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?