{September 2, 2009} Cross Bearing Sucks!
{July 22, 2009} Foreigners eat the strangest things
Apparently, in some parts of the world “Vegemite“is a myth.
”What is Vegemite?” a friend asked me the other day, “Is it like hummus?”
Stone the crows !
Like hummus?
For those uneducated in the ways of Vegemite, it is most definitely NOT like hummus.
Almost beyond description, Vegemite is an Australian breakfast staple.I falter at describing it as a yeast extract (yeast extracted from where?) but there is no way of describing it without sounding like we spread shite on our toast.
Salty axle grease! There I said it……and yet we still eat it……and love it
And if you consider that some people (with more money than sense) imbibe coffee made from beans crapped out of ass of the Civet (a small cat like creature with a wicked caffeine addiction), our yeast based spread seems quite palatable.
So the Vegemite status has set me on the path of discovery. What other hideous creations exist in the world that people are trying to pass of as food.
Here are a few (and for the record, if you eat any of these…you are a freak!)
Quee
a charming little delicacy consisting of a whole guinea pig……deep fried!
That’s right, little Twinkle and Piggy dipped in batter, then turned into the South American equivalent of a Piggy Mc Nugget
Following a close second, is Quees cousin Monkey Toes.
The phalanges are deep fried in oil and are comparable to eating grasshoppers or starfish (of course!).
Sounds doable, until you consider that monkeys stick their toes up other monkeys bums!
Consider Birds Nest Soup on your next visit to the local Chinese takeaway.
Was there ever any of us who thought this stuff was made from actual birdsnest?
Well think again.
Apparently nests snatched from the loving bosom of the Swiflet are very tasty. It’s the sweetness of the bird saliva that gives it that extra little kick.
At $80 a bowl, don’t bother. I’ll spit in it for free.
Codfish sperm.
Can you imagine the dinner conversation I’d be having with my husband after I’ve tucked into a steaming bowl of Codfish sperm.
”How come you’ll eat fish sperm……..”
Cheeseburger in a can. This exists…….and I don’t know why!
Along a similar vein is Artichoke flavoured tea in a can.
I didn’t know I needed Artichoke tea…apparently I’ve been missing out.
Need to get me some now!
Peanut Butter powder.
Do I snort it, or shake some in my shoes?
Squid ink Ice cream.
Ice cream = yum. Ink = not yum.
Crushed pearls in Lollipops!
Never heard of it? Well switch on people coz this might just be the product that gives your love-life the kick in the pants it needs.
Touted as an aphrodisiac, apparently rocks are food now!
Finally, In my own country, you can quite readily find Kangaroo Tails in the freezer section of the local supermarket.
That’s right, a huge hairy tail. Not as popular as you’d think though ..it’s a bitch finding a pot to fit it in
So please, before you judge us harshly, consider the plethora of weirdos out there eating bugs and Pop Tarts. Some pregnant women eat dirt!
They are the crazies! Not us!
For the record, no Vegemites were harmed in the writing of this article.
{May 13, 2009} Not all it’s cracked up to be!
There’s just something about the cleavage. Hypnotic in its appearance, it draws the eye, both male and female.
A soft, warm place that takes us back to our early years where we sojourned in our mothers embrace.
These days the cleavage has popped up in the most unexpected ways.
And I’m not sure I’m happy about it!
Cleavage that I like to see:
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A lovely set of jiggling jubblies spilling lusciously from a satin gown? Nice……
Cleavage on a bikini clad celebrity (similarly aged as myself) looking fiiiiine!
Cleavage that I don’t! :
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Front bum cleavage commonly seen in skin tight acid wash faber jabbers (Faberges jeans for those unfamiliar with social uniform of the “Westie” or “bogan”) Also known as the “camel toe“
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Back fat cleavage
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Cleavage enhancements
Now I’m not a booby discriminant. If you need help in that area (I know I do) please make sure your “boobie aides” dont make an unexpected appearance.
There’s nothing more off putting during a nice night out, trying to enjoy your chicken parmigiana only to look up to see the lovely lady across from you displaying her own chicken fillets!
To my mind this suggests you need to buy a pair of shoes that fit! I mean isn’t toe cleavage really pandering to all those foot fetishists out there (weirdos!)
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Any cleavage that involves nips!
If your nip decides to come up for air during a social outing or heaven forbid a photo opportunity you probably should just invite everyone round to watch you in the shower!
Coz everyone’s imagining you naked anyway.
I’m just sayin’!
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Butt cleavage that involves any type of underwear!
Big granny undies bunching up the top of your jeans and you run the risk of looking like you’ve had an accident with a parachute!
And a G string……well that just leaves me with the impression that somehow you’ve gotten your underwear confused with one of those cheese cutter thingies.
I mean its not call bum floss for nothing!
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Boobies that threaten to smother my children.
These can generally be found on yummy mummy types volunteering for school tuckshop duty. Whilst it is true that all men are boys, all boys are not men!
Your breast are rated M 18 years and over. Stop trying to seduce my kids! .
Unless of course you’re interested in finding out what it feels like to be drowned in a cafeteria sink?
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Butt cleavage and variations of butt cleavage .
For example: 3 inches of crack sliding out of a young mums low rise jeans as she squats down to attend to her children in the middle of Mothers Day Mass is INAPPROPRIATE!
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Bad boob job cleavage
This includes lopsided, sunken and hot air balloon proportions.
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Over tanned Granny cleavage!
Think Joan Collins and Sophia Loren and Bridgette Bardot……now…….not then!
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Acne cleavage
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Scary cleavage
This involves any Janet Jackson-like piercings that threaten to remove an eye or puncture jumping castles at childrens’ parties.
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And finally any type of cleavage occurring on the male body.
There’s just something a little off putting about a hairy G-stringed butt that can be a real distraction from an awesome set of man boobs……………………….(cringe!)
{April 6, 2009} It’s all about me!
I’d rather write nothing, than something uninspired and forced.
I strive to be true to myself and transparent to others,
I long for understanding and to be understood.
I dream of days where time just stops
So I can catch up.
To shine and be humble.
To soar
To connect
To disappear.
Infinite and fixed
Forever and not!
I am shy and outrageous.
Glorious and dull
I am pacifist and warrior.
Clenched fist and warm embrace.
I am passionate and apathetic
Glaring and scowling
Soft and gooey
I am Mother
Wife
Friend
and Enemy
I am an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a dressing gown.
{March 26, 2009} Judge me as you see fit!
So, what’s with all the death stuff? My last post, and the one before clearly delved into some very sad and dark places. Every creative juice that flowed was in the form of tears. And while I felt a sense of achievement by tapping into some real, raw emotion, it was becoming clear to me that I’d have to re title this blog…”Grown up girl’s lost her Prozac”
In my real life, I never wear my heart on my sleeve. Even in the most stressful, and unpleasant of circumstances, my expression is as flat as a non stick frypan. However, in my writing world, it seems my heart holds an enormous grey lead pencil, happy to blab all my angst out into virtual space. Not that I’m complaining. A blog is a fantastic means of expression. I did start to worry though that the writing that people were expecting to find here was becoming a bit bleak. Maybe you’d stop coming back. That a blog mutiny was afoot. Perhaps I was about the walk the cyber plank, plunged into a virtual sea of oblivion. To drown amongst an ocean of unread blogs. OK, stopping with the pirate metaphors (unless Captain Jack comes swashbuckling up the street, and then you guys are on your own!), but you get my (a)drift (sorry, that seriously was the last one!).
So, what’s really been going on? Well for a change, nothing drastic. No hideous health diagnoses or marital upheaval. There has however been a shift in my own sense of worth. All my kids are off at school, and the MOTH, well he got a kick ass job, and moved away. So now I’m left to wonder what my role in the world is gonna be? Mum’s mother, and wifes are wifely and for the most part of my day I’m not required for either. I’ve always craved my own time, and now it seems that my own company is not as stimulating as I thought it would be.
A life of lunches and chatting with friends would be OK, but what have I got to offer? Conversations about how I sat and didn’t move for three hours? Enthralling stuff! True a writers dream is to be left to write, but somehow it all seems more substantial and more of an achievement when you’re trying to squeeze creative moments into a lifetime of playdates and committee meetings.
So, it seems my nest is empty, which doesn’t bode well for the future, considering I’m only 36! I don’t feel a part of anything anymore. A tiny little atoll slowing being submerged as the polar ice caps melt. Taking this amateur phsychoanalysis to its most obvious conclusion my writing is more about the death of self and less about the loss of a loved one. To be more precise, I have lost a loved one…..me!,
Sounds a bit melodramatic I know, but hopefully now that it’s here, spilled across the page, I’ll be shamed into getting over myself and getting on with it!
Oh God, I wish I wasn’t writing all this now……………
{February 22, 2009} Blessings? Bring it on!
I woke this morning wondering how best to honour the victims and survivors of Black Saturday, this being our country’s National Day of Mourning.
Whilst watching and weeping as events were broadcast, would have been entirely acceptable, it did seem a little self indulgent. Sitting in my comfy space, having lost nothing, I wondered how that would be honouring anyone or anything?
So instead, the kids and I ventured to the Tree Chapel at our local botanical garden. The little boys said a prayer of thanks for the packet of chips I had bought for them, whilst the eldest (self conscious) listened as I prayed for those lost souls and survivors. More than just a prayer of need, I wanted the children to know of my thanks and gratitude. That amongst the loss and grief, there was much to be grateful for.
As we walked the grounds, I felt the grass, moist and green lick at my toes. Icky and delicious at the same time. We stopped and wondered under an enormous tree, branches so high and heavy, they draped a curtain around us. Green foliage brushed our faces as we pushed through into the world, from one perfect place to another. The children discovered a cache of acorns, greedily stuffing them into their pockets to take home to Dad. We ran and we wandered. Little one’s laughter and chattering swept passed and around me on the wind.
At times I noticed the other folks around us. Most going about the duty of parenting, their frowning faces lost to their task. Always one to jump to condescension, today I saw them, and saw myself only yesterday. Heavy and laden with life. Today however, with my thoughts of the fallen, I had shrugged off my own hardship and allowed a light to shine. I felt a connection. A connection to the land and all those that love her like I do.
I walked barefoot on the same earth, raised my face to the same sunlight. Felt a breeze that at one time had fanned flames, that now caressed and nurtured.
Sometimes a moment is all we get. You’d better be ready and willing and open, coz tomorrow, when the kids are bickering, and your brain is pulsating in your skull (from that fictitious tumour you’re always telling people you might be getting), gratitude will just be a word that makes you roll your eyes. You’ll go back to your disconnectedness, just like me.
We should certainly count our blessings, but we should also make our blessings count.
Neil A. Maxwell
{February 17, 2009} The water’s deep…I could be drowning!
During my journey through blogland I have encountered some big brains. Enormous, intellectual writing brains, so big surely their owners have melon sized heads. Brains with letters after their names, brains with published pieces of work..on paper, in the real world! Never, when I considered writing (since I was like 5) did I ever think about how my work would look next to others. My only real consideration was how gratifying it would feel to see my work on a bookshelf. Now, I imagine my work on the shelves next to Sartre, and I cringe. Pretty sure Sartre is cringing too.
Granted, there are levels of greatness. I’m great in the sense that my little sisters friends look up to me and think I’m cool. I’ve got street cred. I know a bit about everything, so people are generally impressed when they meet me. I’m really just an average girl with lofty aspirations. Feeling like greatness is just waiting in the wings.
So, if by circumstance Albert Einstein and I ever meet (slim chance I know, seeing as we are never invited to the same parties) it’s unlikely he I and will bond over the photoelectric effect. Chances are I’ll end up holding his hair back as he barfs after too many “flirtinis”. In fact, one of my first posts was about vomitting! Hardly the stuff of intellectuals.
Then there’s the greatness that is followed by silent awe. Greatness that catches your breath when you read someones work, and you know you’re in over your head. People who think on another plane, transcending Simpsons jokes and making statements like “I don’t own a T.V.” They chuckle at the wit of ~William Safires, “Great Rules of Writing”
Do not put statements in the negative form.
And don’t start sentences with a conjunction.
If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a
great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
Unqualified superlatives are the worst of all.
De-accession euphemisms.
If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
Last, but not least, avoid cliches like the plague.
(Whilst I got sidetracked at the word conjunction, thought it said conjunctivitis, started to rub my eye, wandered off to the bathroom to see if it was red and ended up cleaning the bathtub!
And these are the people I’ve “invited” to read my work! Kind and generous people. People who have worked hard and deserve all that they have. Poets (Lordy did you read “Morons! They walk amongst us!” Worst poem ever! I’m really sorry!) philosophers, playwrights and spiritual guides. All of whom, while I may not always “get” their stuff, I admire. Secretly I hope some of their juice rubs off on me, but until trans- oceanic brain cell osmosis is discovered, invented and perfected, I guess slack-jawed awe will just have to do.
Oh woe is me! Self indulgent writers angst. Surely divine reciprocity will step in after reading this and give me a raging case of hives as punishment. I’ll be here. Drowning in self flagellation.
{February 8, 2009} Prayers please.
The scent of smoke on the air, nudged us swiftly on as we buckled ourselves into the back of Mum and Dad’s old station wagon. My parents in the front. Silent as time weighed heavily upon them. My sister chattering like an oblivious gnat while I also kept a silent vigil. The odour of diesel mingled with heat filled the car, as two hundred litres of fuel journeyed with us. On a mercy run, back into the fires. There was no one to call for help. No authority figures to tell of our plight. Just a motley crew of hobby farmers and the nicest kind of societal drop outs. Ready to protect theirs and ours. A truck with the words “Rural Fire Service” in faded stencil across the side standing as a wheeled beacon, waiting.
And so we travelled, the truck our destination, the fuel our charge. The fires remained on the horizon for a time, but as we entered that final stretch home, it stalked us at every turn. The road, now dirt, narrowed, and within three minutes we would enter the clearing where others waited anxiously for us. Driving tentatively so as not to dislodge our incendiary cargo, my Dad remained silent. We tried to ignore the flames now within metres of our car, but very quickly it became apparent that we are no longer driving into safety. Dad hit the brakes and put the car into reverse. Head turned, his arm reaching across to Mums seat, his eyes never left the road behind us. “Dad! What are you doing?” my sister asks. Through gritted teeth he replies “The back of the car is full of bloody fuel!” In reverse, the journey is even longer, and it seems the flames had followed us down. Silently I sat as my sister wept for her potentially burnt toys at home. I think the words “I don’t give a bloody shit about your toys”, may have been muttered, however to acknowledge her distress would have meant acknowledging that we were in a lot of trouble.
As harrowing as this sounds, clearly we survived, Dad having found an alternate track down to the truck. Later after the sun had set, I was able to walk the top road. The scorched earth glowed and smouldered. Off in the distance, people continued to shovel dirt onto hot spots. What sticks in my mind most from that day however, isn’t the heat, or the smoke, or the fear. It was a realisation. The realisation that my father was the bravest man in the world, and that he would never let anything happen to us. As time stood still for that moment, as he stared straight passed me I saw the truth. The truth of who he was.
Today, in a tragic and devastating chain of events, more then seventy six Australians died. Many more are unaccounted for, feared dead. Whole families, just like ours, gone! I weep at their loss, as I have empathised with their fear. I hope tonight brings some reprieve to those who have toiled arduously. Paid or voluntary, truly they have shown the truth of who they are.
{January 26, 2009} Australians’ All Let Us Rejoice
What a blessing to live in a country that, according to my nine year old son, is “war free, has great food and awesome animals like the echidna.” A country where the further north you travel the slower people speak.
Where a green tree frog in your toilet is lucky, and a toad is “bloody vermin!”
Where a cool breeze off the rainforest, turns into a cyclonic gale, and summers resemble life on Mercury.
Where the truest friends call you “asshole”, while helping you build that shed.
Where braking to avoid hitting a bounding kangaroo in your car is still a “bloody privilege,”
A country where generations of children and adults alike still think the opening verse to our national anthem is “Australian’s all eat ostriches.”
Where mowing your lawn at 7am on a Sunday morning whilst the neighbours attempt a sleep in, is just about the most Australian thing you can do.
Backyard cricket
Thongs on our feet (not the kind that rides up your bum crack)
BBQs
Beer
Blistering sunburns
Kids under the sprinkler on the back lawn
Bindies in our feet and the occasional bee sting
Sand in your bum from all day at the beach
These are my memories of January 26 – Australia Day.
MY COUNTRY
A poem by Dorothea Mackellar
The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins,
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft dim skies,
I know but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains;
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror-
The wide brown land for me!
The tragic ringbarked forests,
Stark white beneath the moon,
The sapphire misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes,
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree tops
And ferns the crimson soil.
Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When sick at heart around us
We see the cattle die-
But then the grey clouds gather
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.
Core of my heart my country!
Land of the Rainbow Gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold,
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze.
An opal-hearted country,
A wilful lavish land-
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand-
Though earth holds many splendours
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country,
My homing thoughts will fly.
{January 25, 2009} Never let ‘em see you cry.
As kids, my sister and I walked the same route home every afternoon after school. Rain, hail or blistering heat we walked, hand in hand, me twelve, she six. On one particular corner sat a little shop – The Lolly Shop. Old and cramped, it was a dreamy little place, where we would often sojourn, out of the heat. We’d sniff the cool sweet air, and daydream of the handfuls of treats we would buy when we were grown ups and had money of our own to spend. We were envious of the kids who hung out there. Tough kids with obvious money to spend, we imagined they must have been so happy with parents who could afford to give them pocket money. And yet, despite their obvious good fortune, they were a surly bunch. They smoked and swore, and if we managed to make it past them without comment, then we were fairly grateful. These were kids we never hung out with. These were kids whose attention we never wanted to seek.
And so, on one particular day, we did the usual “head down, avert your eyes shuffle.” It was a tactic that worked with stray dogs, and these bullies seemed as equally unpredictable. Hand in hand we held our breath, wishing ourselves invisible, we skirted our way round their outstretched legs. Unlike past escapes, this time I felt a presence behind us. And then in a flash, they were beside us. Almost in a fugue state I heard their cursing, felt their punches. I don’t remember blinking, or even flinching, but the thumping echoed inside me. In my heart I knew I was no fighter, and to retaliate was to encourage, and after a time they fell behind and a little later, we had left them behind. Neither of us spoke, our stomachs churning, our chests pounding a deafening beat in our blood. She was only little and clearly frightened, as was I, and we were grateful when our little house came into view.
Safe inside, I went about the duties of the latchkey kid, but the weight of it settled firmly on my shoulders. To protect us, we must never go past the shop again. The walk home would be longer, and no doubt we would both complain. I was ashamed in front of my sister. Helpless to protect her as was my charge.
Later, one of the girls in the group approached me, asking why I hadn’t fought back, why had I kept on walking? I really had no answer that I thought she would understand. Some kids are just kids. I doubted a lesson in psychology was what she wanted, so I just shook my head. Clearly she thought me a freak.
It was long hot summer that year, and I muttered under my breath each and every afternoon on that long walk. But a lesson had been learnt, a lesson that has stayed with me to this day. Never give them what they want. Never give them the satisfaction of seeing you broken. I may have been afraid, but they would never know!
