Security Blanket

I was lying in bed with my eyes shut.  Or maybe they were open, I don’t know, I suffer from such extreme night blindness that even in moderate darkness I am sometimes unable to tell if my eyes are open or closed.  Let that just sink in for moment.  A person, unable to tell if their eyes are opened or closed.  What is that shit?  I mean really.  I actually have to try and blink; if I can, then they were open.  If I can’t they are closed.  Honestly, once I safely tuck my iPhone under my pillow (fuck radiation) I am swimming in a void of darkness and silence (because I wear ear plugs, that is nothing to do with my eyes).  When I am feeling particularly existential I like to think that literally only myself and my bed exist and we are just floating in perpetual darkness…

Anyway, as I was saying, I was in bed with my eyes either open or closed (if I can’t tell, neither can you).  I was performing that peculiar style of martial arts known for its profundity at casting aside, and also re-cloaking, bedding in a single blow.  I was an incredibly shitty temperature.  Granted, I am usually dissatisfied with my personal temperature, but this time it was actually due to outside forces.  Under the blankets: ugh, too hot.  Out of the blankets: nice temperature, bit of a breeze even.  And that was the problem, I was out of the damn doona.

OK, I get that very few people (meaning no one, because really who are these freaks?) like, or are comfortable without the security of at least a sheet covering them while they sleep.  It’s not even that I am uncomfortable, it is more that I am hyper-aware that I don’t have my security cocoon of downy goodness covering me, then that causes this conversation to happen in my head:

“Hey, you know you don’t have your doona right?”

“Yes, I am aware, it’s hot as fuck tonight, If I put it on you’ll sweat like a bastard.”

“Yeah but, it’s weird, I don’t like it.  It’s all just so… open.”

“Coolness trumps openness.  Goodnight.”

*clears throat*


“Monsters, burglars, rapists, aliens, zombies, the tax man, slender man, your boyfriends mother, YOUR mother, the North Korean government, people who say ‘totes’; they can all get you with out your doona on!!!!!!!”

This is what goes on in my/our head when I decide to cast aside the shackles of oppressive warmth.  In my mind my doona is like a suit of armor repelling all the worlds evil using only cotton and goose down. Yet logically I know this is simply not true.  No would-be burglar worth his or her salt is going to creep into a house, see someone tucked up in bed and think to themselves ‘well shit, I can’t very well take their playstation 4 and jewelry when they are just tucked up so nice like, bugger this for a game of soldiers, I’m going home to do the same thing’.

Despite my doona being a protective shield of super awesome protection at night, the same cannot be said for it during the day.  I can’t very well just get up in the morning, do the business of getting ready, then drape my doona around my shoulders like it’s some sort of padded cape then leave the house.  If anything the exact opposite of protection would be had, I would stand out like dogs bollocks. I’d be some freak walking down the street in a fucking doona, I’d probably be arrested for my own safety (just don’t take my fucking doona or so help me!). Also, if I went even further than draping it about my shoulder and went for the full on Sith Lord look I’d lose my vital peripheral vision and leave myself open for some ne’er-do-well to sidle up along side and shiv me.

So there I lay, flummoxed by one of the voices in my head clearing it’s throat when I see (or sense, still not actually sure if my eyes were open or closed) a bright flash illuminate my bedroom via my window.  I roll over covering myself with doona at the same time.  I can’t be bothered finding out what caused it.  Whatever it is, my doona will protect me.


Also, for those not in the know, doona = duvet.


Why I’m Not A Nurse

Are you ok? Do you need anything? How do you feel? Is it your stomach? Your head? Are you nauseaus? Do you want some water? What about ice water? Perhaps some Hydralyte? Have you eaten anything? When did you last eat something? Do you want some dry toast? What about some crackers? Maybe a lolly to suck on? Are you too hot? Too cold? Do you want some blankets? Maybe a fan? Is the cat annoying you? Do you want more cats? Or maybe a different cat? You have a headache; do you want a Panadol? Some water? What about iced water? When did you last drink something? Can I get you a cold compress? A warm compress? A room temperature compress? Here’s the drink you wanted. Drink it anyway. Is there anything you want? Please let me bring you something. Anything. I must bring you something; it will make me feel better.

There Are Scarier Things In The World Than Murderers

Ugh, Halloween.

OK, so – Halloween you say. Well, it’s not really a thing in Australia, some retailers are trying to suggest it in a ‘just the tip, just to see how it feels’ sort of way, but it’s not really taken off. To be honest if Halloween hasn’t grown some legs by now then I doubt it ever will. Besides, spring isn’t exactly a spooky time of year.  Shit, I mean it doesn’t even get dark till like 8.30pm.

Nevertheless, we’re talking about Halloween. The subject has come up among friends, the conversation tends to go:
“So Halloween is this week”,
“sure is”,
“what day?”
“wednes (checking phone) day. Wednesday”,
“I ain’t opening my door for any punk ass kids”.

Yeah, OK, boring conversation aside, this is pretty much what has transpired between and multiple people. And no, I’m not opening my door Wednesday night, and you can go straight to hell for even suggesting I share my candy…The nerve!

One conversation I had didn’t quite follow its usual flight plan. Alright, so it started off the same – Halloween, yup, what day, checks phone (can’t remember it’s Wednesday each and every time ho), Wednesday, ain’t no kids stealing my skittles – and so it goes. But instead of just veering off the cliff into the dead-end conversation wasteland, it instead took a turn…

“So, will you be scared?”
“Halloween; you’ll be alone won’t you?”
“Scary stuff happens on Halloween”,
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, scary stuff, wasn’t that what ‘Scream’ was about, or something”,
“Who was behind that mask? And why did he kill everyone; that seems kind of important.”

Yes, my friend was correct; I will indeed be alone on Halloween.  Am I scared – no.  There are way scarier things in the world than an arbitrary day celebrated in another country.  I mean, let’s use the ‘Scream’ example.  As I recall he likes to call people to freak ‘em out a bit before he slices and dices.  Well that’s not going to work if bitches like me don’t answer their phone.  I mean he could text perhaps, or even write on my Facebook wall, Twitter is probably out as I don’t check that too regularly – point is that he will have a hard time doing the initial set up if I am not willing to play ball.

So I guess he could skip that part.  Too bad really; that is the bit that gets the heart pumping.  Anyway, the scream mask guy is nothing if not resourceful so I am sure he will bounce back. So I guess he just has to break-in.  Now, I can’t really give details of how he would accomplish this as I have yet to find a way to do this myself.  I get locked out a LOT and there is just no way to get in without smashing some windows.  I’ll be honest, I don’t care for the window smashing if you are going to murder someone – it has no finesse.  Its fine if your just wanting to rob and vandalise the home, but not for serial murder.  I don’t know, maybe I’m just traditional that way.  So he is in.  Spooky – or it would be.  He finds me sitting at my kitchen table covered in piles of papers.  Gesturing opposite me I ask him to have a seat.  Of course he doesn’t sit, he wants to chase me around for a bit, but I’m having none of that – I won’t run on the treadmill in my garage, I’m not running around for him, simple.  I insist that he sits.  Begrudgingly he takes a seat.

“You like scaring people, don’t you?”

He nods.  Dude doesn’t talk, typical.

“Well let me show you something really scary”,

I turn my laptop to face him, I watch as he studies it for a moment.  I swear I can see him furrow his brow under his mask.  He pushes the computer back and stares at me.

“Scary, yes?”

He nods in agreement.  Of course it’s fucking scary, I just showed him my bank account summaries..

“Look at this then”,

I slide over a pile of papers all of which are more or less identical, except for the escalating number at the bottom of each.

“Yeah, those are notices of demand for my car payments”,

He nods again even though I didn’t ask a question.

“Do you know what these are?”

As I say this I point to another pile of papers.  He shakes his head.

“Well, these are various requests for different medical tests I require.  I can’t afford them so I ignore them.”

He nods again.

“You see, I’m broke.  I’m ignoring creditors and ignoring my health simply because I’m broke.  You see what I’m getting at.  Then you come in here – thank you for not breaking my window by the way – wanting to chase me around and chop me into little pieces?  You can see why I’m not scared can’t you? “

As I was about to launch into a pretty lengthy speech about the economy and employment he had already picked up his scythe and was out the front door.  Annoyed, I get up to make a cup of tea when I see where he was sitting he left me a couple of twenties.


Happy Halloween.

Tom Jones Is Bigger Than Us All

I hereby am giving notice to one Tom Jones and the only 2 lines I know of his song ‘It’s not unusual’ to vacate my head.  I mean really, it’s been days with no reprieve.  I don’t even know why I would get this in my head to begin with – I mean, sure, I’ve heard the stories of Mr Jones’ rambunctious ways, but even I thought he would draw the line at subliminal penetration, apparently not.  I honestly feel as if I have a week-night show in Vegas in my head; soon seniors will start complaining about their seats and women will start relieving themselves of their panties.

I am not even sure Tom Jones can be stopped.  I mean, really, who is going to stop him?  Carly Rae and her ‘call me maybe’ malarkey?  Ke$ha and her ‘blah blah blah’-ing antics?  I don’t think they have it in them.  They are but wee babes in the wood still wet behind the ears compared to the Tom Jones.  I need to bring out the big guns, but who?  Who is up to the challenge?

Who can defeat Tom Jones?



He is bigger than us all!

Free Serum, And Restricted Blood Flow To My Vital Organs? The Answer, Spanx™

Which is better: super-duper or ultra?  Inquiring minds (mine) wish to know.

For my money, I am going with ultra.  I guess because I equate ultra with ultimate, which by process of deduction would exclude anything other as being lesser.  Whether or not, etymologically speaking, that is true or not is par for the course really as this is my impression, and impressions count if you are going to rank things: medium, super, super-duper, and ultra[1].  To help you decide I should probably mention that these rankings refer to the ‘slimming level’ as determined by the good people at Spanx™.  You see, while I am evenly proportioned[2], I would preferably like to smooth over the edges a bit[3] – blur everything together if you will.  I have hopes that by shaving off a few centimeters[4] I may even fit back into some old clothes, which makes the purchasing of Spanx™ the more fiscal decision[5].


I’ve never owned a pair of Spanx™ or even a similar type of garment.  I did once try one on… Well, that’s not true; I more wrestled with it in a tiny change cubicle for 15 minutes until it judo-chopped me the fuck out of there.  I think I might have had the wrong size.  Since that day I haven’t tried on anything tighter than a pair of sweat pants outside of the comfort of my own home.  If anything tighter wants to encase my body it will do so on my turf; where I control the temperature[6], and have ample space – then we will see who wins.  I do not abide by the saying ‘just because you can get it on doesn’t mean it fits’, like a LOLcat, if I fits, I sits[7].


I’m not a total fool (See footnote 7); I did learn something from my last tussle with shape wear, that is: measure.  I simply cannot overstate this enough.  If I recall correctly I grabbed a medium when I was in the department store.  All I can say is “medium?  pfft! Who are you trying to fool with your medium!?” According to the sizing chart I am at best an extra-large.  My humiliating defeat is all starting to make sense[8].  I have narrowed my choices down to two.  They both are similar in appearance – sort of like a one-piece bathing suit with the bust-section missing[9].  While they are similar in appearance (and presumably function), there are three notable distinctions:


  • Price – for some reason there is a difference of thirty dollars between the two.
  • Ultra V Super-duper – the ultra is cheaper, this perhaps suggest that is in fact super-duper with the most slimming power[10].
  • The cheaper ultra option comes with imbedded[11]serum’ for some reason[12].


Despite my little internal tête-à-tête of ultra versus super-duper, I’ll probably choose the cheaper one because, really, isn’t that what all things eventually come down too?

Lather, Rinse And Repeat. Always Repeat

If I’d have left it up to your mother, you’d have ended up in a hell-hole like this, just lying around, never working, without a care in your head full of long, luxurious, hippie hair. The Simpsons, ‘D’oh in’ the wind’.

I just spent as long in the shower as a teenage boy. No, I was not fiddling my faddle, rather I was flushing out my follicles.


This, after spending a damn near eighty dollars on products to undo the damage done by the supermarket shampoo and conditioner. Given my current deficit in the job department it seemed prudent to cut back on luxuries, vis-à-vis* expensive hair cleansers and conditioners. Yes, when you buy salon brands it is not Shampoo, its Hair Cleansing Cream – and yes, the capitalization is necessary you follicular philistine! I initially thought I was so savvy for purchasing my supermarket brands, doing the right thing financially and what not, until that is they decided to pillage, plunder and rape their way across my scalp. After one wash I ended up with this sticky, waxy build up that was impenetrable to water. Impenetrable to water is not a good feature in what is essentially a water-soluble hair product.

Relaxed Enough For You?

Today, someone told me to relax.

So I killed them.

“Relaxed enough for you!” I screamed, as I paced around their lifeless corpse, bouncing on the balls of my feet, electric with homicidal energy.

Okay, so that never happened.  But I kind of wish it did.  The level of rage I experience when someone says to me, ‘you just need to relax’, is just below homicidal and just above someone stealing your car-park at the mall the week before Christmas.  Meaning, I am pretty damn livid.

‘Do you hate me?’  I feel like asking.  Because the arrogance that connotes with telling someone to relax  insists that you either, don’t know me at all, or, hate me.  It can only be the latter as what chump would tell someone they don’t know to relax?  No one, is the answer to that question.

Did you know it is actually impossible to chillax.  It is.  To relax, is by virtue, quite relaxing. However to both chill while relaxing simply can’t be done.  Unless we are using the other equally important definition of chill, that is to make cold, in that case, yes, I suppose you could chillax as it were.  Perhaps if you found parking your caboose in a meat locker relaxing you could have quite the chillaxing time.  In which case, fill your boots, you are an outlier of society anyway.

That’s Not How You Wash Your Face

If commercials have taught us anything, and they have, it’s that the act of washing ones face is not complete until you have hurled cupped handfuls of water at yourself. Basically, you need to splash around in your sink like a toddler during bath time in order for your super-extra-pore-refining-pimple-evicerating-age-asskicking cleanser to do its damn job and, well, clean your face.  Perhaps its not them, perhaps its me?  Maybe I am doing it wrong?  Is that why I still get zits, while simultaneously fighting the seven signs of aging?  Is that final splash somehow integral to getting all those peptides and cyanide’s to work?  Well I’m sorry Nutro-Clin-Cleara-Gena-Nique, but I am in charge of cleaning my bathroom, and I just don’t fancy mopping on a daily basis.  I also happen to be fresh out of those yellow ‘slippery when wet’ signs, and don’t particularly feel like courting a lawsuit should someone slip on my bathroom tiles if I haven’t mopped for the 600th time that year. I’ll level with you, my house is not a beacon of hygiene, you know I’ll never have the stamina to mop every damn day just so I can end my beauty routine with that all important splash.  Plus we both know it will more likely be me who slips and cracks my noggin on the side of sink.  I can’t very well sue myself – I know I’ve got nothing, so can I sue you Big Cosmetics?  Doubt it, you’d pop me like a little pimple, or perhaps you’d prefer to put some of that fancy zit cream on me that allegedly makes pimples ‘vanish’*overnight.  However unlike the pimple, I’d vanish.
Here's looking at you kid.

Here’s looking at you kid.
It smells better than it looks.
If anyone is interested is Lush’s Cupcake mask.

*Oops, did I say vanish, I meant stay the same, but don’t worry it will also look inflamed and some say angrier.

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The Internet Says It’s Cancer

I have never claimed to be clumsy.  In fact I have never really understood the proud proclamation some make regarding their status as a klutz.  Its like a race to the bottom with these people.  However today forced me to ruminate on perhaps changing my accident status to ‘prone’.  This morning I woke up, all seemed well, until I stood up and a searing pain radiated from my tailbone.  Every little movement exacerbates it in some way.  I can’t sit, I can barely walk, bending down  – forget about it.  I wish I could tell you some cool/brave/harrowing story to go with this injury, but I can’t.  The best I can come up with is that I had the cheek get up out of bed today and was therefore punished for my audacity.

This is not the first time I have injured or hurt myself in a way that either defies explanation or logic.  Lying prostrate in bed today has given me time to mull over these incidents and forced me to concede that I am in fact *gulp* clumsy.

The following is a list of some of my more severe injuries and the absurd ways I got them…

Continue reading

Is It Postmortem Depression?

Yesterday, after an hour long car trip back from getting my eyebrows waxed (yes and hour, and no, don’t ask) my boyfriend looked over at me and out of the clear blue sky asked me, “what is it called when you get post baby mentals?”

“It’s called post baby mentals,” I deadpanned.
“No, really, what’s it called – post something…” he trailed off in thought.
My boyfriend has a terrible memory for details (with the exception of details pertaining to sport), so quite often he’ll find himself confounded by names, places, dates etc.  So far my strategy is to never help him.  How will he learn if I just give him the answers?  After a moment he thought he had the answer:
“Is it postmortem depression?”  he questioned very hesitantly.
“only if you can be depressed from beyond the grave,” I replied.
“Just tell me what it’s called!” he whined.
“Post baby mentals,” I replied as I finally pulled into the driveway.

The conversation then turned to who would get the mail versus who would bring the shopping in. I said I would do neither seeing as how I needed to hop on Facebook right away to post this  very enlightened conversation. With not wanting to be outed as an insensitive and ill-informed twat he dutifully brought in both the mail and the shopping.  As it currently stands I still don’t know if he knows the correct term for postpartum depression.