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.
Friday, March 18, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Lauren's Book Club the third
Eric Carle - The Very Hungry Caterpillar
A caterpillar - who from here on in shall be known by his hip hop name, Cat P – has a somewhat eventful week.
Sunday: Born today. Fair effort.
Monday: Ate 1 apple. Still hungry.
Tuesday: Ate 2 pears. Made a joke about having to eat a pair of pears, but had no friends to tell it to. Still hungry.
Wednesday: Ate 3 plums. Laughed at the word ‘plums.’ Still hungry.
Thursday: Ate 4 strawberries. Had no access to cream or lady caterpillars. Still hungry.
Friday: Ate 5 oranges. Still hungry, but no longer at risk of contracting scurvy.
Saturday: Ate 1 piece of chocolate cake, 1 ice cream cone (illustrations show that there was in fact ice cream inside the cone at the time), 1 pickle, 1 slice of swiss cheese (this has holes in it, so it doesn’t really count), 1 slice of salami, 1 lollipop, 1 piece of cherry pie, 1 sausage, 1 cupcake, 1 slice of watermelon, and a partridge in a pear tree (interestingly, not the same pear tree that the pair of pears came from). Got a stomach ache.
Sunday: Ate 1 leaf. Stomach settled and obesity acknowledged. Went to sleep. Woke up as a butterfly.
The story sounds simple enough, but what effect is it really having on our children? Or your children, because I don’t have any children. Or all of us, back when we was a children?
Issue 1: Is ‘very’ a good enough word to describe how hungry the caterpillar was?
No.
Issue 2: Is this story responsible for childhood obesity?
Well, there seem to be many contributing factors to childhood obesity, so who can really say for sure that this book has had any impact? Me, I can. And yes, it is singlehandedly 100% unquestionably responsible for the little fatty boombahs. It’s surprising that religious groups never jumped on Cat P for being a filthy, no good, sinning glutton. There you go, religious nuts. You can have that one for free. If you require any more issues to sensationalise, leave the money in a sports bag under the slide of the playground down the road from my house. And cookies. Leave cookies. Chocolate ones. None of that oatmeal bull.
Issue 3: Why is the caterpillar so hungry?
One would assume that the everyday common caterpillar wouldn’t have such an extreme appetite, and why Cat P is the exception to this rule is never explained to us. Is it possible that his hunger is a metaphor for something? Is Cat P really trying to fill his stomach, or is he perhaps trying to fill his heart? When referring to the beginning of the story, the reader can’t help but notice that mama and papa Cat P weren’t hanging around when he hatched out of his egg. Does our protagonist have abandonment issues? Yes. Yes he does.
Issue 4: where is all this food coming from?
I don’t know. But if there’s free cake and ice cream, I want to live there.
A caterpillar - who from here on in shall be known by his hip hop name, Cat P – has a somewhat eventful week.
Sunday: Born today. Fair effort.
Monday: Ate 1 apple. Still hungry.
Tuesday: Ate 2 pears. Made a joke about having to eat a pair of pears, but had no friends to tell it to. Still hungry.
Wednesday: Ate 3 plums. Laughed at the word ‘plums.’ Still hungry.
Thursday: Ate 4 strawberries. Had no access to cream or lady caterpillars. Still hungry.
Friday: Ate 5 oranges. Still hungry, but no longer at risk of contracting scurvy.
Saturday: Ate 1 piece of chocolate cake, 1 ice cream cone (illustrations show that there was in fact ice cream inside the cone at the time), 1 pickle, 1 slice of swiss cheese (this has holes in it, so it doesn’t really count), 1 slice of salami, 1 lollipop, 1 piece of cherry pie, 1 sausage, 1 cupcake, 1 slice of watermelon, and a partridge in a pear tree (interestingly, not the same pear tree that the pair of pears came from). Got a stomach ache.
Sunday: Ate 1 leaf. Stomach settled and obesity acknowledged. Went to sleep. Woke up as a butterfly.
The story sounds simple enough, but what effect is it really having on our children? Or your children, because I don’t have any children. Or all of us, back when we was a children?
Issue 1: Is ‘very’ a good enough word to describe how hungry the caterpillar was?
No.
Issue 2: Is this story responsible for childhood obesity?
Well, there seem to be many contributing factors to childhood obesity, so who can really say for sure that this book has had any impact? Me, I can. And yes, it is singlehandedly 100% unquestionably responsible for the little fatty boombahs. It’s surprising that religious groups never jumped on Cat P for being a filthy, no good, sinning glutton. There you go, religious nuts. You can have that one for free. If you require any more issues to sensationalise, leave the money in a sports bag under the slide of the playground down the road from my house. And cookies. Leave cookies. Chocolate ones. None of that oatmeal bull.
Issue 3: Why is the caterpillar so hungry?
One would assume that the everyday common caterpillar wouldn’t have such an extreme appetite, and why Cat P is the exception to this rule is never explained to us. Is it possible that his hunger is a metaphor for something? Is Cat P really trying to fill his stomach, or is he perhaps trying to fill his heart? When referring to the beginning of the story, the reader can’t help but notice that mama and papa Cat P weren’t hanging around when he hatched out of his egg. Does our protagonist have abandonment issues? Yes. Yes he does.
Issue 4: where is all this food coming from?
I don’t know. But if there’s free cake and ice cream, I want to live there.
Friday, February 18, 2011
And that's why it was the best summer ever
I’m a full time student, which means I do less than twenty hours of class each week and get three months off over summer. God bless you, Australian edu-ma-cation system. Anyhoo, sadly, my three months has come to an end and I’m back into my gruelling study schedule next week. So come with me as we take a moment to look back at some of the things I did this summer...
- Learned that at 568 pages in hardcover, Paul Kelly’s How to Make Gravy is not an appropriate sized book to read in the bath.
- Played so much Commander Keen that my right wrist started to make a clicking noise, which goes nicely with the buggered joints in my thumbs from the excessive amount of Nintendo I played as a child.
- Wrapped a small plastic pig in tin foil so he looked like an astronaut.
- Rearranged my bedroom and decided that packing it up was too hard and I am therefore never moving out of that room. Ever.
- Remembered my Neopets password from 2001.
- Became a multi-millionaire on Neopets.
- Rewatched every episode of Black Books.
- Rewatched every episode of Father Ted.
- Didn’t rewatch every episode of 30 Rock, but watched enough to develop an odd and unexpected crush on Alec Baldwin. His eyes are, like, really blue 'n' that.
- Realised I needed to go outside more.
- Went outside and got sunburnt.
- Went back inside and acknowledged that I should have known better than to go outside.
- Tried to justify the amount of books I was buying online by reading each and every one of them - only 6 to go, y'all!
- Started work at 6am for five days in a row and learned about the effects of sleep depravation. Was also verbally abused by a regular customer for playing Whitesnake at 7:30 in the morning. I believe that Whitesnake is good at any hour. He doesn't agree.
- Broke my new years resolution to not type my Facebook password when trying to sign into Blogger.
- Went to the Boxing Day sales for the first and hopefully last time.
- Became worryingly good at Tetris.
- Realised my Mr Potato Head obsession was out of control when my co-workers made me this:
- Learned that if you put a single chicken wing in the microwave for more than 20 seconds it will explode all over your microwave.
- Cleaned the microwave.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Dye Hard… with a vengeance
Alternate titles: ‘To dye for’; ‘Live and let dye’; ‘Help me Jebus, my scalp is burning’
I started colouring my hair on a regular basis about 8 years ago. Towards the end of high school it shifted between dark purple and bright red, a colour that inspired another girl to tell me once that she’d always wanted to dye her hair that colour, but didn’t have the guts to do it because guys don’t like girls with red hair. The rest of my teen years taught me that she was right. And a bit of a bitch.
A few years back, in an attempt to come to terms with my pale-ness (I was wearing a skirt a few weeks ago and was temporarily blinded at one stage when the sun reflected off my legs), I did something I grew to regret. I decided that instead of trying to cover it with fake tan, I’d just emphasise it. So I started dying my hair black.
Fast forward 3 years and I was bloody well over it. I tried putting heaps of different colours over the black, but nothing would take. A few times I considered trying to bleach my hair myself, but never followed through because I’ve always held the strong belief that accident prone people shouldn’t handle chemicals. Unless they want to melt their face off. Which I don’t. I like my face. We’ve had some good times together.
On Tuesday I finally manned up and stopped being so cheap. The hairdresser said she could strip the colour, but since it was black, the best result I could hope for was a dark brown. My hair sure as hell showed her. First, the bleach had to come out earlier than expected when my naturally blonde regrowth started to turn white. Also, when they say ‘it might sting your scalp a little’, what they really mean is ‘it will feel like flames are shooting out of your head.’
I’m choosing to count this as a win.
I started colouring my hair on a regular basis about 8 years ago. Towards the end of high school it shifted between dark purple and bright red, a colour that inspired another girl to tell me once that she’d always wanted to dye her hair that colour, but didn’t have the guts to do it because guys don’t like girls with red hair. The rest of my teen years taught me that she was right. And a bit of a bitch.
A few years back, in an attempt to come to terms with my pale-ness (I was wearing a skirt a few weeks ago and was temporarily blinded at one stage when the sun reflected off my legs), I did something I grew to regret. I decided that instead of trying to cover it with fake tan, I’d just emphasise it. So I started dying my hair black.
Fast forward 3 years and I was bloody well over it. I tried putting heaps of different colours over the black, but nothing would take. A few times I considered trying to bleach my hair myself, but never followed through because I’ve always held the strong belief that accident prone people shouldn’t handle chemicals. Unless they want to melt their face off. Which I don’t. I like my face. We’ve had some good times together.
On Tuesday I finally manned up and stopped being so cheap. The hairdresser said she could strip the colour, but since it was black, the best result I could hope for was a dark brown. My hair sure as hell showed her. First, the bleach had to come out earlier than expected when my naturally blonde regrowth started to turn white. Also, when they say ‘it might sting your scalp a little’, what they really mean is ‘it will feel like flames are shooting out of your head.’
That dark brown I was told to hope for ended up being a mix of reds, browns, and blondes, and I think like it. Mostly because the lighter colour makes it harder to spot the crumbs and other various food stuffs that keep getting stuck in there.
I’m choosing to count this as a win.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
That’s why I’ll never finish anything I...
I wrote 1,000 words on Wednesday. Yes, I would like a medal. You can engrave it with 'In honour of Lauren, who did something that one time.' And on the front I would like the image of an infinite number of monkeys working on an infinite number of typewriters.
The problem with this 1,000 words was that I wrote 1,000 words of something new, instead of working on the 45,000ish words that I've already got of a well thought out and pretty much almost finished story that I haven’t looked at in months. Or the 2,500 words of the thing I started writing last August instead of working on the 45,000ish story.
I have a long history of this kind of behaviour. So I now present to you some of the many things I started and never finished:
Learning guitar – I could do some stuff in tabs, but I never learned any chords. The guitar itself became more of a decoration after a while, then I decided it was probably just mocking me. Now it lives in my wardrobe. But if you ever want someone to play the intro to the song ‘Scotty doesn’t know’ from the film Eurotrip, I’m your gal.
Learning keyboard – see above. But change ‘Scotty doesn’t know’ from Eurotrip to ‘And so it goes’ by Billy Joel. Or ‘Mary had a little lamb’ by whoever wrote that.
Higher education – I got my diploma of Music Industry Business just to prove to myself that I could actually finish something. Then I dropped out of the degree. Twice. Then I changed what I was studying. And yeah, I’m like, totally a writer now.
That really rich and big piece of chocolate cake I had at the Beechworth Bakery one magical Easter – it was amazing. But I’ve always believed you should probably stop eating when you find yourself struggling to breathe.
Reading The Count of Monte Cristo – it’s… it’s really long. I got about a third of the way through it when I decided to take a break and read some other stuff for a while. I’m pretty sure I’ll never open it again. Since before I was born my mum has had a bookmark exactly 39 pages from the end of War and Peace and can’t bring herself to finish it, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Countless stories – I’m really good at coming up with ideas for stories, not so good at coming up with endings. The only ones I 'finished' were ones I had to hand in for uni, and they generally just ended in the middle of a scene, so I decided to pretend like I’m a trendy modern writer and that’s my thing that I do. Like the story about the leprechaun who was raised by humans and didn’t know he was a leprechaun, then struggled with the idea that he might be one, then eventually had to decide whether he was going to stay in his old life or follow that rainbow. What did he do, you ask? I dunno. It ended with him talking to his wife in a field. But I got an awesome mark for it.
The problem with this 1,000 words was that I wrote 1,000 words of something new, instead of working on the 45,000ish words that I've already got of a well thought out and pretty much almost finished story that I haven’t looked at in months. Or the 2,500 words of the thing I started writing last August instead of working on the 45,000ish story.
I have a long history of this kind of behaviour. So I now present to you some of the many things I started and never finished:
Learning guitar – I could do some stuff in tabs, but I never learned any chords. The guitar itself became more of a decoration after a while, then I decided it was probably just mocking me. Now it lives in my wardrobe. But if you ever want someone to play the intro to the song ‘Scotty doesn’t know’ from the film Eurotrip, I’m your gal.
Learning keyboard – see above. But change ‘Scotty doesn’t know’ from Eurotrip to ‘And so it goes’ by Billy Joel. Or ‘Mary had a little lamb’ by whoever wrote that.
Higher education – I got my diploma of Music Industry Business just to prove to myself that I could actually finish something. Then I dropped out of the degree. Twice. Then I changed what I was studying. And yeah, I’m like, totally a writer now.
That really rich and big piece of chocolate cake I had at the Beechworth Bakery one magical Easter – it was amazing. But I’ve always believed you should probably stop eating when you find yourself struggling to breathe.
Reading The Count of Monte Cristo – it’s… it’s really long. I got about a third of the way through it when I decided to take a break and read some other stuff for a while. I’m pretty sure I’ll never open it again. Since before I was born my mum has had a bookmark exactly 39 pages from the end of War and Peace and can’t bring herself to finish it, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Countless stories – I’m really good at coming up with ideas for stories, not so good at coming up with endings. The only ones I 'finished' were ones I had to hand in for uni, and they generally just ended in the middle of a scene, so I decided to pretend like I’m a trendy modern writer and that’s my thing that I do. Like the story about the leprechaun who was raised by humans and didn’t know he was a leprechaun, then struggled with the idea that he might be one, then eventually had to decide whether he was going to stay in his old life or follow that rainbow. What did he do, you ask? I dunno. It ended with him talking to his wife in a field. But I got an awesome mark for it.
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