The day after the night before

First things first. Why, in the name of all that is good, did the congregation have to arrive 3 hours before the bride? I'm not being funny but there were some more elderly guests in the crowd and I have to wonder whether their bladders or Tenna pads were able to last the distance? I pity the fool that has to mop Westminster Abbey's floors today.

Then to the guests' outfits: On the whole, not too bad. But there were some standout shockers. Take, for instance Princess Beatrice and Eugenie. You wouldn't call them the most glamorous of the royals but they had to go and stick enormous eyesores on top of their scones. Why draw more attention to yourself when you already look like a bunyip?

I thought the Queen looked nice. Camilla could've done without the hat that looked like a bathtub. Pippa looked like a supermodel. I'm pretty sure every bloke in the Abbey was thinking 'Phwoar, I'd tap that.' Particularly Harry, who looked pretty smart himself. I'm pretty sure every bird in the Abbey was thinking 'Phwoar, I'd like to climb his golden ropes.'

Wills looked handsome. Hair or no hair. And then there was Kate, or Katherine or Catherine. Whoever. Her dress looked lovely. Really, very nice indeed. Except I couldn't help but notice there seemed to be inbuilt nipples. I'm not much of a fan of that. It reminds me of Madonna during her cone-bra stage. Of course, Kate was a far cry from a cone bra, but there was that effect. To me anyway. None of my girlfriends agreed with me. Though a couple of them thought Pippa outdid her.

Another friend of mine was less complementary about Pippa and had the hide to call her a skank. She said it would've been nice if Pippa had have donned a pair of knickers. Now, I'm not sure if she was going commando or if she just had on a wicked G-banger, but one thing I do know is that a VPL is not appropriate at a royal wedding. So leave those knickers at home I say!

Until tomorrow, when we will discuss whether the marriage has been consummated and whether Harry got a leg over Pippa. Au revoir xxx

Royal Willies and boobies.

I am excited. The royal wedding is here. The bloody ROYAL wedding! Can you believe it? Hands up who thought old Waity Katie wasn't going to last the distance? I, for one, thought she might've just finished with an 'I ran in the race' sticker while some Brazilian model swept past her on the home straight. But she's surprised me and now here we are, waiting to see whose gown she'll be wearing and how her hair will look.

Reading the super-special souvenir liftout in the Herald Sun today (it was my Dad's copy, just lying on the table) I read an article that left my cheeks a-blush. Apparently, Prince Willy dumped Katie a couple of times on the way to their fairytale ending at the altar. Fair enough. But did you know that he was photographed with his hand on some young lady's boobie? Since the Herald Sun is such a reputable source of truth and accuracy it must've happened. I could not believe Willy was feeling girls up in a dimly-lit club. He must have a bit of Australian in his background. Somehow I doubt we'd be in this position today if Katie, I mean Katherine, had been yanking some bloke's todger in a bar. No siree! The double standards!

She's come a long way since this abomination hasn't she? Thank goodness. It looks like something you'd find for sale in Bras n Things with the tacky Playboy merchandise. Perhaps this was the dress that unleashed the Prince's boobie-grabbing addiction? We shall never know.

What I do know is I'll be watching the event tonight with my girlfriends. I'm going to pick up the commemorative tin of cookies from Target on the way. They should be top quality. Perhaps they come with a free copy of the Herald Sun?

Until tomorrow, as husband and wife xx

An Ode to the Past

Yesterday a lovely lady commented on one of my posts and reminded me of a little ditty I once wrote, that ended up getting me fired from the worst job in the world by the worst boss in the world. Bitter? Never.

But I thought I would post the controversial poem so you could make up your mind as to its offensiveness. Before I was frog-marched from the building, the boss gave me some helpful feedback saying he thought it was funny and well-written. Ah, bless.

A-hem...

A day at work is hard to take
When brain doth melt and back doth break
And all you want is to escape
But jails old walls are sound

Managers lurk with absent stealth
Doing nought but growing wealth
It's very trying for your health
The noose is tightly wound

Though sun still shines and rain still falls
You're wedged between the closing walls
Forever fielding thankless calls
Ahead is rocky ground

In the kitchen, cupboard's bare
No plate to use, no fork to share
The bosses say the budget's fair
While laughing, bank-ward bound

Your fishbowl isn't made of glass
It's not just people slouching past
but coming in with further tasks
Respite cannot be found

And when you think you're nearly done
A fishy boss will spoil your fun
There's errands only you can run
Sore temples start to pound

In the background, endless chatter
On topics that can hardly matter
At your desk just getting fatter
No normalcy around

The end is nigh, there's no debate
You sneak off early, arrive late
And tell the boss to kiss your date
The freedom is profound.

Et voila! On that Pulitzer prize-winning note is how I ended my time in the office prison. I hope you can all take a little encouragement from it...

Don't work too hard xx

Weird Shite

Have you ever been overseas and bought something, thinking you knew exactly what it was, only to get it home and realise you were well off the mark? This kind of thing commonly occurs in supermarkets or chemists, generally because you can't read the description properly owing to your incredible lack of foreign language knowledge. You might think you're buying something akin to tomato sauce but after you've emptied the contents onto your steak you realise it's chilli sauce. And your mouth falls off. Or your trying for lubricant but you end up with insect repellent. And your vag falls off. Not cool.

Well, in Singapore recently I was in a shopping centre called Mustafa in Little India. It's a really bizarre place. It's open 24 hours and comprises of two enormous buildings. Both sections sell basically the same stuff but one side looks brand new and the other looks like Jesus Christ may've shopped there. After investigating level after level of goods in both buildings, I picked up some souveniers and also a new mascara. It was only $10 SGD. Sa-weet!

I barely used any makeup in Singers since the humidity would melt it off your face as quick as you put it on. So it was a nice surprise to me when I was unpacking my bag back home and found the mascara I bought. As I was applying it one day it started to shake. After an initial shock I discovered a button on the side of the bottle (tube? whatever mascara comes in) that makes the brush vibrate. Apparently it means there'll be no clumping. Fine.

There might be no clumping but there is also no way in the whole world, either currently available or in research stages, to get the shit off your lashes. They must've discovered that araldite is the key ingredient to prevent clumping. I've tried everything. In the shower I rub any number of lotions and potions on, concentrating specifically on my eyes (though they all tell me precisely not to do that) and when I get out my eyes are bloodshot from where the potions have leaked in. It's a bloody travesty.

Stupid, vibrating mascara. Perhaps if I'd been able to read the bottle I would've noticed araldite as the new, breakthrough ingredient and left it on the shelf where it belongs.

xx

When good songs happen to bad people

I love music. Always have, always will. I got the music in me, alleluia! So it really bugs me when companies pushing their lame-arse products and advertising companies getting paid to push the companies lame-arse products take great songs and turn them into shitty jingles. Forever ruining the songs appeal.

Take, for instance, The Good Guys. 'Come in and see the good, good, good guys. Pay cash and we'll slash the prices.' I'd prefer to stab everyone in that commercial. Who thought it was a good idea to use one of The Beach Boys' classic tunes and turn it into that poorly rhymed embarrassment?

AAMI have picked up the mantle in recent times and are doing an excellent job of ruining a couple of old favourites. Though to be fair 'What about me' had already been decimated by that cowboy guy from Australian Idol. Whatshisname. The guy who, when he tried to pen his own smash-hit came up with something about a big, black shiny car. He should really be on Play School.

Anyway, now AAMI have reinterpreted the title song from Hair. 'Give me a deal that's fair, FAIR!' I guess AAMI thought they had to pull out the big guns since their rivals RACV have that incredible thespian 'Jason' drumming up business. Neither of those advertisements encourage people to buy their insurance, they just encourage people to change the channel.

Sometimes though, an advertising company uses a song and gets it bang-on. I don't think this one is still on air but how good was the Cadbury's ad where a gorilla played the drum solo from 'In the Air Tonight' by Phil Collins? Brilliant. Not that Cadbury's really need to advertise since who doesn't love chocolate in the first place?

To deter future offenders I think there should be a general boycott of all products whose advertising campaign destroys the popularity of a song. In fact, it should be punishable in the International Criminal Court as large-scale auditory assault. Heartless, tuneless villains.

xx

Names in ruins

Naming a baby is one of the toughest things new parents have to do. Well, I thought it was hard anyway. I learnt the hard way never to share your ideas with people because many are incapable of harnessing their reactions which you can't help but take personally.

When Frenchy and I were pondering names (and still sharing them with people) there was such an alarming reaction to the name Leo that it eventually got struck because of the aggression it aroused. Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem obviously kept their baby names under their hat because their newborn is named Leo.

We also thought of Byron for a boy but Frenchy's relatives and French colleagues barely tried to keep a straight face and kept repeating Bee-ron, Bee-ron over and over until that too was eliminated from the running.

The girls names we thought of seemed to offend less people which was nice. At one point I told a group of friends that we were choosing either Byron for a boy or Perle for a girl and someone said 'Ooh I hope it's a girl.' Hmmm.

My mother in law was highly amusing during negotiations by informing us which names she 'hated the least' as opposed to any she actually liked.  

In the end Frenchy and I made the decision in the delivery room, once our baby boy was out and about and taking his first gulps of air. Little Noam arrived (not pronounced gnome btw, but No-am) and his name means pleasant friend. I couldn't imagine him now as a Leo or a Byron but getting to Noam was an interesting challenge.

Until next time xx

An Easter Fairytale

Once upon a time there was a little girl. She had heard a story of a child who woke up one Easter morning to find tiny rabbit prints all around the house. The child followed the tracks around the house and outside into the garden and along the way discovered easter eggs hiding in all sorts of interesting locations.

The girl thought this story was wonderful. Though she was old enough to know that the Easter Bunny was actually her parents, she still loved the idea of following paw prints around the house leading her to chocolate.

So she made a whole lot of rabbit paw prints herself because she knew how busy her parents were and before she went to bed on Easter eve she asked her Mum to spread them about the house. She left the paws on the kitchen table and went to bed excited.

In the morning she woke up as eager as can be and rushed out of her bedroom looking for rabbit tracks. But she couldn’t see any. She walked out to the kitchen, hoping that her pile of paw prints wouldn’t still be sitting on the table. But they were. The little girl was sad.

Many years later the little girl told this story to her boyfriend. Her boyfriend thought it was very sweet and very sad and gave her a big cuddle. They both laughed about the foolishness of young children, but how wonderfully innocent they can be. 

A few days later it was Easter Sunday. The boyfriend shook his girlfriend awake and pulled her out of bed. She looked down and saw rabbit prints on the floor of the bedroom. She followed them around their little flat, giggling like a schoolgirl, finding easter eggs hiding in all sorts of interesting locations. 

The girl was very happy. That was two years ago.

This morning the same girl woke up as her husband thrust her baby at her and left to go and play golf.

The moral of the story is don’t get married.

Happy Easter xxx 

Freakin' Masterchef

There's plenty of things in this world that make me happy. I won't list them all but certain people, certain places and certain foods top the list. Fair enough. What I didn't realise would make me as happy as a drunk canary is the humble veggie patch. 

My Dad used to take me shopping on Saturday mornings when I was a kid. We would inevitably end up in the hardware store Biz Buzz in Keilor Road, Niddrie. I would stand in front of the display stand that showcased packets and packets of seeds wondering what I could grow. I think my Dad was completely chuffed that he could take his 8 year old daughter to the hardware store and she was happy there. 

Anyway. It's been a long time since I was interested in growing produce. About 20 years actually. But Frenchy and I planted a whole stack of seedlings late last year and we've been reaping the rewards all summer. 

The whole production culminated last night in a dinner we cooked for a couple of our friends. For the entree we had bruschetta with beetroot (from the garden) chicken, caramalised onion and goats cheese. Yummo. For the main we had an excellent mince and beetroot mix with mashed potato, carrot and parsnip (all from the garden). And for dessert I cooked a rockin' apple crumble with apples from our tree. 

Swear to God, the only thing we got from the supermarket was the bruschetta bread and the meat. It was the most satisfying feeling to be so self-sufficient. And the taste is something amazing. It's almost unrecognisable to the bog the supermarkets sell. Sure, I had to cut a couple of wee worms out of the apples but what's a worm or two amongst friends? 

Now, if only the sun would come out and ripen the kilos and kilos of tomatoes that are on our vine.

Until next time xx

The infinite long weekend

Sometimes I get confused as to whether I live in a country town or not. I'm about 45 minutes north of Melbourne, there's properties on acreage here and it's facilitated by the V-Line, which to me suggests it's as country as Gwenyth Paltrow.

But then the Easter long weekend rolls around and basically every trader packs up shop and disappears. Now I would've thought that the businesses here would be relying on the tourist trade for their bread and butter. Come a four or five day long weekend I'd be rubbing my hands together thinking 'Sa-weeeet, all the yuppies will be heading off on their roadtrips and they'll fall straight into my 'always open' trap.'

Oh contraire! After doing my shopping last night with every other person in the town (Coles closes on Good Friday so everyone needs to stock their bomb shelters the night before) I walked home with my soy milk and shit bread 'cause that's all that was left. I made it a point to observe all the Easter trading hours signs in the shops on the way home and the opening times were as scarce as hens teeth. Most places closed yesterday and will reopen next Wednesday.

I'm sure some of you are thinking 'that's a bit harsh, country traders should enjoy the long weekend too'. But consider this; most of them are closed for at least one day during the week (usually Monday's or Tuesdays sometimes both). There's not much 7 day a week trading here, so they're doing all right. There's even some shops who only open Thursday to Sunday. That's a long weekend every week!

All I'm saying is if I ran a business up here I'd be opening the whole Easter weekend and finding another time during the year to take my long weekend. Of course I am overlooking the fact that maybe they close for religious beliefs but still...I'd open up and pump some of the helpful hymns from yesterdays post out my boom box.

Until next time xx

Helpful Hymns

Most Wednesday nights I get together with some of my nearest and dearest for some girly conversation and Charles Street Fish and Chips. Last night was no different save for the impromptu hymn-along that burst forth once dinner was finished. Myself and another Catholic school chum inflicted our renditions of 'Companions on the Journey', 'Though the Mountains May Fall', 'Welcome to the Family' and my personal favourite that I can never remember the name of 'something about the arrow that flies by day' on our, shall we say, heathen friend.

It dawned on me that after 7 years of primary school and 6 of high school, basically the only things I remember are hymn lyrics. And while they are groovin' good tunes, they don't particularly serve me well now, in my adult life, being the vile, un-practicing catholic that I am.

What I realised is, and people have known this since the dawn of time, song is the way to pass information on. So I propose that the education system be completely overhauled and every teacher, across every subject, begin teaching students in song. Nothing bad can come from this.

It need not be to the tune of hymn of course, though Catholic schools could do that if they wish, but I think kids would respond better to songs they connect with. Consider:

Maths Class:

I like triangles and I can not lie,
I like 'em so much better than pi,
When a right-angle is looking at me
I'm in awe of it's 90 degrees, I get sprung
Wanna pull out my protractor...

or

Australian History

I see the white people arrive in their great big boats
And I'm like forget you, forget you
Their saying terra nullius and that's all she wrote
And I'm like forget you

Well I'm sorry
I don't look like a lilly
But that don't mean you can shoot me dead
I been livin' here happily
With all my homies
At one with the land and keeping in good stead

Not to toot my own horn but I reckon the kids would be diggin' it. And remembering it. The opportunities are boundless.

Geography

The capital of Italy is Rome
Across the road, Paris is the boss of France
But there is more to this dance

Madrid leads the way in Spain
That's where the rain falls mainly on the plain
But it's Kiev in Ukraine.
(That's Billie Jean by the way)

Until next time xx

Whatever happened to....

The TV show theme song? I've been mucking around with an article recently about TV theme songs and which ones are the best (Happy Days, Cheers) and which ones are the worst (Friends) and it struck me that they rarely have theme songs anymore. Why?

I think it began around the time of 90210 and it's spin off Melrose Place. While both of them may've had banging tunes, you couldn't sing a long with either. A tragedy. Even Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours, has been chopped down to about 3 lines. Now it's all about hangin' by the pool with skinny Toady.

It is possible that the reason theme songs have fallen by the wayside is because almost every single show on TV is about crime, criminals, the law, forensics, criminology, criminal profiling and other such solemn topics. It'd be a bit insensitive to be singing along to the likes of 'Now the world don't move to the beat of just one drum...' if half the cast are dead from some terrorist bombing.

Thank goodness all these new channels have appeared showing repeats of our favourite shows and theme songs. I can now sing along to the cracking tunes of The Love Boat and Family Ties and learn valuable lessons from each episode.

Just as well too because for a while I thought I was going to have to resort to singing Katy Perry when Masterchef comes on. Not cool.

Vulnerability

For today's post I have decided to share with you one of the more private tales from my past. I have always wanted to write. In primary school I wrote an opus with a friend of mine called 'Midnight and Patches' (catchy right?) It was about the excellent adventures of our respective cats. 

In high school I wrote a couple of cracking stories, including the famous - 'Bruno's Lips' - which I had to read aloud to several other year 7 English classes. In year 9 my creative fiction based on Sonic the Hedgehog won critical acclaim but to my great disappointment now, none of my teachers fostered this potential.

As a result I chose to study law at uni and the world has been deprived of my talents for many years. Well no longer. Now, through the beauty of technology, I can share with all 3 of you my inner most thoughts and observations. It also means that I can now debut my very first poetic work that I wrote at the tender age of 12. I still have the hard copy somewhere but I remember it by heart. That's how good it is. Alors;

The smell of the sea in winter

fills my heart with joy.

The strong, hard waves crashing on the shore,

that's what I live for.

I am almost welling up at the raw power and beauty of those four lines. I hope it has equally moved you.

Until next time x

Stranger Danger

I have a baby. He's 7 months old. Something that I've noticed since his arrival is the irrepressible desire of strangers to approach me and comment on my parenting ability or lack thereof. I'm talking about people I have never clapped eyes on before.

For instance, yesterday, someone asked me what was on the back of his head. I replied that it was a 'stork mark'. Unconvinced, I was told that it looked more like eczema and I should take him to the Dr for some ointment because it will just get worse. Um, no. I won't do that but thanks for the free consultation.

Then today, on my daily stroll back from the shops a lady rushed over to adjust the roof / sunshade bit of his pram because apparently the little nuts or berries or whatever the frig was falling from the trees could hurt him. A rogue berry had recently hit this poor woman and she thought 'she'd been shot.' Imagine she actually got shot? Boy who cried wolf!

I wonder what it is about me that entices people to dart to the aid of my obviously endangered child? Am I so incapable of walking down the street normally and safely that he must be defended by such good samaritans?

I'm thinking about collecting some of those 'bullet' berries and when strangers approach with their 'advice' I'll let them rain down like bombs. That should keep them out of my way for a while.

Life through a Lens

I was doing some washing up the other day (shock horror) and gazing out the kitchen window while me fingers wrinkled to a level beyond prune. We have a big tree growing by our back fence and for the first time I realised it bares some sort of berry. I was pondering the fact that I'd never noticed that in the two years we've lived here when a gorgeous Rosella fluttered into the tree and started to eat the fruit.

Briefly I thought of dashing off to retrieve my camera and start snapping away but I caught myself. No, instead of capturing the moment I thought I would enjoy it 'in real time'. So I stood there, hands submerged in tepid water, watching this little event.

And it was nice.

I wondered if the bird would fly home and 'chatter' about his morning. 'Just had the most insane berries from the neighbour's place. Seriously, you must go try them. Orgasmic!'

Must remember to look out the window more often.

Tas the Puffing Troll

It's only right that the first post on the Puffing Troll blog should be a brief explanation about the origin of the name. It's a little unusual and I don't want to be lumped into some disco bickie, magic mushroom, toad-licking pigeon hole. A puffing troll is a Danish legend. When little wee children would fall over and hurt themselves it was believed that puffing on a troll would take the pain away.

My blog mascot is called Tas (you have to name your puffing trolls so they become part of the family) because I found him in a shop in Tasmania. Aren't I just the epitome of creativity? I've hung Tas up in the lounge room and I puff on him constantly. When I hurt myself, when I'm sad, when an editor rejects my pitch. I should attach him to my hat and have him dangling an inch in front of my face all day.

Everyone needs a puffing troll. In the home or the car (it'd be the end of road rage) and anywhere else where bad stuff can happen. Adopt one of your own at the link below:

http://www.flensted-mobiles.com/