Thursday, June 30, 2011

When this is all over, I’ll need a goat...


It is day four of my house entrapment (otherwise known as finishing a book), which means that as I’m writing this I should really be finishing a book. But, here’s the deal, four days of non-stop writing (preceded by about four weeks of mostly non-stop writing) really kill the brain cells. And, can I tell you, it is hard editing a book without a brain. Actually, it’s hard doing anything without a brain. Earlier today I went into the bathroom to pee, but forgot what I had come for, so I ended up taking a shower. Here’s a tip: never shower when you need to pee, it is all kinds of excruciating.

The up-side of my situation is that this particular book happens to be about bachelorette parties, which means I’m really building up my knowledge of cocktails, drinking games and strange exotic party customs (all of which I intend to use once I’ve finished). That reminds me; where can I buy a goat?...A live one?

Right...what I actually popped on here to do, was to share the most inventive cocktail site on the internet (there is really no way I can back that up). It draws inspiration from artworks and people and is all kinds of fancy: http://pourmesamis.com.br/

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Just like a Glade plug-in

I believe I have mentioned before just how ingeniously the current residents of Geyerstraße invent things. We are just three lab coats away from a Nobel Peace Prize or possibly ending humanity as we know it...watch and see.

Considering the delicate and ingenious nature of our inventions, we usually keep them pretty secretive. All of the time, we don’t even put them down on paper. You just never know who’s listening (usually nobody).

However, being generous as we are (and we are SUPER generous), we’ve decided to share some of our creations so that you can reap the profits and be all “WOW they sure are geniuses” and maybe, one day, repay us by making a movie about us. But whatever, it’s not like we’ll stalk you down and inappropriately sniff your hair if you don’t...

That’s not a promise.

I’m saying that we might.

Oh! Oh I can't. I just can't do this...I....I was just thinking about cats. And how so many are homeless and have whiskers and why can’t somebody just get me a basket of kittens?*

Hrrmm hrmm (the noise I make when I clear my throat)...so about a month ago, Simon and I were sitting on my bed and, oh I don’t know, doing something, when suddenly my iPhone was all WARNING 20% BATTERY REMAINING. CHARGE ME OR I WILL TURN OFF. And I was all “I don’t respond well to ultimatums, iPhone!” as I poured tabasco, toilet cleaner and a kitten into a shot glass and drank it (because I don’t respond well to ultimatums).

But, of course, then I went scampering about the room trying to find a power outlet. And that’s when Simon sat up a little and the air got very still and the kitten clawed its way out of my mouth. And we knew that we were, in that very moment, in the presence of genius.

“We need something that could charge our phones just by being in the same room with us,” Simon said inventively, and then clarified that this thing should be “like a Glade plug-in”.

Suddenly the skies parted and a two-man choir of angels dressed in Harry Potter outfits raised its angelic voice to the sky. A bit like this:


The fervour in the room escalated. Simon stood up. I also stood up. He flailed his arms. I panted. The choir just kind of stood there awkwardly.

“Glade plug-ins don’t stop. They just always fill the room with scent,” Simon shouted just a little too loudly.

Then we both reflected on how they do, but how usually that scent smells like toilet (albeit one bathed in lavender or cinnamon).

Making your toilet smell like food is weird.

“So if we could get something that plugged into an outlet and just let out charging energy, then all devices in the room could charge without the need to plug them in."

Ahhhhleeeeeluuuujaaaaa!

After some more discussion, we decided that maybe we should pitch this device more as “like wi-fi” than “like cinnamon-smelling toilet.” But whatever, potato potato (that works better when spoken, so be a dear and fake a red-neck accent for the latter, will you?).

We’ll take our round of applause now.

And in case somebody gets around to making it before us, just know that we created wireless iPhone charging. It was us.

Also, we still want that movie.

Please ask Angelina Jolie if she’d be interested in playing Simon.
 
Thanks.

*Sorry, I’m just not over this video just yet.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Styrofoam styrofab


A few days ago. Or was it weeks? Who’s keeping track anyway? I was trying to find pictures of homemade Styrofoam gaiters, so that I could, in the most descriptive, graphic way possible, share my childhood humiliation with whoever wanted to laugh at me.

You’ll be as shocked as I was, I’m sure, when I tell you that there are no pictures of homemade Styrofoam gaiters on the internet. None.

This of course means that my parents are evil geniuses and should be put in charge of the next Saw film because, dudes, they know a thing or two about torture.

Some of the things that did come up in my various searches included:

One life-size Styrofoam  four-wheel drive:

Loads of Styrofoam robots:

A kitten in Styrofoam


And this guy (WTF?):
I think the pictures speak for themselves...

The ultimate betrayal


Behold, this will be one of the many posts about Palace de Geyerstraße which I’ll write with just a tad too much attachment and then sob over when we’re living in a barn somewhere in the German countryside.

This is a story of The Mussa and his ultimate betrayal.

We first met The Mussa on our third day in Palace de Geyerstraße. We had ventured outdoors to admire our new home and were just in the middle of high-fiving, slapping each other’s backs and making wildly exaggerated hand signals because IT IS SO AWESOME when, out of nowhere, a little blur of white and orange dashed past us.

This blur turned out to be a rather cute ginger kitten, who proceeded to sit a few metres away and stare at us shyly from behind a twig, all giant paws here and large innocent eyes there. And we were all OMG SO CUTE! and immediately got on all fours and patted the ground.

Little known fact: this attracts kittens.

A dog or human or any other animal would consider this behaviour threatening and get the hell out of there. But cats are all WHAT IS THAT? WHY ARE THEY DOING THAT?  WHERE IS THAT CLICKING SOUND COMING FROM? Until it becomes irresistible and their buts begin to wiggle and the next thing you know, they’re in the centre swatting at anything that moves.

And that’s what happened with The Mussa. Within seconds he was purring and swatting and cuddling and we were THIS close to just hiding him under our jackets and taking him home. But we’re not that insane, and also we suspected that his owners would eventually come looking for him, and it would be awkward to explain why he was chained to my bed.

Instead we set up a regular routine whereby whenever we ventured outdoors, we’d scream “MUSSA” in a voice loud enough for The Mussa to hear, but not so loud as to let our neighbours know what was happening (moderately confident that we failed at that). And The Mussa would come screaming around the corner and greet us with his bunny face, and giant paws and pink nose and Awwwwww....

Things could have gone on like that forever, in those innocent pre-catnapping days, but they didn’t. One day in early March, after another successful interaction, The Mussa started trailing us. Every time we’d turn around, there he’d be half-heartedly hiding behind a wall or a car or a bike with a look of Take Me Home With You I Have Giant Bunny Paws. Just the kind of look that makes normal people want to cuddle him, but makes Simon and I want to put his head in our mouth.

The natural next step was to catnap him.(obviously).

Actually, if truth be told, we weren’t really planning to steal him. I mean, we had talked about it because OMG purring Mussa on the bed (!!!), but on the day it happened we were just being good Samaritans.We had returned from school to find The Mussa sitting in front of our door with pleading saucer-like eyes like My Adorable Bunny Paws Can’t Reach The Door Knob, Could You Help A Mussa Out? And we totally helped a Mussa out. What kind of sick, evil person wouldn’t help a Mussa out?

But of course we shouldn’t have helped a Mussa out because The Mussa didn’t live in our apartment building and was in fact just being a naughty, curious kitten. So when we opened the door he bolted inside and immediately made for the stairs.

What is it with cats and stairs?

He ran up six stairs, and then down two stairs, and then stuck his little bunny face out between the posts of the balustrade. And we were like “Ummm I don’t think The Mussa lives here. We should go grab him”. But there was no grabbing The Mussa because he had gotten to the stairs and the stairs are the Best Game in the History of Cat Games. One that goes like this: well-meaning human approaches; run up three stairs. Well meaning-human stops, come towards well-meaning human. When well-meaning human’s hopes are up, run up a few more stairs. Make sure to do this in a loud wooden, public stairway of well-meaning human’s new apartment block so that if the neighbours of well-meaning human come out to see what’s causing all the racket, they’ll be greeted by the sight of well-meaning human’s large arse chasing after a small ginger kitten.

We did not think much of this game, so we decided that maybe, yes, the kitten did live in the building and was totally screwing with us. Besides we didn’t want to get into a situation where we’d have to explain what we were doing via interpretive dance, (because remember this was in March and “accidentally let kitten into apartment block in failed display of charity” was not in our vocabulary just yet).

So, somewhat dejected, we opened the door to our apartment. And that’s when the cat expelled all of the energy it had in its body to shoot itself into our hallway and launch The Immediate Exploration of New Stomping Ground.

At first this was ADORABLE, so we cooed and took pictures like this one:


and this one.


But then, increasingly, we began to worry that a) The Mussa’s owner would somehow telepathically know that we had his cat and would do bad things to us and b) that in all of the excitement The Mussa would pee on something that didn’t belong to us. So we wrangled him up – chunky bunny feet and all – and gently placed him on the outside windowsill, thereby teaching him a valuable lesson: New Stomping Ground Has Convenient Access Point.

A few days later we were just sitting around and minding our own business when suddenly The Mussa appeared on Simon’s desk. Like Hello! He had climbed into the apartment through the window. Which, seeing as we live on the ground floor, might not seem like a big deal. But let me tell you, it’s a big deal.

In a feat of design ingenuity which has yet to reach Australia, European windows open in two ways: when the handle is horizontal they open like any other window, but when the handle is vertical and pointing upwards they only partially open from the top.

Here’s a diagram:


The Mussa managed to use his giant bunny feet to climb all the way up a partially-opened window (as per diagram 3) and into Simon’s room. Then, thoroughly impressed with himself, sat in the middle of the desk purring his approval.

And so it went; whenever The Mussa wanted to say hello, he’d stand at the window and if nobody let him in, he’d do it himself. When he wanted to leave, he’d sit on the inside windowsill with an expression of “I want to go outside and play with butterflies” and we’d fall all over ourselves to meet his requests.

Before long, he discovered that our bed was not a bad place to sleep, actually. And he wasn’t even creeped out by the way we’d all hold our breath, and stare and coo because OMG purring Mussa on the bed (!!!). And he’d get patted and loved and when he’d had enough he’d only have to twitch to make every human in the room  flatten themselves against a wall and cease breathing because, OMG the Mussa might leave. And we were happy. Oh so happy.



Did we think about his owners? Sure, we wanted to know who they were, why they let their super cute Mussa run around at all times of the day and night, and what they would think if they knew (really knew) just how much he wanted to be our cat instead of theirs. Did they even know HOW ADORABLE he was being?

But you just have to know that all good things come to an end.

One day all three of us were heading out to do something. Possibly in the morning. Possibly something to do with learning German and going to work. But I can’t back that up.

As we turned the corner we saw the most horrendous sight. There was a giant, beach-ball-esque man in a loud Hawaiian shirt holding OUR MUSSA on his shoulder and spiriting him into the apartment next door.

When he heard us coming he tried to do a quick, desperate scramble to get indoors before we saw his thieving ways, but he wasn’t fast enough, so he just gave us a guilt-ridden look, the kind he would have perfected as an enormous Hawaiian-shirt-wearing child when busted with his hand in the cookie jar (I’m not being mean, he’s a Mussa-napping criminal!).

We wanted to snatch The Mussa away, and explain to the large man that we were the catnappers on this block, thank you very much. But then something stopped us. The Mussa looked happy. Happy! Like, “yeah I’m going to play The Stair Game with this fool and see what happens”. I don’t want to exaggerate but I imagine this is what dying feels like.

Fat man, some shit gonna go down!

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Armageddon

I don’t know if you know this, but there’s a crisis at Geyerstraße. I don’t think that it will cause the world to end, but then again it might.

Here’s the thing, in just over a month Simon, Mark and I have to move out. On the 15th of August we have to pack all of our worldly belongings, which have somehow increased exponentially, and relocate. If you’re not screaming in outrage and clawing at your hair, you have an evil soul and the devil can’t wait to play chess with you.

For the rest of you, now-balding empathisers, I appreciate your understanding and your baldness. I think it’s quite becoming, actually. But maybe get a hat or a wig.

If you’re wondering where we’re going, you’re clearly stopping for breaks you lazy heartless beast! Tear harder! Didn’t you just hear me say we have to abandon our home?!

But, if you must know, we haven’t found a place to move to yet. We would have, only we were so busy being The World’s Worst Self-Sabotagers that we just didn’t get around to it.

Then yesterday, suddenly, we were like OMG WE HAVE TO MOVE OUT OF GEYERSTRAßE! WE HAVE TO PACK OUR STUFF! WE HAVE TO LEAVE THE GLOCH!...

But then we were like WE HAVE TO ORGANISE OUR RECYCLING IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER! I THINK WE SHOULD WEAVE A THROW OUT OF OUR BELLYBUTTON LINT*. GOOD THINKING, I’LL START COLLECTING! MAYBE NOW IS THE TIME TO START NAMING OUR FURNITURE? HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT “FLOUNCE THE FRIDGE”?!

And then we were like WHY ARE WE SHOUTING? Ummm... no idea...there was a reason...

OMG WE HAVE TO MOVE OUT OF GEYERSTRAßE!

Then we just kind of sat there wailing and talking about how we should have been looking for places and questioning why we’re so hopeless at life. Answer: those damn bottles all “Vio Wasser” next to “Coca Cola” like that...

Skip forward a few ingeniously-put-together German emails and a trip to the end of the earth (or 5kms from Munich city centre), and we’ve made our first steps into being responsible adults who don’t live on the street.

Of course there’s a chance that we’ll need to be severely medicated for depression when we leave our haven. There’s also a chance that we’ll bunker ourselves in and refuse to leave when the time comes. It's just this kind of unpredictability that will make the world end.

*It is my belief that women never acquire bellybutton lint. I’ve never had bellybutton lint. I also don't know how to knit...but a new throw would be nice.

Friday, June 17, 2011

I totally agree!

...about the whiskers and rainbows that is...

How we invented sodomy

Mark, Simon and I are scientific geniuses. I don’t think I take it too far by saying that the world suffers for every moment that we’re not in a laboratory wearing white coats, holding beacons and inventing stuff.

But since invention runs in our blood, sometimes we just can’t help ourselves.

Last night, about 32minutes after the peak of the lunar eclipse – Simon and Mark very nearly dressed in identical pyjamas – we walked down to the Isar to see if we could catch the eclipse. We could not. We were at least 32 minutes too late. Plus we hadn’t even brought a camera with us.

It was at this point that we decided that we are not functioning adults. Functioning adults would have planned the trip – looked up the optimal viewing place, charged the camera and gotten dressed in outside clothes.

So, after some thought, we invented Symbiotic Organism Duplicates; Officially Me and You. SODOMY...Oh wow! Hey! Is that a giant shitting bird flying overhead? Is that a giant shitting bird flying overhead?

Is that a giant shitting bird flying overhead?

Okay. Yes. The name needs a little revising.

The concept works like this:

Any time you need more of yourself than just one (like when you have ridiculous amounts of freelance work that you should be writing instead of a blog, per say), you just pull an extra you out from yourself. This SODOMY can do anything that you can, responds to questions and conversations in a manner that you would, but doesn’t suffer from crippling insecurities, sleep deprivation or McDonald’s cravings.

You can transfer your consciousness into whichever “you” that you want – so you don’t have to deal with things like long airfares, hangovers or awkward bedroom scenes. SODOMY is also dynamite in bed. And anything good that SODOMY does – like learn a language, work out, read – is immediately transferred onto you, so you can sleep or watch movies or hang out with friends while SODOMY works on your six-pack. If SODOMY does something bad, like catch a disease (bad SODOMY!), break a limb or procure a really bad memory, it has to deal with it alone. And you can destroy it for being such a dirty little slapper.

Tell me that wouldn’t solve like 90% of your problems. It would solve about 99% of my problems.

I’m not sure what that says about me.

The important thing is that you have to appeal to your government to let Simon, Mark and I loose in like a state-of-the-art lab. We’ll need ridiculous* salaries...and also human test subjects.

*Ridiculous in a good way, like “Agnes earns such a ridiculous salary, that sometimes she just buys a country”.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

The day I became a criminal


I don’t know why I haven’t mentioned this before; maybe because I like to bend the rules and walk on the wild side of life now. “Now” being as of last week when I was caught jaywalking by a German police officer.

This sounds a lot scarier than it actually was.

Being reprimanded by a German police officer in German seems like the sort of thing that would make you excrete liquid from all orifices in one explosive undertaking. You’d look at him, he’d look at you and the next thing you knew, you’d be wading through a pile of your own shit and organs, and explaining how in Australia everything is upside-down, so naturally red means go.

This is not a situation I ever envisioned myself in, since I’m not the sort of person who breaks the law (unless you count that time I got pulled over for speeding while driving my car, via screwdriver, from Canberra to Sydney...but that’s a WHOLE other story).

But you know what they say: it is amazing what McDonald’s cravings will make you do.

Let me set the scene:

Simon, my partner-in-crime, had a ghastly hangover; the kind that makes you question whether it wouldn’t have been more efficient to just remove your liver and let it marinate in a bottle of tequila. The kind of hangover that makes you crave McDonalds like a starved bush man out for burger blood.

I was not hung over, seeing as I have no social life. I mean, of course I have a social life, it’s just that it involves working and intensively pretending to learn German. Even so, I have my needs, so I agreed to go to McDonald’s with Simon and really punish some burgers.

Skip forward fifteen or so minutes and there we were, just a two-way street away from our destination and gagging for it.

The light was red. Meaning “don’t cross”.

Standing on the other side of the road, as noticeable as two tall German police officers in police uniforms, were two German police officers in police uniforms. Also meaning “don’t cross”.

So we looked them straight in the eye and, with a mixture of helplessness and desperation, began our slow descent into criminality.

Half way, at a pedestrian island, we briefly conversed about how two German police officers were watching us break the law. But it’s not like we could do anything about it. Our bodies were no longer under our control, so we crossed again.

When we made it to the other side, we half expected to be severely beaten with a brick or schnitzel or something...or at least shouted at. But the young police officer who came to do the reprimanding was both younger than us and a little bit frightened of the desperation in our eyes. So, after warning us that normally he’d charge us five euro for our crimes (seriously Germany?! It’s such an absurd amount that Simon had to ask the man to repeat himself!), he let us off. 

But now that I’ve had a taste for crime, I fear there’s no turning back...it’s just a matter of time before I tattoo my mother’s name or a picture of Big Mac across my heart.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

The camels are coming!

And I say that with all the frightening gravity that it implies. Australia is facing a new menace; one which comes with humps, a complete disregard for toilets and unquenchable thirst!

Being so far away from my homeland, you can imagine my grief and surprise when I read THIS ARTICLE and found out about the devastating turn of events.

Australia is under attack!

Australians grab your akubras, your barbecues and your shrimp – the time for action is now!

Read the article...skip over the part where the journalist mentions that there are more than 1 million rogue camels roaming the outback like incestuous relics of an 19th century hunting expedition. And that each one emits lethal methane: “a greenhouse gas significantly more potent than carbon dioxide” into the atmosphere.

We can worry about that later.

For now we have bigger problems. The camels are turning vicious!

According to a concerned source, by the name of Dr Moore, “If everyone knew what they were doing, people would be more concerned...especially when they start coming into town and kicking down your toilet.”

OH THE HUMANITY!

Apparently “hordes of thirsty camels descended on the small town [of Docker River in the southwest of Alice Springs] during a drought in 2009”.

The story doesn’t specify what happened during that dark, dry time in Docker River, but people need to know that their toilets are no longer safe!

So, to do my part, I’ve decided to write a movie that’ll document the incident. I imagine it will be a cross between Jaws and Snowtown

Here’s the poster:

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Pretty crier


Two nights ago I watched the finale of Germany’s Next Top Model. And wow... that show makes me want to slap food out of my own hand like, “Agnes, do you really need to jam that entire suckling pig into your mouth all at once like that?!” (Obviously yes or why would I have built a fire and set up a spit in the middle of the living room?)

So yeah, if you ever invite me to your house with the intention of showing me models, expect for things to get freaky. I do not get separated from food without a battle. Also if I accidentally slap you with a crowbar, I’m really sorry.

What I wasn’t prepared for when watching said reality TV show with said models, was the rude way in which the finalists looked stunning while having emotional breakdowns. THE NERVE!

As far as I’m concerned, crying is the domain of flared nostrils, contorted constipation faces and drool. When I cry, I look like an enraged piglet: wrinkly and pink and covered in slobber.  My face turns deep red, its muscles contract and twitch like epileptic seniors at a rave party and then my body releases an irrepressible, endless torrent of snot.

Oh the snot! It gushes from everywhere – my nose, my eyes, my mouth, my ears...and the next thing you know I’m in a kind of slimy clear cocoon, shaking, moaning and scaring all of the passengers on my bus.

But if I could just harness the ability to produce it at will, I could do some real good in the world. It is Niagara Falls powerful, so I should be able to at least find an alternative means of renewable energy or something. It could work like this:


We’re going to save the world, my gushing snot and I. And what have models ever done? Aside from making life beautiful with legs that connect to their chins, that is?

Friday, June 10, 2011

The bird shit incident

Actually I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned this earlier, because it has been one of the most traumatic events in my life; the day I had a shit shower.

How this shit shower came to be is a complete mystery. Mark, his brother Luke (who had come to Munich for a visit) and I were walking home from a successful afternoon of Squandering Our Money At Zara and H&M when, completely out of nowhere, all three of us – ALL THREE OF US AT THE SAME TIME (just take a moment to think about the logistics of that) – got completely and royally shat on.

And, can I tell you, the bird responsible had been into the Spanish cucumbers or sprouts or beans or beef or whatever it is that causes putrid, explosive diarrhoea.

The reason it’s such a mystery is because when we looked up to abuse the culprit with daggers, stones or, I don’t know, like a flesh-eating disease that would cause it some serious discomfort, we couldn’t find the bird. There was no bird. There was just blue sky, silence and a lot of shit.

And I mean for the volumes expelled, you would at least expect to see an elephant strapped to the outside of a plane or something.

For a few angry moments I thought that maybe it was a stupid prank played by someone in the neighbouring building, so I resolved to storm in and blast down the door of every apartment, smelling and shouting and gesturing wildly until I found the responsible party. Then I was going to throw them out of a window. Not the best plan, I admit, but as it turns out I turn quite irrational when I’m covered in shit. Guess I can knock that one off the list of “things I’d like to know about myself”.

Anyway, I wish there was a happy ending to this story, but seeing as there was no perpetrator, we just had to kind of slouch away and go home. We took the most deserted way there and couldn’t make eye contact with any of the people we passed along the way – I say “couldn’t” but I really mean “there was no fucking way we were going to make eye contact with anyone that wasn’t equally submerged in giant freak bird excrement.”

And that’s really all there is to say about that.

Oh, except: “if you’re out there freaky disappearing giant bird, you had better watch your back. I will get you and I WILL throw you out of a window!”

Paranoia: it’s a survival tool...and also possibly genetic

To say that I’m the most paranoid person in the world wouldn’t be fair to that guy who’s kept himself locked in his house with a cushion strapped to his head. You know him right? No? Well it’s probably because he’s kept himself locked in the house with a cushion strapped to his head.

In saying that, my levels of paranoia are probably only one Crime Library (or Wikipedia) entry away from forcing me to buy some serious padlocks and some serious knee and elbow pads...and possibly a Styrofoam helmet.

As far as I’m concerned, most things in this world are out to get me. Why else would an innocent stroll across a catamaran land me in hospital? Or why would the ground shift suddenly under my feet, landing me in the gap between the train and the platform?

To my utter mortification Mark is the furthest thing from paranoid, meaning if given the chance he would happily jump out of a plane without a parachute because “what’s the worst that could happen”? He actually thinks it would be fun (FUN, can you imagine?!) to get lost in a mountain range and try to survive until you found your way back to society. And no matter how many times I tell him that getting mangled by a bear, drinking water distilled from faeces (yes I watched that episode of Man vs Wild) or slowly starving to death would be the furthest thing from fun, he just can’t accept it.

I’m not sure where this comes from because he was born and grew up in Australia. Which, as my father reminded me daily before (and forever after) moving to its lethal sandy shores, will try to kill you if you’re not careful...and aren’t wearing homemade gaiters, a rashie and some sort of hooded baseball cap (Is it still called a baseball cap if it’s hooded and looks nothing like a baseball cap?)

Let’s take a moment to talk about my dad:

Firstly I think it’s important you know that he is a genius. The man is a medical physicist who occasionally writes computer programs in his spare time. You know, just to relax. His scientific mind means that he needs facts and statistics to correctly process new information and formulate his responses. He does a lot of formulating, my dad does.

So when he made the move to Australia with his young family, he made sure to read up on all of the scariest, deadliest creatures in his new homeland and prepare his kids and wife for the eventuality of being attacked. Which, according to the statistics, was high enough to warrant concern.

My sister and I were the only kids in primary school to know exactly where to hit a Great White Shark if it ever attacked (the gills and the eyes) and who could identify the deadliest Australian snakes. Fun fact: Australia has six of the world’s ten deadliest snakes, including a sea snake.

We were also the only children – and members of the only group of people – to visit perfectly safe tourist sites wearing homemade gaiters.

Just to clarify, gaiters are kind of like thick rainproof legwarmers which are worn over shoes and pant legs to protect limbs from deadly attacks (the kind you should expect at all times in an exotic land like Australia).

Usually they look like this:


But since we were poor Eastern Europeans doing it tough in a city that didn’t care, and since my dad is a genius and all, there was no way we were going to pay that kind of money for professional gaiters. Not as long as there was cheap polyester and Styrofoam to be bought and no sense of fashion to offend! Instead my parents put their genius and sewing know-how and Polish aesthetic together and produced something that looked vaguely like this:


Except less like a container and more like really offensive knee-high gaiters. Maybe one day I’ll be organised enough to scan a photo of the real deal. If you’re really lucky I’ll make it an awkward family shot.

My dad’s paranoia wasn’t limited to amphibians, fish, mammals or insects...when I broke my wrist rollerblading, for example, he spent the drive to the hospital telling me that I was about to have the most painful experience of my life. Nothing I had ever experienced before (including breaking my wrist) or would ever experience again (like childbirth, Two and a Half Men or death itself) would ever compare to what I was about to go through.

He even told me about how he had broken his leg or knee or something playing basketball as a young man, and had to be held down by four people while it was set back into place.

I was terrified, but actually it wasn’t that bad.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that when I become hysterical over heights/waves/feet/getting lost/my reflection/hypothetical diseases I might have contracted/anything else that suddenly comes my way, it’s my dad’s fault. Just you remember that...

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Rough as guts

Just so you know, this is what I imagine when you say that to me:

The glorious life of a freelancer

Our story begins on a stormy October evening, when our protagonist – who we shall refer to as Bob – sat on the edge of her bed plaiting her hair.

“Do you know what, mother?” she said to the wall on which she had drawn a face using lipstick, “You look like HELL! No, I mean you’ve really let yourself go. You should go get some eyebrows or something.”

Then, thoughtfully, picked up an eye pencil and carefully drew a monobrow above two beady lipstick eyes. Stepping back she examined the fruit of her labour then, after a lingering pause, thickened the brow.

“Mother, I think I’m going to go into freelance writing,” she announced changing the subject.

An ominous silence fell over the room.

THUNDER! LIGHTNING!

The wall smiled lopsidedly, but said nothing.

“Fuck you! I don’t need your support anyway!” Bob shrilled, knocking over a wardrobe and flinging herself out of the room, through a dark hallway and into an adjacent study.

THUNDER! LIGHTNING!

Muttering madly under her breath, she turned the computer on and began to write.

Years passed, the ice caps melted and yet she stayed unwavering, ever typing, ever muttering. Her hair was no longer braided, deep dark circles had set in under her eyes and her spine had twisted into a Dowager’s Hump (it’s a real thing, you know!).

One day, many seasons later, she let out a yelp and scampered back into her bedroom. Then, looking at a spot on the wall near her lipstick drawing – for it was very unbecoming indeed – she triumphantly announced, “Mother! I’ve finally made some money!”

And that’s more or less how I became a freelancer.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Huffing?


Last Saturday, after accidentally getting tipsy on beer, Simon, Mark and I went on a food binge. Beer has that effect, and the meagre holdings of our fridge and pantry could not satisfy our carnal appetites. We. Wanted. NOODLES!

So we stormed to almost the closest Thai place (the closest one looks like a poor man’s casino and is the subject of a raging debate.  Simon thinks that sweaty decor, pokie machines and a constant influx of clientele means the cuisine is amazing...Mark thinks that if we eat there we’ll surely perish – either by salmonella or lack of chicken).

The restaurant we went to instead is always rather empty and dimly lit which, for the purposes of staying inconspicuous while being drunk, suited us just fine.

I’m not going to take you through the story of how we started gnawing our waitress’s ankles out of hunger or how we shamelessly licked our plates clean when the food had arrived. Instead, I’ll involve you in the mystery of the English language.

While we were waiting for our meal to arrive – starving and eyeing Mark (he’d be the first to get eaten if our apartment ever crashed into a cold, uninhabited mountain peak) – Simon suddenly picked up his spoon and...well, we’re still not sure what the correct word for what he did is. It seems we’ve found a gap in the English language.

Effectively, he blew hot air onto the spoon making it steam up. Mark was convinced that this action is called “huffing”. Like “Simon, why are you huffing at that spoon?” But when I hear that sentence, I immediately imagine Simon in pseudo-cartoon form with the nose of a raging bull, blowing hot air through wide, angled nostrils.

After saying it a couple of times, Mark, changed his mind too.

“It’s called fogging up,” he said with renewed confidence, “Simon, why are you fogging up that spoon?”

My imagination was right there with him, setting a scene where Simon put his nose near the spoon and started blowing out smoke – as if from a smoke machine – shrouding the spoon and everything around him in fog.

But Mark was sure.

For lack of a better alternative – and to get the image out of my head – I suggested it was called “steaming up”. Like, “Simon, why are you steaming up the spoon?”

After a few repetitions of all three alternatives we became confused and disoriented, so we changed the topic...and it was never mentioned again. Anyone got any insight?

P.S.
Just in case you were wondering: Simon had steamed up/fogged up/huffed the spoon to stop the blinding reflection of candlelight. That stuff can be brutal!