B minus

2011-09-11T08:31:00.000-07:00

B MINUS can now be found at:
http://bminus.net.au

Personal Space, the first human right.

2010-02-24T21:32:00.000-08:00

You may have gathered from previous blog entries that my general tolerance towards humanity is - LOW. I'm talking deep blue sea low, where long lost Titanic artifacts are still hiding.

I'd like to think I am not a horrible person. However, I cannot help but judge the felon who goes panning for gold up his nose like he's on a primary school excursion at Sovereign Hill, salvages a nice ball of snot and fashions it into a medallion, appraising his artisan skills before throwing it onto the ground.

Did I mention this was all aboard a peak hour tram? I'm sorry but where is the KGB when you need it? This guy should have been summarily shot. I was so sickened by his despicable display of humanity I was certain nothing would give me greater satisfaction then seeing his head stuffed into a life size Petri dish filled to the brim with human snot and shoved into an incubator quicker than Sylvia Plath's head in an oven. I could think of nothing greater than watching him suffer as moulds of snot bacteria multiplied and grew and grew until it started to suffocate him. I'd sit eyes wide, mouthing 'Where's your Kleenex now, bitch?'

Alas, my sadistic hopes of a better future diminished and I stopped and wondered why I had become so angry with this human being. And it dawned to me that I was so angry because this pig of a man had invaded my personal space.

Personal space is something that I think until it is challenged we take for granted. It should be common law that spatial boundaries are enforced at all times and punitive measures should be instated for those people who disobey these laws.

I know I sound like a sadistic visionary but yesterday I was a recipient of a 'SPACE INVADER' - someone who's ultimate goal in life is to make other honest civilians feel uncomfortable by having no concept whatsoever of personal space.

I have recently acquired a second job on Sydney Road, where some of your more unsavory folk reside. Naively I believed that these derelicts and I would not cross paths since I work in a relatively nice female clothing store and what business would a drunk geriatric have in one of those?

As I tediously, but accurately spaced out the coat hangers on a densely packed clothes rack, that would give illegal immigrants trying to cross the Australian boarder a run for their money, I noticed a mystical being enter the shop. An elderly man wearing a Middle Eastern turban and kaftan drifted through the glass doors, with one Croc on.

There was something a little NQR with this fella. Despite my instincts I acted jovial - it was a dead day and I needed to make a sale, and really you just never know with men who go shopping alone. Who am I to judge him if he wants a pink mohair sweater, especially with winter approaching? But no, he wanted nothing of the sort, what he wanted was much more sinister.

He completely ignored my well versed 'Hey how are you going today?' - if I hadn't assumed there was going to be a potential language barrier I would have thought it to be completely rude. And he headed straight for the counter, patiently waiting for me to meet him there.

Quickly dashing over with high hopes that he just might be my million dollar cross dresser and my sales would instantly soar, I tried not to look discouraging. He could trust me, I would show him some threads that would accentuate his waist, minimise his hips. He'd be a vision by the time I would be through with him. Instead he nodded, not saying a word and rifled through his kaftan pocket.

I was a dead woman. I could see it in his eyes, as he continued to explore the labyrinth that was his pocket, looking for that pistol about to blow my head off. I thought about the stainless steel kettle under the desk and if I would have enough time to throw it at his face, but even then my aim since a young age was horrible. I thought about all that was important to me, how I had never finished watching Season 4 of 30 Rock, how I would never write for Neighbours and how I would die with a full tank of petrol in my car the day I switched to premium unleaded.

Just as I was compiling a mental will of who would be the proud owner of my near dead miniature Catci Farm and Cabbage Patch Doll Collection, his arm proceeded to exit his pocket holding an old and battered laminated business card which read 'I READ PALMS'.

My instant reaction was to get the kettle and risk missing his head. I didn't want to kill him, at worst just knock him out for a few hours. I had strategically chosen his head because he was wearing a turban and due to the thickness of fabric I could be sure his cerebellum to some degree would be protected. I'd then drag his limp body to the Brunswick Club, where fellow alcoholic geriatrics would find him in the men's bathroom and use his body as a limbo stick while listening to Gold FM. This of course giving me enough time to hurry back to the shop, put on a 'Camera Obscura' album and be the graceful sales assistant I am. But I knew pragmatism would win today and so I politely said 'no thanks'.

This is when he did the unthinkable - he reached over the counter with the tenacity of a cougar in a David Attenborough documentary and leapt for my hands. Unknowingly I assumed he was a Cat Stevens enthusiast who bought furniture from Ishka, instead he was a SPACE INVADER. This had become a real life story of invasion, the invasion of personal space. I jumped back and raised my palms for the world to see (before quickly scrunching up my hands into tiny balls in case that was all he needed to make a prognosis) and again mouthed, more slowly this time 'NO THANK YOU'.

And again, he reached for them. His natural agility was a force to be reckoned with, despite me moving further away from him he was able nearly capture his humble prey. He had done this before, he was a devout space invader. The symptoms were all there, not recognizing the laws of personal space, attempting to touch human flesh that was not your own (that’s one step away from molestation and two away from rape if you ask me) and acquiring a rich divorcee’s mentality of ‘I’ll try again’.

I could not bare the thought of having my palms read - if he said one bad thing, my life would be ruined for at least the next decade. I would replay it over and over; permanent bags slowly forming under my eyes, bed sores because I would spend the majority of my week sprawled across a psychiatrist’s couch and have developed a penchant for sucking my thumb.

Uhuh, he was not going near my palms (now sweaty) not now or ever. He must of seen how pale my complexion had become (No, this was not the time to tell him I have a iron deficiency) and realised he had in 5 minutes ruin the life of this innocent shop attendee and recoiled back, similarly the way Cat Stevens might in his seat after losing a Grammy. And mumbled 'YOU HAVE GOOD LIFE' and left the shop.

Finally awarding personal space, the most underappreciated spatial concept since paying to seen an empty room at MoMA with a B-.

Subway, my worst nemesis: Part I

2010-02-16T03:14:00.001-08:00

I'm no Evil Coneveal, but sometimes I like to live dangerously. Yes, I admit there is a little dare devil that resides deep within in me - one that has caused me on occasion to jay walk across busy roads, eat half a tuna sushi hand roll after it had been in my bag for 1 hour in 30 degree heat (needless to say I was bed ridden the next day) and return DVDs back to my local Blockbuster after their due date. But for every misgiving today, there is a consequence tomorrow and recently I have resorted to a mediocre lifestyle sans the danger that lies in salmonella poisoning.

Despite this, last week I was tempted by unadulterated pure evil. This evil presented itself in a 6inch subway on wheat bread. Yes, that is right last week the devil incarnate rained 6grams of fat or less on my existence.

Every Tuesday I work from 11am to 6pm by myself in an arcade that shares it space with a Subway franchise. Naturally the 'freshly baked' baguettes' aroma occupies the general atmosphere of this small space, but I have fought with myself time and time again and resisted this intoxicating smell. It's not like I even like Subway, in fact you could say I detest Subway with every fibre of my being.

Yes, I am aware that channeling so much hostility towards a salad sandwich bar is unnatural. But you'd feel the same way too if Subway over the years had treated you as badly, as it has treated me. And with this I present to you my inaugural blog trilogy, because this entry is all too overwhelming for me to write in one sitting.

It all started in 1998, I was in the vigor of my youth, I was 9 years old and my parents took my sister and I to our first overseas holiday to the US of A. Women walked cats on leashes on Venice Beach, Men flashed fake Rolexes on the inner lining of their trench coats on the streets of New York and children instead of being locked in casino car parks were allowed to walk in them in Las Vegas! Despite all of these peculiarities for a 9 year old to comprehend I remained unscathed, the euphoric of going to Hoover Dam was all too much. That was until I saw Subway for the first time in my life.

How had I never heard of this fast food chain? Was I unknowingly living in a third world country? I felt robbed of the five dollars I had given to Caritas (a Catholic organisation that gave water and education to children in Africa) - surely Australia needed that money to keep up with their fast food contemporaries. This wasn't a Hungry Jacks to Burger King metamorphosis, I didn’t just awake from a slumber only to find I was now a cockroach. This was something else. I knew right then and there this was the American dream.

So my parents willfully took my sister and I there for lunch. People were standing in line like they were at a soup kitchen, in slow intervals they would take one step to the left like they were learning to read Arabic. There was no bay Marie with chips or a deep fryer (a real girl’s best friend), there was no children's alternative and what struck me the most was that there were no free toys.

I know it was 12 years ago but to this very day the revelation that a junk food meal could survive without the allure of a toy still haunts me. I mean what was the point of eating healthy if you were not going to be rewarded? At least at McDonald’s they didn’t attempt to hide the truth, well not then anyway. They were honest: fancy death by super size? Cool, here’s a PVC ornament to hang off your tombstone.

While I was thinking about pioneering your typical Italian tombstone with mini my little ponies instead of life size statues of Mary the Virgin Mother of God, my family stood staring at the menu board in awe.

The D.I.Y baguette changing lives forever. If there is one thing people like it is power over the most futile things. No one wants to be Prime Minister, but everybody wants to have control of the television remote. It gets even more ludicrous then this. Have you ever noticed when you’re on a bus or tram and there’s that one freak who HAS to press the stop button before everyone else. It’s like ‘hey, did you see that? You wanted to press it, but you didn’t and you won’t I got stop 23 covered. For life. Coffee?’

Well that is how my parents and sister felt. I could see it in their eyes, bossing around ex felons turned sandwich artists. They had been waiting for power like this their entire lives. I guess this is how the Medicis felt when they commissioned Michael Angelo to paint the ceiling of the Sisteen Chapel – “Yeah Michael Ang, you’re great at what you do. But it doesn’t work like that you see. Fuck the fresco painting. We want a ceiling painting. So basically we’ll pay you to lie on your back for three years on unreliable scaffolding while you paint some naked dudes sitting in the clouds trying to touch hands and if your lucky you’ll probably sustain a life long neck injury!”

My family had joined the baguette reigns, excited by the endless salad combinations that they could manifest. On the contrary I stood looking at the menu board perplexed. I just wanted a sandwich; I didn’t want to play a game of salad Cluedo.

What type of sick individual wakes up one morning and sees a business venture in chicken teriyaki and jalapeños in a cheese and herb Italian sub? It’s called the Blockbuster Foreign Film section buddy, don’t fuck with my diet because of your fetish for cross culture contamination. I mean put on a rubber glove, look at a picture of Audrey Tatou and play an ABBA record if you want a cultural experience, but please don’t dampen my culinary experience. What type of deranged lunatic goes to Ikea to order the Pad Thai? Swedish meatballs all the way.

I was mortified that this institution even existed that I became paralysed with fear. I wanted to leave so badly. I wanted to go back to all that was fruitful and right in the world – the golden arches. I wanted diluted Coca Cola, I wanted a PVC toy to fuel the onset of my hoarding addiction, I wanted to bend over and nurse stomach cramps because my blood thickened with every French fry I devoured. Except I had lead my family and myself to junk food purgatory, there was no escape. This definitely wasn’t heaven since Elijah Woods circa. North (my first ever childhood crush) wasn’t waiting for me in Hawaiian board shorts with his arms outstretched, but it couldn’t be hell because the food they sold didn’t actually KILL YOU.

It was nearing our time to order and I was growing more fearful by the second. How could I, the single most indecisive person in the world construct my own sandwich? I mentally racked my brain, trying to conjure up salad combinations that might work well, but each was fatally flawed by cross-cultural contamination. How could I choose between Italian meatballs AND thousand Island dressing? I liked both, picking one over the other would be sacrilege. A mother doesn’t discard her first born with yesterdays trash, when she finds out she is pregnant again. And while I agree that is a drastic comparison it was my exact thought process, you keep both. Except you don’t eat your children which made my quest to find the perfect combination infinitely more difficult.

My family had nearly finished ordering. The pressure was mounting, like when a pimple grows three days before you get your period and think ‘oh shit, can’t wear my white flares from Sussans on Wednesday’. I desperately searched the walls for a memo that might explain the ordering etiquette. I didn’t want to be that greedy Australian girl who chose 6 salad toppings when the threshold was 4. As I quickly listed the pros and cons of choosing jalapeños over pickles, I could feel your Subway Jarrods standing impatiently behind me with the hopes of losing an inch off their waist by the end of their lunch break. I was losing the battle.

How could ordering a sandwich be so complicated? How could it make me feel so worthless? If I couldn’t take the simple measures to construct a sandwich of my own devices, then surely life was not worth living. My mother kept pestering me to make up my mind, and then she did the worst thing imaginable – she ordered for me.

Obviously as a 9 year old I was not entitled to many privileges that were concerned with my general well-being, so to compensate I held with supreme reverence the freedoms associated with choosing what I ate. But no, some divine spirit had to intervene and ruin my life. My mother had got it all wrong and worse I was made a spectacle of – I was not that greedy little Australian girl, but that little Australian girl whose mother still orders her food. I had been stripped of my dignity and publicly vilified. That was the day the American dream died (and a little bit of my soul with it).

I vowed to never eat Subway again…

I am 21 years old, and yes I did nearly wet my pants (in public).

2010-02-07T22:08:00.000-08:00

Last Tuesday I was unwillingly placed in a rather deep and confronting ethical dilemma: I MISSED AN EPISODE OF NEIGHBOURS.

For those of you who do not know me, let me put it simply - if Neighbours ever got axed, I would have no reason to live. This is actually a real concern of mine, Neighbours began the year I was born so essentially I do not know of an existence sans Australia's favourite soap and refuse to even begin to imagine a life without it.

So how did 1 devout fan subside into audience apathy and miss an episode? Let me explain.

Every Tuesday I finish work in the city at 6pm. Most Tuesdays I drive to the tram stop to ensure in the evening I will get home between 6.45-6.55, which gives me enough to time to witness the most crucial happenings on any given episode of Neighbours. And in order for I to function like a normal functioning member of society it is mandatory I have my daily dose of Ramsay St.

So last Tuesday, on a whim I decided against driving to the tram stop and instead walked the 800m to the bus stop (that is up hill, bitches and I haven't actually exercised since P.E. was compulsory in year 10 ie. 2004) to initiate my short lived mantra of 'get fit or die trying'. But like most positive steps I take in life, this was thrown in my FACE.

During the day at work to compliment my Olivia Newton John Let's Get Physical intoxication I made every effort to drink my 1.5L bottle of Coles 99c water and in the 7 hours I worked did not go to pee once. I could feel my stomach expand - the waist band on my skirt felt tight, I had to waddle when I walked and occasionally I would do pirouettes when people were in the shop to stop potential urine from rushing down my leg like an invalid at a nursing home (THIS IS NOT A GENERALISATION: i witnessed this when I was 8 years old and visited my Great Grandmother but that is a traumatic story best left for an entry of its own). Despite all of these warning signs I still refused to go to the bathroom.

Finally it is 6 o'clock. I run to the Flinders Street Station to catch the 6.09 train and what do you know? The train is delayed. And what happens? I became one of THOSE people. You know the type of person I am talking about - the type of person who after the automated voice confesses the train is running late purses their lips together and begins to huff and puff in 1 minute intervals, shakes their head from side to side and folds up their copy of the MX as if to say 'this fucking train is so late I have already finished reading this piece of shit' and then begins to pace in front of the yellow line backwards and forwards, so that they have the capacity to crane their head forward and look into the mirage that is the train that never arrives.

Looking back on my behavior, I guess I am a little embarrassed - but at the time I was so infuriated that my one true vice had been taken away from me that I had to act out.

Then it hits me - I need to pee, I haven't peed since 9am that morning. Then I start to freak out, will I drown in my own urine, what if I got a U.T.I (god knows I didn't wanted to go there again) or WORSE what if my toxins metamorphose into Lilliputians ala Gulliver's Travels and take me prisoner of my own body. Naturally this is when the train arrives.

I'm convinced as I lunge forward and onto the train that I feel my bladder muscles subside and a trickle of urine follows. But I cannot be sure since after years of being toilet trained how can one remeber what it is like to lose control of ones bladder. I take no risks and push my way past the slow walking commuters and ground myself on a seat - I would not be giving up this seat for any elderly or pregnant person tonight, it was a rat race: me vs my bladder.

Throughout the train ride I do that thing you do when you desperately need to pee and clench my 'pee' muscles, even when I'm running to my bus I continue clenching - clenching so hard I'm convinced my bladder would have looked like a balloon fashioned into a poodle. I clench so hard I miss my bus stop and get off a stop later.

I get off the bus and begin to run. This is a 911 emergency. I fear the worst, I call my mum to pick me up - no answer. I know if I stop I'll resemble Niagara Falls during the rain season. I call her again - no answer.

As I am running through the bushland and shrubbery to get to my house, it crosses my mind that perhaps I should publicly urinate.

The only time I had publicly urinated was during year 9 survival camp in 2003 and even then I changed into a Target skirt that had an inverted triangle as a hem so when I crouched to pee
a) no pee would make contact with my skin or clothes
b) no bushland creeps, pervs or marsupials could see my vajay and
c) I had invented that first urine teepee (it was such a revelation that other girls wanted to borrow it but uhuh, i wasn't going to catch HEP B at the expense of popularity).
These memories came flooding back and I knew I didn't have it in me. That I would inadvertantly choose a life of wearing nappies to avoid the scorn of public urination.

I was left with one last option - calling Shane. I debriefed him and under no circumstance was he to stop talking until I made it home. If there was ever a time I needed moral support it was now. So what does he do? He recaps the entire episode of Neighbours I am currently missing (mourning). With every detail he throws my way I become thirsty for more that I begin to break out into a sprint in an effort to catch the last 5 minutes. The faster I run the more I have to pee. I needed to get home. I needed to see Donna's sex tape exposed, I needed to see Ringo's face, I needed to see Susan Kennedy's judgemental eye. Neighbours had become my Rita Hayworth.
This was my shawshank redemption.

I hang up the phone. And. Ran. I could see my house. I threw my possessions on the ground and run to the bathroom with all my might. With the force of a faucet exploding I knew it would be okay because I would have the teenage adultery cliffhanger to offer me solace. Then my world came crashing down as I sat on that ceramic bowl and heard that iconic anthem and I knew I was too late. There would be no Neighbours tonight.

Finally awarding bursting bladders, the sure way to induce a bit of unexpected drama into your mundane life and reaffirm your disturbing passion for 'good neighbours' with a B-.

The Day I Found My Religion

2009-11-12T01:31:00.000-08:00

Today I found my religion.

No I did not visit a church, buy a pair of Rosary Beads from Sportsgirl or convince myself that my Vegemite toast had a stark resemblance to Mary the Virgin mother of Christ.

No, not at all. Today I found 3 smalls pimples in the shape of a triangle on my freaking neck.

Of all the places for the Holy Trinity to land did it have to be of my neck? And did this have to happen on a 34 degree day. At least if it was still winter I could wear a scarf, maybe people would think I was covering a hickey - give them the illusion I was 'bad ass' or something. Perhaps if my skin wasn't so pale I could find a concealer stick at Priceline that matched my complexion and cover it up. But hey, that's not an option when you don't have Eva Longoria skin tones.

Much like cattle I had been branded, albeit in a less excruciating way, and chose to embrace my stamp of christianity and leave the house sans makeup and scarf.

As I entered the public realm with the Messiah's passport temporarily tattooed on my neck a myriad of thoughts flooded through my cerebellum:

1. Was I Alanis Morissette in Dogma aka the Female Messiah?
2. Had God finally chosen to repent my sins after an abysmal performance as Mary in my primary school nativity play in 1999, where I nearly tripped over my blue veil because I could not carry the sheets of various blue silks on my head because they were too heavy (I'M SORRY ALRIGHT) by choosing me to be the vessel for a modern day miracle?
3. Should I start my campaign for canonization by becoming the second Australian Saint?
4. Did a spider bite me during my sleep or would I be visiting my local ProActiv stand tomorrow?
5. Should I buy one can of tuna tomorrow and see if I can feed 3000 people with it?

I guess I'll never know why God chose me to bare the father, son and the Holy spirit as red pustules on my neck but I am truly grateful to be the recipient of a modern day miracle.

FInally awarding my pimple triangle, a loosely translated message from God or the new brail alphabet with a B-.

Le Crossiant Des Halles' $6 Salad Roll

2009-08-27T05:22:00.000-07:00

Today I had a 2 hour break at uni. Usually during my two hour break I will bring my laptop to school and do some last minute homework in the library while smuggling in a salad wrap and watching World of Warcraft nerds schvitz. But today I decided to "mix things" up, live a little, you know how it is.

So how did I decide to embrace my new found freedom? I bought a salad roll.

After doing some last minute Birthday shopping for a friend and buying some pomegranate molasses at David Jones Foodhall (a food junkie's mecca) I regrettably started the pilgrimage back to uni. However, being the thrill seeker I am decided to take a different route back to school, that being via Elizabeth Street rather than Swanston Street.

After wondering through the market and hearing "two dollars" in about seven different accents, I had the burning desire to eat something right there and then. While I was tempted to buy four cheeses for ten dollars, the thought of being constipated for a week as a result caused a heavy strain of disillusionment.

Walking back to the tram stop on an empty stomach I had convinced myself that a string of unfortunate events would ensue as a result of ignoring my hunger - stomach rumbling loudly during class, like that time it did when I was in grade 3 while I was waiting to give my penance in an empty church with 10 others, if that doesn't scream spawn of satan I don't know what will. Let's face it I'm not equipped (both mentally and emotionally) to deal with that sort of stress (again).

Then there it was Le Crossiant Des Halles. Now a few ago I had an unpleasant experience at this eatery. Let me set the pace: Year 2006, Year 12, exam mode. Naturally I was left with no choice but to eat my feelings. Desperate for a fix of my one true vice - carbs - I stumbed into the aforementioned and was so overwhelmed by the choice of croissants I unwisely ordered a Cheese and asparagus one. If memory serves me correctly I'm pretty sure I devoured that motherfucker in under a minute and in less than two minutes was bending over nursing the worse cramps of my life. I vowed to never enter this institution again.

That was until a couple of hours ago. Desperately hungry I walked in, immediately noticing they offered the D.I.Y salad roll. In the past my experience with the D.I.Y salad bar has been negative, stingy fucks with their paper thin slices of cucumber and soggy tomato but I was in life and death situation I needed to eat.

Ordering a salad roll consisting of avocado, lettuce, beetroot, tomato, carrot, cucumber and cheese I nearly fainted when the lady only asked for 6 dollars. Retelling this story I totally would have paid 6000.

Before even walking out of the store I took a bite of the roll and oh my god. Words cannot and will not ever be able to describe what happened. It was the most delicious salad roll I have ever eaten. It was colossal. It was magical. I could continue but we get the general picture.

I was so fixated on this salad roll that I jaywalked through a red light (you can get a $50 fine for shit like that!) and with every bite I was closer to heaven. I had seriously become one of those people who A Current Affair secretly film eating in the streets, then lace the footage with "Obesity Pandemic" - but after today I am very proud to bare that title.

The roll was so big that the filling fell out into the paper bag and began to seep, usually I'd throw these leftovers out. Not today, finally reaching uni I found a private spot where I could share my last moments with this salad roll - a place where I wouldn't be judged for my fleeting rendezvous. Head tilted backwards it was the only way I could devour slices of beetroot that were bigger than my head.

In what was essentially ten minutes, I had experience so much joy that I didn't even wash the beetroot stains off my hands so I could be reminded during class of the events which had unfolded.

Finally awarding Le Crossiant Des Halles' $6 Salad Roll both goliath and deeply sensual with a B-.

Drag Me To Hell

2009-08-20T02:48:00.000-07:00

Two days ago I lost a button off my shirt. Generally this type of thing doesn't phase me. I mean the intent is always there, that I will embrace my "euro old country mani di fata" ways and repair the article of clothing, but 9 times out of 10 this is not the case.

Despite my usually nonchalant stance on such trivialities, I have been obsessively thinking about this button for the past 48 hours. Waking up in cold sweats, looking over my shoulder, watching numerous Pro-Activ infomercials because I am too afraid to sleep are just some of the symptoms I have been burdened with. And why you ask, am I currently living in a state of hysteria? Four words:

Drag Me To Hell.

On Sunday despite some previously mentioned trouble with my car, I saw Drag Me To Hell, appropriately at Highpoint. Not knowing anything about this film except:
1. Justin Long was in it
2. Alison Lohman was in it
3. And being told "It's about being nice to old ladies or they will kill you"
I decided to deviate from my usual "I can't watch horror movies for fear I'll have a nervous breakdown like that chick who watched Scream" mantra and took a leap in faith.

Fucking mistake of the century. I'm not saying the film was bad, it was actually quite hilarious, but not realising the film was a parody until about 40 minutes in probably didn't help. I was fearing for my life and at one stage I had to take off my necklace because I was afraid it would break due to spontaneously jumping full of fear.

Finally, after seeing a kitten get slaughtered, an eyeball come out of a pie and then get stabbed by a fork, and a dead woman falling out of a coffin and embalming fluid almost drowning Lohman ie. "the cursed one" I left feeling like I had done a great deed. Seeing a horror movie and for the most part remaining mentally unscathed.

That was until I lost my button. It will all become very clear to you once you watch this:

Drag Me to Hell - Trailer
Uploaded by dreadcentral. - Classic TV and last night's shows, online.

Despite having about 1 million outstretched arms in that 2 minute clip, you would have noticed the old woman rip a button from Christine aka Lohman. Angry that Christine refuses her an extension on her mortgage she seeks your everyday common bout of revenge ie. BURNING IN HELL FOR EFFING ETERNITY. But before Mrs. Ganush can wreak havoc she needs a possession of Christine's to activate the curse etc etc. and what does she choose - a mother fucking button.

Now you can call it paranoia, but I am going to call it a really bad coincidence. Hence, why I now think I have the curse of the lamia and will be condemned to burn in hell for eternity. There have been slight disruptions to the last two days which have caused me to speculate the worst:
1. Today a truck broke the review mirror of the tram I was on, causing it to be delayed. -- 7 years bad luck or burning in hell for eternity, I'll let you be the judge.
2. I woke up uncharacteristically early this morning and felt so inclined to make a salad wrap. When it came to time to devour this morsel, it tasted like a fucking banana.

Tomorrow will be the "third" day of the curse, now I do not want to ruin the ending of a great film but lets just say if my life mirrors the progression of this film - my chances look slim. What's worse is that the moral of the film essentially is being kind to strangers or karma will have its revenge tenfold. So what does this mean for me? Does this mean I will have to be nice to people for the rest of my life?

I'd rather burn in hell.

Finally awarding the button in Drag Me To Hell both decorative and cursed with a B-.

The day I opened my car bonnet (for the first time)

2009-08-17T04:31:00.000-07:00

There comes a time and place where a woman must learn to take the reigns off her fellow male counterpart and yesterday I did just that. Yesterday, for the first time in 2 years I opened the bonnet of my car (by myself).

Yesterday as I was just about to leave my humble abode and grace the even humbler Highpoint aka. "Knifepoint" to see Drag Me To Hell my car got freaky and not in a "bow chic bow wow" way, but in more of "if you drive me you'll be a cripple for life, bitch" kind of way. Naturally, I freaked out and noticed the unfamiliar presence of a watering can on my dashboard. I turned off the car with deep regrets that I would miss the 12.30 session of Drag Me To Hell and sat in my car starring out the wind screen watching the rain pour while pretending I was in a bad Sugar Ray videoclip. Little did I know that my life was about to change forever.

Hapless, vulnerable and beginning to look like a creep just sitting in my car as normal functioning cars kept driving by, it dawned upon me that it was time to embrace my inner mechanic. I mean if Steph Scully could do it on Neighbours, why couldn't I? I mean sure I wasn't wearing Ed Hardy like Ramsay Street's favourite "biker chic", but who needs sequins and skulls and cross bones when you can feel sheer determination within your bones?

Sitting in my car, I reminisced sitting in the Shell Car Park only months before, waiting for the RACV man when my battery stopped working.
RACV man: Can you open the bonnet?
Me: How do you do that?
It was not something that I would soon forget.

Though yesterday was different, it was time for change. Leaning forward and only after opening my car boot by accident, I pulled the lever that unharnessed the bonnet. Standing in the rain, fringe pinned back and hood on I looked like the Grim Reaper about to strip me of my femininity.

Expecting the bonnet to function like a car boot I was grief stricken when I realised there was more to opening the bonnet then merely pulling a lever. I would need brute strength, skill and heavily tuned fine motor skills to open this Japanese Puzzle Box.

After fidgeting for a few seconds* to my bemusement the bonnet opened, I then secured it with a steel pole (obviously I've really mastered the specifics of the car's interior) like I had witnessed the RACV man do. And until this day (one day later) it is the greatest achievement of my life.

As I had erected my own little metal haven my parents pulled up beside me asking me what was wrong, when I told them a flashing watering can appeared on my dashboard causing my car to threaten acts of evil. Ummm, HELLO, did they not see that I had just opened the bonnet? Was this not an occasion to be celebrated? Was I overreacting? Is Steph Scully not really that "post modern" after all? Will I be unblocking the toilet tomorrow (probably explains why my Mum left a bottle of Drain-O in my bathroom)?

My parents then looked at my car manual telling me there was no so called "watering can"? And that it was an oil can. Volkswagen need to get their semiotics sorted. Watering can, oil can, genie lamp - there's a very fine line.

When asked to start my car again it worked perfectly, as if I had fabricated the entire debacle perhaps subconsciously to avoid a visit to "knifepoint" shopping centre. The universe was against me, had I become Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire? It was a possibility. But what I learnt yesterday was that I was a product of divine intervention, something greater had a plan for me - and that plan was to open my car bonnet.

Finally awarding myself, self certified mechanic and bonnet opener with a B-.

*10 minutes

Le En Suite.

2009-01-25T19:21:00.000-08:00

In my absence a few ideas have come to mind, however the other day I had a very normal mundane experience that instilled me with a great sense of pleasure. Yes that's right, I used my parents toilet.

For the sake of my readership, existent or otherwise I have paved some formalities in this entry so that it does not turn to a blog fest about the shape, colour and turtle shell tiled pattern of my shit. However, I think that cause was lost just moments ago. A few months ago my sister and I implemented what we have now learned to call the "Sister Rule", since we share a bathroom and toilet (yes, we are deprived of an en suite) we now have a formality where we say these magic words and know instantly that the toilet is out of bounds for obvious reasons, for a time frequency ranging anywhere from the bare minimal of 5 minutes to at least 30 minutes. We spare ourselves from longer periods of toilet absence by not consuming an assortment of curries and only ever eat felafels on special occasions, after all our parents are paying rent - so why not use the house's resources to their fullest potential, right?

The other day my sister employed the laws of the Sister Rule leaving me with two options when I needed to frequent the bathroom.
1) The downstairs guest bathroom
2) My parents en suite only a few meters away...

Now in the past I found some absurd things in my parents' bathroom, things that children do not want to know about their parents no matter how much they love them and have over my years, grown to avoid using their bathroom unless I'm stealing hair product, my mother's expensive make up from France (the Eurotrash gene did not escape me, what better way to have Frida from ABBA eyelashes' then using French mascara?) or some of Libra's best merchandise. But on this particular day I was watching Ellen and it was a commercial break and I had another two options which faced me:
1) Do I use the downstairs bathroom and miss Ellen
2) Do I use my parents' bathroom and NOT miss Ellen

Obviously as an Ellen patron, the latter was my only option as it had been advertised at the beginning of the show that George Watch 08 could come to an end (George Watch was a year long campaign to get George Clooney to come out of his office - near Ellen's studio and come on her show - I lead a very mundane existence, this was really the best it was going to get I mean don't deny a girl happy moments in life...) and so I trudged along about 20 paces to the taj mahal of toilets as far as my humble abode was concerned: my parents en suite.

It was really refreshing to be in a new environment where I knew my germaphobe ways would not be aggrevated or compromised. And while I was in their en suite a state of euphoria surrounded me. Was it normal to be so content with life while taking a dump in your parents can? Well, no. No it wasn't, it was fucking weird, but I had not a worry in the world, skylight above this was moment with divinity. Was the cast from Touched By An Angel about to come down and say "This is the end, come with us"? It was a high possibility and if I wasn't faced with life or death commitments surrounding Ellen I probably would have gone with them because life was good.

There are a few reasons which after flushing the toilet, washing my hands (after all I am no Poppy from Seinfeld) and sitting back on my little bed to watch Ellen that I contributed to why this experience had such an affect on me:

1. Perhaps all of these years I have been subconsciously disgusted by my own levels of hygiene, that the only safe haven for me would be the closest and safest thing resembling my 9 months of germ free incubation in the womb. After all I am a child of Freud.
2. Perhaps society has conditioned my mind to believe that high integrity stems from high culture and where else could normal Australian suburbia folk reach this than naming a bathroom after the French ala en suite. I mean can you blame me look at the slang for toilet in our homeland: John, Loo, Outhouse (a house made out of shit - No Thank you), The Crapper and the Dunny (too close to dummy if you ask me, I wont be sucking on that ceramic bowl anytime soon...) VERSUS en suite. The French win, I think the experience could only have been enhanced if there were a bouday...
3. Perhaps I had missed my teenage rebellious years and this was my way of saying a big FUCK YOU to the world, nothing says Nirvana listening teenage angst then shitting in your parents private sanctuary.

After numerous reflections, I don't think I'll ever be sure as to what inspired me beyond laziness to use my parents toilet and why days later that cloud of euphoria has still not escaped me, but it was completely worth it.

Finally awarding my parents' En Suite uniting showers, basins and Crappers alike with a B-.

Nature's own laxative: The Blood Plum

2009-01-15T18:51:00.000-08:00

Two nights ago I made a mistake. I broke the trust of someone very important to me. I broke the trust of my stomach.

Now it has become a semi consistent theme throughout this blog that I write odes about food, and this entry allows for no exception. I really like eating, but like most new age global warming sustainability obsessed wankers I like to live a healthy lifestyle, and this means eating an assortment of healthy foods. I like my food to be handled and prepared with love, not churned out of steel factories circa. The Industrial Revolution of Russia, 1900. Contrarily I like my food to be pampered while remaining pesticide free with that all natural glow, similarly to Meryl Streep (that's one homosapien I would devour in a heartbeat).

So the other night when I returned to a particular Dumpling House establishment, one that I had avoided for about 8-9 months, I knew there would be a price to pay and no, not the $12 all you can eat fee (Why so cheap you ask? I'll tell you). As Meryl Streep said in Doubt "Every easy choice today will have its consequence tomorrow."

I thought the worst was over less than 2 hours later, when I was burping up an assortment of mushroom and miscellaneous vegetables and Chinese broccoli, the hints of oyster sauce were too much to bare for my contemporaries who had the displeasure of being around me. As if being the scorn of my friends wasn't enough of a brunt to deal with, I wake up at about 3 in the morning needing to vomit and again less than an hour later. Yes, I was bleary eyed at this early hour but I am so sure that while I observed the dumpling catchment in the toilet bowl that they hadn't even broken down. They were no match for my gastric acids and were still in their pure (satanic form). I will never eat there again, my psuedo environmentally friendly stomach is in no way conditioned to eat a tasteless dump of ling, and if the stench of the vomit didn't prove this, nothing would.

Having to go to work a few hours after these purges, I had to quickly conjure up a method that would effectively flush away the dumpling impurity and thus, leave me in tip top shape for work. The answered dawned upon me ever so clearly, next to the stove - my Nonna's homegrown BLOOD PLUMS.

I have had a blood plum fetish since I was a little girl, they are so amazing. Perhaps this fetish stems from my prepubescent vampire obsession, I don't have the physical stamina or mortal-vampire ill fated love on my side to be the next Buffy (older wise librarian aka Giles on the other hand - and well that is a different story) nor do I have the redneck accent and bleached blonde hair of Anna Paquin ala True Blood - so for me, the blood plum has always been the one and only way to fulfill my vampyric desires (these desires are not sexual I assure you).

So I took three blood plums to work and like photoplankton to kril I felt my energy levels and health begin to ascend. There was hope, I felt as revitalised as Gwenyth Paltrow paints herself to be. My bowels were dancing and my head was able to break it off with its short term lover - the ceramic bowl. All is well now and if I have learnt anything from my brief dabble into the proletariat's diner it is - order nothing and watch your inmates contract scruvy and while I may not look like a rabbit (though it couldn't be a BAD thing, after all as a child I was void a Ken barbie so my barbies all fought for the affection of and rubbed sexies with my Roger Rabbit toy), I will most certainly eat like one.

Finally awarding the Blood Plum the vampire obsessed prepubescent's substitute with laxative properties a B-.

Atomik Circus: tapping into the REAL French Cinema

2009-01-08T01:32:00.000-08:00

Last night I had the fortunate or unfortunate pleasure depending on how you look at it of catching a few moments of a French film on SBS. Now before you quickly cast dispersions on what this blog could be about Ill give you a hand:
1. This blog entry is not a wankfest comparing Jean-Luc Godard to bread
2. This blog entry is not about Amelie and how a larger portion of society after watching Amelie become self diagnosed french film experts. I openly admit I am anything but, sure I could name drop Yann Tiersen but that's only because I downloaded the Amelie soundtrack to motivate me to clean my room. Many years later and my room is still messy.
3. This blog entry is not a detailed pornographic description of the cinematic sex scene that changed my life - on an alter at the Sacre-Coeur, it didn't change my life, but it did scare the shit out of me...I was eleven.

On the contrary this blog is about Atomik Circus a French film that was released in 2004 and stars Vanessa Paradis (Johnny Depp's hot bitch wife) and from the half an hour or so that I lazily observed I am now freaking petrified of aliens...I think.

Ok so admittedly the volume was very low as I was perusing the Facebook circuit, but since when can you let the mute function dictate your life? I once watched Japanese Story on mute in its entirety, making up my own story as I went along and you know what it was actually a great film! A few years later I watched it with my mother and it was in my top 50 of worst films ever. There's a lot to be said for being your own screenwriter eg. Sirius Black never died, he'll come back I assure you. - See right there, I have saved a lot of parents a lot of psychiatric bills for their children who descended into deep depression when the man of their dreams, tall, dark and brooding, with werewolf Animagus abilities fell behind a black curtain and was killed off the series.

Sorry about that futile digression, but sometimes (all the time) I need to validate my own neurosis. Back to basics, the sound was extremely low and all I could here was something French wannabe Charlotte Gainsbourg woman sing - I'm pretty sure she wasn't an alien because she always wore white - a French virgin: who would have thought? and sang (Do aliens sing I don't know, I'm going by my really accurate alien intelligence here: according to Mars Attacks when you play bad music the aliens die? Therefore my hypothesis they don't sing to reduced the probability of accidental suicide - as you can see I have too much time on my hands) and a bunch of aliens taking the human form (so original, I've read Roald Dahl's The Witches totally ripped off in fact later they rip off their human faces ala Angelica Houston in The Witches style, freaky shit) who are trying to eradicate the humans through mass genocide in a Star Wars like setting but with more trees and less wookies (shame really). And did I mention its also a MUSICAL? At this point I changed the channel it was all too confusing for my only-Star Wars-conditioned-Sci-Fi-mind and started watching Out of the Blue (aka worst Australian Drama ever) and resumed my position as a higher functioning being who only-watches-late-night-Australian-drama-to-demoralise-the-actors-and-feel superior state. I mean we all have to get our kicks from somewhere right?

At this point in time I can hear my mother screaming from downstairs saying "Lisa you need to see this they are ripping of their faces they have no faces Lisaaaa" an offer I cannot refuse. Cut to next scene, two humans in a forest - a guy supposedly about to rape some woman - all of a sudden non digetic sound laces the visuals to the tune of French wannabe Charlotte Gainsbourg and a mechanic alien tentacle appears out of nowhere and slaps the would be rapist's ass! This is exactly what happened. The rapist turns to the girl and then says "What the fuck you slapped my ass? Don't worry we can do some bondage in the middle of the woods." - Um hello, are the French deliberately portraying their citizenry to be perpetually stupid? He was holding both of her hands! Then the girl gets all defensive and is like no I didn't, rapist then clicks and is all I'm getting the feck out of here and gets in his car and is about to drive off when would be rapee is like 'let me come'...Dude have you not seen Monster (No? Maybe only I use best friends for Foxtel), get out while you can fuckwit?

This scene totally perplexed me - are the aliens evil or do gooders? I guess I'll never know because this is just about the time I turned it off. However the film totally annihilated the French film sequences of sex, pain, sex, suffering, sex, kissing cousins and more sex archetype, allowing me to gain a newly discovered appreciation for French Film.

Finally awarding Atomik Circus, the French film where a mechanical alien tentacle saves a potential rape victim and the genre's integrity with a B-.

Crisp as lettuce, the Folding Board way.

2008-12-07T22:29:00.000-08:00

I’ve recently acquired a love of folding clothes (yes, I admit I am fond of the inanimate object love affair refer to Metlink Eftpos Machine Entry). Now in the past folding clothes has often been a mundane chore I have done my absolute best to avoid, in fact I am sure universally folding clothes is a task no one in their right mind would enjoy. How I have come to this conclusion:

From an early age and a bad attempt at trying to domesticate her daughters, my mother has always made my sister and I fold clean socks and underwear in the weeks laundry. I could think of nothing more boring then doing this, especially when your dad works in the corporate sector and wears the same shade of navy and black socks to walk every fucking day, how do you match up a Mt Everest mountain full of explorers? I also remember developing a ploy to reduce my work load. At the conniving age of 10 I proposed the my younger sister that I would fold all the underwear, this included undies, bras, singlets and occasionally one of my mother’s g-strings, if she folded all the socks. That’s 4 different items of clothing for her one, how could she refuse? Well she did, my sick attempt at juvenile manipulation fooled no one, for sock folding was like entering hell on a Sunday night with 60 minutes in the background, or what I like to call a Molotov disaster.

I remember American Hotels offering the service of washing your clothes for $X and for an extra 50cents per item they would also happily fold them. I mean who wants a stack of undies that looks like a club sandwhich? No one. That extra 50cent surcharge has, I am sure, paid off the mortgage of someone’s Bel Air Mansion and rightfully so.

Raising the question if folding clothes was truly embraced by humanity, why was the coathanger invented?

Being anti-folding really struck a cord with me, really cyrstallised my mantra in life “just dump it in the drawer, Mum will never know”, until August this year. In August I got a new job in retail and with that came the retail assistant’s best friend: the folding board. This A4 size sheet of plastic is quite easily one of, if not the simplest most amazing things I have ever come across.

As I write this blog entry, I am constantly envisioning returning to work on Thursday just so I can get my crease on. I only hope the person who worked on Wednesday was careless and willingly left an extra folding load for myself. I have a very acute method when it comes to using the folding board.

Instructions found on the board are as follows:
1. Place folding board at centre of top neck
2. Fold arms flat staggered, one above the other
3. Fold sides into meet the edge of the folding board
4. Remove folding board
5. Then knit up to meet the top of the board

However, as a self proclaimed folding board aficionado, I find if you tend to reverse 4 and 5 you will be left with a crisper tee.

Most people know they've hit a low when they look forward to going to work, for myself, I can think of nothing better than getting out the folding board that my boss stole from Sportsgirl and making every single tshirt look as crisp as lettuce. How I know I have a problem:

1. I will deliberately mess tshirts up so that I can honestly say they needed to be folded while listening to La Isla Bonita by Madonna. As you can see I live a very riveting existence.
2. There have been times which I have willingly stayed back after work just to have a few, finer and uninterrupted moments with my board.
3. I consciously have murderous thoughts about fuckers who mess up my crisply folded tshirts, hoping that the shop will transform into a Iron Chef type battlefield, where they are the main ingredient - flaming wok awaiting.

Finally awarding Folding boards alike also known as origami for the weak and cure of 'boredom' (yes, I went there) with a B-.

Metlink's greatest creation: The EFTPOS ticket machine

2008-11-26T20:06:00.000-08:00

Two days ago my love affair with metlink ticket machines began. Like two star crossed lovers it was meant to be Lisa vs. The Machine, a true love saga involving a highly emotive neurotic biatch peddling for the unrequited love of a sociopathic machine.

It all began when I had to be at a picnic at 2pm was running late and at my tram stop, only to realise my 10 x 2 hour Metcard had been stolen (Ok, admittedly misplaced) and I had no change.

I had 2 options:
a) Go back home and look for change and risk being later than ever and greeted with the evil scowl of those waiting
b) Fare evade

Now I will do a lot of things, but for me fare evading is crossing the line. I can think of nothing that frightens me more. I just know I would get caught, I would break out in a sweat have a panic attack and would be exhaling into a brown paper bag before collapsing and being thrown into the can. I've seen Con Air, I know what happens in jail, only the Nicholas Cages and Ashley Judds survive to which I belong in the Lara Flynn Boyle category aka Will Be Eaten Alive. Raising the same question Trisha Yearwood sang on the Con Air soundtrack, How Do I Live?

(Nicholas Cage being all bad ass and shit. He's a survivor.)

So on Tuesday, when the tram approached me sans coins or Metcard I boarded that 59 with every hope a higher being, might, think of those 2 times I door knocked for The Good Friday Appeal (my only token which could offer me salvation) and spare me.

You need to understand this was one of the scariest moments of my life. Every time the tram stopped I was convinced a ticket inspector or inspectors as similarly to gangs of wildebeest, they like to travel in packs, I've seen this habitual hunt on many a David Attenborough documentary. I've also noticed on these documentaries that without fail they prey on the weak. I = The Weak. Old cripple lady with trolley, 30 year old bogan clinging to the last remnants of his youth wearing Oakley's (for the record, look good on NO ONE, that includes you Layne Beachley) and a DaDa hoodie probably from Airport West Westfield were causing my blood to rush, you never know who a ticket inspector could be. The Incognito ticket inspector is someone who suffers from paranoia's worst nightmare and as far as I was concerned the tram trip could have only been smooth if no one boarded the tram. In this sick bitter world I could trust no one.

Seized with paranoia I had reached my limits, 5 minutes later I reached Essendon Station and left that tram like I was the incarnate of Flash, obviously I wouldn't look nearly as amazing in a red body suit and yellow lightning bolt. No longer was I fearing the scowl of my friends, I was fearing for my life. I needed to withdraw 20 quick smart. This new cause of action would further increase my lateness, was I the new Indiana Jones, leaving cowboy hats under closing garage doors on a never ending quest of self vilification? Possibly.

Then it dawned upon me, why go to an ATM when ticket machines at stations have the EFTPOS facility. Admittedly, it took me 3 attempts to discover which slot and then which way my card was to insert the machine (euphemisms are gross, so please refrain), but then a tingling sensation (please again) of satisfaction became present as the ticket machine gave birth to my daily zone 1 concession. The sun started to shine brighter and while I would be 20 minutes late, it was completely worth it, because for me it was like I had robbed a bank and got away with it. So much so that yesterday I fare evaded to Essendon Station again before going through the same cathartic ritual (holding my breath of course).

I will never fare evade again though, as this morning on my tram ride I was greeted in passing slow motion villain vs. heroine style by Metlink's new Fare Evading Campaign called Karma Central, whereby the Karma Lama threatens you, personally, with bad karma if you choose to fare evade. Example:

On the bus, Jennifer bought a ticket for zone 1, instead of zones 1 and 2. Later today, while walking up Collins Street a tin of paint will fall from high above turning her dress and hair a delightful shade described on the tin as Peach Paradise.

Now I don't know about you, but that's the type of shit that would have the potential to put me into a stress induced coma and for that very reason I'm never leaving the house without a roll of twenties again.

Finally awarding the EFTPOS Ticket machine: life saver and Bicentennial Man's (Sorry Robin Williams) new nemesis with a B-.

Fiji, the artesian water.

2008-11-24T00:08:00.000-08:00

Water, two molecules hydrogen, one molecule oxygen. So I have become obsessed with detoxing, an obsession with accompanies a few of my other more peculiar obsessions: collecting every single mint stamp edition of Australian Sydney 2000 Gold Medalists, watching Antiques Roadshow in my parents sleigh bed from Harvey Norman without fail (did I mention I am 20?) and watching Madasun's (a short lived three piece girl band from, so short lived that they only have 5 sentences written about them on Wikipedia - tough love the pop industry is) song Don't You Worry for inspiration without every single day of my existence, see those 55,000 Youtube views I'm not going to deny I didn't have anything to do with it,

As apart of my detox routine, which usually lasts a few days and are balanced with what I have labelled My Ashlee Simpson Day (a day whereby I can eat whatever the fuck I want, once a week. Ashlee does it so it must be good for you. Source: Famous Magazine), I need to drink at least 1 litre plus of water. From a very early age, the word toxin has installed the fear of death into me, I want none of that bullshit and if my drinking lots of water I have the ability to drown and flush every single one of those fuckers out of my body like they are on the Titanic I will.

Now it never occurred to me that the water industry is a very lucrative market, that and dare I say it, vogue. Water, what every Australian Household has, that and of course a copy of Shania Twain's Come On Over, making it the perfect fashion staple. However on weekly venture to Coles Express (similarly to sex, an experience where you penetrate then evacuate) I was perplexed and distressed as to how water has monopolised, the once modest aisle 7. There were about thirty different varieties of water to choose from. Now this isn't toilet paper where 3ply and 2ply make all the amount of difference, I mean some people are more sensitive in areas others are not. This is water, 2 molecules hydrogen, 1 molecule oxygen. Plain and simple. There should be no competitors in this market, in fact it was deeply disturbing to realise there was. Could one brand of water really be better than another brand? And could for all of these years, I have not been purchasing the best brand? Could a Napoleonic toxin army be getting ready to attack in my body right now? Fuck you, Mount Franklin I thought I could trust you.

So in my state of chronic anxiety, I looked at my options:

Mount Franklin
The water which supports breast cancer, yet at the same time is symbolic of a penis wearing a ribbed condom.
No Dice.

Pump
Firstly its website has a game with two helicopters and a skull carved into what I presume is an ice mountain. No facts, no nothing. WHAT ARE YOU HIDING? Secondly its from New Zealand. Enough said.
No Dice.

(no picture available, further proof that this brand of water is in alliance with ASIO, the CIA etc. you drink you become THEIR ploy)

Mizone
I don't want water which tastes like Lime, Blackberry or Lime. Mixing flavours with water is a Molotov disaster waiting to happen. How can water be flavoured, wouldn't this just be mirroring a BlackLabel completely diluted cordial that you would get at a charity BBQ at Bunnings? Fuck off.
No Dice.

Evian
I am not going to pretend I didn't used to religiously drink evian on a daily basis, more than not under the false pretense of having the bottled refilled with water from my suburbia den because I was under the illusion it was the Rolls Royce of bottled water. Until I saw that you can buy it in a glass bottled from David Jones Food Hall for over $4 a bottle. Seriously, that's the price I'm sure they'd charge to drink Victoria Beckham's urine. They sold out.
No Dice.

Fiji
There it was sitting amongst the plebs and high couture water, boasting "From the Islands of Fiji, the artesian water". I'm not even sure what artesian water actually means, but I am a firm believer the more scientific it sounds the better it must be for you. The perfect square bottled design, giving it the capacity to fit into every nook and cranny, the softest plastic and a tropical photograph. It's basically like being in Fiji for just under $2, no passport or malaria shot included. Why would I drink anything else?

Finally awarding Fiji the artesian water and I'm sure, if she were alive today the drink choice of Jean Rhys with a B-.

Lorna Luft, the other Garland daughter.

2008-11-23T02:16:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday, after missing one train, sitting in my car with the air conditioner on because at the ripe old age of 20 I have menopause and a thyroid problem (self diagnosed) and consequently missing another train, I was infuriated, not by my own incompetence, no not at all. But by metlink, obviously. I'm a firm believer in fate and signs that inevitably offer nothing to my existence, except a vague attempt at validation and thought, what or who could ease the pain of this trauma? The answer came quite simply in the Drama aisle of my local Blockbuster: Life with Judy Garland: Me and My Shadows.

This film documents the biography written about Garland, written by her daughter. No, not Liza, though perhaps, a Cabaret style cameo as narrator could have made the film a little more entertaining but Lorna Luft. And for a week now she has been my new celebrity crush. I didn't even know she existed, and I feel my life is now richer (perhaps a phrase I use a little too frequently) for her having been in it.

Reasons why we should ALL unite and love and celebrate Lorna:

1. She loves life.

2. She does autocue better than the hosts of Australian Idol or for that matter Leanne Malcom (you let us down Leanne!) at age 11.

Is it just me or is there a definite Humbert Humbert and Lolita thing going on here? "Be good for goodness sake", no longer an innocent lyric but a juvenile mating call.

3. She loves life.

4. She has done a string of horrific B grade tragedies such as Grease 2 with tagline "Grease is STILL the word!", no honey it's not, played an extra on The Twilight Zone and not even the sixties version with the most amazing credit sequence ever ie:

but my personal favourite is that Lorna Luft has no limits, and in the truest of celebrity offspring riding the curtails of their famous parent she appeared on reality tv show, STYLE COURT. Let me rephrase that, Lorna Luft appeared willingly on Style Court as a guest judge, a show with a premise similar to Judge Judy except the plantiff and defendant are people who dress badly.

5. (No wonder) She loves life.

6. She is Judy Garland's daughter, Liza Minelli's sister and Frank Sinatra's goddaughter and survived. She has all the B grade celebrity criterion: drug addicted mother who would call JFK for fun, helmet haired fake eyelashed plastic faced sister who did a cameo in The Muppets Take Manhattan and godfather who threatened to break the legs of Woody Allen and had mafia connections. Amazing.

7. I am well aware the she loves life joke, is in fact beyond a joke. So I'll spear you, but I'll have you know who wouldn't love life if THIS for a short period of time was your brother-in-law? I say THIS for a reason, I am unaware of how to catergorise David Gest - homosapien vs. 'Madame Tussauds Arthur Daly clearance centre (Swanston St, for all your cheapo needs) candle wax edition of Michael Jackson turned horribly sour and in true Wizard of Oz style given a heart and lo and behold you've got David Gest'. I'm no punter but I am confident in saying he is the latter.

Finally awarding Lorna Luft, the forgotten daughter of Judy Garland and the unforgotten key to my heart with a B-.

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

2008-11-23T02:07:00.000-08:00

This blog pays homage to things that are often forgotten and neglected within contemporary society and awarded that b minus grading. After all we all need a bit of love, bitch.