Thursday, March 31, 2011

Leavin' on a jet plane

I’m getting on a plane tomorrow night. Here’s why I’m freaking out:

Leaving the country is a big deal for Australians because the rest of the world is really freakin far away. People in Europe can go to Paris for the weekend. It would take an Aussie most of the weekend just to get to Paris. Because of the travel time, it’s not worth going anywhere just for a short trip, which is why I’ll be on the other side of the world for the next five weeks. It’ll be my third time out of the country, and since Melbourne is my heart and my soul and my favourite place on the face of the earth, I don’t know if I can be away from it for that long.

To make leaving Melbourne just that little bit harder, to do something awesome, I’ve got to give up something awesome. It’s Melbourne International Comedy Festival time and I’m leaving Melbourne. Woe is me.

To summarise my relationship with the comedy festival, it’s better than Christmas. It’s like some kind of Super Christmas. Over the years, I’ve laughed so hard that I pulled a muscle. I’ve met some awesome people. I’ve been pulled up on stage. I’ve seen a well known comedian strip in a public space in the middle of the afternoon. I’ve thrown up in a pub toilet at 8:30 in the morning. Clearly, it’s the highlight of the year.

Because I was so shattered about missing the comedy festival, I’ve tried to cram in as many LOLs as I can before Friday. I went to the Gala. I went to the opening night show. Tonight is the only night I can go to regular shows, so I’m seeing two. ‘But Lauren,’ you ask, ‘with working all week and going out at night, how have a found time to pack?’ I haven’t. I have, however, managed to find plenty of time to panic.

The panic isn’t just because of my lack of packing skills. Oh no, sir. I’ve been burned my international travel before, and what I learned last time was that you should never go to the other side of the world on your own and that airlines live to make your life miserable. I was so desperate to get home by the end of my last trip that while I was waiting for the plane to take off from Heathrow, I cried during a QANTAS ad. For the non-Australian people who haven't been exposed to the humble QANTAS ad, just know that they're shite. They send a bunch of children’s choirs out to well known locations around the world and get them to sing ‘I still call Australia home.’ It’s balls. But that day, it was the most sentimental and beautiful thing I'd ever seen and now I have to live the rest of my life being the person who cried over a QANTAS ad.

But no, I’m sure the trip will be awesome. Right? RIGHT?

Thursday, March 24, 2011

The modern man’s guide to understanding modern women

Lesson 1: Body Language

You know who doesn’t find you charming when you’re drunk?: The sober girl.
You know who does?: The equally (or even more so) drunk girl.
There is a clear and simple way to differentiate between the two.
Exhibit A: The sober girl.
Note the well put together appearance combined with a look of ‘I would quite like you to go away now, please.’ Now compare this to Exhibit B.
As you can see, our drunk friend has already managed to throw up on herself and lose her shoes. She also appears to be quite thirsty. Before judging her, always remember that you are in a similar state and would be asking far too much to aim any higher.

Female anger comes in three escalating forms.
Stage 1: The ‘I’m a little teapot.’
Attributes: One hand on hip, other hand hanging by side, unimpressed look conveyed through eyebrows.
Meaning: ‘I am somewhat displeased with your behaviour.’

Stage 2: The ‘Sugar bowl.’
Attributes: Both hands on hips, furrowed brow.
Meaning: 'I am extremely displeased with your behaviour.’

Stage 3: The ‘You’d better run, biatch.’
Attributes: Snarling mouth, cartoonish pointy monobrow, hands tightly gripped around some kind of weapon or blunt object.
Meaning: ‘You’ve left me no choice but to fetch my shotgun.’

Just look out for something similar to this:

Friday, March 18, 2011


I never used to have any interest in reading autobiographies. The concept of them bored me. Everyone loves talking about themselves, and it’s got to be hard to put something like that together without being really ridiculously self indulgent. But then again, I write self indulgent balls on this page every week and according to my blog stats, there are people who want to look at it. Including ONE person from Guatemala. Which makes me think there may be very little going on in Guatemala. HELLO GUATEMALAN PERSON! I don’t know who you are, but I appreciate that you’re here. Really. Do you like puppies? I do.

The first autobiography I read all the way through was Steve Martin’s Born Standing Up, more because of an interest in comedy than an interest in Steve Martin. Also, it’s pretty short. But if you ever come across a copy of this book, flick through it until you find the black and white picture of him back in the day with a banjo and a beard. Then write back if you can figure out why it made me think sexy thoughts.
It was probably the banjo.

I don’t think I’d be capable of writing an entertaining autobiography. Even if I did a whole lot of amazing stuff from this point on, my childhood years would still be all about how I had lots of toys to play with and how much my parents loved me. Then there’d be page after page of me sitting on the couch watching telly and eating biscuits. This would be followed by my teen years, where I spent a lot of time sitting on the couch watching telly and eating biscuits. Then we’d get to the present, where I’m sitting in front of the computer watching Youtube and eating biscuits. Ah, how the times have changed.
I’d have at least one sale though. In Guatemala. Unless I scared off the Guatemalan person. Maybe they don’t like puppies.

I’ve been reading Bill Oddie’s autobiography on the train for the last few days (or as I like to call him ‘Bloddie,’ because it removes unnecessary syllables), and he’s written a lot of it in the style of an interview where he plays both parts. I thought it would start to annoy me as it went on, but it didn’t. I think you have to have a certain skill to pull that off. I don’t reckon I could get a whole book out of interviewing myself.

Hi, Lauren. What’s going on?
Not much.
Oh. Ok. Bye.

Bill Oddie? More like SKILL Oddie.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Happy blog-a-versary!

Today we celebrate a year of my ramblings. To anyone who’s been reading for a year, I appreciate it. I’m not sure why you’re still here, but I appreciate it.

To all the people who found the page while searching for Justin Bieber’s autobiography, I’m sorry I disappointed you. Same goes to the person who came here after searching for ‘women getting their asses pumped by soapy water.’ I realise now that Lauren learns the hard way does kind of sound like the name of a porn site. You live, you learn.

Anyway, to celebrate our year together I thought it would be nice to take a look back at some of the important things we’ve learned:

Drinking excessive amounts of water + not peeing = productivity
Mr Potato Head is the greatest toy that ever existed. Ever
You never forget the first time a lion pees on you
God doesn’t answer the phone
I don’t answer the phone
Bert and Ernie aren’t gay and may or may not live in Narnia
Michael Jackson ruined my birthday
Superman kicks Batman’s ass
Justin Bieber is handy with a set of crayons. Also, Bieber is spelled with an ie not an ei, but my spelling isn’t the issue here
How you too can be as happy as Larry
I’m terribly lonely
The Giving Tree is a victim of domestic violence
If you piss off a lolcat, it will come to your house and cut you
Stealing other people’s successful ideas is the best way to make some cash
I want more attention
The word ‘ejaculate’ is a completely acceptable substitute for the word ‘cry’
Mr Potato Head is still the greatest toy that ever existed

Friday, March 4, 2011

An open letter to my toaster

Dear Toaster,
Generally, you’ve treated me quite well over the years. Generally. The main exception being the time you decided that instead of letting the toast casually pop up like normal, you’d shoot it up into the air and across the bench, where it slid for a while before falling off the edge and on to the floor. Then I had to make more toast. I’m a busy woman, Toaster. I don’t have time for such shenanigans.

As a child I was not properly educated about you, besides constantly being told not to stick a knife in you. Which is fair enough. I wouldn’t want anyone sticking a knife in me, either.

You’ve shown your vindictiveness by not warning me when I’ve forgotten to turn your toasty-ness setting back up to 4 after I put it down to 1 to do some pop tarts. Then the bread comes out and it’s not toast. It’s just slightly warm bread. And I still don’t have time for these shenanigans. Then there’s the occasional completely spontaneous burn, which I’m pretty sure you do just to torment me since I found out that being able to smell burnt toast is one of the symptoms of a stroke.

It’s not all bad though, you did do me the service of burning my mum’s toast so badly one morning that it set off the smoke detector. Thanks to you I now know that if the house is on fire and that baby goes off, I’m going to soundly sleep my way into a smokey grave.

But, dear toaster, I have noticed a major design flaw. I call it ‘the soft edge’ and it makes me sick. I realise you can’t toast the top edge of the bread, what with how it’s sticking out the top and all, but it’s something that’s always bothered me.

To avoid this, I’ve recently been toasting my bread under the griller. The issue here is that I have the attention span of a 2 year old and tend to wander off, only to return when my house starts to fill with smoke.

Anyway, I appreciate that you try, and you still beat a stick and an open flame.

Sincerely, Your hungry friend Lauren

PS: Wikipedia says that the ‘lever on the side of the toaster is depressed’. You might want to look into that.