an ode for N

I’m just going to say this outright; I’m not the worlds most sympathetic person. I’m never going to win the nobel peace prize for kindness to humanity, mainly because I want to punch too many people in the face. Quite simply, some people I find quite annoying, and I simply cannot suppress my obvious irritation.

It should not come as much of a surprise then when I say now that I am quite sick of all the whiners in the world. You know who I’m talking about. The kind of person who when asked ‘How are you going?’ will interpret that as an invitation to openly discuss in a whiney tone their bills which are due next week and the terrible smell coming from their bathroom. The sort of chap who doesn’t wait for someone to ask him his opinion on anything, because give him a minute and he’ll tell you for nothing. The sort of person who jumps onto facebook and writes silly little status updates which reads along the lines of: “I’m cold and need cuddles. Too bad I’ve got no-one to snuggle with”. Please, enough.

Let me enlighten you, whiners of the world; if you’re going to spend all of your time sitting on the computer complaining to everyone about your lack of human company on a Friday night, then there’s only going to be one outcome. Whilst every other hormone riddled youth is out roaming the streets and pressing their bodies up against each other in the bathrooms of clubs, you’re sitting at home on your laptop, alone. Whilst they’re out selling heroin in the corner and exchanging saliva on the dance floor, you’re going to be sitting at home staring at that blinking cursor on your screen, thinking up what witty yet desperate status you’re going to post next to gain some sympathy. Of course you’ve got no-one to hug. It’s because you’re simply an annoying person.

But do you think that telling these people this is going to change anything? I’m telling you now. Whilst I can’t speak for everyone, I know for a fact that if I read a message reading ‘I’m lonely but no-one will hug me’ or ‘argh work tomorrow fml’, I’m not going to feel sorry for you. My first thought is not to empathies with you.  I’m only going to feel irritated. I’m going to feel a strong urge to unplug my toaster, get into my car, drive to your house, knock on your door and then throw said toaster in your unsuspecting face. And I will do it. Don’t think I’m joking.

Whiners of the world; take note. Please stop talking. Stop writing these Facebook updates. Stop telling me about your cat when I didn’t ask you. Because no-one’s listening. We’ve all logged off.

thou shalt not drop out, or let there be death

I begin todays post with a revelation. In 222 days time I will be walking from my childhood and into my new life as a proper adult at university. And in preparation, in exactly one month’s time I will be attending the Open Day at my university of choice. I am most excited. 


But somewhere deep down inside of me, I am a little bit scared, and yes I am big enough to admit that. Not about moving away from home or being away from my family because, let’s be honest, that was never going to be a bad thing. No, but more importantly, what if university life doesn’t match up to the image I’ve been building up in my head over the last eight months?

I can’t speak for anybody else, but for me, my idea of university life is somewhat like Hogwarts, only without all the magic and Snape.


 University and the lifestyle that comes with it is a place of mystic and knowledge, of passion, lust, love, dusty old books and glitter.  A place of music and candles, neon lights and second hand tea-pots, because we couldn’t afford mugs for coffee like the rich students. And it would be a wonderful life. With the occasional hangover.

However, despite my ideals and conceptions about university, recently a friend of mine has just made the decision to drop out after just one semester. Which truly baffled me no end. I mean, this girl is smart and a hard worker. She toughed it out through our exams on a mixture of fifteen minute cat naps on the common room couch and many a no-doze washed down with a swig of espresso, and managed to get into the top university in the state to study law. 


And now has decided to pack it in and move back home. I mean, why? I just can’t fathom the idea that after all that hard work, after the exams and the applications just to get into said university, after six months of study, why someone would wake up one morning and think: ‘I’ve had enough of hangovers and toga parties. Time to move back home'.

And this, dear reader, is what makes my tummy go all queasy, and not that third serving on chocolate pudding I just ate. There are such high rates of students dropping out of university mid way through their studies in comparison to those students who stay there for the long haul. Perhaps I’m naive and simply disillusioned. Perhaps university life is not what I think it is. Maybe it’s not all friends and handsome professors. What if studying at university is actually about study?

I’ve made the decision to take twelve months off from university and work, rest and play. Which has proven to be a wonderful idea. Yet there is not a day that goes by in which I lay in my bed and dream of my future, in which I am successful and happy. I know that sounds horribly cliched and corny, but it’s true. 

But this dream is a long way off at the very end of of a very long tunnel. And I know deep down inside that to have the life I dream of, to have the career and the life style I crave, I need to get to university and work my butt off.  So personally, for me tertiary study is the only option; there’s no back-up plan. It’s not sink or swim. It’s go-and-jump-off-a-bridge or succeed. 


So am I the only one? Doesn’t every other VCE student dream of the day that they are handed that diploma in their funny little hat firmly in their hands and look out into the crowd of friends and family and say proudly ‘yes, I’ve done it. And I was only drunk for half the time!’

If people weren’t interested in going to university, then why would we all bother? Why do people even bother finishing high-school, let alone going on to further study? Is everyone else simply like me? Do we all sit at home dreaming up ridiculous notions of university where handsome professors roams the halls whilst I sit in the cafe with my friends going over notes with a latte, or is the truth simply much more boring? Is university just high school?

This is actually really frightening. Truthfully. Is it really as glorious and fantastic as I imagine? Or is it simply school all over again, except you can get away with sleeping through lectures without fear of a phone call home to your agitated mother. What if I hate it and want to come home? What if I never succeed and end up working in IGA forever?

I’ll let you know in a month’s time...

don't call me baby

There is something that you dear reader and I have in common. Ever though we may have never met before. Even if you are a boy and I am a girl, or if you live in Finland and I in a different hemisphere. We are all living and breathing creatures. We have all had to have been born. It doesn’t matter if you are an IVF child, or if you where born a la natural, we have all been expelled from some poor woman’s body at some stage. 

Any time there is any mention of the words ‘childbirth’ or ‘labour’ on the television, my Mother talks for hours and hours about all the pain and goo she went through to bring me into this world. Which makes me feel guilty, even though it wasn’t my fault. So, if all the pain, why did you go back for more? If the act of pushing something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lime is so God damn awful, then why do we do it? And, more to the point, why do mothers go back for second, or third children?

I cannot tell you how this came about, but this afternoon at work my colleagues and I decided to watch on YouTube some footage of a woman giving birth. For purely educational purposes I assure you. Now wasn’t that an experience to behold. I felt achy and exhausted and this sudden inexplainable hatred towards all men, and I was simply watching. 

I always was under the impression that childbirth was much like that sketch from Monty Python. You’d be standing at your kitchen sink doing the dishes when all of a sudden a little brown slimy thing would plop out of you and slither to the floor, to be picked up by one of your 15 other children. Or maybe that was just in early 20th Yorkshire where that happens. 




Back at work, all of the mothers in the room went all misty-eyed and gasped in amazement at this new life being created right there on the screen. And I’m sure that it is beautiful and amazing ect. But both myself and the other childless woman in the room were too busy crossing our legs in sympathy and thinking of ways to avoid men for eternity. To quote: “That’s the cheapest form of contraception I know.” I’m sorry to all you mothers out there, but no matter how much you gush about the beauty of birth and giving life, it is just simple disgusting. I’d never have ever thought that there would be so much debris and blood. It looks every bit as bloody painful as you all keep harping on about.

But look around you. Unless you’ve unfortunately fallen down a mine shaft recently, chances are that there is a human being of some description in the vicinity of the room that you’re in. That other person has had to have been born, much like yourself. And me. I was born too. We’ve all caused some poor woman out there a world of pain.

This got me thinking. This whole ‘birthing’ thing was awful. I grew up on a farm and have seen calving from a young age. Let me explain for you the process involved. Cow + Farmer + an old piece of rope + a lot of tugging = a goopy looking calf laying in the hay.

Overall, the whole process is quite brutal and, coincidentally, animalistic. I always imagined that when it was my turn, it would be so much nicer. But after what I’ve seen today, I think not. 


To be honest, I think it’s worse for humans. For starters, I am a human being, thus I have emotions and feelings. I’m going to feel a wee bit embarrassed and exposed with my legs thrust into metallic stirrups with my lady garden on displayed for all to see.

I’m just simply amazed that after all that pain, after all the goo and muck, the swearing and punching, that women go back for seconds.Why? Is there some sort of prize at the end of it? Eternal glory? From what I can gather all that happens is you get fat and lumpy and are presented with a gooey thing which constantly cries.

Does this mean that I’ll never have children? No. Does it mean I will? No. Who know’s what will happen. But there is one thing I know. I will be sticking to viewing teenagers lighting their own farts on YouTube for a while I think....

all you need is love

It has been nearly one year exactly since I was last in a relationship. And, up until quite recently, I have been perfectly content with my newly acquired ‘singledom.’ I can go out with the lads and the girls on Friday nights whenever I please without having to check with anyone else (apart from mother, which is what you get when you decide to spend your year off from university living at home). I can go for a good week or two without shaving my legs or seeing to my eyebrows because, let’s be honest, who’s going to be looking at those. And that’s just one less present to buy at Christmas, Valentine’s Day, birthdays and anniversaries.  Which works well for me, because I am a bit tight when it comes to money. However, that’s a tale for another day.

I had not felt any need for another human being’s presence in my life apart from my boss, mainly because he pays me. I was perfectly happy with going to work, coming home, spending Friday and Saturday nights with my friends and family, and spending time with other blokes without having to think of a jealous other-half. It was fantastic. For the first time after schooling and exams had finished, I had the time to focus purely and simply on myself. But then, enter stage left: Mr X.

Mr X, as he shall be known, was simply an innocent young man whom I stumbled upon one Friday with the girls. He simply came into the cafe for whatever it was he was after, and after a bout of outrageous flirting between he and I, he quietly left. Exit stage right, Mr X, leaving a trail of excited women and one beaming girl in his wake. However, what may seem like innocent banter between two young individuals held so much more weight and poignancy than I could possibly fathom. Mr X’s presence in our little group drew attention to the other women whom I was with to the fact that I was the only person in sight who was not married, in a serious relationship or living in a de facto relationship. There is not a sign of a short fling or one-night stand; indeed I am the lone dating wolf. Which, I’ll say again, suited me just fine. However, they’ve all taken it upon themselves to ‘make myself available’ to any good looking man who is breathing in and out that walks in the door. Which is ok, I guess. But I wasn’t really looking for a boyfriend. Like I said earlier, I was oh-so-happy driving solo.

Also, another thing. I am by no means the most good looking girl in the world. Granted, I’m not a total troll, I hope, but I’m no Bridgette Bardot. So what on earth would Mr X, a quite attractive gentleman, be doing asking me what I am up to on the weekend and asking my name? 

However, in the time that has prolapsed since the arrival of said X boy in my life and now, I have changed my outlook quite a bit. Actually, rather a lot. For starters, I plucked my eyebrows for the first time in months on Saturday. I served a bloke who looked like he was carved from a cold, perfect piece of marble from the hands of God himself, and he smiled back at me. I feel as though I have been reborn, and for the first time am recognising the opposite sex not just as friends who have a bit more hair than I, but potential partners. And  it has been fun. 

 But something doesn’t feel right. I feel strange. I feel girly. I feel...quite pathetic, to be perfectly honest. Why have I all of a sudden decided to make such an effort to attract males who I don’t even know? Males who two weeks ago I wouldn’t have even batted an eye at? I wasn’t looking for anyone a week ago, so what makes me think that I should start?

And what about my freedom? My singledom? My right to purchase a bag of crispy M&M’s at the petrol station, rest them in my lap and devour the lot whilst I drive to Melbourne has been ruined because, rather than reveling in the wonder that is the chocolate confectionary melting in my lap, I have to worry about getting fat, having blue stained teeth and becoming unattractive to men. I have to worry about what I am doing each and every weekend and how I am going to spend that time with my man rather than plodding around home in my pajamas on a Friday night only to be spontaneously invited out to the pub for a night on the town. I can barely manage to organise my own life as it is, how in the world would I be able to juggle another human being, let alone a man, and all the strings attached? 

I’m not ruling out love and the possibility of potentially falling in love with another human being. I’m not totally against monogamy. But just for the moment, I’m just fine the way things are. Although, Mr X was quite good looking...

How does that song go? “Love is all you need....and a bag of M&M’s...”

Panic on the streets of London

Down under, a British person is usually described in one of several ways; either a whiner, a fancy-boy, gay, old-fashioned, pompous or up-themselves. They speak in posh, over-the-top fancy accents, they never bathe and only eat black pudding and other meals made from awful body parts of dead animals. They think we’re all colonial yobbs who only drive utes, cook on BBQ’s and address everyone as ‘mate.’ 


We think that they’re living in the dark ages and that they must constantly be damp from all that constant rain. Their cars are called ‘Aston Martin’, their towns are named ‘Stratford-upon-Avon’ and they say ‘blimey’ or ‘bother’ when things get tough. Back here, our towns are called ‘Wagga-Wagga’, our cars are either Holden or Ford, and it’s either ‘bugger’ or ‘bloody’ whenever your mother’s around.

To give them credit where it’s due, the Brit’s have done quite a lot for both Australia and the rest of the world. Their nation’s history is littered with great literary figures. During the 1960’s they were on the cutting edge of fashion, for example Twiggy, and musicians; the likes of The Rolling Stones, and The Beetles. And they do produce some nice food on occasion. Two people whom I went to school with are currently both over in Pommyland spending a year off from university. 

Apparently England is one of the most popular nations in the world for Australian tourists. So there must be a reason. I mean, we all wouldn’t head on over there if we truly hated them that much.

Personally, I cannot wait to travel to England. I’m planning to complete my second year of university over in the mother land, and am filling in the time until then with books, magazines, television programs, films and music made by or created in England. There is this inexplainable, primordial lust that burns right down inside me which I simply cannot shake. I can’t explain in it in words why I want to go to England. All I know is that I need to get there. I need to be there. I’ll come home, eventually, but for now there is some deep seeded primitive need within me that is pulling me back to the land of my forefathers like a moth to a flame.

Considering that it is not just me who feels this need to travel to England for whatever reason, it is surprising considering both countries attitudes towards each other. I’ve been filling in a lot of my time of late reading a fair bit of British journalism online. And surprisingly, considering that we are on the opposite side of the planet, Australia gets a mention quite frequently, though it seems only ever in jest. And I directly quote: “I'm just not Australian. I don't really understand enthusiasm for the barbecue either, because the locals really do regard it as the route to culinary nirvana. Where I come from, cooking outside over a bonfire is something you do if you're homeless.” By James May Published 24 Feb 2010

Look here England, just because you created us does not mean that you own us. Don’t you point the finger at us and laugh at our colonial ways. Don’t accuse us of being primitive. Because let me remind you of something. Don’t you forget, that the only reason that we are here is because you sent us all here in cramped,rat-infested,leaking ships. You sent us to the opposite side of the world, to a foreign unknown land with all sorts of weird animals.  All of your your thieves and murderers, if they weren’t hung drawn and quartered, were sent down here. Australia took all the stabbists and heratics from England, toughened them up, stopped the whinging and created a civilised, revolutionary society which functions in a perfectly normal and sensible manner. 




They say that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger; rise up from the ashes to seize the day. And so on. Australia is the nation that rose from the ashes of England’s failing society. Australia is simply the people that England wished it was. So please refrain from pointing and laughing. Don’t complain about our culinary skills and stick to your tea and biscuits. And stay the bloody hell away from us. Thanks awfully old chap.

brown paper packages tied up with string

I woke up in a rather motivated mood and decided, among other thing like cleaning my room and sorting through my tax paperwork, to write a more simplistic piece just for your reading pleasure. Oh, and more pictures today, because I’m rather tired and not so much up for writing...so these are a few of my favourite things.

Scrub-a-dub-dub.

Incidentally, I don’t watch the television show ‘Scrubs’, nor do I really like it. I think it’s a bit silly and immature. And further more, this picture I did not actually find myself. I ‘borrowed’ it from someone else’s blog, (cheers to www.velveteenhappiness.blogspot.com) but I quite like it. I like the message in the image. 

“Who the hell cares what anybody thinks? Just look into your heart and do whatever the hell makes you happy.”

This is a neat little phrase. I like to think that I live by this mantra, but sadly I do realise that there are plenty people out there who do need this constant sort of reassurance and encouragement in their lives. 

Can I just make it absolutely clear now that I’m not getting on my high horse here and pronouncing to the entire world how I’m perfect and totally at one with myself, because that would just be boring, plus I don’t have a horse. I’ve simply wasted too much of my time in the past trying to get my side fringe to look just like the girls off the television, and spent way too many days at the shopping centre trying to find Converse sneakers and skinny jeans which fit and those bracelets which look like tattoos that were so cool in Grade Five. All of that just wasn’t me. I looked a ridiculous fool.  It was just so much easier, less expensive and less complicated to just be me. And to the rest of you silly blonde girls at high-school who thought that I was odd, guess what? I was happy all along and you were not. Hey, if it ultimately means that we are all going to be comfortable with ourselves, then I’m all for motivational images. Even if they are a bit cliched and metaphors get tortured a bit. 

She lives on Love Street...

If I could possibly live in any era of time, it would be the 1960’s. No shadow of a doubt. Almost every element of my current life is influence by this era in time. 

My dress sense: from the mod shift dresses to pea-coats and A-line skirts, every single item in my wardrobe I have purchased with this period of time in mind. The swinging 60’s were all about rebellion, about showing the world who you were and the young staking their claim in modern civilization.  It was all about taking the hem lines high and raising eyebrows higher. And that stick-it-to-the-man attitude is lacking in our current fashions here in 2010.

Music: Please do not borrow my iPod unless you are prepared to be bitterly disappointed. I  thought Kanye West was a Swedish skier and Usher someone who worked at the theatre. If I check my “Top 25 most played” playlist it reads: Simon and Garfunkel ‘Slip Sliding Away’, Rolling Stones ‘Gimme Shelter’, David Bowie ‘Secret life of Arabia’ and The Doors ‘Love her Madly’. This pleases me. This may not please you so much next time we jump in my car and my iPod is on shuffle. But I will not apologise. Much like the fashion’s of the time, music in the 1960’s was all about young people getting their message out there, and the message was ‘screw you Mum and Dad; I’m doing it my way.’ And I like that. Sorry Mum.

For Veronica...

I’ll just make a few things clear right now. Firstly, for those who don’t know, this is James May; British television presenter of shows such as ‘Top Gear’, ‘James May’s Big Ideas’ and ‘Toy Stories’, as pictured. Secondly, I do not, have not and never will have a ‘thing’ for older men. I once made the mistake of telling my friend Veronica that I wanted a boyfriend like James May; intelligent, witty, and a bit old fashioned with longish hair. Only I wanted someone young, because May’s a wee bit old. And British. Veronica then proceeded to announce all over the internet that I had an attraction to older men. Whilst this was all in jest, I think, I still was embarrassed that people might think I like old men. Because I don’t. I don’t. Ah, Facebook and her follies is a cruel mistress.

So now we’ve established those facts, we can now proceed to bask in the glory that is Mr May. One of the reasons I’ve decided to study journalism one day is because I want his job  so badly. All he does all day is laugh and muck around with his mates and gets paid for it. Sounds like a dream. I want to do that for a living. Plus he’s rather witty and he reminds me of this really nice old gentleman who comes into my work on a Wednesday. It makes me happy to sit down and flick on SBS to watch a bit of James May talking about the war, or whatever it is he talks about. His presenting style is so laid-back and factual that he has become like an old friend who stops by my living room on a Thursday evening. It would be rather neat to meet him one day.

What the hell is a jigawatt?

In 1985, the world just became that much more awesome. I won’t deny it; I am obsessed with the Back to the Future trilogy. I can quote nearly the whole film. I know who wrote, directed it and produced it. I’ve watched all the special features on my 4-disk-dvd box set. It is, in street talk, simply the shiz. Don’t ever try to deny that, because we will just get into an argument, and you will lose. If you have not lived yet and sadly have missed out on the privilege of seeing these films, it simply tells the tale of Marty McFly and Doc Brown, who traverse across time in a customized time machine built into a DeLorian.(That’s a type of car for the ignorant.) Then what happens is....oh sod it, I’m not going to bother with explaining it to you. If you haven’t seen it then you don’t deserve to know. 

I don’t know what it is that makes me so passionate about these films. I cannot put my finger on what it is that drives my enthusiasm for this piece of cinematography. I just love it so. And Michael J Fox is oh so adorable in this flick. Check out that life savers jacket...

Aha!

If you don’t know of the greatness that is Alan Partridge, then you have truly missed out in life. 

Again, another British figure has made an appearance in today’s piece. To put it simply, Alan Partridge is a simple British man trying to make it as an accomplished television and radio personality. He is simply a legend.

When describing a hot apple pie: ‘It’s hotter than the sun!’

On how hard work has been: "I've been working like a Japanese prisoner of war. But a happy one."

‘AHA!’.

Please youtube him. You won’t be sorry.

These are a few of my favourite things. For now...

it's hip to be square

Did you know that David Bowie’s real name is David Jones, and that the Model T Ford was the first Automobile to be mass produced? No, I bet you didn’t. And I cannot tell you how I stumbled upon this knowledge. I just know it. But don’t you dare share these new facts with anyone else. They’ll just think that you’re being a clever little arse and throw whiteboard markers at your forehead. Or at least that’s what my boss did to me today after I told him these trivial facts. He then proceeded to call me a fool.

I’m straying from my main point before I’ve even made it. I shall explain. 

You see, I have always been a bit of a storyteller; a joker. All of my co-workers thought I was really self-effacing and shy when I began six months ago until Everett’s 30th birthday party when I entertained them all with my anecdotes of my simply getting dressed and ready to get to the party in question; which involved my mother calling my dress sense ‘lesbonic’  and then me nearly running over a wombat on the back roads of Phillip Island. They all found it amusing. Now I am called upon to recall tales of mischief and misconduct whenever we all get together for a drink whereupon I hold court at the table and entertain young and old with my words.

I possess a great mass of interesting and yet useless facts and figures. For example, Alfred Hitchcock always made an appearance in each and everyone one of his films, even if it only was for a few seconds on screen, and did you know that on an average day a cow produces around 40 litres of milk? No, I didn’t think you would. But please do not even begin to think that I am attempting to lord it over you with my ‘impressive knowledge’. Oh no, because you see, I am an ‘autodidact’. (You see, I even know a word that you may have never heard of.) An ‘autodidact’ is ‘a person of self-taught knowledge.’ Which quite neatly summarises my life and brain power.

Upon first meeting me, one would presume that I am quite intelligent. All the signs are there. I wear glasses sometimes. I did well on my VCE exams. I am planning to go to university. 

Then ask me to perform any simple Math’s task, and watch me explode and burn up upon re-entry. All systems down I’m afraid. No hope of getting a speck of intelligence out of me then. Which I find rather embarrassing, as I get complimented on my lovely speaking voice and how I am a confident public speaker and my vast vocabulary, but ask me to times 8x3 and I fall to pieces. I just can’t fathom numbers, it’s beyond my comprehension. 

So what do we deem as intelligent? What equals to an education? 

I am a firm believer in that everyone is intelligent, yet we all show it in different ways.

Take my own relative. My uncle, who dropped out of the local high-school in year 9, and who by today’s standards should now be living as a tramp somewhere on a park bench, has gone on to own his own transport buisiness and can add up square metric tonnes of super-phosphate in his head within milliseconds whilst I am still busy pulling out my little calculator. A lady whom I work with jetted off to Europe as soon as she turned 18; no university or TAFE education, yet she is a jedi with such wisdom and knowledge of life that I have nothing but the upmost respect for her.

On the other hand; having intelligence down on paper in the form of a degree does not always make you King of the World either. A man I know has been to five different universities, and thus has around 7 or so degrees. And he works as a milker on his parents dairy farm. Why bother with all the university then? “I just like learning” he replies.

Just because I can’t perform any mathematical task of any kind does not make me stupid or unintelligent. Just because I know what ‘regicide’ means does not mean that I am a clever little sod. There are so many different books, sciences, sports, arts, different types of music, different types of mathematics and so much of the English language to learn that it is impossible to be master of it all. Which is good I feel. Because what a boring world it would be if we all knew what the square root of 45 was and if we all knew how to speak Spanish. How would we ever learn? What would we ever talk about? Everyone is intelligent in their own individual way. Except for people from America...because we all know what they’re like...