Good Food Hunting

The trouble with grocery shopping is that we are spoilt for choice. Perhaps spoilt isn’t the right word. I don’t feel spoilt, I feel invaded by choice. Invaded because of blaring false fonts and ridiculously tiny fine print on so many variations of what is essentially the same thing.

When the first Homo Sapiens were acquiring food they just needed to kill that one woolly mammoth passing by. There were not several woolly mammoths standing shoulder to shoulder with separate signs labeled, ‘organic’, ‘fat free’, ‘salt reduced’, ‘RSPCA approved’, or ‘Now with viagra’. It was just one unlucky woolly mammoth. Food and clothes in one, may I add. When collecting berries they were not clumped together in packets spelling out, ‘All natural’, less sugar, ‘more antioxidants’. They’re either going to poison you or not, no refunds. That’s it.

When I was little milk magically arrived on the doorstep in glass bottles and it was delicious. It was always milk movember for me. These days I end up in a fluorescent chilled corridor facing a wall of dairy dilemma. How much stuff is in milk? It’s milk! Skim, Goats, Almond, Soy, Rice, Oat, more calcium, easy to digest, omega 3, full cream, reduced fat and smart milk??? What do I do? What would the Neanderthal in me do? Yes, probably poke and prod the products then grunt in frustration until the expiry date. Milk, I just want to trust you like old times.

So I eventually chose the easy to digest because you assume all of the others are difficult to digest and no one wants that. Why isn’t there a litre carton that says, ‘MILK – now with more chemicals and enhanced whiteness!’ Oh wait, that’s toothpaste isn’t it. We all want that whitening toothpaste which doesn’t seem to whiten. Where is the toothpaste for pinker gums to offset the whiter teeth? Then I need the fake tan to make my teeth look even whiter, but before you know it I look like an Oompa Loompa with a laser beam grin. Pow! I’ve never actually used fake tan, I much prefer to just draw extra freckles on myself. “Check it out everybody. Yeah, I get sun. Take that!’

I do, however, moisturize, because you know, who doesn’t want to fight the made up 7 signs of ageing? Quick, take out your moisturizing guns and fire them at your face, lady raptors! But how do you choose a moisturizer? Maybe I should buy the one labeled, ‘Redefining’, since my face looks like a melting Salvador Dali clock lately. If I apply the night moisturizer in the day will I fall asleep? And perhaps if I use the face moisturizer on my legs my knees may become noses. Soothing, hydrating, Vitamin E, Aloe Vera, then on the back of the bottle is an endless list of unfamiliar chemicals contributing to the white ooze. Where’s the immortality disclaimer?

So far I have 3 items in my shopping basket. I chose a basket because I only required a few things. Of course, after an hour I end up lugging around the contents of small shipping container. Damn, should’ve opted for the wheels, but then trolleys have a mind of their own. You know, there’s that one wheel that insists on traveling in the opposite direction, like it’s possessed by some kind of sinister trolley spirit from beyond the car park grave.

It turns out that ‘Self Check-out’ isn’t a large mirror where you can look at yourself. So instead I usually opt for the ‘name tag with hands’ to check-out my groceries. They ask how I am without wanting to know the answer, then enquire if I have Fly Buys, which aren’t feminine hygiene products with wings. So don’t give them that.

The transaction usually requires a short game of poker with my credit cards, then I end up paying with casino chips from the night before. It’s ok, they’re gluten free.

Downwards-Facing-Dork

Due to the immense popularity of yoga I hadn’t tried it till recently. Of course, if anything is popular we, as in me or in this case I, think it comes with a lame label. But you know, perhaps I’ll somehow become best friends forever with my body. So I found a yoga mat sitting around the house and took it as a sign to take tap dancing lessons. Of course not. There is something a lot less daunting about exercising within the confines of your own home habitat than in a public exercise zoo. In fact, the vision of attending a yoga studio propels images of myself as one of those inflatable tube men that flail around at car yards and remote B grade businesses. (AKA Mr Blowie) You know, I’d rather not hit anyone in the chops with my uncontrollable spaghetti limbs. Also I have the balance of an intoxicated sloth on high heel roller skates.

After downloading one of the many yoga apps I stretched my way through the routine of poses. In keeping up with the virtual lady instructor I seemed to lose track of my breathing, hence drooling on the yoga mat below. My ‘Downward-facing-dog’ rather took the form of a defeated canine with rabies, ‘Downward-frothing-dog’. Of course the following day I reaped the outstanding benefits of not being able to move my arms, stomach and nostril hairs. Work it, Tin Man.

I persisted with day 2, managing all maneuvers mentioned, until my yoga mat was hijacked. Cat pose had manifested itself at my feet. At least I wasn’t in Cobra position.

Grand Pricks

Driving brings out the worst in me. I wonder why. I should be grateful that driving a car saves so much time. Traveling by foot would take far too long, as would riding a donkey with amazing suspension or even a horse carriage at full throttle. “Woah there, Nelly!” That’s a horse name right? Or are elephants called Nelly, or expired rappers? Vanilla Ice gives great piggy back rides.

Driving is a privilege we’ve become far too well accustomed to. We’re in such a rush hour after hour. As soon as we get behind the wheel everyone else is behind enemy white lines. They’re simply in the way. And we’re so high and mighty in our car armor. But whose going to come and get you, the ever so conveniently timed modern day slow coaches, the peripherally challenged, the distracted texters, the ever-present four wheel drives maneuvered by tanned crustaceans with posh children cargo, a plate full of P’s, the tradie with the wandering eye at the red light, the cab with his own road rules? Who cares?

We beep, we curse and we gesture. We’re so speedy to hurl abuse. Well, I’d like to be the first to say, “Tremendous u-turn! Excellent indicating! Here’s a six pack for letting me in! High five on the first time reverse park!” But even if I did yell these compliments out I would unintentionally come across as a sarcastic wench. Oh well, road rage against the machine.

Fly Me to Vermouth

Each time I fly economy class it seems to get smaller. Perhaps airlines should suck all of the insides out of passengers so there is just enough room for our skin to be strapped into a probably not life saving seatbelt. But that’s ok because we’d just be skin. Minimal impact. No need for the indestructable life jacket and a whistle then. I wear these around all the time anyway, just incase I trip over on the street at 900km per hour. Safety first.

When space is so limited it’s always enjoyable when someone reclines into your face. Planes may be packed with safety items but the seat in front really needs an airbag attached. And this is topped off by the passenger behind you playing an aggressive game of tetris against the back of your head. You’re sitting in an epileptic MRI machine. Even if you’re a people person you will make someone on the flight your enemy. Well, that’s what eco-enemy does. If you’re savvy an exit seat is an excite seat. Legs rejoice! But in the unlikely event of an emergency you need to do that thing you didn’t listen to when the flight attendant briefed you in a half serious, condescending way. Hopefully, not a descending way.

In the name of comfort, airlines provide extra things to unintentionally get in your way. Here’s a pillow and rug you won’t use and also have nowhere to put. And that thing you sat on, that was earphones, as effective as two cotton wool balls on a head band. Perhaps you remembered your technologically fashionable noise canceling headphones though. May I recommend you use them to mute the roar of the flushing airplane toilet. The sound is so frighteningly piercing that you need to use the flight facilities again.

Oddly enough, there are some people who can sleep on planes. Good luck to them, the folded over, open mouthed, snoring passengers who dreamily flop around within their 5cm radius. Well done. In order to fall asleep on a plane I would actually have to be a corpse. Last time I tried particularly hard to enter a slumber. Sleeping pills, neck pillow, blindfold, sounds like a good time if you’re an overworked Hollywood actor.  Of course I looked like a paraplegic ninja turtle but it was worth a try. Nothing. I can turn off all of the electronic devices but not the one in my head. My flight is boreding. I suppose I can always put off the jet lag with jet lager.

Oh My Dog

Dog is the new baby. Evidently, babies have outsourced the amount of obsessive, overprotective, and overbearing caring energy of human parents to dogs. A generation or 2 ago people had babies, looked after them as best they could and whatever happened to them happened. Que sera sera….until we try to control everything. Despite these past babies rolling in dirt, eating small household items and forming BFFs with disease producing micro-organisms across the land, they turned out alright.

For instance, my Dad’s babyhood involved swallowing a safety-pin, havng marsupials tend to his open wounds and my favourite, getting dressed as a drag queen for his christening. Well, not really, the dress had a rather unflattering neckline and the least they could have given was him high heel booties. Anyway, he was fine. He was not molly-coddled, handled only with bacteria-free silk gloves, and basically sheltered from every single living thing.

This is the new new baby. I introduce the new model of infinitely dependent, self indulgent, allergy ridden techno goobs. The future is now.

Meanwhile, the baby of the past has actually been replaced by the family dog. Enter. They roll in dirt, eat small household items and form BFFs with disease producing micro-organisms across the land. Dogs now have a plethora of toys, clothing lines, play pens, potties, perfume (called Oh My Dog), specialized meals, psychologists, insurance, and our lives revolve around their bowel movements which we clean with a sense of duty. We even speak to dogs in baby talk.

My Mum’s spoodle actually has some of my old baby toys. The teddy I used to cuddle to sleep is now eyeless, earless and covered in a cocoon of hound saliva. Mum cuts and combs her goldilocks, brushes her teeth with chicken toothpaste, nurses her in a towel and takes a mountainous day bag of accessories with her everywhere they go. She also sings to her, “Who’s that girl?” which I think was meant to be a Guy Sebastian song. I can’t help but feel jealous of the babyhood I never had. I mean, she didn’t call me ‘Little Miss Delicious’ when I was a young pup.

Dogs are now family members rather than pets. Now that’s evolution. But dogs are still dogs, really. It is we who have elevated their statuses within the pack. Why, we have security alarms now, do we still need them or have we just created another thing to look after and provide for? We bathe them as though they are our young, feed them from our own plates, groom them like well-to-do gorilla families and even embrace them like non-sexual lovers (mostly).

But we humans only give if we receive. Man’s best friend? Well, only for men without vocal chords. And by men, I mean men of both sexes. What we receive from dogs is the present. As all non-human creatures they live in the moment. This allows them to express endless joy at the prospect of a brief walk, the same meal or even chasing something gross over and over again. They love every moment, and that brings us closer to something in ourselves. Perhaps something we are missing. Otherwise, we wouldn’t allow a face lick after our dogs have potentially feasted on their on faeces, mouthed their own genitals, and rubbed their noses in a suburb full of canine urine.

dogs and petrol

S'tax On

They say there are two things you can’t avoid in life, death and taxes. Of course I tried to challenge this by earning so little that I didn’t have to pay tax, but then I died of embarrassment. Touche, World. Actually, that’s not true. One year, I pretended tax was short for taxidermy so I sent the ATO a plethora of stuffed rodents doing the finger. Another year, I sent soiled baby car seats instead of receipts, and I have also sent my accountant 356 ants.

As a reluctant sadministrator of my own affairs, I recently found myself negotiating with Phoebe from the ATO. For most of the conversation she sounded like airplane engine noise. After phoning to let her know I couldn’t afford my tax bill, she then informed me that I actually had another outstanding tax bill. Wonderful, Phoebe. Let’s go and get an omlette! Despite alerting Phoebe to the fact that I had no money she proceeded to ask me if I could now afford both bills, as though there was a remote chance I had suddenly won on the greyhounds during the precious moments of our riveting phone engagement.

Whilst helpful, I’m not sure I had Phoebe’s full attention as she kept repeating, ‘Thanks for holding’. I was beginning to think she was instructing a yoga class on the side. Work it, Phoebe.

Someone invented ‘Pay as you go’, a system only appropriate for sole business operators who earn the exact same amount of money each year. Yes. Why would I want to pay as I go? That is not what Monopoly is all about. You are paid as you pass GO. $200, I believe. You don’t OWE money on something that isn’t actually due in the name of having credit when it is due. I think someone’s getting a little greedy, ATO. Perhaps you should go on hold until the end of the financial year when it is your turn. I do not tell people they OWE me birthday presents four months out from the date so it is more CONVENIENT for them around the time of my birthday. ‘’Yes, you would be in credit on March 3 and I could carry it over to Christmas if you buy me something in October.’’

So then Phoebe said that if I didn’t earn as much as I did last year I could fill out form T8, C5 or F7. Whatever, suddenly we were playing Battleships. Hit and sunk, ATO.

I wanted to play Monopoly.

The Young and the Relentless

My fish died. I thought, if I can’t look after a fish then how would I possibly be able to look after a baby? But then I thought I probably wouldn’t raise a child in a full 21 litre fish tank. And yet, I haven’t ruled it out. Aquarium parenting may be the way of the future.

I wish human young were more like lizards. They hatch, find their bearings then eventually just wiggle off into the sunny wilderness. That’s it. Sayonara. Lizards speak Japanese, of course, with the exception of water dragons. They are French. If you really listen carefully, you can hear them on the water’s edges, “Bonjour, bonjour”. Hi guys.

Ah, I admire those independent young lizards. Human babies, they aren’t going anywhere. It’s just one never ending teet suckle until your bank account runs dry.

Well, I don’t know. Why haven’t any baby boomers exploded?

Life's A Bitumen

Growing up, there didn’t seem to be the plethora of road works there are today. Incidentally, I did not actually drive an automobile whilst growing up. Well, apart from those times Dad let me take the wheel. Shh, such a rush at the age of 9. Prior to that it was a cardboard box with paper plate wheels glued to the side, and I definitely didn’t encounter road works in that hot rod. In fact, it never needed servicing and it was incredibly fuel efficient for something that didn’t go above 5km/hr. So, I have absent memories of the currently omnipresent fluorescent vests, obnoxious giant Tonka trucks, and unnecessary witches hat formations at every intersection.

It’s as if there is some almighty being out there, commanding more roads, bigger roads, with never ending tunnels. Are we forever pleasing the fearful Road God? Surely the ancient Romans must think we are pedantic, possessed even. It’s never enough.

And when approaching road works, our thoughts are rarely, ‘Stunning! I can’t wait to drive over this wonderfully smooth section of bitumen. Keep up the fantastic, ever so productive work!’ In fact it’s usually more along the lines of,

‘What the..? Ok, phew, it’s not an RBT. All good. Yes, I know, I’m already going slow from the 57 signs beforehand. I don’t need you to point at your anal, swiveling ‘slow’ sign. I can’t go any slower. Perhaps I should drive backwards and reverse the hands of time. Would that be slow enough? You know, I could hold a ‘SLOW’ sign for a job, but I’d wear a Batman mask or something, maybe even a sad clown face. Perhaps drivers would actually think I was slow if I did that. No, never, my personal traffic sign would say, ‘AWESOME’, no exclamation mark. I wonder if these Council road workers also wear fluorescent orange lingerie?’

And those thoughts are just for the first 2 metres of the road works. Meanwhile, some concentration is required to navigate through the witches hat maze, plotted by some unfulfilled lunatic who will eventually take over the world. Good God, it’s like being in The Labyrinth. Surely, you’ve all seen David Bowie in lycra at your local road works. Hint: pay attention to the passing cyclists.

Night road works are particularly special…if you have taken elicit drugs. Why do you think there are so many ‘REDUCE SPEED’ signs in the area? They’re really just roadside Doofs with the highway audio lines as a soundtrack. They’re neon, flashing extravaganzas for a rave against the machine. What, you’ve never seen anyone make out with a bobcat before?

My personal favourite is the road works illusion. It’s like an oasis in the desert. You notice the ‘SLOW DOWN’ signs in the lead up, then the giant, orange lego blocks to the side of the road, then well, that’s it. There is no roadwork at all. ‘Ah, those crazy, practical joking roadside workers. Ha, I slowed down and merged for no reason. Whaddya know, joke’s on me.’

I know, who am I to complain? Welcome to the glorious hall of first world effwits. Yes, I could just walk.  In fact, I was actually held up by a road worker holding a ‘STOP’ sign whilst walking along a bike path under construction.‘Dude, I’m walking’. Incredibly odd. It did, however, give me the idea to use my own stop sign in everyday situations. For example, if someone complains to me about the weather, ‘STOP’. And after a period of sufficient silence from them I might hold up a ‘GIVE WAY’ sign.

Surprised is the way I feel after experiencing roadwork. I’m surprised that the roads need so much work. I’m surprised at the mysterious way in which the work occurs.

You see, when I drive past cows in a field, they just look like they’re standing there, doing nothing. And yet, somehow over time, the grass is eaten, and they move on to greener pastures. I drive too fast to observe all of this. So, picture the cows in fluorescent vests and hard hats, lining our bitumen roads. Yes, they appear to be standing there, doing nothing. But, a few months, even years later, they move on to graze more tar.

I like to pretend that the ‘End’ is a verb when viewing this sign

 END ROADWORK

Hair Me Out

Somewhere along the line, your hairdresser became your therapist, or should I say, hairapist. Incidentally, I am not referring to your hairdresser as a rapist of hair, but you know, we all have our own experiences. That may be true for you.

Why is it that we tell our hairapists everything? I used to feel sorry for hairdressers, having to cut and style hair whilst drowning in never-ending, self indulgent, petty client problems. But then I realized that’s what they want. Why else would they have salons filled with gossip magazines? That’s how they thrive. Don’t go to Confession, go to the hairdresser.

So, your hairapist has certain tools; sharp scissors, razors and hot appliances. Yes, these are all subtle weapons used to force you to speak. It’s a modern form of torture, enhanced by complimentary coffee or wine. Under such threatening conditioners you’ll blurt anything out. And you can’t exactly defend yourself from a comfy swivel chair, with your limbs concealed by a potentially flammable synthetic cape.

My fantastical hairdressing scenario:

Obviously, I am a superhero who has been captured for questioning. I attempt to escape and fly away with a swift flap of a hairdressing cape and my shimmering silver foil helmet. But alas, the torture chamber has been gassed with hair product, leaving me woozy and disoriented. I am led to another room and forced to lie back. Splash! Cold water surges endlessly onto my forehead. Then just as I come to, I am zapped by a brain frying heat gun. How can I save the world in this induced state? Snip, speak, snip, speak. All of my superhero secrets seem to fall out of my mouth uncontrollably. The torture session ends; a final blinding of the eyes with a hand held reflector from behind. I am stripped of my cape and my dignity.

Something like that.

And somehow I feel as though I have triumphed. In the words of Jack Donaghy, “After all, you hair is your head suit.”

Farce Food: A Case Study

Someone out there is doing numerous studies and surveys on ridiculous things we already know. There’s just nothing else to talk about, right? And so I have begun to study these studies.

“A recent study shows that soft drinks are not good for you”. How shocking. I mean all of my soft drink is fresh, straight from the cow’s udders. How could fizzy, preservative packed, sugary liquid be bad for me? Aren’t I 80% Pepsi, or was that water? I forget.

“A new study has found that egg yolks can have the same effect on your heart as smoking.” Do they say how many egg yolks I actually need to eat? A carton per day could have a double meaning. And I may find myself asking whether these cigarettes are cage free? And how are they going to stick offensive bodily images / health warnings to chickens?

I love this one, “Mixing dieting, binge drinking dangerous: Study‎”. Someone studied this? Who funded it? Meanwhile, I love the term coined for the so-called dieters and binge drinkers in this study, Drunkorexics. Too amazing.

I also like “Study: Maybe Texas needs a “fat tax”‎. There is no need to add anything.

And there is a selection of products that are constantly researched, debated and flung about over the invisible health fence. Chocolate, coffee and red wine. They’re good for us, they’re bad for us, he loves me, she loves me not. Each time a study reveals these are bad for you, another one will reveal they’re actually good for you. And most people have no idea it’s all to do with marketing and not empowering us with knowledge at all. Despite this, we already know what we should eat and how much of it. We do. But the truth is that we don’t care. We don’t care if it gives us cancer. We will still eat a gluttonous amount of chocolate, drink coffee to the point of levitation, smoke numerous packets of egg yolks and bathe in red bull like the drunorexics we are. Don’t you think someone should study that? I do, but there is no company that will benefit.

Washing the World Go By

Is there anything better than sitting in the sun on a winter’s day? It really takes me back to my reptilian days. If I were wearing a poncho I would be a frilled neck lizard. I always wondered why people wore ponchos, obviously to make themselves appear larger to potential prey. Surely, there is also a similar explanation as to why people wear animal print. I must be so intimidating in my leopard print blouse, although I accidentally wore it inside out yesterday. Yes, tag on the outside. Biologists must be researching me. Fascinating.

More often than not we must shed our skins, and put them in the front loader. Yes, the never-ending cycle that is the washing cycle. Even when I am in the process of washing my clothes I am already perpetuating more dirty washing simply by wearing more clothes. You can always delay. We do this. Your wardrobe becomes your floodrobe and before you know it your room is backdrop to an inconvenient material mountain. Mine is called, Mt Neverdressed. Eventually an avalanche occurs and you’re held hostage by ozone eating odours and strangling sleeve vines. The only way out is to wear the unclean undies inside-out.

Laundromats are like public toilets for your clothes. I am grateful to have my very own clothes toilet which doesn’t require ‘x’ amount of coins with difficult insertion mechanism. I’m sure I’ve started up a game of pool somewhere in the world whilst trying to start up a load of linens in a Laundromat once.

Although the washing machine is perhaps easier than beating soaked socks on an old rock, there is still a degree of preparation required. Of course, if I separated my whites from my colours I would be a racist washer. I have a dream…..for all clothes to be washed equally, no matter where they come from, their shape, size or material. One washing instruction for all! Who follows washing instruction symbols? They are like some indecipherable henchman’s code. What do they mean? Should I take them as personal instructions? Do not tumble dry. Perhaps I should cartwheel dry instead. I mean, I’d use a towel but then I’d have to wash it.

You gotta know when to fold ‘em. It’s not origami but how do you fold the fitted sheet? It’s a mystery, a riddle, the rubix cube of all laundry. But if a sheet is unfolded in the cupboard and nobody sees it, is it really an unfolded sheet in the cupboard?

Post Trammatic Stress

Wonder Woman boarded the 86 tram, a little rougher around the edges than I’d imagined. I suppose cartoons alter in real life form. She proceeded to inform everyone within earshot that she had 9 children. I wondered, where were they? Perhaps they were tied up in a golden lasso somewhere. Again, I wondered, why is Wonder Woman on the tram when she can fly? And then in an instant I realized that this Wonder Woman existed only to make me wonder. Surely there is some bogan sky camera capturing this.

And where was Wonder Woman during the traveling domestic between the loved up paint sniffers. Even if I used an expletive filter their omnipresent exchange still would not have made sense. I may also add that my ears weren’t the only things being bashed. Meanwhile, you could cut the commuter tension with a knife. Apprehension for dinner with a side of ignorance, anyone? Perhaps it was interactive entertainment, and only $4.00 a ticket. I wondered where the couple would end up. And did Bogan Wonder Woman make me wonder this? I was tempted to follow the abusive hurricane just to see. Of course, people are generally relieved when a hurricane passes. They disembarked. Ah, breathe. Inhalant, exhalant. Same tram, different destinations I guess.

Apparently I missed the vomiting business dude earlier in the day. He tried to cover up his liquid expulsion on the tram floor, yet did not consider leaving the tram. What a trooper. As disgusting as that seems I do identify with said businessman.

Picture this; Manchester, 2006. I send out an overdue thanks to my wonderful friend, Kate Reid, for introducing me to chocolate beer and it’s morning-after effect. There is no special type of transport alternative for hung over types. If there were, surely time travel would be the best option. I had no choice but to board a train from Manchester to London. Tesco shopping bags, you were the wind beneath my wings. Did you ever know that you’re my Tesco? You are the plastic beneath my spew. Bette Midler, get over here. My sister kept me replenished and shielded me from disgruntled humans within the carriage. After 4 hours of vomiting I broke through the care zone. I’d be embarrassed if I had the energy to be embarrassed. When you can’t keep water down on the enduro-vom 2000, your priorities lie elsewhere. In fact, you become rather selfish. Meanwhile, I did work my new look of vomit stained jeans.

Public transport is hardly public. Every now and then there are those who remind us of the ‘public’. Yes, the Wonder Womans, the obnoxious inebriated, groups of teenage girls channeling Chihuahuas, and the spluttering sick. Everyone else denies the ‘public’ with headphones, smartphones, rather not knows. So what is it if it is not public transport? Virtual transport? Where are we going with this?

Home Is Where The Art Is

Building and renovating, is it all just for something to do? I mean, is Bunnings really so fabulous that people spend entire weekends there, dreaming up endless DIY conundrums between sausage sizzles. So shelter is just not enough? We have to knock it down, rebuild, extend, extend, extend.

I used to be a builder. I specialized in cubby houses, such magnificent mattress forts. They were sanctuaries of endless linen. And what of the cubby industry boom? Nothing. I could have rented them out for a decent price, competitive too.

But of course, it is about the journey and not the destination. The best part about the cubby was actually the building process; setting the 80s furniture foundations, sourcing the materials; the pillow bricks, blanket walls and what not. But when it was complete I would sit in the cosy cocoon for a short while and soon become rather bored, with a hint of agitation. So what did I do, knock it down, rebuild and extend until the cubby engulfed the entire rumpus room.

After awhile, we young visionaries toyed with the idea of a fanciful tree house. We were 10, which meant we could do anything. It’s the double digits license. Unfortunately for me, my younger sister and next door neighbour concluded that I was insufficient at chopping wood so I was made to sit on each plank whilst they sawed away. It wasn’t a ‘nothing’ job. I was also assigned the task of doubling as a live radio, singing their requested songs. Wilson Phillips and Roxette featured highly. In the meantime our nonexistent architectural plan, and any planning at all whatsoever, eventually resulted in us digging a large hole next to the tree then randomly hammering bits of wood placed around the hole. Voila! Well, what was it? Um, a shallow grave with an appalling fence, fit for any king and queen. Perhaps the worst attempt at a tree house ever. Well, at least we didn’t go over budget, as they do on every other renovation show. And, as proven, we did not spend time at the ‘tree hole’, we moved on to the next project, which of course was designing golf courses for dogs. Our model golf courses were made from painted plant matter which became rather hideous smelling compost several days after. And then all of a sudden we were in trouble for red paint handprints on the alsatian from up the road. Meanwhile, who calls an alsatian, Sharna?

In any case, we are the ones who knock down what we have built. We choose this. I defer my attention to ants. They are always building, and rebuilding, even after we knock down their homes. They don’t have insurance. They don’t even stop for a minute to collect their thoughts. No swearing pincers, just continual dirt relocation. They don’t even sit to enjoy the view of gigantic grass blades encroaching.And spiders, with their beautifully woven homes we continue to accidentally walk through and destroy. And we curse the inconvenience of slightly sticky silk strands in our faces. Well, you are not the refugee, are you? You did that. Then again, if I could weave a delicate shimmering house out of my own spit I may not be so worried about starting again. Let me know, though, if you ever see a daddy long legs at Bunnings.

The Biggest Boozer

We’re all such distinguished eaters, so particular about our food consumption. Every second television show is dedicated to food preparation. These days, if you’re not a chef, you’re a food critic. It’s all about fusions of flavours, complimentary textures, and colour co-ordinated plate presentation. It’s hand picked, calorie counted, garnished gourmet goodness. We’ll settle for nothing less, unless……..well, unless we’re wasted. And so begins the quest to add more waste to the waist.
Yes, booze extinguishes everyone’s conditioned inner food critic. You don’t see inebriated humans tossing up between the sesame tofu with grilled broccolini salad, and the seared scallops in white wine sauce. No, instead it is a rather primitive scene, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth in order to secure lard rations. Grease is the word. It’s the drunken version of ‘Hunger Games’, a brutal hunt for kebab, pizza or burger in the wilderness. These are the effective stomach tampons so sort after. The requirement is that the fodder must turn a white paper plate see-through. Only then is it sufficient for gross inhalation. Unidentifiable meat, cheese from a rubber factory, and sauce leakage are also elementary. Where are the Masterchef judges now, then? Perhaps off analyzing vomit samples down Brunswick St. It’s really just another form of street art; the drunk spew mosaic.

Now you can hardly blame one for choosing such food. It is a case of being blinded by the light. How are you expected to see anything in fluorescent kebabsville? Meanwhile, the ‘person’ you picked-up in the murky depths of the last bar you stumbled out of probably doesn’t look as fab fresh as you first perceived. Make a mental note that you don’t either in the glowing radiation spilling from the nuclear fryer. I’m convinced that’s what the harsh glare is from. I need eye patches already. Um, I can’t see. I’ll just have what she’s having. Egads! Orgasmic sounds mistaken for vomit heaves. How are pineapple fritters a thing?

Good Morning Person

Picture this: Paddington, 1985, in a time before the babycino. At 5, I had my first sip, intrigued to see what this coffee business was all about. It was such a curious age, about the same time my younger sister had a go at shaving her face. My coffee curiosity was met with the most unpleasant flavoured swill I had ever encountered. It was no match for infants’ cough syrup. What a hideous concoction. I suppose coffee making has evolved somewhat in this part of the world since 1985. I’m sure that what I tried back then was instant boiling bitterness, possibly International Gross. I think their original blend was derived from truckers’ stubble rather than coffee beans.

You end up drinking it regularly at some stage, if not for the caffeine kick, just because everybody else does. We’re all part of the mass coffee cult. It’s what people do.
But of course, as soon as you stop drinking coffee your attention is drawn to people drinking coffee. I am currently on an extended coffee break, but I still notice that coffee makes the world go round. In the AM, the corporate army marches to work, armed with their caffeinated cardboard thimbles. Anyone on the street without express espresso in hand is surely sleepwalking. So it’s zombie nation until the ritual routine of the coffee bean hunt. But that is the problem, really, the hunt. There are just so many options. First of all, where to get the coffee?

There are so many coffee shops now that you have probably opened one at some stage yourself without even knowing it. They’re the contagious infections of the city. And then there are also strands of these infections; they are called franchises. We know them. If you have to order a coffee from one of these chains order like this, ‘Could I get a cup of coffee to go………in the bin?’ Because after one sip from your cardboard cylinder you will have swallowed what appears to be volcanic lava. Tastes like burning! If only tongues could wear band-aids. Well, your taste buds may return within the week. Fortunately, you cannot taste how terrible the coffee actually is. That’s how they get you. You see, it is not coffee after all, but most likely boiled water from the Gold Rush period, or perhaps even leftover Brisbane floodwater. The main ingredient lacking is obviously love, but you won’t find that in any foodcourt coffee shop. Ah, foodcourts; more commonly known (by me) as human cattle stations. Yes.

‘Let’s get a coffee’, is an expression with many meanings, and can occur without the presence of coffee. It often means, ‘Let’s sit on uncomfortable mismatched furniture in a tiny space, and brainstorm our first world problems’. Cafes; modern dungeons decorated with chairs and tables that possibly came from your grade 2 classroom. You’re surrounded by astroturf and the colour, brown. Very Hip. The barista is all about dark frames and 70s facial hair. He won’t look at you twice unless you’re wearing something from the ‘worst of’ rack at Lifeline. Whatevs, I used to play lego when they had it in banks, long before you paid a ridiculous amount to wear it as a badge. Dollarmites, dude! PS, I’m taking my coffee back if there is no love in it, hipster barista. And I want my free wifi poached with hollandaise.

Who doesn’t want to refuel whilst refueling? The fabulous thing about petrol stations is that they pretend to have a “part café” area next to the till. But seriously, we’re not there for the coffee bean aroma when you can inhale the sweet fumes of unleaded. Mmm, 2 stroke. Petrol stations market their coffee by using terms such as ‘fresh’ and ‘quality’, because we wouldn’t believe them unless they said so on a sign. Yes, and you might want to accompany your quality, fresh coffee with a quality fresh donut or sausage roll which has been in the food display cabinet since 1989. Anything can be labeled ‘fresh’ if you compare it to a fossil. I have actually thought of conducting an archeological dig in one of those food display cabinets. Oh, the relics we’d find. Antiques Roadshow, here we come!

I have decided to start a business that competes with the ever-present coffee shop. When people think they need a coffee, what they really need is to go back to sleep. They don’t need to wake up, they need to wake down. So I’m going to sell sleep. Initially I was going to open a chain of rooms with beds in them, but that sounded like a brothel. Take 2. Vending beds, street vending machines that open out into beds. Well, it’s a work in progress. At least I have a slogan, ‘Don’t let the Starbucks bite’. No.

Ex Your Size

Everybody’s doing it. Nobody looks particularly happy doing it, but they do it nonetheless. At dawn and dusk the parks fill with military lycra uniforms, two wheeled aliens and over excited hounds. It’s like being on the set of ‘Return to Oz’. WTF, Dorothy? Weirdest sequel ever. That film was incredibly terrifying at the age of 6, and I can draw similarities to how I feel about the traffic at exercise o’clock.

It really is a freak show, and a diverse one at that. Incidentally, I will point out here that I am one of the freaks. If David Attenborough were narrating I would be the giraffe gliding across the plains. Thank goodness for comfortable hooves, I do cover a lot of ground. And then there are the cheetahs; streamlined spandex sprinting after non-existent prey. It’s ok though, they have prime rib in the fridge at home. A herd of gazelles takes up the path. They trot along behind deluxe prams. I’m not sure what they keep in those prams. I’m guessing prawn heads. They have to keep them covered from the sun. Heavy steps pound the pavement behind me. The thudding becomes louder as I am approached from behind. An elephant appears in my peripheral view. It displays the actions which resemble running, but it only seems to progress at a swift walking pace. It’s like they’re jogging on the spot but a rear breeze gives them momentum. Don’t give up, dude! A rhinoceros resembling personal trainer taunts a tiring warthog. It runs endlessly around coloured domes for no reason except than to obey the harsh motivating tone of the rhino. I can’t believe the warthog pays for that.

I glide; it’s more of a bouncing glide than a graceful one. It’s a groove. I do not run unless I am in danger. Giraffes do not have many predators but they are at their most vulnerable when drinking. Remember that next time you see me at the pub.
You’re never gonna look cool exercising, no matter what you do. Models don’t jog down the catwalk now, do they? The attire associated with exercising is endlessly ridiculous and fascinating. Unsuspecting bulges poking out of elastic material, like snakeskin after ingesting a possum. Middle aged men in bike pants, you know where it’s at.
Cyclists’ costumes are by far the most intriguing. Alien street invaders, they go to battle with heads of armor, dark fly eyes and flashing lights. That they could even be bothered to get dressed up and put on the lycra suit must be a work out in itself. Do they realize that they are traveling billboards with these suits on? It’s none of my business to notice the business.
And there are so many labels. Is everyone sponsored by Lorna effing Jane? I wear clothes that resemble my grandfather’s summer pajamas. I am not Lorna Jane. I am a perspiration station with waterhole predators. Best glide home in a hurry.

My best friend recently lost over 40kgs. I’m not sure where. It may be in the lost property at the local gym. I have never been to a gym, they seem quite unnatural to me. I often imagine how the first homo sapiens may have responded to a gym. I mean, would you get on the treadmill after chasing a woolly mammoth all day? And how would they react to weight loss agencies. Would you feel like a Tony Ferguson slim shake a day if you’d only had nuts and berries for the last month? Well, who put the ‘die’ into ‘diet’?
So, I have not lost over 40kgs like my best friend, that is a tremendous body evolution. I originally started walking for mental health reasons, but I have noticed physical differences. I have developed a gigantic right quad muscle without the use of steroids. It seems to have popped up by itself. Although it provides a spectacular contour on my thigh, it is starting to get out of control and I fear that it may take over the universe with special powers. I’m not sure yet, it could also be a dead twin. In fact, I made need to exorcise the result of my exercise.

On Hold

I recently acquired a smartphone, or should I say that it acquired me since it is so smart. I don’t remember ever purchasing a “dumb” phone beforehand though. But if this current breed of phone is smart, what will the next one be? Talented? Gifted? Ingenious? Then what will that make humans? Dumb and dumber?

Have we really come a long way since talking into tin cans joined by fishing line, smoke signals, or pigeon telegrams? Can’t I just dial my shoe or use a phonebooth as a change room? Do we even need to talk in person anymore or is it cheaper to text? How can I have a normal conversation without anticipating the safety of an oncoming tunnel to cut me off from potential awkwardness? Am I being charged to stream my life as it is happening in real time?

OK, enough questions. I’m starting to hear Carrie Bradshaw’s voice in my head. Meanwhile, I am due for several cosmopolitans. Perhaps I can take my smartphone out on a date. That seems to be the thing people do, you know. I’ve seen them out on romantic dates, deeply engrossed in their smartphones. I’m not sure that Siri is my type. “GIRAFFE! Why don’t you understand what I am saying! GIRAFFE!”

Perhaps individuals are waiting for friends though, pretending to text no one, refreshing their un-newsworthy newsfeeds, tweeting about miniscule utterances and uploading pictures of monotonous coffee froth swirls. I mean, you wouldn’t want to sit alone and acknowledge your surroundings at all. Isn’t there an ‘awareness’ app anyway? Surely by now you can just watch yourself on youtube as your life is happening.

And when people are finally in company the smartphone relationship is not put on hold. The technologically induced autism has somehow become socially acceptable. I have more rewarding conversations with an inflatable pineapple than a smartphone obsessed human. Ah, I heart the inflatable pineapple. BFFs.

A smartphone can connect you to anything, except for you. But you can always use the GPS to find yourself.