-piece feed from KFC to their partner as a Valentine’s Day treat (this person “must be reliable”). Another person wanted to pay someone to have a lend of their sausage dog.

I was just astounded by how much money there was to be made off people’s desperation.

On the flipside, you could also see how people circle like sharks, smelling this anxiety like blood in the water. For every person wanting a job done, there were at least seven people lined up to exploit them. And it was almost aggressive. These people were ready to pounce, poised to take advantage of a weakness. They lay in waiting, knowing that the holiday that is so entwined with high expectations and crushing disappointments it comes in second only to New Year’s Eve in the ranking of shitty holidays.

These shrewd Airtaskers knew that people would crack, that they would be unorganised, and that they would feel the pressure. It seems desperation can be commoditised, and you’d be silly not to cash in on it.

I know I did.

Instead of dong nothing with my afternoon, I turned my lack of plans into cold, hard (virtual) cash. And it wasn’t even that difficult. I helped someone set up for a dinner party with tasks like moving plants and stringing fairy lights and buying asparagus. It was actually kind of fun and was apparently a bit of a work out as my arms are kind of sore now.

So look at that, I guess I managed to squeeze some kind of benefit out of my mindless non-hobby. This now validates my obsession, and I am free to scroll through Airtasker endlessly.

OOOOHHH!

I came across a task asking someone to “source me lime Bacardi Breezers”. A person called Sasha is offering $80 to someone who can scratch that itch. “I miss them like crazy,” they say. “I need someone to get me even just a four pack.”

We live in a beautiful world.

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Another list about being alive for more than 20 years but less than 30

Today I couldn’t think of a single topic to write about.

I could sugar coat this and say that I’ve done this post after hours of self-reflection which led my to reading this article, but it’s too damn hot for bullshit. 

I couldn’t think good, and I have no ideas of my own so I did what I normally do when I’m stuck – I turn to the internet for self help articles to scoff at so I can boost my self esteem by reinforcing the delusion that I’m a snide, highly intellectual person who knows more about life than anyone else.

And it worked. Because now I have a post I can put up and that makes me feel good about myself. I can tick this off my to-do list as well, which I have written up specifically for the purpose of ticking off this one task. I’d already done 70 per cent of the jobs on the list when I wrote it. Again, to boost the old self esteem.

So here’s me ripping on a piece someone put actual thought and heart into because I like to think of myself as a black-hearted witch with razor sharp wit when in reality I’m someone who cries over Little Women, loves my people in an almost suffocating manner and tried to spell once with a “w” the other day. It was a piece about the things you should stop doing in your 20s. Now it’s an ode to the person I project and my self-destructive ways.

Now I’m free to re-watch Sleepless in Seattle in peace. Happy Sunday!

Determining your worth on your social media likes: This is all well and good for someone who is a nurse or a barrister for a living. But when you’re in the media, your worth is literally dependant on your social media likes. I have bills to pay. Fuck off.

Comparing yourself to your friends: Nah, this is how the patriarchy keeps winning. Ask your friends how much they get paid, particularly if they’re lugging around a uterus. Ask them about their savings plans and investment portfolios. Ask them how to get a raise. I didn’t intend on getting up on my feminist horse today, but Julia Von Glitterfire needs a run and lord knows she’s always saddled up and ready to go.

Staying in a relationship because you’re scared to be alone: Not really applicable to me, a person who’s fear is not being alone. Seriously, the big thing that freaked me out while watching Married at First Sight is that these people suddenly have a share a bedroom with another person. They can’t escape this drongo who is all up in their personal space. That’s just wrong. It’s basically knocking these people out, grafting one of their heads on the other person’s neck. That’s how sick the whole thing is.

I want to book an overseas trip and am thinking about doing a tour but I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle the constant company.

I’m actually fantasising about a little solo depression holiday where I stare out the window and pretend to be deeply heartbroken and complicated. I think I’ll go to the English countryside or even up in the Scottish Highlands, stay in a quaint bed and breakfast and just watch the ran fall. There’ll be fuckloads of scones and toast and all kinds of drizzle. There might even be a fire I can dramatically throw my hand written poetry into. Perfect.

Feeling the need to justify your choices: Oh, but I like justifying my choices. It’s like complaining. It’s a hobby. And the reason I like justifying my choices is because I like ranting. I like not just trying to convince someone that my choice was the right choice, but that my choice should be their choice too. If I want to live in a world in which everyone thinks like me – and I do – then I’ve got some serious persuasive rhetoric to peddle.

Allowing anyone tell you that you’re not capable because you’re young: Mate, I’m not young anymore. I can’t enter in any of those competitions for young adults after falling into the 25 category. I can’t tick the 18-24 box. And I don’t know why people think this is an empowering thing. It isn’t. Because now on, whatever I achieve will be less significant because I’m not young. It won’t be as remarkable for me to have a good job or do something cool because it’s no longer possible for me a to considered a prodigy of any kind. I’m now forced to confront my mediocrity and it stinks.

Still hanging out with toxic people: You say this, but toxic people tend to have the best parties and all the sweet hook-ups. Maybe don’t cling to them, but string them along so you can keep reaping the benefits from them. Wow. Maybe I am the toxic person.

Talking about improving your life but never doing anything about it: But if I actually improve my life, I’ll have nothing to write about.

Never leaving your comfort zone: My comfort zone has a decorative ladder and scented candles. I don’t want to leave it.

Keeping your life cluttered: This one told me to let go of all those “just in case” things I’m hanging on to. But this is a bad idea. When I was going to an Oktoberfest a little while ago, I wanted to wear these high-waisted green shorts as part of my costume that aren’t really appropriate to wear in everyday life. I remember thinking that I was going to give them away because they were “just in case” shorts I would never wear. And I was crushed. But then I found my shorts. If I had have culled those “just in case” shorts out of my life, I would have had to fork out for a costume. So the moral of this story is to hang on to everything forever. You will need it. Especially if the world descends into madness and we have to live off grid to survive. You can’t just run out to Bunnings in times like that. Your shitty fish net stockings may need to become actual fishnets one day. Think about it.

Judging the shit out of everyone: This is my actual livelihood. If I stopped doing this I’d have to pick up a trade.

Deciding you’ll only do things when you have the money: It’s this kind of thinking that got us into the global financial crisis in the first place. This is the kind of thinking that sees me going into negatives on my debit card to buy beers. Life’s not a fucking Jeep ad people. Sometimes you do need to hold back, realise you’re being a wanker and live within your means.

Sure, the smashed avos addiction isn’t keeping us from buying houses, but it’s not helping the sitch if you’re putting overpriced toast on your credit card either.

Hanging out with people who aren’t going anywhere in life: Well I guess I better cut myself off from myself then.

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This one made it to print

I feel very strongly about this

Published in The Clifton Courier January 25, 2017

As may become the tradition, I’m going to annotate this column with fresh, juicy updates. Think of this italic jazz as the extras on a DVD. And don’t give me that crap about not watching the extras. Have you ever watched the bonus material on Forrest Gump? It’s excellent. Shut up mate. 

Last week two good things happened. Firstly, I discovered I somehow still had Christmas chockies in my fridge*. But more importantly, the Queensland government smacked down another outlandish attempt to bring Daylight Saving time to our fair state.

* Yeah, said chockies are long bloody gone by now. But thankfully Coles still does those chai chocolate coated almonds. I’m mentioning this in the vain hope that a Coles marketing rep decides to sponsor my posts. I’m not above being paid in confectionary. 

I don’t mean to get all political but I’ve already had three cups of tea and I’m ready for a rant. As a vague incarnation of a journalist (when you mostly write about cute cat and dog videos for a living, “writer” seems like a more appropriate title) I am supposed to be unbiased. But this is an opinion piece of sorts so I’m allowed to favour a particular side. So here it is: I’m a dog person and Daylight Saving time is a terrible idea.

I know, because I’m enduring it right now.

I assume I’m preaching to the choir because I walk around with the notion that everybody thinks like I do, but apparently that’s not the kind of world we live in. If we did live in a world like that, interpretive dance would be a national sport and horsey t-shirts would be considered appropriate corporate attire.*

* Sometimes I sit back and dream about a world run be people like me, and I can honestly say that it would be a fantastic place. Im certain everyone would love it, but that’s only because everyone would only think like me.

So I’m going to try to explain my viewpoint as rationally as possible without resorting to curse words and throwing a glass at the wall.

Reasons I hate Daylight Savings. 

Number one: I can’t get any bloody sleep. I started writing this in a state Mum would call “tired and cranky” and I may well be “carrying on like a pork chop” but I don’t bloody care. It’s 8.16pm and it’s still light outside. It’s not enough to require one of those caps with the neck flaps, but it’s enough to ruin your entire existence.

Because if you’ve over done it during the week and want to have a super early night, you bloody well can’t because it’s too hot and light out. And by the time the sun does go down and things cool off, you’re too overtired to sleep and the cycle continues.

Number two: People in Sydney love it, so of course I hate it. But they don’t use that extra sunlight for anything decent like cleaning all the filth off the streets or installing XXXX Gold on tap in every licensed premise in the city. Instead they waste it by laying out in the sun to brown up for their Insty selfies or going to trendy rooftop bars to scroll through their phones after paying $23 for a cocktail.*

* That’s two boxes of goon, guys. Or at least four Bitters at the Wattles club house. 

Number three: It’s just so arrogant. You’re tinkering with the very fabric of time here. We’re not gods or angels or even Kardashians – we have no right toying with such forces that.

Number four: It assumes people want to do things after work, and that everyone works a 9-5 job. Some jobs require early starts, like farming or being fabulous full-time*, like me. Maybe some people like to get up and do things before work and prefer to secretly slink home in the darkness after clocking off.

* Being fabulous full time takes commitment. It means not smelling like a second-hand gorilla’s armpit. So when you have an early start, you have to have an even earlier one to stray the morning stank off you in the shower. You know the stank I’m referring to. It’s the smell you get after a hot night of basting in your own juices on a mattress topper you haven’t washed in seven years. 

Number five: Sundials, for crying out loud. They were rendered completely useless because some suit wants go to the beach after work. People argue that technology waged war against this quaint garden ornament, but Daylight Saving was its real killer. I would even go as far as to suggest that Daylight Saving was invented by clockmakers as a conspiracy to render the ancient time-telling artefacts obsolete to create more customers. Capitalism strikes again!

Ok, so there’s a non-exhaustive list of my cons against the idea. But in the interests of balance, I do have to present you with pros for Daylight Saving because telling the other side of the story is what good journalists do. So here it goes.

Things I like about Daylight Saving time: It gives me something to complain about.

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Financially unstable

I have $107.15 to last me 10 days.

That’s less than $11 a day. Which, sure, is a good $8 more than those people who did the Live Below the Line challenge and a metric shitload more than the actual people living in poverty in developing countries live on. But that’s not a lot of dosh. Especially when you like avocados as much as I do.

Is it doable?

Yes.

Do I have a credit card I could put emergency discounted meat on?

Yes.

But this isn’t the way I want to live.

I want to have clothes that aren’t seven-years-old or lint-covered Cotton On numbers, but I also want to have money in my account at the end of the month. It’s a tough balance to strike, but apparently life is all about balance and while the word that often comes after balancing is “act” – which implies balance is all a charade – I want to at least have something resembling balance when it comes to my financial portfolio (an registered car in my parents’ front yard and a minor but daunting credit card debt).

It has suddenly become apparent how much I need to budget and how little discipline I have.

Sure, Sydney rent is so expensive I’ve considering a starting up a used-underwear-selling scheme (unfortunately, I have approximately zero friends here to build up a bank of crusty undies and there’s only so much discharge one healthy vagina can produce). And being paid in monthly instalments is a legal form of torture. And sure, a fair hunk of my paycheque seems to be going towards flights home so I don’t admit myself to hospital purely for the few minutes of personal attention I’d get from a human being not trying to sell me hand lotion.

But those things aside, I need to start being a little more strategic with my money. I like that, “strategic with my money”. It sounds like I’m playing a game chess instead living off baked beans and wearing holey knickers.

So I did what I always do when I need professional services: attempt to obtain them for free via the Internet.

This was the first option that turned up in my Google search, a simple step-by-step guide to financial freedom and stability.

1: Make a list of your values. Write down what matters to you and then put your values in order.

Myself

Being a fabulous friend

What people think of me

Non-greasy hair

Getting a two-seater to myself on my morning train ride

Fuelling my rig with nutritious eats so I look less like I live on a diet of bread and rice bubbles

A well-brewed cup of tea

Not living in filth

2: Set your goals.

– to one day be a fabulous, self-sufficient writer who works from a luxurious light-filled shabby chic home office and wears a lot of kaftans

– to go overseas and collect trinkets and photos of happy memories that I can fill my fabulous house with a luxurious light-filled shabby chic home office with

– owning a fabulous house with a luxurious light-filled shabby chic home office

– owning my own kaftans (I went to Camilla recently, and those bastards are upwards of 400 bucks – which is like three Akubras or eight emotionally fuelled take-away dinner orders)

3: Determine your income.

Apparently insufficient for my “flamboyant” needs. For example, I cannot pay for feed or cover lodgings for my own personal giraffe. Which I am certain I also cannot afford to ship in from Africa.

4: Determine your expenses

Look, I could list each individual item I purchase until the cows come home. So in the interest of saving time, because time is money and I don’t seem to have much of either, I’m going to group them into categories. And the dollar value changes from time to time so I’m just going to list them without attaching a cost to avoid the confronting realities of my irresponsible spending.

– emotional eating

– acai bowl lyf

– avocado dependency

– tuckshop Fridays

– appearing like a put together grown up

– rent

– necessary commuting

– ability to see memes and text Drop Dead Gorgeous quotes

– entirely necessary plane rides to sanity

– secret savings that will inevitably be spent on medical bills

From this information, I’m supposed to now be able to create a budget. But now I’m thinking I should go create a GoFundMe page to beg strangers for kaftan money.

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This one made it to print

Courier-ing on like a bloody pork chop

Published in The Clifton Courier, January 18, 2016

Background: This is what I deemed appropriate for my first column in The Clifton Courier, the publication which gave me first front pager and allowed me to cover the sports. I’ll be interjecting in italic from time to time to give you a bit of context, and explain are few things to you blow ins from outta town.

Well hello there, Cliftonites.

For those of you who haven’t been nicking the free On Our Selection News papers from Foodworks, I’m the girl who makes people feel better about their lives by sharing the shame and disappointment that is my existence through weekly columns.

My quality content/mindless dribble was distributed free to mailboxes in the old Cambooya Shire, Westbrook Hodgson Vale and everywhere in between, but now I’m back on my home turf, sullying the pages of this fine, reputable newspaper with the filth that is the inner workings of my mind. And I’m a little bit nervous.

It’s my first column to appear in public in Clifton since I won a poetry competition at the chemist for Mothers’ Day*.

*Wrong, actually, I just remembered the Letter to the Editor I wrote after my going away party, which went into the paper after I’d left. I wanted to say a long, poignant goodbye and I also felt the need to apologise for saying cunt into the microphone at the karaoke night at the Bowling Club, but obviously couldn’t say “cunt” in the copy. I think I referred to it as “colourful language”. 

As I recall, the poem was laminated and displayed on the side door, right next to the town notice board* – a prime location. It doesn’t matter that there probably weren’t a lot of entrants in the competition because kids back then were too busy being outside, active and happy to sit down and write a poem; I felt like a literary god. Plus, the pamper pack prize meant I didn’t have to pay for a gift for Mum that year.

*The noticeboard down the main street gets more hits than a bikini photo on the homepage of the Courier Mail website. It doesn’t matter if the some old firewood for sale notice has been there since 2003, you still look to see what’s happening around town. You never know what kind of barg you could pick up.

That was a good 15 years ago so I can’t remember if the poem was any good, but in my mind it’s a hard act to follow. It’s kind of like when a musician has a ripper first single, raising expectations so high they have to either match that greatness or surpass it with their second single. And after years of Australian Idol and Popstars contestants smashing on to the music scene with a triumphant start only to end up as Uber drivers or being kicked out of strip clubs, I have to admit that I have been struggling with my follow up act.

Plus, when you add on the fact that I grew up annoying most of you people with my loud voice and show pony ways, it adds a bit more pressure. Like, it adds a bit of weight to your shoulders knowing that the librarian who taught me how to type or the guy who did my pap smear* could potentially be reading what I write.

*I’ve never not had a memorable pap smear at Clifton, but that’s a story for another day. I mean, most paps tend to be memorable – it’s hard to forget someone jacking you open like they’re changing a tyre, which is what I always think of. 

In fact, it’s downright scary.

Because I have to completely honest with you, as you’ll be able to smell my BS a mile away (as long as you’re not behind a cattle truck, in which case the smell is probably actual BS).

You’ll be able to see right through me, and will be able to call me out on my crap. Not that I have been completely scandal free since penning this column, with a highly controversial piece about the consumption of hot cross buns* long before Easter ruffling a few feathers out there (I don’t care for your conservative views, I’ll eat a delicious, religious bun as long as its on the market).

*Seriously, I received comments on the street about my hot cross buns views. I’m kind of like Miranda Devine or Alan Jones in that regard. I get people fired up over the big issues. And you know what? I don’t care about the haters. I had a hot cross bun on News Year’s Eve, so put that in the microwave and smear butter on it. And in case it wasn’t clear, that was a “shove that in your pipe and smoke it” adapted for bun-related purposes.

I don’t want to cheese you people off*. Clifton will always be home for me, and I love those rare weekends when I do get back to these fine acres of opportunity and rediscover what it’s like to live in a town full of aunties and loveable, but sometimes crass, uncles. Clifton is the only place I know of with three Colleens and a tree filled with cement** – it’s essentially paradise.

* “Cheesed off” is one of of Mum’s alternatives to “pissed off”. Swearing’s not really her thing. For years we would say “sugar honey ice and tea” instead of shit. One time Mum was telling us about someone going absolutely nuts and she says, in a horrified tone, “they said the K word”. It was perhaps the most endearing thing in the world. 

** I want to explain it to you now, but I feel this gem needs its own dedicated post to do it justice. 

So even though you thought you were finally rid of me when I crossed the border into cockroach territory, you haven’t escaped me yet.*

* I’m like a loveable coldsore, I just keep coming back.  

But in the interest of avoiding awkwardness in the fenced off drinking area at the showgrounds*, I’ll do my best not to annoy you too much.

* The only place to be after sundown at show time, after the Downs Polo Tournament and any Wattles home  game. Seriously. The bitters are like five bucks a tinnie and the company is always top shelf. 

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