Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm way too cool to make my poem rhyme

Round two of the poem competition began yesterday. I was as eager as a kid at Christmas to pour over the next 12 poems I'd been sent to judge, convinced they would be an improvement on the last lot. Well, well, well. Waddayaknow? They were basically a load of stinking cat's piss as well.

To be fair, a lot of the death and misery along with the sappy romantic shite was gone but instead I got a bunch of the too cool for school 'I'm not going to rhyme because my words are so deep and random and clever that rhyming will only serve to dumb it down for the idiot masses' stuff.

Which is worse? I think I prefer the miserable cancer poems.

Forgive me but I like a good old fashioned rhyming poem. One that you can sort of sing along to. Imagine if dear Dorothea Mackellar had thought 'I love a sunburnt country, a land of sweeping plains, of rugged mountain ranges, of drought and floods and horses...' Doesn't quite have the same feel really.

So all the ones I selected as being in my top 4 rhyme. I make no apologies for that. Perhaps it's because I grew up with 'All right, Vegemite' and those sorts of books that I prefer the rhyming poem. Plus, let's get right down to it; it's harder to come up with something brilliant that rhymes. One of my all time favourites is Edgar Allan Poe's - The Raven - which is fantastically frightening AND it rhymes! How on earth did he do it? Who would know. And apparently many emerging poets aren't terribly concerned. (If you haven't read it check it out here: http://poestories.com/read/raven )

Sadly, the entrants are unaware whether their poem has proceeded to the next round so I have no details for you as to the success or otherwise of my own (rhyming) masterpiece. You will know as soon as I do.

Until tomorrow xx

Animal crackers in my blog

Walking about the town with the Frenchman the other day we spied a flock of cockatoos. He remarked that they are actually quite a pretty bird. I agreed that it was true until they opened their bloody, great, squawking beaks. Not unlike David Beckham, I said. Pretty to look at but you want to run away screaming as soon as he opens his trap.

This led me to ponder other famous(ish) people and which animal would best represent them. Of course, I had no trouble with my friend Andrew Bolt, who I believe epitomises the hagfish. The hagfish (if you've never heard of it) is a creature from mysterious fathoms below as the song goes and is best described on the Deep Sea Photography website:

The hagfish is a deep-sea scavenger extraordinaire. Among other things it can tie itself in knots and secrete a bucketload of thick mucus in just a few seconds.

Amazing! Andrew Bolt in a nutshell!

Miranda Kerr is the very essence of the one-of-a-kind platypus. The platypus is a mixture of a bird, because of it's duck-like bill, a mammal because of its fur and it feeds its young with milk, and a reptile because of it's venomous spurs. Now, I don't know about the venomous part (she might be a total bitch but I don't think so) but she's definitely been obsessed lately with tweeting (like a bird) photos of herself breastfeeding (mammal). Ho ho ho.

Eddie Maguire is your common black ant that seems to be every freakin place you look.

Prince Harry is like a cheeky cat you want sitting on your lap. A-hem.

Prince Willy is a very noble bald eagle (cheap shot).

Goodness me I could carry on all day. But I won't. I'll leave you all to ponder your own thoughts of celebrities and their animal equivalents. As for me, I'm like a big old cow. Big, droopy udders and I feel like I'm asleep standing up.

Until tomorrow xx

Careful with that wax dear...

Generally, I understand the need for a business to try and up-sell. I get it. They need to make as much money as possible and if a customer is buying one thing then why not try and make them buy two or three? Makes sense. But there is one industry in particular that needs to realise the up-sell is not merely the harmless money-maker that it is in other sectors.

Beauty industry hear me now! If I come in for an eyebrow threading or eyebrow shaping do not ask me if I would like my lip or chin done as well. Chances are I’m already aware of the little fuzzy mass that resembles a full-blown handlebar mo under the unforgiving lights of your salon. I do not need to be reminded of it’s embarrassing existence and I can assure you I would ask for the treatment if I wanted it. Perhaps I have an ulterior method of mo removal that you are unaware of and I am slightly behind with. Perhaps I look worse with the bright red (albeit hair-free) skin that I leave with than I did with the little 'tash. The reason could be anything, but one thing is for sure, you don't need to point it out to me.

Same goes for all you waxers out there. If I don’t book in for a crack wax, don’t offer me one when I’m getting the old bikini line tidied up. Again, there’s probably a good reason I'm not having it done. Like burning hot wax near my aah-noose makes me do a reflex poo that would not be appropriate in your salon or on your finely manicured hands.

You get me? Ta.

Until tomorrow xx

It takes a village

First of all, let me just apologise. Blogger was in read-only mode yesterday so I couldn't post. Anyhoo.

The old saying that it takes a village to raise a child was demonstrated to me yesterday and was perfectly timed.

I'd had a bit of a flat week. You know when you just don't feel at your peak? A little off-kilter. A little under the weather. A litty bitty shitty. That was me.

BUT I had a hairdressing appointment booked so I felt confident that would reverse my melancholy mood. Particularly since some of my sadness could be attributed to the fact that I felt as though I looked like a swamp dweller and had done for some time.

A friend had offered to babysit but that fell through when Noam wouldn't stop howling as I tried to settle him at her house. She had visitors coming and I just couldn't leave him there, shrieking like a banshee, while she tried to entertain. So I took him with me and thought 'I'll just cut a few pram laps around the block before I go in and he'll fall asleep et voila!

But no. I don't know whether it was his teeth upsetting him, or the injections he got on Thursday or both, or perhaps he was hating me, but whatever it was, he was not to be consoled.

I entered the hairdresser on the verge of tears, knowing I would break down with the first word I tried to utter. And I did. I felt like such an idiot. Cradling the screaming Noam, crying myself like a spoilt lunatic who couldn't cope without a hairdressing appointment.

Fortunately, a client in the waiting area realised this was not the M.O of a spoilt lunatic. She bustled over, said 'give him to me' and proceeded to cuddle him and whisper to him as I was led to a seat in front of a mirrored wall so I could stare at my own pathetic form.

I couldn't even turn around to thank the kind stranger because my crying increased every time I tried to speak. Eventually I managed to regain control of myself and I turned to smile at the lady who was consoling my child. She smiled back and carried on walking him around the salon, rocking him and pointing at things of interest through the window.

He stopped crying after about 30 minutes and she transferred him to his pram where he slept, his little cherub face still red from crying, but peaceful.

With half my hair wrapped in foil and the other half covered in dye I got up and went to sit beside the kind lady. Emma was her name. She told me she has two year old twins at home. We spoke about all sorts of things and she gave me her phone number in case I ever needed help with things in the future.

How nice is that? I felt like a new person when I left the hairdressers. Mostly because I was reminded of the kindness of strangers and how the simplest deed can change the course of someones day, week, life perhaps.

So, thank you Emma, from Noam and I for helping me through a tough week and inspiring me to help others.

Until tomorrow xx

A lesson in manners

A smile costs nothing, as my mother used to say. Why is it then that so many people (particularly customer service operators) have forgotten that? I am far from perfect, I don't know anyone who is, but in all my years in customer service I can remember 2 times when I could've been considered rude. The first was when I returned to work at Safeway after my Mum died and was rather uncommunicative as I scanned people's groceries. One woman said to me caustically 'A smile wouldn't hurt love.' I didn't like her but fair enough, she didn't know my problems and I did have a face like a fried fart. The second time I got into a fight with a complete mole of a customer who was giving a colleague a really hard time. I told her she should strap on an apron and do it herself (make a choc-dip soft serve). A suggestion she apparently did not agree with.

Since I am never a rude bitch of a customer am I to assume that every person who provides bad service has just lost a member of their immediate family? I think not. A more likely answer is: they are nasty, vile creatures, who should not be in the industry. More frightening still is bad service from someone who actually owns the business. One assistant at Myer can't really damage the reputation of the department store, but one assistant in a tiny shop certainly can.

In my efforts lately to help a friend sell advertising space in her totally gorgeous magazine I have been visiting some of the local retailers looking for support. On the whole, people have been great. But there's always the great miserable lumps who seemingly put no stock in repeat business. One woman who owns what I would consider to be a specialty store did not even look up from her task to listen to me. She carried on, eyes down, before telling me abruptly that she would never be involved. Charming. What doesn't she understand about a small town? I won't shop there now. Not because she didn't advertise, that's completely fair, but because she was so rude.

Instead of people putting their energy into frowns, impatience and disinterest, wouldn't it be nice if they just smiled? It's not that hard. And even if you are in a rotten, stinking, foul mood, smiling and laughing can help reverse it. And bring customers back to your shop.

Until tomorrow my smiley, happy friends xx

It's BUDGET love. Really? How about I smash you in the nuts

Is it just me or does anyone else want to smash everyone in the Budget Insurance commercial? I don't even get the ad. Why is she bunging on a shit French accent? And most confusingly, is she meant to be married to that guy who looks like her Dad? I just thought she was some freakin' wacko riding around singing that stupid song when an old, patronising fart pulled over to tell her she was mispronouncing it. For the longest time I thought she should've just punched him in the face for sticking his bib in.

Then a mate told me no, he was supposed to be her husband, hence his condescending 'love' referral at the end. Really? I did not make that connection at all. And to be honest, I still thought she should've punched him in the face. Probably more so since he should be used to her (shit) accent if he's married to her.

Then I saw the ad's sequel (?!) when Michael (is that his name?) sticks his head into her shower to correct her again. I started to believe my friend was right that they knew each other. Otherwise she is a total faux-French slapper who gets off on being told what to do by geriatrics that she's picked up on her daily bike ride.

Now it seems the husband Michael has been done away with in the new commercial. Instead, some stranger sticks his head in her car window to tell her how to pronounce 'Budget' properly. She must be getting well pissed off with interfering fu**wits telling her how to speak. I'd start carrying a can of mace with me if I was her and the next smartarse male to tell me how to speak would cop a faceful.

The ad is so idiotic that it's upsetting me to even write about. If that commercial had have been pitched to Amanda Woodward at D&D Advertising on Melrose Place she would've head-butted the presenter and then fired them. And it's all they deserve!

Until tomorrow xx

Words I hate

There are some words that just really make you cringe. They seem to so aptly represent themselves it's scary. As Shakespeare said - would a rose by any other name smell as sweet? It's a good question - if roses were called 'anuses' would you shove your nose right in there? Anus, by the way, is a word I hate. The only acceptable pronunciation of it is by Borat 'Aah-noose' and that's just because it makes it sound like something different.

I know a lot of people who dislike the word 'moist'. Now, to be honest, that one doesn't bother me so much because I can still associate moist with a cake or other baked-good. Apparently though, many people can't get their 'moist' thoughts out of their panties. And that is a word I hate. Panties really seems like something a peado would say. It's creepy.

Another word I hate is fanny. I know a lot of my most hated words seem to reside in the nether regions but seriously...fanny? It's a woman's name for God's sake. And a bum in America. How come we've decided that fanny is a good synonym for vagina? It's not. It makes me think of big, flappy, dumbo ears waving around in desperate need of some femme fresh. Yuck.

What about puss? Not a cat but the stuff that oozes out of a septic wound. Puss. Doesn't it just describe itself perfectly? The very word conjures images of seeping, yellow gunk sticking painfully to gauze.

There are so many words that freak me out I could carry on all day. Foetus is gross (feet - eat - eating babies??), flatulence (grim), proboscis (sounds like someone is going to probe you with their enormous nose).

I'm going to keep a list from now on of all the words I hate and try to never use them in conversation or writing. Should make the porno set in a hospital I was thinking to start a bit difficult.

Until tomorrow xx

At the Movies...

One day, a few years ago, I visited a friends place, lets call her Kiwi, and along with a couple of other mates we watched a movie that we unanimously agreed was the worst movie ever made. It was called 27 Dresses.

Recently, at a dinner with another group of friends this movie came up in discussion and I proceeded to unleash a belated verbal assault on the abomination, which was met with some opposition. I was absolutely flabbergasted. To think that any of my friends would consider the movie anything other than a rotten corpse's foul stench of a film was incredible to me.

As if I wasn't horrified enough already, one of my friends, I'll call her Big Mac, then proceeded to produce the offending film from her own collection! The poor girl had actually paid money for the stinking pile of Hollywood faeces. She offered the DVD to another chum, I'll call her Lego, who had not seen the film but was intrigued by the controversy it had caused.

I received a text message yesterday from Lego, saying she'd watched the movie and it was a couple of hours of her life she'd never get back. Indeed. An accurate summary. Upon reading this I turned to another friend who I was with at the time and said something like this:

'You know that movie with Katherine Hiegel, 27 Dresses?'

To which she replied, 'Oh yeah, I love that movie!'

WTF?? It seems as soon as one buddy sees the light I lose another to the dark side. For shame!!

I guess the lesson to be learnt here is each to their own, live and let live, one man's trash is another man's treasure and so forth. Of course, it may also mean that my '27 Dresses' loving friends are very, very sick and if their illness is left untreated may result in a terminal obsession with movies starring JLo.  

Until tomorrow xx

Look into my eyes, don't look around the eyes

I am absolutely terrified of flying. There is, quite seriously, nothing I hate more than boarding a plane. Contrary to popular belief, the more I fly the worse I get. And I spend the entire flight in a state of silent horror waiting to plummet to my death.

To give you an idea of the extent of my phobia - I would rather have all my body hair tweezered out by a blind person. I would rather watch Grant Hackett's journalistic efforts on a constant loop for a full day. I would even rather be stuck in a lift for 24 hours with Sam Newman, Steve Price AND Andrew Bolt. Dear God, that is how bad it is.

Never one to let phobias fully get the better of me, I have always tried new things in an attempt to quash my fear. I've been to one of those flight simulator things where you sit in a cock pit and fly the plane yourself. That didn't help because my 'pilot' looked about 14 and would've been more at home at Timezone. I've tried every sort of (legal) drug available. Valium washed down with a glass of white? No effect whatsoever. I've tried meditation. Whatever.

I have to fly again soon, so now I've brought out the big guns. The hardcore shit. Yesterday I had my first hypnotherapy session! And it was WEIRD. The lady was lovely and we had a nice chat before she put me in a light trance and started asking all sorts of questions, which I answered, though I had no control over my answers.

Apparently my subconscious was doing all the talking and I spent the majority of the time in tears (while she was talking to my little 'sad' emotion). Yes indeed, lots of different emotions popped up wanting some attention - angry, mean, relaxed, happy...they were all there (I shit you not) and she spoke to each of them to find out how they were helping me or what they needed in order to help me better.

When I came out of the trance I had mascara from eyelash to arsehole but felt as light as (probably) the day I was born. All the thoughts that thump through my head night and day were quiet and it felt good.

So, I think I will go back. It was definitely very unusual but I am hopeful it will help. Oh and by the way, there was no swinging pendulum before my eyes or any utterances of 'and, you're under'. Bit disappointing that :-)

Completely unrelated - 'Run' of Run DMC was on Sesame Street this morning singing a duet with Elmo. They were encouraging a grasshopper to 'Hop this way'. Aw, cute.

Until tomorrow xx

Can you tell me how to get, how to get to celebrity street?

I'm not sure when it happened or why, but Sesame Street, sunny, sweet-aired Sesame Street is under attack from the underexposed (?) celebrity masses. Obviously they don't get enough air-time in their music videos, TV shows, films and general papparazzied lives that they need to target the infant market as well.

You may've heard about the controversy recently when Katy Perry shot a scene for Sesame Street but it was dropped because she had her baps so far out the little kiddies watching were trying to suck some brekkie through the screen. As her husband Russell Brand so aptly put it 'Sesame Street will not be brought to you by the letters DD'. Ha ha ha - I'm still laughing about that.

Monday I saw Adam Sandler prancing about singing a song he'd written for Elmo. Which was actually quite funny because nothing rhymes with Elmo. And today Jude Law was on, demonstrating the meaning of the word 'cling'. I can explain it pretty easily Jude - I will 'cling' to you until you take out a restraining order. Cling'.

I haven't seen Charlie Sheen yet but he's looking for a new gig so he might pop up soon. That will be the day Sesame Street is brought to you by the letter E's.

Until tomorrow xx

Roses are red, violets are blue, some poems make me want to spew

The other day, someone was reading a poem I had slung together (slaved over for hours) and asked me where I had uncovered the hidden treasure (in the talent well that is my mind). They were suitably impressed that I had penned such a masterpiece and I politely thanked them for the compliment (jumped up and down like a tart with new boobs). I then proceeded to search for a platform from which to launch my poem to the world.

I found the very place. Poetic Republic is an online competition run in the UK where you upload your work of brilliance (well I do, others upload their drivel) and bingo, bango, you're in the race. The queer element of this competition however, is that the entrants are also the judges. Indeed. I don't understand the formulaic equations that enable it to work but once the competition is closed to entries, participants are each sent 12 random poems and are told to pick their favourite four. There are 3 rounds of eliminations until only 12 are left (one will be mine no doubt.)

Anyhow, judging opened today and I was sent the deepest, innermost thoughts of 12 other budding poets and I must admit, I was shocked. Most of them were total bollocks. They were all about death and dying or love and romance and basically all completely devoid of any originality. The cliches were coming so fast I thought an AFL footballer was going to crawl through my monitor and recite them to me. Outrageous.

So, here I was thinking I was just entering this competition for a laugh but no sir. I am most surely going to win, based on the examples I saw today. I have penned a poem in honour of my impending triumph.

I entered my poem for a lark
Just to share my lyrical spark
But now it seems I have a chance
The other poems I've read are pants
It appears that I'm destined to win
The prize pool is absurdly big
So thank you poets near and far
for letting shine my shooting star
and entering a load of poo
ensuring my poem goes through

Until tomorrow fellow poets xx

Aural Terrorism - the new plague

There is nothing quite like a good old shoot-up to get the Americans into party mode. Watching the news unravel yesterday of Bin Laden's demise I was interested to note the originality displayed by some of the revelers. One clever dickie's jubilant placard read 'Osama Bin LATER'. Ho ho ho. I much preferred the poster one Aussie optimist took to the Biggest Loser finale, which simply read 'Take your shirt of Commando'. Yes please.

Back in America the people partied hard to the constant, thumping beat of 'U.S.A, U.S.A' being hollered indefatigably by the crowd. Now, I thought there was nothing more annoying than the nationally embarrassing Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi. Oh, contrare. Those three little letters; U.S.A, U.S.A, U.S.A, being constantly repeated is like some sort of mesmorising chant designed to put a spell on the rest of us. Or put us in a coma.

I would like to know who the culprit is that thought up, or rather pooed out 'Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi.'? They should be forced to spend the term of their natural life locked in a room with nothing but a vuvuzela symphony and a U.S.A, U.S.A vs Aussie Aussie Aussie scream-off. Take that you aural terrorist!

They would've found Bin Laden 10 years ago if they'd just trumpted that noise through the underground tunnels and caves. He would've come out with arms raised, a white flag and bleeding ears begging for mercy.

Until tomorrow xx

Karl's wife has the best arse I've ever seen!

Hot on the heels of the most watched television event of the century, came the Australian entertainment industry's night of nights, the Logies. I can't decide which one was more polished and sophisticated. A tough call.

I truly don't know where to start when it comes to the Logies. I guess my first comment would be - it's a really shit name for an awards ceremony. It's not even named after an Australian but some Scottish dude who did something important for television. Whatever. It just sounds like a joke. Logies. Bogies. Bogus. See what I mean?

Then there was the red carpet. Livinia Nixon looked like skeletor as she bailed people up to find out whether they were wearing J'Aton or Aurelio Alphabet. Seriously. It was either one or the other. And the plugs for Myer were just out of this world.

Poor old James Mathieson, who was interviewing guests on the red carpet crashed and burned, regularly. But his interview with Maroon 5 was the worst of the lot. His Bieber Fever and Maroon Five 'Hives' joke was enough to make anyone cringe, including Mathieson. Though Jules Lund gave James a run for his money when he told Rebecca Gibney she could get drunk and throw up in a cab. Lucky girl!

On the bright side, some of the ladies looked fantastic. I actually bothered to vote for Kat Stewart, purely because apparently channel 9 were donating all the profits to the Red Cross. Fingers Crossed. Stewart looked amazing. So did Sarah Murdoch. And a pregnant Rebecca Judd looked fantastic as well. Of course, there were plenty who got it wrong. But they'll be seeing their names plastered across 'worst dressed' photo galleries all over the place today so I won't add to their woes.

I didn't watch a lot of the awards. But I heard that Karl Stefanovic made a total dick of himself when he won something and thanked his wife for having the best arse he's ever seen. Are you serious? The man is such a fool and then, and THEN, he wins the gold logie! WTF? If the whole event wasn't a complete sham to start with they go and give the award to the biggest moron on television. Well done channel 9. The only good thing about Karl winning is the hope that he got absolutely stinking drunk and turned up on the Today show this morning with a bit of vomit in his hair and some choice words for the audience.

So that's the Logies for another year. It's a shame the Brownlow is so far away. Between Karl and Fev the Australian awards shows are well represented by the tool brigade.

Until next time xx