Tuesday, November 26, 2013

To the left, to the left

Every day after work I try to go for a walk. I do this because I have what you might call ‘god awful’ eating habits and it makes me feel better (maybe not ‘better’ but definitely ‘less bad’) about all the sugar and meat that makes its way into my mouth. I’ll wait a minute while you make your own joke about meat making its way into my mouth.


…now? Yes? Sweet.

How I like to think I look when I’m walking:

How I actually look:
Fun fact: I tend to sweat more from the right armpit. Refer to drawing.

Today as I was making my way down a busy city street I found myself becoming more and more frustrated that every time someone was walking towards me in the opposite direction, I was always the person who moved out of the way. Not once did I do the awkward dance of politeness where you go to move out of their way just as they go to move out of yours, but you keep moving in the same direction and it’s amusing and uncomfortable and you try to break the tension by making out with and/or groping them but then they just call for help and it becomes even more awkward.

My frustration boiled over, however, when I found myself about to collide with this individual:
Please note: Tail and devil horns may or MAY NOT have been present at the time. You weren’t there. Don’t tell me what I saw.

What I thought, now having been forced off the footpath and on to the road:

What I actually did: Kept walking while looking mildly annoyed.

All I’m saying is, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? WHO SAYS THAT TO A STRANGER ON THE STREET? WHO THINKS THEY’RE SO IMPORTANT THEY CAN DIRECT FOOT TRAFFIC? I know you think you’re sOOper busy, Miss (I’ll go ahead and assume you’re single) Business-Lady with your fancy clothes and your big hair, but other people have places to be, too. Maybe that girl you gave attitude to on the street today had been up since 4am and was very unfit and not coping with the heat and had a river of sweat running between her boobs and just wanted to get to the train station so she could go home and have a chicken sammich.

Then I got home and had a chicken sammich.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Same Same

Similarities between a handbag and a vagina
The owner is usually very protective of it.
You don’t want some random dude grabbing it on the street.
It can seem like a vast, cavernous wasteland.
Guys want to put their stuff in there.
It’s always nice to match it to your shoes.
Some have a weird smell.
Middle aged women tend to have one that’s old and worn out.
It’s always surprising how much will fit in there.
Best not to leave it open and unattended.
You should always keep a close eye on it on public transport.
Paris Hilton keeps a small dog in hers.
Despite poking around in there for ages, men can never find what they’re looking for.
It’s poor form to touch someone else’s without their permission.
Men generally don’t have one. Generally.
Mine is black with a leathery appearance and a series of metal studs on it.

Similarities between a car and a penis
Size doesn’t matter, just as long as it gets you where you want to go.
It will occasionally smash into things.
The journey it takes you on can be long or short.
I don’t want to listen to someone go on and on and on about theirs.
The owner often thinks it’s a good idea to go really fast. It’s not.
There’s no point in trading in for a newer model if the old one still works.
It’s nice to give it a name.
The ride won't always be enjoyable.
For a touch of class, you can add a set of fuzzy dice.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Like... get a fish

This past weekend, my mum questioned me as to why I don’t blog very often these days.
‘I haven’t got any ideas,’ I told her.
Her response was ‘Hmm… you’re too content at the moment.’
This struck me as strange for two reasons:
1) My mother should be happy about the thought of me being content
2) I’m really not content at all.
So, for mama, I present:


I predicted a Princess Charlotte. You’ve made me look like a fool, Prince X. Though we’ve only had a brief glimpse of the baby, it seems he has sadly inherited his father’s premature baldness. He also appears to be about 90% blanket.

The suggestions are all too classy. If the royals want to keep Australia as part of the Commonwealth and one day have the little bugger’s face on our money, I suggest Prince Bazza. Or his Royal Highness Prince Dave-o. Or simply Prince Maaaaaaaate.

Ignorance is bliss.

You always let me know when I have holes in my shoes.

I was in a shop earlier this year when I saw a child, about six or seven years old, pick up a Furby. He turned the box over in his hands a few times with a look of confusion on his face. ‘These things are sad,’ he said to his mother. ‘They’re supposed to be a pet or something. Why would a kid want this? Like… get a fish.’ YOU get a fish, small boy. I’m not gonna take that from someone who wasn’t even born when Furbys were invented. You have to feed a fish. You have to clean its bowl. You can’t take the batteries out of it when it won’t shut up. But on the flip side, you can’t flush a Furby down the toilet. Don’t ask how I know.

How dare you. I’m hilarious.

Doesn’t require much more of an explanation.

Coworker: ‘That bin smells.’
Me: ‘Your FACE smells.’
Friend: ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
Me: ‘Your FACE doesn’t make any sense.’
Customer: ‘My coffee isn’t hot enough.’
Me: ‘Your FACE isn’t hot enough.’
And so on.

I looked so good in you, and loved you dearly. Right up until I saw that small hole in the seam of the crotch. The small hole that by the end of the day was a big hole. It is not ok to do this to me when I’m at work.

I had my birthday drinks on a Sunday afternoon this year, thinking it would be nice to have a few quiet ones with friends. They weren’t quiet. And there weren’t just a few. And I couldn’t go to work that Monday because of the vomiting. And my co-workers gladly told people about that. And now, every Monday morning, I get grilled by multiple customers about how many drinks I had over weekend.

I only just figured out that Adventure Time is set in post apocalyptic Earth. This makes me sad. Not because of the apocalypse, but because it took me this long to figure it out.

Everyone seems to be talking about bacon and penis.

Friday, May 24, 2013

All by myself (again)

Last year I spent some time living on my own (which you can reminisce about here). On Wednesday I started a four week stint of solo living with the best intentions, and it’s already gone downhill. Though this time, I did have the good sense to get someone to remove the hair monster from the shower drain BEFORE I almost drowned. And before it gained a life of its own and rose up from the drain to destroy us all.
hair monster

I planned to eat healthy(ish) and properly cook dinner each night.
ice cream

People with obsessive compulsive tendencies should never be left with the task of ironing.

And I tend to leave the washing lying around for too long.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

How to: Find and apply for a job

Make sure you’re looking in the right places for jobs that suit your skills and interests.

When applying for a job, write your cover letter in blood to prove how serious you are.

If you lack the necessary qualifications, try to talk up your chutzpah and willingness to learn.

Modern day employers will do some research on you before making contact, so ensure you have a professional, dignified Facebook photo that paints you as a trustworthy and reliable person.

…and make sure your personal information is set to private.

Now just sit back and wait for them to call!

Friday, March 29, 2013

The Lonely Planet guide to why you shouldn’t trust the Lonely Planet guide

Save your money, ladies and gentlemen. Them there Lonely Planet books don’t know nothin’ ‘bout anything. So I have taken it upon myself to deliver some truth balls and offer up a more accurate representation of New York, COMPLETELY FREE OF CHARGE!


American Museum of Natural History
Falsely represented in Night at the Museum. The T-rex isn’t at the entrance, there’s no Robin Williams on a horse and at no point did I see a capuchin monkey or a tiny roman fighting a tiny cowboy. Though, admittedly, I didn’t go into every room.

The weird tea café place near Central Park that I can’t remember the name of
I was thirsty and cold. I wanted a hot chocolate. I ordered a choc mint. It had tea in it. All their drinks had tea in them. Whose idea was this? And why isn’t it more clearly advertised before you order that your otherwise delicious beverage IS GOING TO HAVE TEA IN IT????????

Museum of Modern Art
Spent almost an hour in the queue to check my coat. In hindsight, it would’ve been a lot faster and easier to just carry it, but once you commit to a giant line DAMMIT you stick to it.

Initially I was concerned that all the ‘art’ here was going to look like I could’ve done it myself. I was a lazy art student once, I know how it’s done. Abstract is what you do when your abilities are less on the side of actual artistic talent, and more on the side of bullshitting with conviction . I once painted a wooden box in bright colours, drew some eyes and mouths on it, cut out some pictures of noses from magazines and stuck them on, then made a couple of ceramic ears and attached them with glue. I said it was a representation of how society is obsessed with image. A+, baby.

Disappointment gave way to pure wonderment when I found level 5, because yes, I’m one of those girls who swoons over Van Gough. They also had The Scream on loan from wherever it is that The Scream usually lives. Turns out it looks like it’s done in crayon.

The food court in Grand Central Station
I bought a slice of rather tasty pizza from a rather tasty man. Scruffy, flirty skater type with more charm than a person should be allowed to have. The other guy who worked there came over to take my order, pointed at the good looking dude and said ‘Oh, sorry, is he taking care of you?’ and all I could think was ‘…not as much as he could be.’ He was attractive and had pizza. A lot of pizza. And I’m only human. Time to put a new meaning to the term customer service, methinks.

Still to come… Food, shopping, why I cried on the Brooklyn Bridge and how I made the Empire State Building my girlfriend.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

New Years Eve

December 31 2012. New York City. Roughly 9:30am. Was totally outside the window of the Today Show for a few seconds. I’ve now been on American telly. Who wants to touch me?

The reason I was hanging around the NBC building was because I was on my way to a 10am tour of their studios, mainly just to see if 30 Rock looks like how it does on 30 Rock. And yes, yes it does.

Two NBC Pages take you on the tour. One was José, a cute nerdy guy with dark hair and glasses and who I instantly decided I wanted to run away with, and in a demonstration of just how shallow I am, I honest to god don’t have the slightest idea what the other guy’s name was. He had curly hair. We shall call him Curly.

José and Curly took us through a few different studios, talking about the glory days and what filth they’re used for now (I’m paraphrasing. No offence, Dr Oz). It was interesting, but I didn’t get excited until we got to the studio they’ve used for the last 38 years to film Saturday Night Live. José pointed out the stage they use for the ‘more intricate’ sets, for example, ‘that’s where they filmed the Wayne’s World sketches.’ Good thing the seats in that studio are yellow, because a little bit of wee came out. Then he told us that there’s a lottery to get tickets to a SNL recording, and that for a CHANCE at getting standby tickets you have to sleep on the street for two nights prior, ‘so next time you’re in New York we can all do that together.’ So… I went to New York and an attractive man who works in television invited me to sleep with him. That’s how I’m telling it from now on.

After the tour my plan was to get back on the sightseeing bus and head to the American Museum of Natural History (I only wanted to go because it’s the one in the first Night at the Museum and I really like movies with monkeys in them. Also considered going to the Guggenheim just so I had an excuse to say Guggenheim. Goo-gen-highmmm). But, alas, it was New Years Eve in New York and all the roads were about to be closed off. There were only going to be two more buses and that’s not enough time to do some museum laps. It was my last chance to use the bus, so I decided to freeze my ass off one last time and do the entire two hour tour. And I’m glad I did, because for the second time that day, I fell in love.

Her name was Denise. She was an enthusiastic tour guide from Harlem with dreadlocks down to her hiney and a passion for starting open-top bus sing-a-longs. Even when you’ve lost all feeling in your face, you can still muster the energy to belt out New York, New York.

Anyway, when I got off the bus you couldn’t get anywhere near Times Square, so I went to a park and bought some donuts. They were amazing. One was coffee flavoured, and I couldn’t get over how weird it was that the Americans can make a donut taste like coffee, but can’t make a cup of coffee taste like coffee.

Then I went back to my hotel, put my pjs on, turned the heat waaaay up and watched the ball drop on TV.

Happy New Year.

Friday, February 8, 2013

New York, New York – The first few days

It wouldn’t be my life if a few little things didn’t go horribly, horribly wrong in ways that seem to amuse people who aren’t me. So welcome back to my travel diary, and the days leading up to New Years Eve.

The Statue of Liberty cruise
I wasn’t about to waste my first day in New York, so I started the day off by heading to Battery Park where you catch the Staue of Liberty river cruise. Couldn’t go to the Statue though, they were still having some minor issues with the pier in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy.
It started snowing while I was on the boat. To a girl from Melbourne who has only ever seen snow once before in her whole life and couldn’t get over the fact that ICE WAS FALLING FROM THE SKYYYY, this was a magical and beautiful thing. Until I got off the boat. Then it was just balls. See, snow hits you in its pretty little icy pieces, then slowly melts to saturate you. It’s like delayed rain. And speaking of delayed rain, it then started to rain.

The open top bus tour
When booking one of those open top bus sightseeing tours, I recommend looking into the following area before you book your tickets: that the bus isn’t open top ONLY. Because mine bloody well was. It was 31 degrees Fahrenheit that first day. That’s just below zero in Celsius.
0 degrees + open top bus + wind-chill factor + the glorious combination of snow and rain falling from the sky at the same effing time = THIS WAS NOT FUN FOR ME.

Hailing a cab
I’m invisible, apparently. And I was wearing too many layers to flash some boob.

The reason for my suffering
So people think the reason I wanted to go to New York in winter was New Years. I let them think that because I didn’t want to admit that the real reason was a big ass Christmas tree. Yes. A Christmas tree. I genuinely enjoy sparkly lights and pine trees that much.
Standing in Rockefeller Centre watching people ice skate under that tree while snow falls and Christmas music plays is enough to warm your heart. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to warm anything else. If I had any feeling left in my face, I would’ve smiled. And if I had any feeling left in my hands, my photos would’ve been better.

Class and culture and all that
One of the stops on the bus tour is the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. It’s a huge European style gothic looking church. As much as I can appreciate architecture and history and fancy things, I didn’t get off the tour bus for the cathedral. I got off the tour bus because the cathedral is one block over from the diner they used on Seinfeld. No one was around at the time, so it only took about two minutes to get a few decent photos, followed by another two minutes or so to walk back to the bus stop. Then came the waiting. The cold, the wind, the suspected onset of frostbite, and the waiting. Turns out the bus schedule ain’t so friendly. My suffering was short-lived however, when a knight rode in on a white horse and saved me (by ‘knight’ I mean bus driver, by ‘white horse’ I mean bus and by ‘on’ I mean in). He was from a rival tour bus company, but told me he couldn’t leave me standing out in the cold and to get on anyway, and ‘just don’t say nothin.’ So I didn’t say nothin. His bus had a bottom level. With walls. And windows. And heating. And he was the first New Yorker I fell in love with.

Next blog: New Years Eve, New Years day, and more New Yorkers I fell in love with (the men are very friendly…).

Thursday, January 31, 2013

Solo Mission

So some genius thought it would be a good idea to go to New York on her own. And that genius lived. And now the aforementioned genius has been home for two weeks and had two complaints in the last two days from two different people about how she could go away and come back with no blog material. So here’s part one of: I DIDN’T GET MURDERED OR MUGGED! NOT EVEN ONCE! (It’s a working title.)

My parents came with me to the airport and I cried in McDonalds. There. I have feelings. Shut up.

There were two options for flying into New York on the date I wanted. To avoid a massive airport stopover, I went the long way. On the flight from Melbourne to Dubai I was sitting next to a chatty and strangely attractive ginger man* who, considering I never got his name, is now known in my memory only as ‘Big Ginge.’
Big Ginge: ‘So are you staying in Dubai or moving on?’
Me: ‘Moving on. Heading to New York.’
Big Ginge: ‘Hey, me too! You been there before?’
Me: ‘Nah. You?’
Big Ginge: ‘Once, a few years back. I’m meeting my girlfriend over there, she’s pretty excited.’
Strangely it was at this point I lost all interest in talking to Big Ginge. He slept most of the flight anyway. He’s a drooler, which means it never would’ve worked out between us. I’m a drooler too, so if we had babies, with our combined genetics they’d probably drown in their sleep. And be ginger.

On the second flight a miracle occurred. For the first time in my life I actually fell asleep on a plane. Not that weird half asleep/half awake kind of sleep, but actual, proper sleep. This lasted for about half an hour before I woke to the sound of a screaming child. He was travelling with his father, and I think the problem was that he wanted his mum. I came to this conclusion from the number of times he yelled ‘I want my mum.’ We all want our mum, kid. Just cry in McDonalds like a normal person.

Then came JFK airport, where the passport control guy knew Melbourne and wanted to know who my football team was. I said ‘Essendon’ because I wasn’t sure if it was ok or not to say ‘Go Bombers!’ in an airport.

Next stop was the taxi rank. A friend of mine went to New York in the middle of 2011 and warned me that the cab drivers have a death wish. I was told of running red lights, changing lanes at high speeds without looking and all kinds of horror stories. I assumed she was exaggerating. She wasn’t. For a while there I thought I’d paid thousands of dollars and flown for 30 hours just to die in a cab. May we never speak of it again.

I arrived at the hotel with all limbs still attached and an extreme hunger in my belly. I went up to my room, turned on the TV and opened the shutters on the window. It was dark outside, and there was just a bunch of buildings out there, but I still thought it was amazing. Then I realised there was a window in my tiny bathroom. I had to stand in the shower base to open it, but outside that window was the Empire State Building. I stood in the shower for god knows how long looking at that building lit up all sexy in the darkness, waiting for the novelty to wear off. It didn’t. But dammit, I was hungry.
This is the view from my window. Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t spend a night standing fully clothed in a shower for that.

I’ll be honest, I was a bit nervous about going outside when it was dark. It didn’t help that there was a report on the news about how the murder rate was down in 2012. I know it sounds like a positive, but they were really happy that ‘only’ 414 homicides were committed in New York that year. That’s approximately 1.3 people a day. I’m one person. That means in a day they could murder me and then some. No thank you, sir. I think I’ll stay in my shower and eat the chocolate biscuits I packed in my suitcase.

Stay tuned for part two, which will cover things that happened when I finally left the shower.

*first time for everything…?