One day in September (or October, this year)

Before I start ranting about that which I wish to rant about, for the sake of the non-Australian people who read this blog, here is a quick summary of Australian Rules Football:

So there’s a ball, right?

And a bunch of muscle-y men who look amazing in little shorty shorts.
And a big, grassy oval.There are four posts at each end of that oval. If you kick the ball between the two big posts, you get six points. If you kick it between a big one and a little one, you get one point. If you miss the posts completely, you can’t kick for shite and you should go home immediately.

It is socially acceptable to support any of the following teams:
Essendon
Whoever is playing Collingwood.

And this last point brings me to my rant. Today was not the best day to be in Melbourne. The Grand Final parade was on, and the world’s most liveable city (for reals, we won that) was filled with a rare subspecies of human. I was at work and one of my customers mentioned there were a lot of people in the city today, to which I almost replied, ‘They’re not people, they’re Collingwood supporters.' Yeah. That's right. I’m racist against Collingwood supporters.

In my mind, this is who they are:
Then I look around and see that in reality, that is indeed 100% who they are. Is it ok to make generalisations about people if your generalisations are correct? Am I a bad person? Is it ok to be a football team racist?

I’d feel bad about the chance of a Collingwood supporter reading this, but we all know they can’t read.

FAQ part deux

Hi, Lauren.
That’s not a question, but hi.

What was the highlight of your week?
THE NEW SEASON OF GLEE!!! And I got a haircut.

What are you afraid of?
Everything.

Can you be more specific?
Pretty much everything.

Such as?
Space. The concept of the universe and galaxies and the nothingness. Can it really be endless? How does the earth stay floating there like that? If it fell, would it fall forever? Did you know the moon is constantly moving closer to the earth? Did you know that our galaxy is on a collision course with another galaxy and they’ll eventually collide and everything will go kaboom? I mean yeah, it’s not going to happen for millions or billions of years or something like that, but it’s still terrifying.

Stuff like this is why I’m not allowed to watch documentaries anymore.

I like your shitty drawings. Can you draw a dragon for me?
Apparently not.

What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve done this week?
I downloaded a Lady Gaga song then danced alone to it in my bedroom. Please don’t tell anyone. I also stabbed myself with my keys again, but at least it wasn’t in the neck this time. There was a lot of blood, though.

What do you think about the new changes to Facebook?
They blow. Everyone reckons they’re going to use Google+ now, but let’s face it, we’re not going anywhere. Zuckerberg knows we’re his bitches.

Did you watch the season premiere of Two & a Half Men?
Yes. I believe the show will survive if Ashton Kutcher keeps walking around naked. Or half naked. Either half.

Are you just doing this Q&A thing because you couldn’t think of anything better to write this week?
What? No. Of course not. Shut up. Who are you?

Ode to cake

Wikipedia says you’re a form of bread,
but you are far more delicious, it has to be said.
You are, by far, my most favourite baked good.
If I could marry you and have your cake babies, I most definitely would.

A wooden spoon, a bowl and an egg beater;
These things belong to every cake eater.
Flour, sugar, butter and eggs,
it all goes straight to my jiggly legs.

As your ingredients are mixed into a batter,
I think of how this will only make me fatter.
Fill up the cake tin and put it in the oven.
I’d rather eat you than have me some lovin’.

You’re better when you’re chocolate, but then again, what isn’t?
I check the oven again to see if you’ve risen.
I know some people don’t like you when you’re rich,
but don’t worry, dear cake. These friends I shall ditch.

To try and quell my growing impatience,
I head off in search of decorations.
I think of my second birthday as I walk around the house,
of that magical year when Mum made you look like Minnie Mouse.
First someone puts candles in you and ruins your icing,
then they stick a knife in and begin their dicing.
I eat you and you taste magical, my dear cake.
It’s totally worth the belly ache.

Mmm. Cake.

I would like a bite of that donut

Work has been quite interesting since last Friday. Sometimes when you’re mentally and physically exhausted, your mind starts to wander. You start to find things funny that wouldn’t otherwise be funny. And most important of all, you start to have conversations that you probably shouldn’t have with your manager, eg. whether or not my month of single-ness is directly related to the fact that my wrist injury has finally started to heal (This is purely coincidence. I promise).

After that thrilling discussion, the topic of conversation moved into a dangerous area. The area of ‘which regular customers do you find attractive?’ Many workplaces have a codeword that you use to inform other staff members that there is a particularly attractive individual that they need to come and look at right effing now. Ours is ‘donut.’ But we would only ever point out random customers, not our dear beloved faithfuls.

It was surprising how quickly and easily I slipped back into the single woman mindset where you walk into a room and instantly rank every male in order of… well… yeah.* Point is, I’d been making a conscious effort to flirt with these ‘donuts’, but since baristas are flirty in general (flirting is how you get tips, and we spend our tips on bacon. I will gladly flirt for bacon), I don’t think they’ve noticed.

So our workplace discussion led to this revelation: We’ve been flirting with the same three donuts.

This was unacceptable. This was war. This needed to be settled, and since we’re both mature adults we decided that the only logical solution was a fight to the death (it was either that or rock/paper/scissors, but that’s for the weak). We prepared for our battle by engaging in threatening Facebook taunts:

Then when Monday morning came around, by some spectacular coincidence, we both appeared to have left our weapons on the train.

Things we know about the donuts at the root of our conflict:
They drink coffee
They are very attractive
…do… do I need a third? Surely this is enough.


*Appreciating the scenery doesn’t make you a sex fiend. It’s not until you start touching the scenery against its will that you become a sex fiend.