Bogan on a Bus

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2015-08-14T07:46:00.000+09:00

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Tea Drinkin' Ain't Easy

2014-09-18T21:20:00.001+09:00

This year I turned both 29 and into my mother.

My mother, it should be noted, is a lovely woman. However, she is 64 years old and I am clutching desperately onto the edge of my twenties with my gross, haggy hands. Of late, I’m on such a downward senior citizen spiral that I’m heading straight into the arms of a crocheted afghan blanket and Sunday night ABC programming.

The problem is, the senior moments start so small that at first you don’t even recognise them. Let’s take, for example, the night of my 29^thbirthday dinner. After much negotiation, I managed to round up a bunch of people who were willing to be seen in public with a living corpse. After entering the chosen birthday venue, with my face and youth dragging behind me, I was presented with many delightful birthday presents. Now, I’m not a robot – I love me some presents. In my younger years, I used to tear into wrapping paper with the kind of ferociousness I imagine Oprah exhibits upon spotting a bread roll after one of her preachy no-carb diets.

But these days, it’s all about the bloody cards. I find myself handling the common birthday card like precious cargo, opening its edges carefully and tenderly to reveal the text inside, which I will then read and mouth awkwardly. A moment later, I’m clutching at my bosom and nodding furiously whilst tears stream down my face. Ever seen Jodie Foster in the movie ‘Nell’? That’s me trying to say thank you to the terrified card giver. Truth be told, these days I don’t even need to be given a card to elicit this kind of reaction. If I was handed a dirty scrap of paper with the phrases ‘life-long’, ‘friendship’ and ‘true friend’ scribbled on it, I’d still sob as hard as I did last week at the end of an Emilio Estevez movie. (I was crying for his face. Time is indeed a cruel mistress.)

Speaking of presents, when your neck skin starts to get loose, it’s time to put some rules in place regarding birthday gift choices. I was into owls way before those scrawny little black-jeaned hipsters came and claimed them and 80s cardigans as their own. Fling an owl on something, shove it in my general direction and you can call it a day. This year, I had to deliberately ask people to not give me any owl paraphernalia. You see, when a spritely girl of twenty collects owls, it’s cute. When a brittle woman of almost thirty does it, it’s fucking creepy. I’m about three owl figurines away from being that crazy old lady who has a pet parrot that sits on her shoulder and pecks lice out of the matted mess that used to be her hair. As further proof of my ancientness, highlights of the aforementioned presents were teacups, tea bags and teapots. Nanna Mel is ready to receive you and rock your world with a well brewed cup of tea. Tea drinkin' ain't easy. One teapot actually broke the rule and was in the shape of an owl but you know what – I still bloody loved it.

Prior to this birthday meltdown, I’d had my sister come stay with me. Back in the day, if you were invited into my humble abode, you’d be lucky if I bothered to clear my shedding locks from where they lay wallowing in the soap scum on the bottom of my shower. But as the sands have continued to build in the hourglass of my life, I have slowly and surely contracted my mother’s Very Good Hostess disease. High points of this infection include me daintily placing guest towels and hotel soaps on my sister’s bed and resisting the urge to fold the towels into swans. Low points include me shouting at my boyfriend about the way he was holding the air mattress when we were trying to blow it up via the cigarette lighter of my car on a wintery Melbourne night. It was not the first or last time my bearded friend would experience seeing his girlfriend age before his eyes. After I had thundered around our apartment, frantically cleaning the bathroom, he declared that he needed to use the facilities. After rewarding him with a Very Filthy Look, I bossily declared in no uncertain terms that he had BETTER clean up after himself and wipe down all surfaces after use. A moment later – and I’m not even exaggerating- I found myself pressed up against the bathroom door, bellowing through the door crack, ‘WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING IN THERE? DO I HEAR WIPING SOUNDS?’

But perhaps the most devastating blow to my elderly heart was a recent work assignment. I was delegated the task of watching over a group of 20 year old student temps. Sadly, my hopeful soul believed it was because I was still so fresh faced that I would blend seamlessly into this cluster of youths. And to begin with, it was heaven. I immediately become Bust Frands with a beautiful young gay boy who shared my love of Real Housewives. Soon we were IM’ing gifs of wine being thrown in botoxed faces and ridiculous over pampered dogs in costumes. But the cracks began to show. References were made that I didn’t understand. References I made were met with blank stares. I shouldn’t have to explain that a UDL is not the birth control that’s injected into your arm but in fact a low-cost pre-mixed vodka drink that tastes like sin and will have you sobbing into your own vomit at the end of the night. When I asked my new BFF what he was doing on a Friday night, he told me all about his exciting clubbing plans and honestly, it just made me feel bloody tired. I daren’t utter that I was going home to get into my cupcake pyjama pants and eat a family size packet of macaroni cheese whilst Googling 'Where are the cast of Varsity Blues now?’

To get through this tough time, I've found myself coping with my old biddy transformation in a process similar to the 7 Stages of Grief. Right now, I’m still stuck on Stage 3 : Bargaining. This stage is defined as trying to bargain in vain with the powers that be for a way out of your despair. So I say this. I will go out. I will order tequila shots and pretend that it’s not going to make me horribly ill for the next three days. I will try not to make side eyes at shorts that are made out of pleather. I will stop telling people younger than me to ‘Respect your elders.’ I will hide my shock when someone tells me they don’t know who Hanson are. Just please, please for the love of god, spare me from suddenly developing a passion for scrapbooking.

I'm ready to stop the hands of time.
Right after I finish falling asleep in front of a 30 minute TV episode on my couch.

A Guide To Getting Loose As A Goose At The Work Christmas Party (But Still Having A Job On Monday)

2013-12-02T22:02:00.001+09:00

December is finally upon us and you know what that means? CHRISTMAS MONTH! If you are a bah humbug then you best not read any further as you won’t find an ally here. Hearing Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas played 50 times over in Myer department store may drive some people nuts but I relish every single second of her beautiful diva soprano vibrations. Forget the presents; Christmas is all about the eating. Pudding, Chrissy cake, rumballs, shortbread, mince pies and that’s just the sweets. I mean, Christmas really is that special time of year when it’s totally ok to get trolleyed on champers in front of your family, stuff ya face, unbutton your pants in public and then sleep it all off in the afternoon WITH NO JUDGEMENT. What’s not to love?

Christmas, however, does also bring another special awkward occurrence: The Work Christmas Party. The Work Christmas Party (W.C.P) can be a perilous situation. How you conduct yourself within the W.C.P can seriously affect just how unpleasant the following Monday morning will be. In my own experience, one mistimed pash and dash with a co-worker can lead to months and months of uncomfortable tumble weed, cricket-chirping shifts together, climaxing with a hand delivered and handwritten Valentine’s Card being shoved in your letterbox in the dead of night. Nobody wants that for Christmas. However, no-one wants to be a complete saint at their W.C.P, especially when there are (usually) copious amounts of free and tax deductable alcohol floating around.

So here’s my

Guide To Getting Loose As A Goose At The Work Christmas Party (But Still Having A Job On Monday

1. Plan Ahead and Bring Supplies

No, I’m not talking about the obligatory cheap bottle of plonk or cheese ball in plastic wrap that you’re supposed to show up with. I’m talking handbags. First off, forget about bringing that dainty little clutch that holds ya lippy, ya license and 20 bucks. You need to be fronting some heavy duty arm luggage. I’m talking carry-on baggage size. Why, you ask? You’ll need all that space for all the food you’ll be dropping in there when you first arrive. Mince pies, olives, bit of brie- you need to be napkin wrapping that shit and stowing it away like a squirrel in winter. ‘Cos when those (drunk) munchies hit at 9.20pm, all you’ll be faced with at the food table is a coupla sad looking celery sticks and some soggy salt and vinegar crumbs that have already been fingered by at least five other people. Experienced booze hounds know that your stomach needs lining if you're going to make it past midnight. So plan ahead with your bag wear and you’ll be enjoying a five course feast in the privacy of your own toilet stall by 9.30pm.

2. Start a Rumour....EARLY

The later in the evening that you (inevitably) end up embarrassing yourself, the more likely people are to not remember. However, just in case your table top dancing comes a little earlier than scheduled, it’s always good to have another salacious situation on hand in order to steer the Monday morning conversation away from the fact that everyone saw your Best and Less underwear. When the clock strikes exactly 7.45pm, it’s time to start fake laughing your way into circles of conversation and planting the beginnings of some naughty fibs. The earlier the better, whilst people’s minds are pink Moscato-free. Some ‘ol reliables are a surprise office pregnancy or a good old fashioned shag in the toilet sighting between a highly unlikely pairing of people. If you’re uncomfortable with creating Real Housewives of Beverly Hills level drama, then just start small. Mosey up to a group of people and position yourself behind the head of the most animated talker. Making eye contact with the rest of the group, make a little drinking glass gesture. An extra fake stumble will really nail your point home.Come Monday, you’ll be able to spout lines such as ‘Gosh, do you remember how drunk Bill was? He wouldn’t stop TALKING.’

3. Be a Bar Maid...For Your Boss

Nobody likes being the booze bitch. However, it’s in your best interest to act as bar maid if the end result is you getting your boss completely sloshed. There can be no recriminations for your horrifying W.C.P behaviour if your boss was as equally embarrassing or if, in fact, you were the one holding back your superior’s hair whilst she/he had a little vom-vom after too many tequilas (served by you.) For the first half of the party you need to stalk your boss with a bottle of Sav Blanc, ready to refill at the drop of a hat. It may interrupt the mingling portion of your evening but you will be happy later when you’re outside, watching your boss bum-puff a cigarette whilst they tell you all their secrets. A million extra bonus points if you elicit an emotional cry or a ‘But I really love yooooooooooooooooou’ from your manager.

4. Make-outs Require Four Walls

There’s always a moment at the W.C.P, usually about five glasses in, when you decide that actually, Rodney from Accounting is not a boring sod but a really, really beautiful misunderstood soul. You’re starting to head down the road of a Co-Worker Make-Out Situation. Look, I’d love to say don’t do it but let’s be honest, after a few more glasses, right blurs with wrong and just like honey to a bee and Rihanna to Chris Brown, you find yourself drawn to a future potentially sticky situation. If the spirit of Christmas takes you and you decide to get all kissy face with a colleague, then privacy is the key. Bushes are not adequate forms of concealment- the foliage is never quite as thick as you think it is. Same goes for corners, hands and (I’ve actually seen this) spread-out napkins. Collaborative teammate tonsil hockey calls for four walls, so take it to the supply closet, a car or the mini kitchenette. Unless it’s someone that’s not you, then by all means, get ya phone out quick smart and start snapping some pics for future office blackmail.

Final Hint

Time your work Christmas Party karaoke choices right. Yes, you sing that Celine Dion ballad beautifully but My Heart Will Go On is an end of the night tune, not an 8pm energiser. JSYK, Gangster’s Paradise fits ANY timeslot.

With this guide in mind, by 11pm, you should be swinging from chandeliers and having a W.C.P gay 'ol time, fearless of the Monday morning water cooler convos.

Or you could be like me, a few weeks ago, alone on penthouse balcony, sending texts like this:

Either way, enjoy and MERRY CHRISTMAS!

A Temporary Life

2013-10-16T14:20:00.003+09:00

During the last half of this year, I’ve found myself working as a temp. I can’t say for whom on this blog because at this point in my life, I really don’t need to be fired and I know for a fact after filling out one of their application forms that KFC don’t want me. If anything, that little titbit should give you an insight into just how much I loathe this job. To steal a line from Julia Stiles in my favourite teen movie, 10 Things I Hate About You, I hate this job with the fire of a thousand suns. I mean, I don’t want to exaggerate but I hate it more than I hate Outfit-of-The-Day mirror selfies. I hate it more than I hate those vomit inducing family stickers on the back of 4WDs. I hate it more than people who post photo albums on Facebook containing 66 photos of their cat Ginger doing the same freakin’ thing in every photo because it’s a bloody cat.

Let me pause whilst I catch my rage breath.

As the name itself indicates, this kinda gig is only temporary and for me, a brief rest stop on the way to Oprah naming me as her heir and letting me take up residence in her Maui holiday home whose driveway I once glimpsed from out the window of a tour bus full of middle-aged Americans. In summary, I shouldn’t let this kind of thing get my knickers in a knot. That said, it’s really hard to be Suzie Sunshine each morning as I’m tying my mandatory work scarf into a jaunty flight attendant’s bow, well aware that I’m about to spent the day with a world full of corporate Sally Bitch-faces.

In the world of a temp, you are utterly invisible. It’s like some serious Harry Potter shit- you walk around all day as though you’ve got some high tech invisibility cloak on. I’m what they call a floater, which for starters, is a term that I cannot and will not get on board with as it makes me think of some un-flushable poo. Fecal matter aside, it means I’m sent to a variety of work places throughout the week. It doesn’t matter where I go, I can guarantee you that I will be greeted with a sense of shock and utter surprise.

Oh. Awkward pause. Are you supposed to be here today?

Every morning is like that uncomfortable moment in high school where you’ve shown up to a party you clearly weren’t invited to. I stand there, sweating in my Target business skirt, silently willing them to allow me into their air conditioned office cool group.

Next comes the hilarious (for me) moment when they try to remember my name. I can see them scanning my crisply starched button down, desperate to spy some kind of name badge underneath the ridiculous bow of my cheerful scarf. The eyes flash briefly for a second when they realise they are screwed and return to normal as their brain offers up a solution.

How are you, darl?

There are lots of things I believe to be true in this world but none more than the easiest and most effective way to establish me as your nemesis is to address me as ‘darl.’

All my life, I have suffered under the weight of being called ‘darl.’ From bakery girls to post office workers to check-out assistants, it seems as though everyone believes I am 15 and am out in the world for the first time without the assistance of my mum. That is how the word ‘darl’ makes me feel. And yes, I’m sure there will come a time in my life, when my youthful Dutch skin has gone to hell and I’m all leathery and haggard, that I will wish that someone would call me ‘darl’ instead of ‘ma’am’ but for now, as a general rule, just don’t. Particularly if we are clearly residing in the same age bracket. On a side note, I can get on board with any person over the age of 70 using the word ‘darl.’ You’ve bloody earned it, along with your pick of any seat on the bus and the right to publicly lecture people.

One woman, who I know for a fact is a mere four years older than me, has recently taken it a step further and started calling me ‘chicken.’ If patience is a virtue, than bloody name me the Queen of it for not raising my flabby bicep and giving this woman a swift tit punch for that kind of blasphemy.

But do I, you ask, ever raise my feeble temp voice and attempt to convey to this woman that I do not like be referred to as a barnyard animal? No. I am a temp and I do not have a personality. It is my destiny to be banished to the furthest corner of the office tundra, shivering and trembling under the glacial faulty air conditioning vent.That, perhaps, is the worst thing for me about being a temp. Poor Sally Bitch-Face can be forgiven for not knowing my name, despite how many times I've told her. She’s slaved here for over ten years and if she had to learn the name of every cool breeze that swept through, she’d be overwhelmed, even more than she already is with her spread sheets and sales targets and four private schooled children.

No, the worst part is what happens to my personality as soon as I walk in the office door. Just like any unnamed food in the lunchroom fridge, it completely vanishes into thin air. Like most people, I like to think I am an interesting person. In fact, I’m kinda vain so I would elevate that to Very Interesting Person. I would use the word ‘vibrant’ for my personality. My friend Lauren often uses the word ‘smothering.’ But at work, I become Creepy Silent Girl. The kind of person who makes you wonder if they have a list of people at home that they’d like to murder. The other day, after I left work, I realised I had probably spoken not more than two sentences to my colleagues that day. I’m pretty sure they all thought I was going home to play with a collection of disturbing looking porcelain dolls.

So let me put this to you, on behalf of all lowly temp workers, hands blackened from the ink smeared by the lonely tears cried on our regulation time sheets. If you ever find yourself in the company of one of our kind, be nice. Engage us in strained water cooler conversation about last night’s thrilling episode of Australia’s Biggest Bachelor Masterchef Bake-Off. Offer us a piece of the three day old staff birthday cake. We will swallow a stale slice down, with creepy silent gratitude.

But most of all, never, ever call anyone darl.

Seeking Psychic Treatment

2013-10-02T21:10:00.001+09:00

So last week I did something slightly ridiculous- I went to see a psychic. Up until now, my experiences with the occult had been fairly limited, although I did once participate in an Ouija (weegie) board session when I was 12. What burning question did I choose to ask? Why, when my adolescent self would get to see Jumanji. I mean, it was a bloody summer blockbuster and I was tired of being the only kid in school who didn't know what Robin Williams was up to. When I got home I told my mum, who went a bit mental, shouted a bible verse at me and made sure I didn't see Jumanji until it took the five million years to come to VHS.

My only knowledge of psychics themselves comes from the TV show Medium, an hour long drama based upon real life spiritual medium Alison Dubois. Not gonna lie, I was really into that show in its first season but was put off it after the following encounter with my brother-in-law whilst flicking through TV channels.

Me: Medium! I bloody love that show!

Horrid Brother-in-law: Medium, Mel? I’d say you’re more a large.

Maybe I’m slightly psychic myself, ‘cos I can predict that a comment like that will end with a slap in the face.

As a side note, the real Alison Dubois once appeared on an episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and spent the whole time being a raging red headed bitch who either had an electronic cigarette or martini in her mouth and kept telling the other housewives she wouldn’t help them if their children ever went missing. Way to promote yourself, gurl.

So a few Sundays ago, along with some friends, I headed to some pier side markets, which is an obvious location for a psychic with a professional and upstanding reputation. It was there that we first encountered Marion the Psychic.

Marion, bless her heart, had decided there was no better place to set up her supernatural umbrella & plastic patio set than right in front of the outdoor seating area of The Coffee Club. So those choosing to sit outside and enjoy the extraordinary view of the City Cat were dining with the possibility of watching an ordinary citizen having a breakdown at the hands of a fortune teller. From a distance, Marion looked like someone’s friendly grandmother. When I think psychic, I’m expecting somewhat of a gypsy looking character- some voluminous skirts, a bedazzled head scarf or some quirky dangly earrings at the very least. Marion, however, was wearing a rather jazzy purple tracksuit that had a very Sussan’s twinset feel at the top. When we came upon her, she was just about to tuck into what looked like a peanut butter sandwich but she quickly squirreled it away and invited us to join her. Strike one, Marion, I thought. Wouldn’t a psychic know we were bloody coming and have scheduled her elevenses for later?

I elected to go first. My game plan was to give her nothing. NOTHING. Not a scrap, a morsel, a teeny tiny crumb. Marion was going to have to stare for 20 minutes at my bitchy resting face and deal with one word responses. Basically, I was just going to revert back to my 15 year old self. Marion started with some info about my job. Apparently, I was going to do a course that was going to help me rise up in my field of employment. Bitch please, I was thinking. I see my job as an everyday annoyance and get through most days doing this:

But suddenly, the channels inside Marion’s psychic TV must have changed as she then drastically changed her tune, told me I disliked my job and then proceeded to describe in accurate detail exactly what it is I do. Complete with hand gestures.

HOW DID SHE KNOW? I mean, it wasn’t like I had fronted up with my bloody work badge on. Marion had me hook, line and sinker.

Marion went on to tell me that I had had enough of everyone and just wanted to pack up and piss off. Well settle down there Marion, I thought. I’m sitting here with two of my best friends. Let’s not make things awkward.

Marion then proceeded to paint a very glamorous picture of the international lifestyle that I was going to lead. Her psychic skills must have been very well tuned, as ‘ol Maz got very specific. I mean, she literally described the hair type and colour of my future boss. By the time Mar-mar had gotten round to describing my future Swedish roommate (I’m not even making any of this up) I was feeling a bit like this:

I mean, where were the life changing revelations? Look, I’m sure that Swedes are lovely people but when are we getting to the drama, Marion? I've seen more riveting episodes of Crossing Over with John Edwards. After the initial excitement had died down, well, things got a little bit...shit. I could have gotten at least six more market pork buns with Marion's psychic fee. Now look, I’m not going into the specifics of the things that Marion said because I don’t really need people judging my life more than they do but in conclusion, I will tell you two of the best parts of the whole thing.

1. Trying to keep a straight face whilst watching people’s reactions as they walked past and realised three adult ladies were actually paying money for a psychic consultation from an elderly woman on a public board walk.

2. Telling my mum about it and having her go mental at me, even at age 28.

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Have you ever been to a psychic? Was it super creepy or hideously inaccurate?

Online Dating: Get Murdered or Get Married?

2013-09-24T16:55:00.000+09:00

Last week, I asked my hilarious friend Lauren, proprietor of hip blog That's What She Said, to join forces with me on a hard hitting issue. Which one, you may ask. War? Peace? Water shortage around the world?

Internet Dating.

Love in the time of the iPhone and Instagram has meant that many singletons have turned their texting fingers onto the internets to search for their heart's one true love. Today, we humbly present to you both sides of the e-harmony argument.

Before I start, let me just say, I have nothing against dating. I think dating in general is super rad and should be done more often. I just don't know for sure if doing it on the internet is my cup of Jarrah. Let me start by reminding you that, not ten years ago, people who tried to meet dates online were viewed in the same category as people who went to Naughty but Nice during the day; you'd smile and look interested when they told you, but secretly, you were seriously judging them. And not just because it was a bit weird, but also because you feared for their safety. These days though, we do bloody everything online; shopping, banking, stalking...you get the gist. I guess the good news is that laptops and computers are no longer the exclusive domain of greasy-haired hermits with mother issues. Good looking people are now turning their attentions to living life online. Which is essentially fine. But I still believe it is robbing us, yes ROBBING us of some of the best parts of being dating age and having no idea what we're doing.

Now, a little disclaimer: I do not have a wealth of experience with online dating personally. Mainly because my knowledge of the world wide interwebs is pretty limited, and also because I'm a little old-fashioned. I am well aware of the OasisActive and RSVP type sites that exist though, my Facebook feed sure loves to suggest them to me. Hell, I've got plenty of friends who use them too. However, for the sake of research, (and because I am cheap and didn't want to spend any money) I joined the latest, coolest (and free) medium for meeting potential bedroom and life partners: tinder. Here is it in a nutshell - an iPhone app where you are presented with pictures of singles who are 'nearby' (i.e. within a 50 miles radius - which is not nearby at all, if you don't hardly mind) and you say 'Yes' or 'No' based on their photos and a short blurb. If you both like each other, you get a match and then start chatting, meet up, fall in love and have babies. Easy? Yes. Ridiculous? Also yes.

Seeing as 90% of my male friends circle are flaming moes, I had almost forgotten what straight men were like. Oh that's right, they're idiots! Most of them, anyway (don't get your panties in a twist just yet, fellas). First of all, learn to take a proper photograph, boys! Giving the finger is not an acceptable way to hook yourself a lady. AND WHY ON EARTH DO YOU YOU DO IT?!!! Is it bad manners, are you rebelling against your conservative parents, what? You just look like a twat. Ick.

On a more deeper level, though, I fear that internet dating is actually wasting more time than saving it. Think of it this way: Tina meets Greg online. She thinks he looks fairly cute in his profile photos, and he claims that 'Life is an opportunity, so take it!' in his byline, so he must be a go-getter. They start chatting. He seems sweet. They talk for a solid week or so about their jobs, their favourite restaurants etc, until they finally feel comfortable enough to exchange numbers. Another week goes by of cute texts and subliminally sexual messages, and Greg suggests they should meet for a drink. Tina goes out and buys herself a new dress and gets her hair cut. She waits nervously for Greg to show up at their arranged point of contact. Which he does. He even brings her flowers. Nice touch, Greg. But five minutes into their first drink, and Tina can smell Greg's bad breath across the table. It's actually distracting, yet it is obvious that Greg has no idea. This is a deal-breaker to Tina and by the ten minute point, she's ready to go home and vomit a little.

What a waste. All that time (and money on Tina's behalf; bloody hair cuts cost a small fortune). If Greg had approached her at a bar, it would have taken Tina less than one minute to realise he was Mr Nasty Breath and it would have been bye bye Greg, thanks for playing. But Tina has wasted three weeks on this guy. And she didn't even get laid.

And, is it just me, or is there something endearing about a guy with enough courage to approach you at a bar and lay on a corny pick-up line? Case in point: A few months ago I was "partying' out in Brunswick St, and it was my round for drinks. A tall guy named Sam came up to me and this is how our conversation went:

Sam: How's it going?

Me: Not too bad, thanks. Having a good night?

Sam: Yeah. I was just about to leave actually because there were no good looking girls here....Until now.

This is seriously a true story. Now, Sam was not my type and I was not looking to pick up, but I wanted to hug him. Instead I let him down politely and gave him a high five. And we had a laugh. Because, hot damn, that takes balls. And I appreciated it.

Look, I'm not saying ALL internet dating is bad. I know people who have bloody married a person they met online. However, what I am saying is that we shouldn't be tempted to allow all dating to occur this way. Because that is a v slippery slope, my friends. So get up off the couch, put on your fav Dotti dress and go mingle with real people. And boys, if/when you meet a nice girl, don't say, "Add me on Facebook." Pick up your balls, ask for her number and bloody CALL her!

You can thank me later.

Before I begin, let me pause for a moment to call my fellow author out. Yeah, that’s right, the gloves are off.

OF COURSE she's going to say no to internet dating- she’s in a v.v committed relationship with a special man friend. She probably spends every weekend snuggling under blankets, sipping wine and discussing the characteristics of a good red by a roaring fireplace. Not only that but the bitch be hot. She eats likes a mofo and yet does not find herself trapped inside Kirstie Alley. If for some reason she ever found herself single, she wouldn’t bloody NEED to get on the internet, because all she would have to do is take her ridiculous naturally large breasts about two steps outside her front door and she’d be practically engaged within ten minutes. Meanwhile, the rest of us small boobed scrubbers need a little help from Match.com if we don’t want to accept a fate of crying forever alone tears into the fur of our ten cats.

Dating back in ye olde days used to be v.v easy. Two Viking dads would get together, have a coupla drafts of beer and one cow later, you’d find yourself married off to the ugo neighbour boy with spots. Bring back the dowry I say. My dad has a collection of Eric Clapton CDs to trade with whoever wants me. Dating in the 90s was even easier because everyone’s dating expectations were super low as straightening irons were not yet widely popular. Real life example- my sister Jen, who has been married for 7 years, snagged her hubby when she had a questionably short haircut and was rocking a flannelette shirt.

Many love stories used to start in the work place. But for many like me, that is not a viable option. For some reason, every single job I’ve ever had has seen me working with predominantly mature-aged women and whilst I’ve become The World’s Best Expert on Menopause & Its Many Bothersome Symptoms, it hasn’t exactly led me to Prince Charming. Last week I got temporarily overexcited because a guy was starting at work.

‘Oh my gawd,’ I thought to myself. A man, a REAL Man. Love is coming at long last!

Ya see? That’s what happens when you work with too many older married chicks for a long time. You turn into a lame Bridget Jones caricature, clutching at handkerchiefs at the thought of a penis entering the workplace.

Well ok Mel, I hear you saying, what about finding love in a pub? Or a Club? Yes, because ALL the best romances have started there. ‘Cos let’s be honest, when I’m in a club at 2am, with my mascara panda eyes, food in my teeth from the packet of chips I scoffed walking in between clubs, bra straps showing and one shoe off, the kind of potential suitor I’m gonna attract is going to be oh-so-attractive and witty and sober. People, listen up, I hate to break it to you, but you DON’T make good romantic choices after a few shots of Jager. That’s why the term ‘Coyote Ugly’ was coined. I have no shame, so I’ll share a little gem about someone I met whilst out.

Let’s call him Larry for privacy reasons. When Larry approached, I remember thinking about how much he looked like a weird cross breed of Mark Zuckerberg and early 90s Justin Timberlake. I was really into N*Sync back in the day, so I let him buy me a drink. A couple of tequila shots later and Larry had decided to open up to me about the super-secret app he was creating whereby iPhone users would be able to put their phones into their fish tanks and watch what was going on with their fish. At this point, beer in hand, I was utterly convinced that he and the app were genius and arranged a dinner date for the next day. The next night, with my eyes clear and heart pounding, I was able to see for my own eyes exactly why no-one but Britney was very into JT’s frosted curly tips in the 90s. Look, I don’t mean to be superficial here but he was wearing one of those necklaces that have a pendant made out of a stone wrapped in wire. You know, kind of medieval looking. I tried to make some lame date small talk about favourite music but it caused him to launch into a half an hour science lecture all about different kinds of sound waves. Needless to say, at the end of the night, even despite his resemble to its founder, my Facebook relationship status remained staunchly ‘single.’

I feel that this whole debacle could have been totally avoided through the use of the internet dating. You can cut through at least 50% of the weirdos by creating a dating profile based on exactly what shit you do and don’t like. Yes, there will obvs still be some weirdos lurking about but at least you can get rid of all the ones wearing Dungeons and Dragons necklaces by making it clear online that you do not and will not play that game and that anyone with a dice and a cape can just GTFO. And yes, I'll admit that putting into my dating profile that I love all the Real Housewives franchises might lead me to fall in love with a lovely gay boy but that really wouldn’t be very different from what I was doing in the first year of my drama degree. Let’s be honest, gay men do everything better and make the best husbands.

So I'm willing to skip the meat market bars and risk getting Catfish-ed on supersexycupidsingles.com in the hopes that I will one day find my own straight Neil Patrick Harris and not some character from The Social Network.

Lauren is a musical theatre goddess, Facebook stalker and professional wine drinker.You can follow the hilarious, judge-y antics of Lauren at That's What She Said or on Twitter

My Life of Crime

2013-09-19T17:40:00.002+09:00

A guest post by possibly the best senior citizen you know, my dad John

Pressure! Pressure! Some success with my first blog. Now for a follow up, which could be so forgettable. Does anybody know what else Jack Kerouac, he of the Beat Generation, wrote after his cult book On The Road or what Salinger wrote after his cult novel Catcher in the Rye? And what happened to them? Kerouac, dead at 47 of liver failure, the result of alcoholism; Salinger becoming a recluse. Am I tempting fate? Will my life take a turn for the worse and will I once more descend into a vortex of dishonesty, lead a double life and end up again in jail?

It all started at an early age when I was 5 or 6 years old. My sister and I used to attend Sunday school armed with 1 cent each to put into the offering. Instead, we used to spend the money on an icecream each. Still guilt ridden even to this day, I might as well own up- even when I was much older, there were times when I would take money from my mother's purse. Not much, maybe a 'dubbeltye,' a ten cent coin. The fact that I did not receive any pocket money is no excuse: a sin is a sin is a sin.

However, if there is such a thing as a criminal gene, I have passed it onto Melanie. I used to and still do put loose change in my bedside drawer. A funny thing happened though- the money decreased rather than increased. Finally, her sister Julie, that paragon of virtue, dobbed her in. During the months that it was going on, the profits at Melanie's school canteen must have soared significantly. Melanie also told me recently that whilst at the supermarket, she went through the self service checkout and passed off an expensive turkish bread as a common 50c bread role. Such deception! But how could I lecture her with a background such as mine?

As for a double life and ending up in jail, it all has to do with my fascination with cards. To quote the lyrics of Kenny Rogers The Gambler,

You gotta learn to play it right

You gotta know when to hold 'em

Know when to fold 'em.

I did not fold the first time I played cards. It all went horribly wrong. I played in the gallery of the local Dutch Reformed Church with the son of an elder during the minster's sermon. Consternation. The minister stopped and said, 'There are boys playing cards in the galllery. I can't continue,' and with that, he left, leaving a congregation of 400 worshippers sitting stunned. We also took off, dodging the angry elders coming up the stairs.

Years later having left Holland (no, I was not sent away for being the black sheep), I was living in King's Cross in Sydney and attending Teachers' College. I learnt how to hold 'em then. I frequented baccarat venues, illegal at the time, and over a period of half a year made about 300 pounds, a considerable amount of money when you consider that a basic wage was about 12 pounds a week. How did I spend the money? Why, on private ballroom dancing and jive lessons, dining out at night, tailor made suits and a fedora. I was a regular Man About Town and have a drawer full of black and white pictures to prove it.

Just me and my lay-deez

Cheers to me

Fast forward to The Big Fall. I held on too long. Carolyn and I and our eldest baby daughter, Jennifer (conceived in Australia but born in the UK) were staying in Pattaya in Thailand after travelling for two years in Europe. By the way, Carolyn and I have burdened two of our daughters with the knowledge that they were not planned. Jennifer has coped well, after all, she has an English Passport. However, if you, Melanie's friends, ever see Melanie looking withdrawn, gazing into space with a faraway look, she's probably mulling over the fact that she was an accident. Please treat her kindly.

Anyway, whilst in Thailand, we stayed in a mid range hotel and at night to pass the time, I joined the staff in playing poker. The second night of doing so, we were raided by the uniformed police and taken to the local cop shop where I spent 3 nights locked up in a small cell with 20 other prisoners- drug dealers, alleged murderers and fellow gamblers. However, none of these so-called crooks were as fearsome as the wrath I faced from Carolyn for leaving her stuck in a hotel for 3 days with a newborn. Eventually, I was taken out of my cell for mugshots, was fingerprinted and made to sign a Thai written confession. By paying bribes, our hearing was put forward by a week and we got off with a 15 dollar fine paid in bahts.

Have you seen my husband?

I learnt my lesson but unfortunately, years later, temptation has reared its ugly head. Yesterday I drove past a local pub which advertised poker sessions on Saturdays and Sundays. The latest poker craze is played there: Texas Hold 'Em. Now, everyday, I must resist this devilish distraction. I must be strong, if only for my family- I don't want to end up the oldest inmate on Oz.

Father of The Bogan

2013-09-16T21:41:00.002+09:00

Editor's Note: My last post, How To Embarrass Your Children: A Life Guide, was primarily about the awkward things my dad did to me as a child. Being tech savvy, my 81 year old father read it on his iPad and decided he wanted to respond. He has spent the last two days hand-writing this guest blog on his clipboard. Yes, clipboard.

He refused to let me edit this and my pay back is to post this picture of him in a clog.

Stop! Consider! If you have an ageist attitude, do not, I implore you, read this epistle from an octogenerian who happens to have sired Melanie. You'd be wrong to think I associate One Direction with one way traffic. For all you know, I may be one of Lady Gaga's little monsters and prefer Adele to Susan Boyle. You'd be wrong to think that I go down memory lane and listen to Bing Crosby's White Christmas, Frank Sinatra's I did It My Way or Engelbert Humperdinck's Please Release Me. I will admit that I was rather mature when that group from Liverpool came on the scene, when Micky couldn't and still can't get no satisfaction, when Davie's alter ego Ziggy Stardust made being androgenous respectable and when Freddy fronted Queen.

But enough of this self indulgence to prove that I'm still with it. Instead, let me concentrate on my favourite youngest daughter. I have other favourites; a favourite middle daughter and a favourite eldest daughter. May I suggest something to you? Don't make it obvious but have a good look at Melanie. Doesn't her beauty strike you? I know she juxtaposed a photo of a younger me with one of herself. Surely you can draw your own conclusions. Why, oh why didn't I buy a one way ticket to Hollywood?

Now Melanie has overcome, I must admit, some of life's trials. She has a father who is not perfect, only near perfect, who has embarrassed her, who at times needles people and who can be an awful show-off. Despite that, she was not neglected as a child or unlike me, beaten, although she claims that I once made her get the wooden spoon to give her a hit. Can't remember though. I can remember that I once forgot to pick her up from school when she was very young. I was half an hour late and there she was, all alone, looking extremely forlorn and distressed. Even today I can still picture that look. Seeing as though we look similar, I shall give you my best impression below.

As you know, we live in an age of personal development and people are willing to part with big bucks to get rid of their inner demons during a weekend away with a bit of primal screaming or to achieve better sex and search for the elusive g-spot guided by some guru.Today, it's more about pilates, strutting around in g-strings, budgie smugglers and in particular, lyrca. By the way, I look terrific in all for 81 years old. You should see my abs.

I'll let you in on a little secret. I used to be coy about my age. But now, being 81 is almost a badge of honour, so at times I bring in up in conversation just so I can hear people exclaim, 'You don't look it!'
If the grim reaper holds off and I become a nonagenerian, I'll be unbearable. I assure you, I'm doing my best. I walk regularly, trying to outrun the grim reaper with his scythe. On my iPad, I play Temple Run, trying to outrun horrible looking critters. I know that a gigabyte is not an attack of the giggles and that a terabyte is not an attack by an escaped vicious tearaway bull mastiff but something to do with data storage.

But I digress. This is not a hagiography (go ahead, look it up) of Melanie. So of necessity, I must point out a minor flaw. She has been a procrastinator. I have been a bit like a Polonious to Laertes, dispersing free and I stress, free advice to her for years. Never mind if you don't get the literary allusions to Bill's Hamlet. Don't take it to heart. You can't know everything. My knowledge of quantum physics is sketchy. But what a lucky girl to have a father so willing to impart his wisdom.

I must stop now. I've just read out this erudite piece of writing to what I thought would be my adoring audience, namely Melanie and my wife, Carolyn, only to be told by the former that this blog needs editing and that it's just like my conversations- all over the place.

Starting the 'advice' young

How To Embarrass Your Children: A Life Guide

2013-09-09T22:11:00.001+09:00

Last week whilst in between watching Christina Aguilera lip-syncing videos online, I accidently stumbled into the world of mummy blogging. I fell deep and found myself clicking further and further into the vortex, one blog leading to another. It’s hard to describe- it was fascinating yet truly horrifying. From what I could gather, in between the stories about little Julian’s boogers and Cassandra’s exceptional 4 year old Picasso-like painting skills, the main theme throughout most sites was ‘how do we raise our kids right?’ I’m gonna take this even further and assume that the true meaning of that is ‘how do I not inflict little devil children onto the world that eventually grow up into large adult devil beings?’

Now look, I am (obviously) v.v childless. I have absolutely no business looking after anything at the moment. Last week for Saturday breakfast I consumed a can of coke, three Anzac biscuits and a toffee bought from a school fair. But I was once a horribly snotty thing with a boy haircut and whilst I clearly don’t know anything about the Healthy Food Pyramid (is that still a thing?) I think I turned out ok. Sure, I went through my angsty rebellious teenage years but I didn’t end up shooting heroin into my eyeballs or anything. Yes, I also clearly know nothing about taking drugs either. I’m practically Marcia Brady over here.

My parents had three girls to contend with. With my mum involved, that was an awful lot of estrogen for my poor dad to cope with. The amount of time the man had to spend in the feminine hygiene aisle at the supermarket was mind boggling but he countered that by striving to be possibly the Most Embarrassing Person You’ve Ever Met. And this, my friends, is what I believe is the answer to the question so desperately asked on all those mummy blogs. Forget about worrying about what technology is doing to your kid’s brains or whether you’ve enrolled them in the right Kindergarten For Geniuses. I propose that the key to good parenting is to embarrass the shit out of your kids.

For example, your child is far more likely to turn out a more compassionate human being if she was still being made to wear a full body, fluoro orange wet suit to swimming class in Grade Five, just to ensure that she doesn’t get burnt for the half an hour she will spend flailing around the shallow end of the pool, trying not to drown under the heavy fabric of the suit.
Just sayin’.

This week, I conferred with my sisters about a few of the embarrassing things our parents used to do that shaped us into the Functioning, Caring, Wonderful Adults we are today. (We can obviously add Humble to that list too.)

So breeders and potential future breeders, it's time to whip out your pen and paper and take notes as I introduce you to Parenting: 101.

Shoplifting

Going shopping with my dad was outrageously painful. My dad would always make grand claims that he would only be ten minutes and he just had to ‘get a few things.’ Tell that to the three hours of your life that you never got back. He was, and still is to this day, the absolute king of Fannying About. But that was not the worst part of being dragged along on The Never-Ending Shopping Trip. It was what happened when you got to the check-out. Sure enough, after a few pleasantries were exchanged between himself and the check-out chick, Dad would physically distance himself from you, lean over the counter and dramatically stage-whisper, ‘Pssssst! You should check her bag!’

This would naturally lead to a curious look from the spotty sales assistant at the counter, at which point Dad would follow up with a ‘I've got a feeling she's been stealing!'

Obviously, after a few more minutes of similar declarations, things got suitably awkward and it became more about the weirdness of this man hissing things at the cashier and less about the shop lifting potential of the five year old with the Strawberry Shortcake bag.

That, right there, is how you raise polite kids. 'Cos all three of us got real good at flashing our best ‘No, he’s not on day leave’ smile at whomever had the misfortune of swiping our groceries.

Aprons

Our parents made us wear aprons around the kitchen table, which actually seems quite reasonable. I mean, kids are messy when they eat-best to get a bib on that. Except that our parents continued to make us wear those aprons well after we learnt to use a knife and fork and right up until we were sixteen. I wish I could tell you that I'm exaggerating for comedic purposes but sadly, I'm not.

And I’m not talking the kind of pretty cupcake or bird print splattered artsy cooking aprons worn by attractive smiling models in Martha Stewart catalogues.

No, our aprons were fug with a capital F. Remember that part in The Sound of Music where Maria makes those Von Trapp kiddies some play clothes out of those revolting green curtains? Our aprons were basically made from material with the same vom-inducing pattern.

I'm telling you from experience- it's really hard to be an indignant sixteen year old and talk back to your parents about how you’re PRACTICALLY an adult and you DESERVE to go to Bethany’s party if at the same time you're wearing a soup-stained pinafore tied with strings at the side.

You lose.

Every time.

Phone Etiquette

Talking on the phone was a big deal in our house as a kid and yes, I’m talking about the good old days when you all still had a land line. Our telephone was in the kitchen and that was NOT an optimal area to discuss who the hottest boy at the blue light disco was. (The answer is all of them. Because 12 year old boys are very sweaty after doing the Macarena.) This is an especially dangerous area if you suddenly need to pee during the conversation and very stupidly leave the phone unattended with your dad lurking about in the background. Let me preface this by saying my dad is a little older than most. And yet, despite his advanced age and supposed years of wisdom, my dad thought there was nothing funnier than picking up the unattended phone and pretending to be a 14 year old girl.

Want your kids to do their homework and not be distracted by friends calling? I can guarantee the calls will be less frequent when their classmates are exposed to a 64 year old man trying to master a pubescent giggle.

It’s not pretty and I'm kinda sure it's the kind of thing that gets you on To Catch A Predator.

Of course, you could listen to some of those mummy blogs and try the new-age approach of letting your kids work things out for themselves but wouldn't you much rather teach your kids humility early by having them bring home a note from their Grade Five teacher requesting your skin cancer conscious parents buy you a 'real' swimsuit for swim class?

All I can say to my future children is: Prepare Thyselves. I've learnt from the best and I'm already pretty embarrassing without having hit middle age yet. And with the advances in technology, there will be so many extra ways I will be able to summon indignant rants from my future spawn.

So to my impending bogan children, let me pledge this to you- I WILL embarrass you.

But I will always, always buy you a decent swim suit.

Press one of these buttons and something magic will happen!

For example, you'll 'like' the Facebook page and my ego will expand to astronomical proportions and we all know we want that.

I am Trying To Be A Real Adult: Life in Your Late Twenties

2013-08-19T20:35:00.002+09:00

I am a huge procrastinator on the internets. Chances are, if you’re reading this, I’ve already stalked your Facebook page dry and know exactly what and who you did last weekend.

One particular time waster that I am a complete sucka for are those ridiculous list-gif articles. You know the ones- 8 Totally Valid Reasons To Never Pop a Kid Out of Your Hoo-Hoo Dilly Hole or 27 Ways That Underpants Are Back In Fashion This Summer.

I have wasted hours, nay, days, of my life looking at these lists. And I can’t bloody help it- I know how lame they are and yet I find myself reading them and muttering to myself, ‘eh mah gerd, that is soooooooo true.’ I mean, full confessional here, I was once looking at something along the lines of pictures to make you bloody believe in the world again and I shed a tear. I mean, actual salty liquid squeezed out from behind my cynical eyeholes. Am I alone in this or it is just the early signs of my inevitable fate as a crazy cat lady?

Anyway, recently I was looking at one about Life in Your Early Twenties vs. Late Twenties and after I finished my session of vigorous head nodding, I decided I had a couple to add to the list, centred around an average weekend.

Drum roll ploise.

Saturday Breakfast: Early Twenties

I don’t know about you but my Saturday mornings used to consist of a fight between myself and whoever had slept on the floor of my house about who was the least hung over and was going to drive to McDonald’s in their pyjamas before the dreaded 10.30am breakfast menu cut off. In many cases, no-one was fit to drive but lives were put on the line in order to get our hands on the tiny piece of heaven that was a cup of watery orange juice concentrate. It was perfectly acceptable to hand the unlucky driver the cash for two, maybe even three bacon-egg McMuffins without fear of judgment or comments about the Quarter Pounder you already ate last night at 2am, whose ketchup remnants have well and truly dried into your doona.

Saturday Breakfast: Late Twenties

We aren’t eating breakfast anymore, dahling; we are ‘doing brunch.’ This means you’ve entered a phase of your life where another person will actually expect you to leave the house on a Saturday morning before 12pm and, not meaning to scare you, they expect you to be wearing pants. We’ll sit on thinly cushioned milk crates on the sparse patch of sun by a main road and although we’ll spend ages mulling over the menu, we’ll both ultimately order eggs benedict with ridiculous amounts of hollandaise sauce but served on multi-grain bread for ‘health reasons.’ Our meals arrive dished up on jazzy saucepan lids with elaborate snow pea sprout garnish creations and we’ll both probably pull out our phones and take a picture, tagged with #brunchmunches, #saturdaysun #thisismyreallife & #lucky.

Inevitably, following this comes.....

Sundays: Early Twenties

Back in the day, I thought nothing of spending my whole Sunday curled up in a sleeping bag (because my doona was too tomato-saucy at this point), watching Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You for the third weekend in a row. On a side note, I challenge you to watch that movie now and not feel sadness whenever Heath bloody sings. Taken too soon Heath, taken too sooooon. If I was feeling particularly ambitious, a trip to the movies themselves might be attempted but usually not as the sleeping bag wasn’t allowed to come too. A shower was pondered upon at around 5pm, attempted around 7pm and vetoed as a non-necessity around 8pm as it was already too late and you would only be getting back into your pyjamas anyway.

Sundays:Late Twenties

In your late twenties, Sundays suddenly become all about ‘making the most of the day,’ as if we're all about to drop dead at any moment. And seemingly, the most universal activity that deems your weekend worthy is a trip to the markets. I dunno what it is but something about going to the markets gets those close to thirty really hot. Now look, I really don’t mean to be rude-I do like the occasional trip to the markets myself. In theory.

But in reality, after I have eaten my obligatory market pork buns, I realise there is nothing to do but be dragged around looking at overpriced fancy soaps that remind me that I’m not yet earning enough money to be able to afford said overpriced fancy soaps. After a while of lingering too long around the cheese samples and having my toothpick confiscated, I buy a few vegies for the amazing grown-up vegetarian stir fry I tell myself I will cook that week. The vegies will end up sitting neglected in my refrigerator for the next two weeks, rotting into an indistinguishable mess, forcing me to end up going to Coles for the ingredients anyway.

Which brings me to....

Cooking: Early Twenties

In my yesteryears, the only cook book I actually owned was sponsored by Maggi- as in, the creators of 2 Minute Noodles. It was called Life Beyond Pizza: Easy Meals For First Time Flatters and contained chapter titles such as (no joke), Feeding The Herd: Stuff You Can Make Heaps Of. Despite its simplistic brilliance, I never used it and relied upon my trademark dish of fried rice, where I strove to prove the theory that just adding a bit more soy sauce would make the glugginess of the rice undetectable to my fellow diners. In fact, back then, my love of soy sauce knew no bounds and there wasn't a dish I didn’t think it could be added to. Dessert was a home-made version of Cold Rock and by that I mean I would stick the marble cutting board I had into the freezer for a bit, bash a few m and m’s and ice-cream on it and call it a day.

Cooking : Late Twenties

At this point, invitations for dinner parties on a Saturday night are starting to roll in rather than last minute text msgs to all night ragers and everyone is ready to roll up their sleeves and show you what a Masterchef they are. Suddenly, a large Dominoes Pizza just doesn't cut it no more. People start doing very drastic things like making pizza dough from scratch and topping them with fresh tomatoes that they have actually bothered to grow. I mean, bloody GROW!

Cooking books are a late twenties version of porn and no-one is exempt from it, not even me. My sister recently gave me a book called Saved By Cake: 80 Ways To Bake Yourself Happy for my birthday and I almost peed my pants in excitement. I proceeded to try and bake some bliss into my life via an apple tart and in an arty-farty moment, spent at least a good 15 minutes positioning the final product next to the cookbook for photo I popped on Facebook. You know why? Because people my age ‘like’ that shit now.

This is who I am now.

Of course, some changes are a good thing and whilst seeing the sun on a Saturday morning and not the inside of your stanky sleeping bag can surely only be a good thing, there are times when I long to cry out that I actually enjoyed that bacon egg McMuffin way more than the $16 eggs benedict.

A Bogan's Guide To Being Grateful

2013-08-13T22:43:00.001+09:00

Move over Oprah, I've discovered the secret to being grateful.

So the other day I watched Schindler’s List for the first time at the ripe old age of 28. Yes, it is shameful that someone who has watched such thrilling and intellectually engaging works such as Mean Girls 2 (that’s right, there’s a sequel) has never seen a twelve time Academy Award nominated film. I mean, obviously I wasn’t completely in the dark and vaguely knew the storyline but I’d always put off watching it. I could just never work out when was the right time to strap myself in for three heart-wrenching hours of Jews trying to survive the Holocaust. Let’s be honest, it’s no Channel Ten Sunday night feel-good flick and I’d always just end up watching The First Wives Club for the twentieth time instead.

So last week, during a short lived bout of trying to be a Real Adult Person who eats quinoa and watches black and white films, I decided to tackle Schindler’s List. I won’t mince words- it ended with me a snotty emotional mess, with mascara-ridden rivers streaming down my face. I’m basing my comments on the assumption that you’ve all seen it but when the real descendants of the Schindler Jews came out at the end, I bloody waaailed. FEELINGS OVERLOAD.

I feel ya, Dawson.
Image via Jezabel

My point is, and I do have one, is that sometimes it only takes an emotional, violin-scored cinematic journey to make you realise that the cards you’ve been dealt in life ain’t so bad. Suddenly, me snuggling up to my parents' futon every night wasn't looking so awful. Some people go to therapy, some people do yoga, some people pray- I prefer to get my spiritual teachings through the films of Steven Spielberg.

So in the spirit of positivity, I decided to look very deep inside my soul that day and come up with a few things to be thankful for. Here's what I got.....

I am grateful that my Dad is not on Facebook.

This could be short lived, as the man is 81 and has already worked out how to get onto Twitter, so I fear that Facebook may be conquered next. Right now, my dad’s online spying of me is restricted to occasional peeks at my mum’s Facebook account. In the early days of letting my mum become my Facebook friend, my parents had a good trawl through my page and happened to stumble upon a video of me sculling an alcoholic beverage. Let me present the situation to you- it was an innocent Smirnoff Black Ice can. We all remember those, right? They tasted a bit like death in a can but for a brief moment, we all thought we were a bit hardcore drinking them because the alcohol percentage was about a smidge higher than your average Vodka Cruiser. Needless to say, my Dad saw this video and decided I was on some Fear and Loathing-type bender and made my mum send me chain emails with threatening titles like ‘WHAT ALCOHOL DOES TO YOUR LIVER’ and ‘STOP DRINKING OR DIE YOUNG’ for the next few months. Even to this day, he regularly asks me how my ‘drinking problem’ is going and whether or not I’ve graduated to full blown drugs yet.

I am grateful that I will never suffer from female baldness.

I think we all had one of those moments when we were younger when we pulled out an ‘I WISH I WAS ADOPTED!’ and tanty-stomped back to our rooms with a loud door slam. For me, this line was totally redundant because I am basically my father’s clone. Yes, that’s right, I inherited all of my boyish good looks from him and one thing he blessed me with was an astonishing amount of hair. My birds nest-y locks earned me the name ‘Melanie Mop head’ in primary school and there were often cries of ‘Mop the floor, mop head.’ Before you take pity on me for being subjected to these extremely creative taunts, you should know that I was often willing to oblige in exchange for a few Eucalyptus Drops. Obviously, there’s not a lot I won’t do for sweets.

My hair has both been the bane of my existence and the love of my life. It’s been my secret weapon for costume parties and nobody can tell me that I don't look good with a Bold and The Beautiful-style bouffant. But in real life, I have no idea what to do with it and as my friends say, I have basically been rocking the same hair style since birth. The joke will be on them though, when they peer into my death bed open casket, no old lady perm in sight, no glimpse of scalp- just me with my thick, glorious signature ‘Some Hair Up, Some Hair Down.’

I mean, in the competitive world of wrist modelling, I'd practically be Kate Moss. My thighs will always be thunderous, my love handles ever present but at least I can always look down at my wrists and revel in the fact I've managed to keep the weight off there. When my future millionaire husband buys me a diamond tennis bracelet just for being 'me', well, I'll have to get that thing insured as it would just slide right off these emaciated wrists. And I know that's what people are really looking at too. I mean, when you slip on your little black dress on a Saturday night, the first thing people will obviously notice is how well it accentuates your wrists. 'Gosh, it reeeeally brings out your wrists!'

Diagnosis: a regular wrist hottie.
Image via Bulgari

As you can see, I dug deep. The list could go on but I think it’s in the public’s best interest to only reveal my true philosophical and spiritual personality little by little. I don’t want everyone to get too excited and offer me my own Dr Phil-style show where I am allowed to scream at people that they must be in rehab before the sun sets.

So the next time you feel a bit hard done by, I'd really recommend popping Schindler's List in the DVD player and gaining a little perspective. Not only that, but you'll probably also have a good cathartic cry and dehydration is very slimming, so really, it's a win-win.

Working 9 to 5: The Melly Parton Story

2013-07-30T16:19:00.002+09:00

I recently experienced a pain worse than death: a week long work training course.

Before I begin, why yes, I did bloody get a job. I’m v.v employable, which is what I’ve been trying to tell people all along. I just look a bit shit on paper (and a lot of the time in person but that’s another story.) Unfortunately, I cannot disclose on this blog with whom said job is with, as I may be sent to jail. And honestly, I just don’t think I’d survive women’s prison. Not because of the other inmates but because I’m not sure that they let you bring in tweezers and my eyebrows just wouldn’t know when to quit. Frida Kahlo, eat ya heart out.

Initially, I was looking forward to my week of biz-ness woman training. Not so much the business part but the extravagant amount of per diems I was allocated for food every day. Let me put this simply- if it’s free, I’ll bloody eat it. There would be no biscuit or eggs benedict breakfast left unturned. I was supposed to be filling my mind with knowledge and know-how but the only things filling up were my love handles, Sonny and Cher. Yes, I have named them. It’s the first step towards acceptance, right?

But little did I know that there would be nothing sweet enough, mini pavlovas aside, to take away the dullness of the week. First off, I was about the only childless person on the course. I was soon to learn that that was not enough of a deterrent to stop other people from talking to me about the fruit of their obviously fertile loins. Look, let me say this. I like kids. Just about all the jobs I’ve had have been kid centred. But I don’t like your kids. To be blunt, unless you are the person who spent many painful hours huffing and puffing and pushing them into the world, no-one cares that little Johnny pooped on the potty today and is finally onto solid foods. I find it very hard to summon up the right amount of joy when I am being shown the tenth picture of Cindy at the beach. Ok, she made a sandcastle. What does she want, a frickin’medal? By about the third day, I had it timed down to a tee of when to shove a biscuit in my mouth should someone decide to pull out their iPhone device of torture.

Not. another. pictureeeeeeeeee
Image via World Cup

During training, we had five days within which we had to complete a pretty thick-looking textbook that looked as though it could probably inflict quite a nasty wound if used as a weapon. Turns out, I would have someone on the course that I would regularly fantasize about walloping with the Textbook of Doom. You know who I’m talking about…..The Unnecessary Question Asker.

Every group has one. That one annoying person who always seems to be able to pick the very moment when everyone else is ready to move on to ask one more (usually) very stupid question. And suddenly, discussions are launched, hours are lost, cities are built, wars are started, children are conceived, birthed and through the circle of life before you can move on again. When I was at uni, this person usually took shape in the form of a Mature Age Student. The Mature Age Student would always have something extra to add, some argumentative point to make or some pearls of wisdom that absolutely neededto be bestowed upon the rest of the group. When I was 18, I hated the Mature Age Student. I was mad at them for stopping me from getting out early and running to the campus bar to hold a cold beer against the throbbing hangover I’d nursed throughout the entire lecture. Meanwhile, the Mature Age Student probably went on to have some sort of lucrative career and didn’t have to flee the country to go teach English in South Korea as a fall back, but whatevs, I had college memories to make.

The Unnecessary Question Asker in this particular group was a doozy. This obviously wasn’t their first ride at the rodeo and I quickly realised that if this didn’t get shut down soon, we were going to be here for an extra five days. And look, staying in a serviced apartment is great but there only so much squinting you can do at the Brisbane city skyline before you have to give up and admit that you are not living out a Sex and the City-like lifestyle and the most Carrie Bradshaw thing about your life is your old lady hands.

But nothing could put this person off. I tried my evilest of evil eyes, which have been well known to stop small Korean children in their tracks and cause them to burst into sudden tears. A squeaky toy was engaged; a sad looking frog that puffed up when squeezed and then proceeded to let out a sound similar to a whale dying. I tried vigorously pumping on this toy whenever we got off track but the Unnecessary Question Asker just talked right through it. I began plotting on how to slip a night time Cold and Flu tablet into their morning tea scone, just to get myself a little peace and quiet.

Would you like to keep that hand? Then put it down.
Image via Her Campus

Look, I want to tell you that I won. But I didn’t. You can’t beat the Unnecessary Question Asker. They are like that annoying friend on Facebook who keeps sending you Candy Crush requests- no matter how much you deny them, they just keep thriving and posting status updates about what level they are up to. Instead, I sat there, fantasized about what I would do if I won the lottery (only very minimal plastic surgery) and ate around 15 mints a day to quell my grinding teeth. My mood was gloomy but my breath was bloody great!

After sitting through many hours which I’ll never get back (and no, I’m not talking about the time I went and saw that disaster, The Great Gatsby) I made it to the last day and managed to receive my Very Important paper certificate, which I made sure to store in pride of place in a plastic folder right next to my Dollarmite Saver Award from Grade Five.

In summary, if I am forced to attend any more of these courses, then I may have to seriously reconsider my thoughts on stripping.

Also on eating, if I wanna look good in a thong.

This Bogan is Back, Bebe.

2013-07-16T10:45:00.002+09:00

Recently, people keep asking me why I haven’t written a new blog for ages. And whilst on one hand, it really appeals to my vanity because I can privately think to myself, ‘Oh you used to read my blog,’ it also makes me cringe a little because then I have to explain why.

In a turn of events only as slightly as dramatic as an episode of The Bold and the Beautiful, I have found myself not gleefully plastering my travelling adventures over all forms of social media, but rather broke and jobless, sleeping on my parents double sized futon in their spare bedroom. Glamorous, right? The stuff of real adventures, no?

The thing is people, when you are frolicking over a Mongolian hillside, feeling very Sound of Music, you don’t really spare a thought for what happens when the cash runs out and the filter on your Instagram feed goes dark. Let me tell you now: SHIT GETS REAL.

When you get home, suddenly that adorable silver ankle bracelet you sported for several weeks all around India doesn’t look so hot. People are no longer asking you where you are headed to next but rather what your mobile telephone number is. Mobile phone? I haven’t had a proper phone for the best part of five years and upon emerging from the Optus shop, I was dismayed to find that what I’d purchased was rained upon with peals of laughter. Apparently, we don’t do pre-paid anymore and we never do buttons. I may as well be toting around some relic from the 80s, pretending to be ironic.

I had, of course, known that there would be some culture shock and had read many articles on the subject but that doesn’t help when you are standing in the aisle of a supermarket, gasping at the price of a tub of butter. It doesn’t stop you from scaring the poor, innocent shoppers around you when you yell out, ‘When did everybody suddenly become millionaires?!’ I mean, you’ve really got to embrace your inner nanna and slam that tub back into the dairy section with a gruff, ‘I’m not paying for this!’

Perhaps a little overzealously, I hit the ground running and started looking for jobs the day after I returned home. Mama needed the cash-y. I was prepared to slip on my big girl spanx (paired with a biz-ness skirt and power shoulder pads, ‘cos I never miss a good opportunity for a costume.) Cut to me, half an hour later, sobbing in the shower with an ugly cry face that could rival Claire Danes in all the episodes of Homeland, my self-esteem barely intact after a trawl through several online employment sites. In the biz-ness world, I was as unskilled as Lindsay Lohan would be to teach a sober living class. I mean, it seemed just crazy to me that 4 years of creating toilet roll masterpieces with small Korean children and teaching them to play Hospital, a game involving me as a giant, unmoving corpse on the mornings I lay hung over on the play mat, don’t count as sellable skills in my own country.

Bitch please. I can do better than that.

I even went so far as to actually get a job…selling shoes. All I can say about that is that I hope it adds a really colourful chapter to my future memoir when I call upon the hardships I had to endure before becoming this generation’s white Oprah (after Ellen DeGeneres of course.) This chapter will be brief- I only lasted 3 shifts before I worried for my own personal sanity and hot footed it out of there. Pun totally intended.

In a lot of articles I’ve read, fellow travel bloggers recommend keeping the dream alive by continuing to talk about your travels with family and friends. To that, I call bullshit. There is no better way to mark yourself as a wanker amongst a group of friends by starting a conversation (usually in a suitably wanky voice) with ‘Well, when I was in Thailannnnnnnnnnnnnd.’ No, please stop right there. We don’t care. I really don’t want to hear about how you find it really hard to order take-away now because it’s not the same as what you had when you were in Thailaaaaaaaand. I know better than to inflict that kind of rubbish on people I actually like.

Adding to the chaos was that soon after I returned home, I turned 28. When I was around 21, sculling my black Smirnoff Ice cans before running to the train station to go party in ‘the Valley’, I kind of always associated this age with when I would have my shit together. It’s kinda difficult to be all ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ when in the same breath you find yourself saying, ‘Dad can I pretty please borrow the car?’ In response to this, I developed my own catch phrase, ‘28: Feeling Great’ and if you’re my Facebook friend and you had to endure a barrage of birthday photos sporting said phrase, well, I apologise but I’m bloody working through something. PUBLICLY.

So, how does one get through the culture shock? First of all, I’d recommend keeping your crying to only in shower or alone in your car whilst driving down a motorway, listening to Bic Runga, reminiscing about your New Zealand road trip. I’m sorry, that may have been an overshare. DO NOT look at flights overseas and imagine yourself being really spontaneous and just flying off again, because once you and your credit card come to your senses, you’ll realise that you’ll be paying for it with FIVE more years on your parent’s futon, instead of six months. And I’m sorry but most importantly, NEVER, EVER read Eat, Pray, Love during a tumultuous time. It almost hurts me to say it as I carried that book like a banner flag through most of last year but once you get home, you need to do as Joey did on Friendsand put that shit in the freezer.

Speaking of Friends, just bloody embrace them. Maybe you don’t have a group of people who want to get in a fountain with you with umbrellas to a soundtrack of ‘I’ll Be There For You’ but I’m sure they’ll bloody well go out to coffee with you and let you be a big whingey baby for a while. (Note: there is a time constraint on how long you can get away with this. I’m still testing it.) I’ve had some pretty incredible people who’ve embraced me back into their lives, despite being but a figment of people’s imagination for pretty much the last six years. They’ve done everything from calling me every day to make sure I haven’t gotten on a flight, to baking me cakes of my boobs, staging photo shoots and shouting me to getting me nails did. Not sure if you can tell, but my friends are big wanky, drama school kids and I bloody love ‘em for it.

So at the risk of sounding like a public service announcement, it bloody does get better. That’s not to say that if anyone reading would like to apply for the position of being my sugar daddy (or sugar mama, I’m bloody open) that I wouldn’t say no.

So for now, this former Bogan on a Bus bids you adieu, as she is very busy being a Bogan Back in the Bosom of Brisbane.

Blue/Bogan Crush

2013-03-07T16:52:00.000+09:00

Aloha wahines and ranes!

As you can see, I've already gone totally cultural in Hawaii and learnt the language in a hot second.

I tell you what, I have been on bloody Struggle St trying churn a blog out. I'm sorry but I'm v.v busy stuffing my face with Mac and Cheese and Rice Krispies. Exaggeration 5000? There is literally a bowl of Mac and Cheese sitting next to me as I type. HELLO USA AND THE LAND OF PLENTY! And believe me, my belly is getting plentiful.

So here I finally am, in the land of sunshine, pineapples and beaches a.k.a Hawaii. The road to get here was not so easy and breezy. After several months of miserable cold weather and legs that had long been neglected by a razor, Dave and I rocked up to the airport in Korea eager to get a little sun on our pale bodies. China Eastern Airlines had other ideas. Our flight to Shanghai was delayed, meaning we would miss our connecting flight to Honolulu. After several false starts, we were directed to a desk manned by smiling lady who meekly, yet firmly told us that we could either get our money refunded or catch a flight in three days time.

Look, there's really no nice way to put this. Collectively, Dave and I threw a TOTAL BITCH FIT. A tanty. A Britney Spears-style, shaved head, umbrella-wielding meltdown. There were FLIGHTS BOOKED! SMELLY, BED BUG RIDDEN HOSTELS PRE PAID FOR! Now look, I don't usually condone shouting at terrified Asian ladies but there were un drunk Mai Tai's at stake. Our joint hissy fit paid off and we were eventually transferred to a flight operated by Korean Air. As luck would have it, this was a direct flight and it would actually arrive an hour earlier than our original flight, giving us more time to go burn some delicate Irish skin on the beach.

Palm trees at the airport? If this ain't paradise, I don't know what is..

Several in-flight movies later, we found ourselves on the bustling streets of Waikiki. Within hours, we had sorted ourselves a Hawaiian luau for the next day and found the cheapest cocktails and chili Waikiki had to offer.

Waikiki Beach. You're so jealous you could spew, right?

The next day was a combination of exploring the beach and playing the 'Buy Mel Everything' Game. A ukulele, a bobble head hula dancer doll, a surf board- I bloody wanted it and as a result, Dave spent much of the day with a whining, petulant child in tow. In the late afternoon, we made a mad dash back to the hostel with 10 minutes to make ourselves look respectable for the luau. Not an easy task because as Dave so lovingly puts it, 'Gosh darl, you wouldn't even get an inch of your face done in that time.' True love right there.

Within minutes of boarding the bus bound for Germaine's Luau, our friendly Hawaiian guide Mat was on the mic, cracking the jokes in an attempt to get the party started. And that's when it started: the dreaded ICE-BREAKING GAMES. There's no other way to put this: I hate that shit.
I bloody paid $70 for this and the least you can do is let me sit in stony silence next my boyfriend, with nothing to say to him because we've spent every waking moment with each other since the start of this trip. I don't want to be made to uncomfortably hold the hand of the person in the aisle next to me. Jeez, there's some friends who I've known for years that I STILL won't hug when we say goodbye simply because I don't think we're there yet.

But Mat was relentless. We were going to bloody BOND, like it or not. Reluctantly, under the watchful eye of Mat, Dave and I lent stiffly over to the lady across with us and asked her a few starter questions.

She blanked us.

I mean, you'd get more conversation out of Charlie Chaplin. Look, I don't like it either lady, but I've got a large Hawaiian guy breathing down my neck, so throw me a frickin' bone here, ok. Several awkward silences later, Dave and I gave each other a look that said , 'Ah yes, trust us to be seated next to the bus Debbie Downer.' When we finally reached the luau, I instructed Dave to make a run for it off the bus so that we wouldn't end up sitting next to Debs for the rest of the night.

Feeling like a coupla Nigel-No-Friends, Dave and I surveyed the luau seating situation. We scanned the seats, trying to weed out any potential Debbies with our eyes. Eventually, moving not unlike how one would imagine you would approach a minefield, we settled upon a picnic table containing a gentleman who introduced himself as Kevin from Maryland. He was later joined by his doctor girlfriend, Anna. Now look, Mat might recommend hand holding as a team building tool but I've got an even better one...Alcohol. A few Mai Tai's later and we were all practically besties. Kevin and Dave made themselves known to the bartender with a few slipped bills and soon we were all enjoying extra-large and extra-strength cocktails. Dave and I, not being the most forthcoming couple usually, found ourselves sharing another private moment in which we excitedly exclaimed, 'I think we've made friends! FRIENDS! REAL FRIENDS'

Buoyed by our budding friendship, we settled in for a night of Hawaiian entertainment. We watched as our meal for the night, a rather delicious smelling piggie friend, was pulled from the underground cooking pit, known as an imu. While stuffing our faces with the likes of pork, beef, fish, macaroni salad and poi (polynesian food made of taro plant), we were treated to girls doing some serious Hawaiian booty shaking that made Beyonce look like a beginner. We were wowed by hunky Hawaiian men twirling and breathing fire. We were made misty-eyed by sorrowful Hawaiian ballads. There was even a moment, under the influence of a few cocktails, where we all found ourselves on stage, trying to imitate the hula shown to us by our beautiful Hawaiian counterparts. Dave's usual signature dance move is what I have termed the 'chicken wings' but he really brought it when required to shake his rump. That's him in the checked green shirt below.

Dinner Candy

The night was coming to a close and Kevin and Anna, who had not been subjected to the bus of 'fun' (I use that word in the loosest term possible), offered to drive us back to Waikiki as they were staying in the same area. Not eager to see what Mat had in store for the journey back, I jumped on that offer like white on rice. We all decided to continue the party at an Irish bar and soon, shots of tequila were a-flowing.

I've neglected to mention a tiny detail here. What's that, a 7am flight to the Big Island in the morning? Pish posh, such things do not matter in late hours of the night. But boy, do they matter in the early hours of the morn. The alarm went off at 5.30am and I slumped on Dave like a broken rag doll all the way to the airport.

Death on a stick

But you know what guys, it was all worth it. You know why? FRIENDS! We made FRIENDS! Anna and Kevin, if you ever read this, we promise we're not creepy stalkers who are trying to Single White Female you. Overzealous eagerness aside, we've been known to be around people before, in various social situations, I swear. I've just realised of have no actual photos of them. But they're real, guys. They're really real.

Tune in next time, where I might actually write a blog that includes, ya know, something a bit cultural, like volcanoes and stuff.

ALOHA!

High Noon In Hong Kong

2012-11-11T20:37:00.005+09:00

This is a bogan behind on her blog.

As I write, I’m sitting on a train, hurtling through Western Siberia, with the outside world all painted white with snow. I’m tempted to regale you all with tales of the last 24 hours, surrounded by Russian men and the smell of B.O and cigarette smoke but I would be missing a huge chunk of this trip. So back to Hong Kong we go.

Hong Kong, for anyone who hasn’t been, is bloody paradise. This statement may or may not be influenced by the fact that I landed there after 5 weeks in India. Nevertheless, when we got there, I was almost tempted to kiss the beautiful, gleaming, flushing toilets in the airport. You ever see those tacky tourist shirts saying ‘I heart HK’? Look, I was tempted to buy a shirt, a hat, a badge, a pair of velour track pants if need be.

Dave’s primary reason for us to go to Hong Kong was to obtain our Chinese visas. Well, bugger the visas, I was there for Disneyland. I had heard all kinds of negativity about Hong Kong Disneyland- to sum up, everyone’s opinion was that it was a little bit shit. Lies, I tell you, absolute lies. We were there for over 8 hours and I still didn’t have enough time to go to Tarzan’s tree house. Look, lining up for 30 minutes to sit in an auto-piloted toy car to pull at a steering wheel pretending like you’re driving might not be everyone’s cup of tea but I bloody loved it. My only criticism was that a few more Mickey’s wouldn’t go astray. Every time we tried to go get a photo with our lovable mouse friend, sure enough, he’d run off for a smoke or a pee or whatever tawdry things Mickey does when the mask comes off. Toy Story Land is absolutely amaze-balls. I mean, who wouldn’t love a place where the toilet sign is spelt out in Scrabble letters? Only a person with a heart of stone (Dave).

If you don't like Toy Story Land, you probs don't have a soul

Toy Story Toilets

Our day of Disney fun over, we decided to try out a bit of Hong Kong night life. The previous night, we’d kept it classy by going to the highest bar in the world, Ozone, and ordering a drink for approximately one million dollars. With enough sophistication under our belts, we decided to get back to what we do best- street drinking. We hit the streets of Lan Kwai Fong and rather than join the hip and beautiful in the clubs, we purchased ourselves some beers off a very angry street stall lady and settled on a stoop to watch her have an argument with her downtrodden husband. Music was pouring out of the bars and soon, with help of a few more beers, we were having ourselves a grand ‘ol time.

Gosh, just being really classy and refined.....

The ultimate problem with street drinking is what does one do when their poor bladder has had all the liquid it can take? I mean, this isn’t bloody India, you can’t just pop a squat in an alley. This is Hong Kong, people. Dave and I had taken up residence outside a happening bar and kept sneaking in there to use the facilities. On about my third trip in there, that’s when THE INCIDENT occurred. Call it my first brush with Russia, if you will. After the incident took place, I actually made a video detailing what had taken place but let’s just say, I may not have had the clearest of heads during the taping. It’s my blog and whilst I don’t believe in censoring myself, I have a mother too and she’s a saint so I’ll spare her the sight of a blathering, belligerent child.

Written word, however, is another story. Below, transcribed word for word is what I like to call

THE LAN KWAI FONG LAVATORY STAND-OFF

(A toilet terror incident through the eyes of an overly excitable ex-drama student)

Setting.

The streets of Hong Kong. Lionel Ritchie plays in the background. The camera pans from a close up of some empty bottles to a bogan looking girl in a flowery blouse and jeggings. Yes, that’s right, I said jeggings. They’re basically Spanx that you’re allowed to wear outside. Don’t judge.

BOGAN LOOKING GIRL: I am VERY angry and I want to everyone why right now.

Some (insert word that rhymes with mut) I’m sorry Mum, that’s a rude word, some (oh dear, there’s that word again) just ruined my night, alright.

I was waiting very patiently for the toilet, alright, and some Russian chick was in front and she decided she wanted to have a DANCE!

Alright, go have a dance- you CAN’T get back in the toilet queue.

And then she tried to get back in the toilet queue and me and this lovely English lady let her back in and then she wants to get her three friends for behind in and we said no and do you know what she did?

DRAMATIC PAUSE

SHE.HIT.ME.

She str-uuck me. With her hands, there was a mark, on my arm. And then, she said to me, DON’T TOUCH ME. I was like, you just frickin’ hit me.

No, but do you know what, she got into the toilet and she was taking a very long time and there was actually a moment where halfway through her time, she opened up the door and was like WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH to me and the English chick and we were like, oh that’s a bit strange.

Do you know what this (insert word that might rhyme with witch) did?

While we were waiting, she got the bin beside the toilet and emptied the WHOLE thing into the toilet to block it. So me and the lovely English lady could not pee. WHO DOES THAT!

I’m very angry and I’m looking for this chick cos

Will.

Fight.

Her.

I’ll fight her.

I will fight her.

End the camera Dave, I will fight her.

Fighting.

END SCENE

Obviously, any person reading would think, ‘Wow, what an insightful and thoughtful response to that situation.’ Let’s be honest, combined with the fact that Dave and I were drinking on the street to start with and that there rant-well, it’s about as bogan as you can get.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression here. I don’t normally go round trying to pick fights with our former Soviet friends or anyone in general. Let’s just say, I may have had the help of a few bottles of Dutch courage. Furthermore, that wasn’t the only video shot that night. There’s also a video of Dave and myself doing a horrible rendition of Lionel Ritchie’s All Night Long, which is being censored for different reasons-vanity.

So, lessons learned in Hong Kong?

DOvisit Disneyland. I guarantee that even childless, you’re bound to have a day of good, clean fun.

DON’Tpick fights with Russian ladies unless you want your toilet privileges revoked or the possible loss of your front teeth. I’m pretty sure that the mark on my arm was just a starting point.

Holy Bogan! Getting Bacterially Blessed By The Ganges

2012-10-16T15:35:00.000+09:00

Here’s a sentence I never thought I would utter. I’m pretty sure my laundry was washed in sewerage.

I thought that after 35 days in India, I was pretty much acclimatised. I had seen it all. Public masturbation, public urination-even I had been forced to pop a squat in public. When Dave called out, ‘Mind the poo!’ I would cheerily call back, ‘Which one?!’ The rubbish in the streets had become just a colourful blur in the corner of my eye as we walked down the dusty streets. The other day, I found out that all the mutton curries I’d been gobbling under the impression that it was aged lamb, were in fact made with goat. These were probably the grubby little goats that I’d often see frolicking through the aforementioned rubbish on the streets. I didn’t even flinch. I just kept stuffing the delicious billygoat into my face.

Then I went to Varanasi. Dave saved this place till last. He’s very smart, this Irish fellow. I think he knew that if we had come here first after our arrival in India, I would have turned around and gotten back on the plane.

So, we’re in Varanasi, backpacks hoisted on our shoulders, wandering around some narrow, winding back lanes to a place that Dave had stayed four years earlier. The place we were searching for was called Pooja Guesthouse. Yes, that’s correct spelling. This name, as it turns out, was very apt, as it was what the streets leading up to it were covered with. I mean, I’m sorry to get graphic but it was just spread across as far as the eye could see. I could see more poo than street, in fact, there was more than I had seen in the last 35 days combined. I didn’t want to breathe through any hole in my face for fear of inhaling poo pathogens. I’m no scientist but I’ve decided that that’s a real thing.

For once, my mouth isn't the dirtiest thing here.

In Indian culture, Varanasi is known as very spiritual place as it is home to the river Ganges or as it is locally known, the Mother Ganga. Essentially, people come here to die because they want to be burnt on the Ghats (stairs leading down to the water) and have their ashes spread over the river. This practice is said to stop the cycle of birth and death and finally release the deceased to an eternal afterlife. Each ghat surrounding the Ganges has a specific purpose. Some are burning ghats where these cremations take place. Others are bathing ghats, where Indians perform all the activities that one might do in the privacy of their own bathroom. One thing is certain though-the Ganges and its water are considered holy.

60,000 people can't be wrong

They are also the dumping ground for some 30 sewerage plants around the city. The water has been declared septic- no oxygen exists in it. I think I read that when the water was surveyed, it had something like 1.5 million different types of bacteria per 500ml. Now look, you can’t mess with a culture’s dogma. Indians believe that this water is sacrosanct and there is no telling them otherwise. It would be like someone coming up to me and telling me that Meryl Streep is not the greatest actress to ever walk this earth and that I shouldn’t worship her like my own deity. I will simply always stand by her, even when she appears in movies with Alec Baldwin. (Don’t even get me started on It’s Complicated.) At the end of the day, people will believe what they want to believe and we should just live and let live. Gosh, I’m so spiritual.

However, that doesn’t mean that my stomach didn’t turn when I witnessed people brushing their teeth with the water. Oh look, someone’s Auntie Mildred is drifting by, that’ll add a bit of grit when you rinse out. Mouthwash, Mother Ganga flavoured! At one point when we were walking along it, my really attractive black Croc knockoffs sunk deep into the mud and I was forced to rinse off the muck in the Ganges. I didn’t feel blessed, I felt bloody panicked that Tinea was already forming underneath my toenails and I scrubbed my feet raw when we got back the guesthouse.

That's just a normal, everyday, run of the mill dead body.

Something positive that came out of visiting Varanasi was a bit of Facebook stalking. That’s right; some more good can come of it than just creeping on your ex and your ex’s new girlfriend to see if she’s a skank. (She is. They always are.) The wonderful Meagan Babore, fellow drama school wanker, had seen my India photos and we worked out through a series of overexclaimated comments that we were in the same place. Half an hour later, we had a date to meet beside some smoking bodies at the burning ghat.

Excited to see her- it had been about 6 years and all; I decided to just run right past the fires burning up the deceased. Probably not the best idea in foam thongs and upon reflection, gosh, it was v.v hot. I reached Meagan and after our embrace, she looked at me and said something like, ‘I hate this place!’ I could have kissed her on the mouth right then and there. I had real life confirmation that I was not the World’s Biggest Debbie Downer. More than that, finally there was someone else to talk to besides Dave! We swapped notes about all the naughty horrible things that you’re not supposed to say out loud about Varanasi and also found time to stage a photo shoot by the Mother Ganga. It was bliss.

Meagan's T-shirt has a starring role as the best thing about Varanasi

Hmmmm, faecal matter. Thank you, Mother Ganga

My spirits lifted, I returned to Pooja to find my laundry was back. I had been suffering from a severe clean clothes drought due to being on the move so much over the last week. It was at the point where I was starting to eye off a few of Dave’s undies, wondering if I could pull off a Y-front. Upon arrival in Varanasi, I had put basically everything in my backpack in to be washed. However, this was before I took a walk along the Ganges and saw a few too many washerwomen for my liking.

So when I saw my pile of clothes folded neatly on the bed, I was not hundred per cent sure that they weren’t consecrated.

With hundreds of millions of dirty micro-organisms, that is.

So I guess that even though I’m leaving India tomorrow, I’m going to be taking a little piece of the Mother Ganga with me, like it or not. I’m either the dirtiest person who ever lived or one very blessed bogan.

Let’s go with the latter. I’m not ready to become a nudist yet.

India And The Things You Can't Un-See

2012-10-02T19:56:00.002+09:00

India. It’s a country that conjures up images of the Taj Mahal and temples, saris and sunsets and bazaars and beaches. During the last couple of weeks, I’ve seen and done some amazing things that have included many of these unique sights. I could describe some incredible highlights and experiences that make me sound very deep and spiritual. But the fact is, no-one likes a braggy bitch. As my wise little Irish companion so eloquently put it to me this morning, ‘Unless you’re the one that’s travelling, no-one gives a shit. They don’t want to hear about you having a cocktail by the beach, they want to hear that you’re having a horrible time.’

So I’m going to tell you a tale of woe.

It began with a 28-hour overnight train ride, from Goa to Kota. I already had a small idea of how said train ride was gonna pan out, having been on an 8-hour journey the previous week. Needless to say, this was how I was feeling pre-train excursion.

All aboard! Whackadoo!

It's a long journey, so we were in a sleeper carriage- three bunks to a side, with the middle bunk folded down during the day for seating. Being savvy travellers, we had opted for the cheaper, Non- AC tickets. There's no nice way to put this- it was as hot as balls. I spent the whole day rocking a permanent sweat moustache, which is a really attractive feature for your loved one to gaze upon. I also discovered that, yes, it is possible to get sunburnt through a glass window.

Lucky for me, my travelling companions for the next 28 hours were all men. Who stared. A lot. Now look, I get it. I was looking really glamorous that day, what with my sweat moustache, my frizzy braided hair and my outfit of a by then soaked black t-shirt and baggy, blue-and-purple linen clown pants. I was the living embodiment of beauty. Usually, I’m not so fazed by staring. I lived in South Korea- staring and sometimes even the pointing and shouting of ‘Foreigner, foreigner!’ is extremely common. My remedy is to just make eye contact back until the other person feels awkward and looks away. However, I was unprepared for the steely resolve of the common Indian man. There was no looking away and instead I found myself engaged in uncomfortable staring contests all day.

Staring contest! You win, you always do.

Now look, parts of India are v.v beautiful. But the reality of the poverty within the country just cannot be denied. Looking out the train window, the railway tracks and the fringes of the surrounding scenery were just covered with rubbish. And it’s easy to see why. Every time anyone ate or drank anything on the train, they threw the remaining rubbish out the window. And it just broke my heart a little. I get it, different cultures, and different problems. I was trying not to be judge-y, but I’m an Aussie kid raised on that litterbug ad campaign. You know, the ol’ Don’t be a litterbug with that crazy, messy bug character. At one point, Dave threw his coffee cup out the window, and I swear that man got such a bitch face from me for the next hour. Kinda like this……..

Not. Happy. Dave

Moving swiftly along, let’s discuss the food situation. I have a weak stomach, which just perfect for world travelling and different cuisines. Usually when I am required to make some kind of journey, I just don’t eat until we hit our next destination. 28 hours is a long time and Dave was adamant that I was not going to be on some kind of self-appointed hunger strike. At one of the stations, he handed me some unrecognizable-looking balls wrapped in newspaper, that I suspected had probably been sitting in the seller’s bucket for the better part of 5 hours. As I went to eat one, a little voice inside my head started up.

Mel, sweetie, it’s your ol’ pal, stomach. Look, me and your intestines down here, we’ve just been having a little chat and we really don’t think you should put those balls in your mouth. Come on now, nothing tastes like skinny feels.

I gave it some thought…..

Well, you may have a point…..

But I was damn hungry. I inched the food a little closer to my lips.

Mel, baby, come on! We can work this out! You know, your shoulder bones have never looked better.

Fuck it. I like to eat.

You’ll pay for this, bitch.

And I did. Ever been to a toilet on an Indian train? I’m using the word ‘toilet’ very loosely to start with. It’s just a hole in the ground so you’re basically doing your business straight onto the tracks. The train had been in operation for a while before we boarded in Goa, so the state of the loo by the time I got in there was, well, let’s just say, I can sanitize my hands but not my eyes.

Please, just poke my eyes out already! Me and my 6 chins are horrified.

Now look, right now, I can tell you’re thinking, blah, blah, blah, white girl problems. Oh dear, you’ve seen a bit of rubbish? You’re a bit hot, deary? Bit of a dodgy stomach? There, there princess. So I offer you the final nail in the coffin.

Due to my defective digestive system, I was up and down all night, trudging dejectedly to the lavatory of doom. So therefore, at approximately 2.30 in the morning, I was awake when the man on the bunk opposite me decided that now was the perfect time of night to have a bit of a ‘how’s yer father?’ Yep, I’m talking full on masturbating. Thinking ahead, he’d respectfully covered himself with a sari and believe me, that sari was definitely dancing.

Pictures paint a thousand words. Here’s mine.

Oh hello, what’s happening down there? Nooooo!

Abruptly, I stood up, making a lot of noise, so that he’d be aware that he was not alone and this was perhaps not the right time. But no, he just kept going, eyes closed, breath quickening. I can now add this to the growing list of things from India that I cannot un-see.

Later on, at around 5.30am, when I was dreaming about a lost toiletry bag, he gave it another go. First off, if I was getting all analytical, I would say the toiletry bag dream was about how I felt so unclean, probably because I had just been an unwilling spectator to one man and his not-so-private ode to his penis. Secondly, this guy was really fucking pushing the boat out at this stage. It was bloody light outside, I wasn’t the only one awake, I mean, I’d just heard the guy selling tea go past chanting ‘Chai masala, chai masala!’

Seriously? Again? Are you going for some kind of railway record?

Needless to say, when I disembarked 15 minutes later, Dave, who had been sleeping soundly the whole time, got an earful and I concluded by proclaiming, ‘I bloody hate India!’

Post train trauma.

So now everyone playing at home can smile smugly into their morning coffees, in their air conditioned spaces, with their recognizable food and rubbish bins and white porcelain thrones. Sometimes, travelling is the bee’s knees. But sometimes, travelling is the absolute tits.

Now, look, I don’t reallyhate India but if you don’t want to ever utter that sentence and are thinking about getting on a train in this country, I highly suggest taking earplugs and an eye mask!

P.S My vanity has really suffered with all these close up pictures of my ugly facial expressions, so I’m going to conclude with a picture of myself looking all happy and shoulder blade-y.

12 hours later and everything is peachy frickin’ keen again.

P.P.S Here's something you do want to see, as opposed to someone's self-love act.......the brand new Bogan On A Bus Facebook page! Click on the link on the top right hand corner for more awkwardness!

The One With The Train Of Death

2012-09-01T14:02:00.000+09:00

Today was the worst day of my liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiife. (This may or may not be exaggerated.)

Today I took a train ride of death.

Let me explain. We have arrived in Sri Lanka. This country was sold to me by Dave as a land of tea and beaches for us to relax in after our very stressful summer English camp of drinking and general debauchery. I’m a believer that a cup of tea solves everything, so I was in. Yes, tea, people. Not alcohol. Shocking, I know.

Upon arrival at the airport, we were shoved into a packed bus headed for Colombo, with my backpack crammed so intimately against me that we now may need to get married. After disembarking in Fort, I waited on the street for Dave to find suitable accommodations. Now, I’m no oil painting but basically everyone was staring at me like they wanted to be my new boyfriend. Perhaps they were just looking at my ever growing collection of travel bracelets in admiration. We finally found somewhere pretty dirty to rest our bones and I’m about 90% sure that once again, there was a brothel operating out of one of the rooms next door.

Home, Sweet, Brothel.

Upon eating our first Sri Lankan meal, I realised that I have turned into one of those travellers. You know, the really annoying ones who wipe their cutlery with wet wipes and ask for straws rather than use the glass. Look, after six months of traveling, I know this about myself- I need only look at a dirty spoon or an ice cube and I will get sick. Best. Traveller. Ever.

After a night with a soundtrack of blaring car radios and honking horns, we rose early to head to the beach. Dave, being aware of my bogan fear of buses, got us train tickets. An easy, stress-free 3 hour ride to white sandy beaches and turquoise coloured water. Wrong.

We were barely able to push our way onto the train and ended up packed like sardines right near the open doorway. This is where we were to stand, upright, for the next three hours. Considering the epic train journeys we will soon need to take in India, three hours is but a drop in the ocean.

About a third of the people I would soon rub bodies with.

But this bogan wasn’t so smart. Already suffering from our first meal, I hadn’t eaten or drunken anything for close to eight hours. After about 30 minutes of standing, I started to see spots. Big, fuzzy, black spots. 5 minutes later, I had to ask Dave for a bag. Seeing that my normally whiter than white face had now turned a lovely shade I would call week-old-corpse white, Dave quickly emptied out his toiletry bag as a temporary solution. Whilst I sweated like some kind of farm animal, Dave patted at my face in intervals with what I very un-affectionately refer to as his ‘dirty little towel.’ He was wearing my straw hat, perhaps in an attempt to relieve me of any extra load, and looked entirely ridiculous. I daren’t open my mouth to tell him, lest I spew all over him. With what very, very little room was available to me, I resumed a position slumped over our bags, head against the door frame, slobbering all over the door handle. Someone or something keep grazing my bum, trying to cop a feel. I suspected it was the two horny teenagers behind me but it would be me who would have the last laugh. They had no idea that they were in danger of being vommed on. Some men positioned on the foot rail outside the train were obviously feeling very raucous and kept ‘whoo-ing.’ After about the twelfth ‘Whoo!’, I was seriously considering pushing them off the train. Surely the conditions in a Sri Lankan women’s prison would be better than this bloody train.

Why so unhappy, small child? You've got a bloody seat!

Train Life

We finally made it to our destination, Galle, without me ruining Dave’s toiletry bag beyond repair. Like a broken woman, I crawled off that train and lay on the dirty, cold, concrete railway station ground, blessing it like the wounded returned from war. I’m sure this was highly entertaining for all the people in the not one but two trains docked at the station at the time but I didn’t bloody care.

Best. Traveller. Ever.

What is that white woman doing to the ground?

The beach is lovely though. We tuk-tuked it from Galle to a beach called Unawatuna, which I’ve decided sounds best when you pronounce it so it rhymes. U-nah-wah-tu-nah. Although devastated by the 2004 tsunami, Lonely Planet still rates it as one of the 10 best beaches in Sri Lanka. Five minutes after getting there, I made best friends with two local children by communicating with them via some pantomime-esque hand movements. The same non-verbal joke brought laugh upon laugh and I started getting very vain and thinking that perhaps my drama degree wasn’t wasted. I was rewarded by one of the small children with some kind of unidentifiable food (Vegetable? Fruit?) which I dutifully pretended to eat, cos as I said, I’m that traveller now.

My new Sri Lankan BFF
Photo courtesy of davidmbyrne.com

We’ve also set ourselves up with a delightful room, complete with a balcony providing views of a jungle fit for Tarzan and a bed so massive that Dave and I practically need to phone each other just to say hello. Tomorrow marks Dave’s 37^th birthday, and after I give him the best present ever in the morning, we’ve plans to beach and cocktail it all day. Yeah, that sounds good, some schooners in Unawatuna! (Sri Lankan Rhyme. BOOM.)

How To Stage A Breathtaking Reunion

2012-07-13T17:23:00.003+09:00

I love me some emotional reunions. If you haven’t seen me for a while, I want you to cry when you finally do. I’m talking huge, gut wrenching, heart breaking sobs. I want it to be like the end scenes of Love Actually, where all the different characters reunite at the airport. Unfortunately, this is very rarely the reaction I get when seeing loved ones and believe me, I have been out of the country A LOT in the last five years. So, for certain family members who need help and anyone who will be seeing a special someone after a long absence, here are my tips for:

HOW TO STAGE A BREATHTAKING REUNION

Costume

V.v important. Regardless of whether you are a lady or a man, you’re going to need to find either a dress or skirt or some kind of pirate button down shirt that’s frilly. Floaty. I’m thinking lots of tulle. Ballet. Very Centerstage.

Why? Obviously, when you finally see your reunit-ee, you’re going to run into their arms ala Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing and be spun around as though you are as light as a feather. Obvs, you’ll need the right attire to make this look spectacular. Your smelly, crumb-ridden sweatpants from the plane just aren’t going to cut it. Your partner does not have to be of Patrick Swayze (RIP Johnny) physique, just make it work. If you fall or miss their arms, it’s time to interpretive dance the shit out of that mistake. I once did this on the streets of Seoul with my good friend Lauren. She was Patrick, I was Jennifer, it was heavenly.

Come to me, Baby
Photo via Ugly-Crap

Signs

There’s nothing like a nice homemade sign to make the person who is coming home feel extra special. Now, obviously, you are going to be holding this up in public for all to see, so I find, the more embarrassing the better. Something along the lines of ‘Welcome Home 3^rd Favourite Child!’ or ‘How many STDs did you get overseas?’ (rhymes are extra awesome) Using embarrassing family orientated nicknames is also a good one. My sister still writes me Christmas cards addressed to ‘Fatty-Boom-Choom-Choom,’ which is probably why I don’t let her greet me at the airport. Printing out awkward childhood photos where gender lines are skewed is a winner. Hanging in pride of place in my house is an early 90’s Kodak family portrait where, if it weren’t for the fact that I am wearing a particularly feminine tartan blouse, my parents would have had a lovely little boy on their hands.

Music

Look, I’m not particularly girly. I have a distinct loathing for pink, polka dots, bows and butterflies. I don’t want to talk about your cat. Or your dog. In the words of Foreigner, I’m as cold as ice. But you bloody put on a slow-rock, moving nineties ballad with a good montage of something sad and I’m blubbering like a baby. Embarrassingly, last week, I publicly cried watching a reality TV show wedding on my MP3 in the subway. It was the music, the MUSIC, I swear! So, if you’re looking to ellicit some boisterous blubbering, you better have your boom box ready. It doesn’t matter if it’s not appropriate to the situation, just blast it loud and proud and if necessary, walk in slow motion towards your soon-to-be sobbing target. Some soundtrack suggestions:

I Will Remember You- Sarah Maclachlan

One Sweet Day- Mariah Carey & Boys 2 Men

With or Without You- U2

Why did you have to pull out the Whitney Houston?
Photo via My Crazy Crazy Life in Gilbert

Extra Tips

Sometimes, there’s all this build up to the moment of finally seeing that familiar face. You run, you hug, you twirl, you fall to the floor dramatically, you laugh, you cry and then……it’s awkward. You realise that actually, you and that family member are fighting cos they said that thing about you at last year’s Christmas Dinner. That actually, you haven’t spoken to this person since 7^th grade when you were both eagerly anticipating your boobs growing in. What’s the answer?

BOOZE. Lots of it.

Scrap any sight-seeing or settling in plans and head straight to the nearest bar. Sure, you may have to deal with some awkward chit-chat for the first couple of drinks but after a couple of Jager shots, you’ll be taking a l-o-v-e-l-y stroll down memory lane together.

The more I drink, the more I like you.
Photo via Rogues and Gentlemen

I’m off to prepare a mixed tape for a stirring emotional showdown I’m having with a certain someone named Lauren tomorrow. It’ll be my birthday and birthdays come with a whole new set of rules, so basically, I’m expecting nothing short of a parade.

5 Awesome Things About (Being Back In) Korea

2012-07-09T09:45:00.000+09:00

Lets just say, after 3 years of working in Korea, when I left, I was a leettle bitter. But after 4 months away, I can look at it again with fresh eyes and once again appreciate that it’s the little things that make this country great. So without any further ado, in no particular order, I present 5 tremendous things about the land of morning calm.

Sweet Summery Swills

Inside most convenience stores in Korea you can find a freezer stocked with plastic cups filled with ice. Next to said freezer is usually a stand filled with pre-packaged drinks. You simply choose your package; pour it into the ice cup and within seconds you have a refreshing Starbucks-quality beverage. There’s no limit to what you can concoct- macchiatos, espressos, iced teas- you name it! To me, the novelty of being my own ‘mixologist’ never wears off and the fact that the cost of the drink is only 1000won (AU$0.85) is an added bonus. My personal fav- sweet lime and mint iced tea- I crave this sweet nectar like crack, probably because its primary ingredient is sugar. During a hot summer day, I can slurp down at least 5 or 6 of these bad boys which probably why my waistline looks the way it does.

Nectar from the Gods

D-I-Y Roadside Saloons

As if it isn’t enough that the convenience stores here double as liquor stores (you can buy beer and alcoholic mixed drinks) they also act as a poor man’s bar. Outside most are two or three umbrella-shaded plastic tables and chairs. Instant roadside beer garden! Take a seat, crack open your can and enjoy the summer rays. There’s no waiting for the bartender to come take your order; you can simply slop inside, wrench open the fridge and grab your own. It’s probably best to pay though cos, ya know, stealing is wrong. Family Mart, a popular 24 hour chain, even have stores with small wooden patios outside. I’m using the word ‘patio’ very loosely here. It may be leaning a bit more towards ‘small wooden platform’ but still, sunset quik-e-mart cocktails anyone?

Mulnaengmyeon, Soup of Champions

According to most foreigners I know, I am the odd one out for having a fetish for this icy creation. In a nutshell, it’s basically buckwheat noodles served in a frosty cold broth with a hardboiled egg and an assortment of radish shavings, shallots, cucumber and sesame seeds. You can add spicy sauce or vinegar to the soup to give it some extra zing. To some, the idea of eating noodles in a bowl of ice may sound rather revolting, but believe me, when it is over 30 degrees outside and you are sweating like some kind of farm animal, it is most refreshing.

Photo via theKitchn

This Is Why You're Fat Fried Chicken

Oh, another food related post? Well, what can I say, this bogan loves to eat. Korea is, of course, well-known for kimchi. What may come as a surprise is that Koreans LOVE them some fried chicken. An establishment offering this deep fried delight can be found on almost street corner. I’ve tried many different varieties (all in the name of research, clearly) but in the words of Beyoncé, the best thing I’ve ever had has come from popular chicken chain, Oppa-dak. Forget Colonel Sanders, forget those so-called ‘secret spices,’ this crew have got the art of fried, fatty fowl down pat. While most other joints serve up chicken pieces that are oozing with oil and suspiciously orange in colour, Oppa-dak’s fare is crispy, less greasy and altogether utterly delicious. It is billed as being ‘oven baked’ but I have my suspicions about how truthful this really is. You can choose two sauces to go with your dish and I could write ballads about my love for the Wasabi-Mayonnaise sauce but very sadly, upon my return, I found this item had been omitted from the menu. A perfect eat for those in need of sustenance after a late night norebang session, which is the perfect segue into my next item on the list.

Photo via The Thirsty Pig

No-no-norebang

I couldn’t end this list without a mention of norebang 노래방 or as it’s commonly known in the west, karaoke. Basically, norebang roughly translates into ‘sing room,’ and that is exactly what you can get for around 20,000won (AU$17). Inside your personal House of Blues are 2 microphones, a TV, songbooks, seats and the best thing of all, TAMBOURINES! Now anyone can tap along awkwardly like that poor girl from Abba who never got to sing any of the songs. I find that I like to visit the norebang at the end of a night out, as to sing publicly, I need to be a little loosened up, if you know what I mean. Food and drink can be purchased whilst inside the norebang but it is ridiculously expensive which leads to most smuggling in their own in a bag. The best thing about norebang? The ridiculously cheesy 80s-esque video clips that play with each song. Obviously there is some kind of copyright issue about using the original videos, so you might find that when you’re singing a Whitney Houston tribute, some kind of Korean soap opera is playing along beside you. My personal norebang anthem? Gangsta’s Paradise. I like to pretend that I’m Michelle Pfeiffer circa Dangerous Minds.

The One Where My Face Isn't Ripped Off By A Chimpanzee

2012-06-29T04:52:00.001+09:00

The thing about this trip is that it’s been very wildlife. We’ve seen a hell of a lot of animals. I mean, I’m practically Dr. Do Little. I am, of course, referring to the iconic children’s book series, not that awful movie remake with Eddie Murphy. To date, we’ve seen tigers in Thailand, koalas in Australia, seals in New Zealand and monkeys and elephants in Bali. Obvs. there were a lot of sheep in New Zealand but somehow I don’t think that counts.

So, number one on the agenda in Borneo was to have a little face time with some orang-utans. Our furry, soon-to be-friends were situated quite far away, on the east of the island at a place called Sepilok. During our travels, I had already heard some horror stories about bus journeys to this side of town. And we all know how this bogan feels about buses. Being that we are what some have dubbed ‘flash-packers’, we decided to rent a car and drive ourselves. Obviously, I know very little about cars but I was quite impressed with our loaned automobile. This may have a little to do with the fact that I deem anything that has central locking and button controlled windows as ‘fancy.’ We bloody hand rolled the windows down in my day, Son. So, it was down to Dave and me to pass about 5 and half hours in the car together. At this point in the trip, Dave has rather unfortunately tired of my attempts at car travel games. Despite my efforts to get many a Never Mind The Buzzcocks-style game happening in New Zealand, they usually all peetered out after 5 minutes. We now sit in solitude, silently bonding over our love of terrible Top 40 tunes on the radio. Together, we have the musical tastes of a couple of 15 year old girls.

We arrived quite late in the evening at Sepilok Jungle Resort. It was cheap, cheerful and had an excellent tacky rainforest thing going on. Honestly, after staring at the same dingy room in Kota Kinabulu for the last three days, it was the bloody Sheraton. We settled in to prepare ourselves for an audience with the orang-utans the following morning.

I feel I’ve mentioned it before but when we travel to different places, I never prepare myself. I don’t Google the place or look at a Lonely Planet. I leave all that to Dave. Some may call this ignorance but I prefer to put it under the umbrella of leaving our new destinations ‘open to interpretation.’ The problem is I’m a former drama student. My visions of what a place is going to be like are usually highly over the top and ripped straight from a bad C-grade film starring a washed up former child star.

Therefore, my idea of what it was going to be like meeting this mammal was, well….a bit off. It’s a safari! I’m thinking me, in the jungle, binoculars in hand, hunting for a glimpse of orange fur in the scrub. It was going to be all very Sigourney Weaver in Gorillas in the Mist, except, ya know, with ‘rangas. I do recall actually asking Dave if I was going to be able to get a photo hugging an orang-utan. What, don’t bloody scoff. I may be a little naïve but I bloody hugged an elephant in Bali. Truth be told, the idea of hugging an orang-utan kind of terrified me. I mean, I’ve watched the Oprah episode with the woman who had her face ripped off by a chimpanzee. Have you seen that show? It’s horrifying. HORRIFYING.

In reality, we walked down a neat little boardwalk in a sectioned off bit of rainforest to a large wooden deck. From there, we had a view of a platform set in the midst of the jungle, with some ropes tied around nearby trees. At a certain time, one of the reserve workers came and put some food on the wooden platform. This attracted the attention of two orang-utans who swung in on the ropes to have a feast. Cue a hundred million photos being snapped by fellow wildlife enthusiasts. And that’s all we saw. After they had their fill of food, they swung away.

It was still quite cool. I had seen orang-utans before but it was in a zoo situation and I always find zoos quite depressing. It was a treat to see them in their natural habitat. What we visited was actually a rehabilitation centre. The centre rescues orang-utans from neighbouring areas where they have either been orphaned or taken as a pet by one of the locals. At the centre, they teach these monkeys the skills they need to live in the wild. Sadly, they will never go back to the actual wild but will stay in this controlled area of jungle near the centre. It’s a small attempt to stop the depletion of the some 20,000 orang-utans left in Sumatra and Borneo. Despite my delusions of a Jack Hansen-type interaction, I also understand the need to stop tourists from stomping through the jungle and ruining the illusion of freeness that these animals are supposed to have. The orang-utans that we did see seemed very aware that everyone was there. They ate mostly with their backs towards everyone, maybe as an attempt to ruin everyone’s happy snapping. If you’re ever to go, you absolutely MUST go at the designated feeding time or you’re unlikely to see any orang-utans. Oooooh, look at me, being all Lonely Planet.

Come closer my child......

Lastly on our Borneo to-do list was a visit to one of the many nearby islands. We chose to hop a boat to one called Manukan. When we got there, the water was nice and clear, a lovely turquoise shade. If I squinted hard enough, I was just able to imagine that this was just like being in Bora Bora and my fancy thousand dollar hut was just down the way. We armed ourselves with fins and snorkel masks to see what the local marine life had to offer. Fins on, I marched into the water and found myself a bogan bowled over.

‘You’re supposed to walk in backwards. Rookie mistake,’ shouts Dave. How embarrassment. But it’s ok, no-one saw. They are all busy being blinded by the whiteness glaring off my bikini body.

So the next two hours were spent being very aquatic. Sadly, the coral was all dead but I saw lots of fish down there. Later, in a thrilling conversation, I would recount to Dave all the different fish I saw and what they looked like. Obviously, he was hanging onto every word. The last bit of the afternoon was spent sitting on the beach, doing journals, staring out into the distance ‘cos that’s obviously what you do when you’re on an island. Borneo- check.

'Dear Diary, I'm really finding myself in Borneo...'

4 months. That’s how long we’ve been travelling. And we have plans to travel for many more. India, Russia, Iceland, South and Central America are just some of the places to come. But for now, we are heading back to a place of familiarity, Korea. If we want to keep rubbing our travels in everyone’s noses, then we need to work and what do we know best but teaching English! And more importantly, Mama needs some cash. At first I was dreading this return but now as I sit here in the airport, I’m kinda excited. I’ve got friends to meet and Backstreet Boys songs to murder in the karaoke rooms. To be honest, the blog prolly won’t be updated very much whilst we spend two months in Korea as not many adventures will be had. I’ll be very 9 to 5, very Dolly Parton, working hard for the money.

So from me to you, this bogan bids you adieu and asks that you don’t cry for me Argentina but tune back in when ‘Mave’ once again gets on the ‘move.’ #awesometripname

The One With The Fortune Teller

2012-06-22T17:40:00.001+09:00

Last blog, I was very Julia Roberts. Well, today, I’m feeling very Carrie Bradshaw. We are now in Borneo and Dave has deserted me. Yes, I am a lone bogan. He has gone off to climb a bloody great big mountain, Mt Kinabalu to be exact, the highest mountain in South East Asia. Why am I not being all mountain goat like? Look, going for a walk/trek with me is not a pretty sight, people. Despite running up and down stairs for three months before I left Korea, this is still one unfit bogan. After a few minutes of walking uphill, my breathing changes into that of a desperate, panting death rattle. It’s not attractive people. I was dubious about this Mount Kinabalu but then I found out you had to bloody pay for it! Pay! To sound like a woman in labour! I.don’t.think.so. I put in my dues doing an 8 hour trek in New Zealand to a volcano (Mount Doomfrom The Lord of The Rings) so I’m gonna sit this dance out.

So here I am, enjoying having some me time. Me time, I’ve decided, is very important when you have been travelling non-stop with the same person for the last 4 months. You know, it sorta stops you from wanting to smother them with a smelly hostel pillow. So I’ve had my lay in, treated myself to a nice lunch, bought a shirt that I know Dave will hate and am now in Starbucks doing a bloggy blog. Hence, the Carrie Bradshaw-ness. Look it’s not the stuff of great adventures but it will do.

I must now update you about my present state of being. I am now fully Julia Roberts. We are one in the same. Practically twins. Let me explain. After our great bicycling adventure, we gave ourselves some respite from JR adventures for a day or two. We ventured from our bamboo hut in the cultural centre of Ubud back into Kuta Beach. Kuta Beach is tourist central. It’s packed with bars, bright lights and thumping music. It is here that you can play a really great game of ‘Spot the bad tribal tattoo.’ We had come in to meet up with Tyler, a fellow Legend from our NZ road trip. Festivities started at an Irish bar, cos you know, Dave has to get his fill of diddley-dee-potatoes every now and then. Upon entering, we were given V.I.P bracelets that gave us access the upstairs bars and entitled us to free drinks during the 9-10pm happy hour. V.I.P? Clearly, they knew that Julia Roberts was in the house. The drinks were pre mixed and handed out at random. You get what you get and you don’t get upset. Did I know what was in them? No. Did I care? No. (Sorry mum.) Was it a good night? Yes, say the four slices of pizza that I ate by myself in a back alley at 2 in the morning. Yes, say the incriminating pictures I have of a certain someone that have been threatened with the demise of a certain relationship should they end up on Facebook.

The next day, after we brushed the dust off, we headed down to the actual beach. We were offered the shade of a beach umbrella in return for the purchase of cold drinks. A few minutes later, a local drifted by, offering bracelets for sale, which aroused Dave’s interest. Within minutes, we were swamped by a million Balinese, peddling their wares. They knew easy targets when they saw them. Before I knew what was happening, I found my back being massaged by an elderly Balinese lady. For $7, she was willing to massage my back, arms, legs and feet for half an hour. She bowed out after 25 minutes but hey, the poor woman had to touch my feet. She deserves a medal, let alone a five minute early mark. I was really getting into the swing of things at this point. It was lucky that we left when we did because I was about five minutes away from crossing over into the dark side and getting some hideous holiday braids. Don’t do it people. Everyone thinks they’ll end up looking like Bo Derek in the movie ‘10’ but in reality, end up looking like that thing from ‘Predator.’

This is an appeal to all holiday goers: Ban the Braids!

The next day was all about elephants. We had made plans to go to the Elephant Safari Park, some 15km from where we were staying. Easier said then done. On top of the crazy traffic, Bali has little to no road signs. What should have taken 30 minutes ended up as 2 hours in Jerome, our Jeep Jalopy and let me tell you, the atmosphere in that car was TENSE. We were just about to turn back when luckily, after asking directions for the thousandth time, a local motorist finally directed us to the right place. We were well rewarded for our patience. (I use that word veeeeeery loosely.) Inside, we were allowed to feed, hug, pat and even have flower garlands slung around our necks by the elephants. There were around 29 elephants roaming around the enclosure, including 3 adorbz bebe elephants. We didn’t actually ride any elephants as they wanted to charge an arm and a leg for a 10 minute ride so we made do by staying to see the elephant show. Have you ever seen an elephant paint a picture? Play a harmonica? Play basketball? Well now I can say I have. I’ll add that to the brag bag. On the way out, I got my final surprise. A hundred-thousand-million points if you can guess who else had made the voyage to the Elephant Park. If you guessed……JULIA ROBERTS…ding ding ding….you are the ultimate winner! I must confess, I didn’t even know that piece of information when I requested we visit the park so clearly the universe loves me.

Three elephants having a great time together.

Alright, now onto the last part where I make so many Eat,Pray, Love (EPL) references that you may want to vom in your mouth a little. My final ultimate Julia Roberts experience. We were onto our last day in Bali and we were supposed to go visit a temple that was about an hour away before preparing to drive back to the airport. However, Dave, knowing that this was the 11^th hour, decided we should instead try to find the real Ketutfrom the book as getting my fortune told was one of things I wanted to do in Bali. For all the shit that I regularly and publicly give this man on this blog in my anecdotes, he gets about 500,000 brownie points for this kind deed, particularly for sacrificing an opportunity for him to take Getty-quality pictures at the temple. Finding Ketut was not hard- the book and most recently, the movie, have made him immensely popular amongst tourists. We entered the fore court to his house and found more than a few westerners floating about. Last night, when I finally re-watched EPL after impatiently trying to download it off dodgy internet connections for a week, I realized, that in fact, the scenes between Julia Roberts and a fake Ketut were actually shot in the real Ketut’s house, if you get my drift. Had I known this, I would have taken A LOT more pictures. Due to his new found celebrity, Ketut now only sees 30 people a day and you must arrive early in the morning to collect a number. I lucked out. After having a lovely conversation with a fellow EPL disciple, she gave me her number, 14, as she could not wait any longer as they were only up to number 4 at the time.

Then Ketut appeared! I almost weed with excitement. It was actually him! He took his place, cross legged on the tiled porch and began to resume readings. Here’s where I have a rant. So, he’s giving this lady a reading and her friend decides that this is a moment that must be forever frozen in time. So she slops over in her bloody thongs, ciggy in hand and proceeds to shove her phone up in between the two of them, blowing smoke rings and all. Meanwhile, the rest of her friends seem to be conducting an improvised group therapy session behind her. ‘Ooooh but I’ve never really felt atttttttttractive,’ bemoans one of the harpies. ‘Oooooh but you are, Suuuuuue. Don’t worry,’ chimes in another. Um, we are in the presence of Ketut, people. SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! Even a bogan knows how to mind her manners in the company of greatness. Oh, I judged, yes I did.

Are you there, Ketut? It's me, Melanie.

So with a cross look upon my face, I watched Ketut give about four readings to these ladies. Basically, he said the same things to each of them. Not a similar, rehashed, reworked, reworded version. Precisely the same thing and with seemingly no shame. Again, I lucked out and no-one else turned up when they were finished, so I got to go next. Needless to say though, when my turn arrived, I held no hope for any great revelations. He said all the right things- you will be wealthy, happy and successful. It was all over very quickly, much faster than it was with the other ladies. Honestly, I don’t think he knew what to do with me. After EPL, I think most of his clients have been middle-aged ladies searching for meaning in their lives and he has plenty to work with there- kids, divorces, marriages. What predictions could he give to an unmarried, radiant 22 year old, a blank canvas so to speak? (Come ooooon, I could pass for 22, right?) But still, it was wonderful- we laughed, he touched my hands, legs and back, he made a sex joke. Wait, that’s not as untoward as it sounds. It was all about the experience.

I am, you are, we are Julia Roberts.

So you see, I did it guys. I became Julia Roberts in Bali.

Rice paddy bicycling riding- Check.

Elephants- Check.

Fortune told by Ketut- Check.

I achieved nirvana.

Fear not, we’re not going to India until at least September so no-one has to suffer through another heavily referenced blog entry for at least another couple of months. Phew!

Bogan out.

The One Where I'm Julia Roberts

2012-06-17T20:37:00.003+09:00

Warning: LOADS of Julia Roberts references ahead.

(Disclaimer: I know I have completely skipped over New Zealand and Sydney but every time I try to write about both of them, I come up short. How do you summarise 6 weeks of travel? It’s been over a month since my last blog and if I don’t get something down, then this blog will die a slow, painful death (although, maybe that’s what certain Facebook friends would like). I don’t want to disappoint my three fans (my sister, my mum and my friend Nic) so I’m going to go straight to Bali. But I WILL come back to it, I promise!)

Last year, my best friend Nic made the pilgrimage to Korea to visit me. I was utterly delighted as Nic and I are one in the same person. We can both happily spend hours discussing celebrities as if we are actually friends with them (‘Oh our Nicole, what is she doing to that face of hers? Lay off the botox ploise Nicky.’) We get excited about the Oscars in the way that other people drool over, I dunno, big football matches. (You can tell I know nothing about sport.) We will happily stay home on a Saturday night to hand-sew tulle onto a swan outfit to replicate the outfit that Bjork wore to the 2001 Oscars. I guess the theme is we’re… well, both a bit ridiculous.

During the time that Nic visited me, he was having a sort of a life crisis. On a whim, he had booked 10 months of travel, starting with a visit to Seoul to recharge his batteries. As we both communicate by relating life situations to movies, we immediately decided that this was to be his Eat,Pray, Love journey. If you’ve never read this book or seen the movie, you should probably stop reading now, as the rest of the entry will be full of references. So, he came to Seoul and we bloody Squatted, Spat and Sooted, a Korean version of our favourite tome if you will. Our spiritual journey together concluded with a viewing of the movie “Eat, Pray, Love,” starring one Julia Roberts. The movie itself, is average, I mean, it’s Julia, she only knows how to be Julia Roberts in a movie but needless to say, we both loved it.

So when Dave asked me where I would like to go on this worldwide trip, one of my first responses was Bali. Yes, Bali, a place packed to the hilt with Aussies. But I’m not here to get wasted at a beachside bar. I’m here to be Julia Roberts.

For those who don’t know, Bali is the place where Julia has the “Love” part of her journey. Basically she shacks up with a Columbian man, who is played by Javier Bardem. Just quietly, he’s far too attractive for that role. Later in our trip, we’ll be visiting India, where I’ll get to be Julia again in the “Pray” phase. I’m trying to twist Dave’s arm to get to Rome to complete the “Eat” section. ‘Cos let’s be honest, eating is something that I excel at.

Anyway, I digress. Becoming Julia Roberts in Bali is fairly simple. All you need do is cycle past some rice paddies, looking veeeeeeeery love. So that’s what we did yesterday. We forked over the exorbitant amount of $6 to rent two bikes and set out on our Eat, Pray, Bicycle adventure. Dave had one job that day- he had to take a good photo of me riding by some rice paddies. Basically, it went like this:

We would be cycling along and suddenly I would call out ‘Dave, this is veeeeeeeeery Eat, Pray, Love!’ This was the signal to stop and commence wistful-Julia Roberts-stares- into- the- distance bicycling photos. Look, it’s not as easy as it sounds, people. It’s very hard to make one’s pale legs look good on a bicycle. I’m sure Julia Roberts has no problem but then she has an A-List body on her side.

Pretty Woman

During our bicycle ride, we were lucky enough to stumble upon somewhere called “Ketut’s Place.” I was delighted as this is vvverry Eat, Pray, Love. In the beginning of the movie, Julia visits a Balinese healer/fortune teller named Ketut. He predicts that she will soon lose everything but she will gain it back and will one day return to Bali. (Spoiler: She does. Seriously, go rent the movie. It’s trash-tastic.) Ketut’s Place is actually a bed and breakfast but it WAS definitely the location where Julia filmed her scenes with Ketut. So naturally, I had to pose outside, being very Julia, very love.

Oh hello, just poppin' in to see my bestie Ketut...just transcribe a few papers.

With my movie star dreams fulfilled for a short time, we decided that it was time to go see some monkeys. I’m not sure Julia Roberts did that but I had an exhausted boyfriend in tow who was sick of Julia Roberts references being shouted at him, so I had to let him play with his camera for fun for a while. Before we entered Monkey Forest, Dave said to me, ‘Just so you know, monkeys are (insert a VERY rude word here that I cannot type because I’m a lady.) Put away everything cos they will grab it.’ He was not wrong. The monkeys, while very cute, were jumping on everyone, trying to snatch anything they saw. A monkey even jumped on Dave and was savvy enough to unzip his backpack. Needless to say, while I appreciated the one hundred million pictures of monkeys I snapped, I did not enjoy this experience too much. My turkey gabble, a weird throat noise I’m known to make in times of distress, came out many a time during this visit. Basically, I spent the whole time trying to avoid monkeys, which I can tell you, is not an easy task in a forest with 650 bloody monkeys.

You may look cute but I suspect you will scratch my face off and I'll have to sell my story to Oprah.

So that’s it for now. We have about 3 more days in Bali and they will be crammed with any more Julia Roberts situations that I can muster up. I have plans to see a fortune teller which has garnered many eye rolls from Dave and my family alike. Look, if Julia bloody stared deeply into the eyes of a wise old man, then so will I! There have been talks of some elephant riding. I’ve already drunk enough pineapple juices to ensure I have healthy bowels for the rest of my life.

Love, Love.Love.

Julia Roberts.

Loving.

Bali.

The One With The Start Of The Fellowship

2012-05-15T11:51:00.002+09:00

A long time ago, in the depths of Seoul, South Korea, in a darkened back street bar, a great plan was conceived. The quest: to see all of the everything in New Zealand. A road trip of such heights, that it might be the most talked about event since the last Lord of The Rings film. But this trip was not for the faint of heart. Oh no, only travel legends need apply.

They came from many countries, each with their own special set of skills. Coulter, of the United Kingdom, a man with a ‘dad joke’ for every occasion. Liane, of Canada, whose huge mammaries will save her life in any car crash. Dave, of Ireland, able to tune the radio to any station playing a David Guetta song. Tyler, of Canada, whose sonic laugh can penetrate even the thickest of walls. Manda, of the United Kingdom, a teetotaller who is still everybody’s friend in the cold, sober, light of day. Mel, of Australia, able to sleep in any moving vehicle, despite how nice the scenery. Some are strangers, some are friends but ALL are legends.

6 people. 3 vans. 1 country. 6 weeks. This is the beginning of the New Zealand: Here’s To Legends! epic road trip.

Bloody hell, I am loving New Zealand sick. As I have previously mentioned, I am no longer a bogan on a bus but a bogan in a camper van. And boy, does this bogan love her van. Oh hello, yes, I’m just in a parking lot but I’m making a bloody cup of tea on my gas hob. Oh yes, I’m just having a bloody sleep in the back of it now. It never gets old. Our van, which Dave and I have affectionately named Wilma, is joined by Manfred, Liane and Coulter’s van, and Tits McGee, Tyler and Manda’s van.

So, day one of the official start of the trip was in Auckland. Everybody vanned up and then stocked up at the supermarket. I had the time of my life, throwing pasta packets and noodles and Tim Tams in the trolley, reverting right back to my days as a student. Vegetables? I don’t think so.

Next, it was down to business. An official road trip catch phrase was required. ‘New Zealand: Here’s to Legends’ was quickly agreed upon, with the additional clause of whenever it is uttered, we must all high five in unison. If you don’t comply, you officially become everybody’s beer bitch and you’re basically a terrible person. I think you can guess which super lame person in the group came up with all of this.

This is how legends high-five.

The next couple of days were spent driving to different beachside locations, getting used to van life. I will summarise this time with some very insightful observations.

1. New Zealand is v.v beautiful. Sadly, I will never realise just how beautiful it is because I fall asleep approximately ten minutes after the van starts moving. I don’t even need a surface to rest my head on. My most attractive sleeping position is my head hung sideways in mid-air. Very appealing. Very corpse-y.

2. Repetition will make you love anything. The radio stations here play the same 10 songs and what you originally loathed has the ability to become your personal theme song. The other day, I actually found myself getting excited about a Taylor Swift song. Yes, it was a personal low.

3. Personal standards will drop. Going without a shower for days becomes fine. If I’m not careful, I may have some really beautiful homemade dreadlocks by the end of this trip, as the 4 minute coin-operated showers barely give me enough time to run my fingers through even a third of my Melanie Mophead . Also, you will learn to ‘pop a squat’ anywhere, even public car parks, and announcing to the group that you are off to do just that becomes commonplace. Sorry mum. I know you tried to raise a lady.

4. Everything will make you want to watch The Lord of The Rings again, quote The Lord of The Rings and re-enact scenes from The Lord of The Rings. Chunks of time have already been lost by frolicking around forests, with foam swords and improvised capes. And that’s fine.

We spent our first weekend with two temporary honorary legends, Hans and Sheila, aka, Shans, who have made Auckland their home for now. I should probably tell you about the beaches and the markets we went to but honestly, much of our time together was spent playing the drinking game, King’s Cup, to utter exhaustion.

The New Zealand:Here's To Legends Crew..plus a few tag-alongs.

That weekend, we decided our first Legends adventure would be travel to the most northern point in New Zealand, Cape Reinga. After navigating many windy roads and sighting at least 12 million sheep, we arrived at our final destination. I, of course, was feeling v.v refreshed, having snored my way right to the top. I was initially underwhelmed by our new location, as we were greeted by dark skies, heavy wind and rain. Womp womp womp.

I see two seas.

Tree of the Dead

But legends aren’t easily deterred. Swaddled in plastic ponchos and waterproof jackets, we trekked out to take our photo by the lighthouse and to take an obligatory legends jumping photo. One of the most interesting things about Cape Reinga is that it is where the Pacific Ocean and the Tasman Sea meet. And you really can see this happening- waves coming at each other from opposite directions, unable to cross to the other side, only to crash and disappear into each other. It was quite a sight- we all exclaimed the appropriate ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’ over seeing this natural wonder. Cape Reinga is also a place thick with Maori history. Mythology sights this spot as where the spirits of the dead come to ‘jump off’ into the underworld. A lone tree that grows into the side of one of the cliffs, surviving the constant salty waves and winds, is said to be the afterlife exit point. We were all very careful to be on our best legends behaviour as no-one fancied being haunted by angry Maori ghosts for an eternity.

Our jubilation over having conquered the north was short lived, as we soon realised that what goes up, must come down. Having gunned our way right to the top, we were now faced with the task of getting back down before it became dark and the roads perilous. There were serious doubts over whether Manfred would be able to make it back down, with the fan belt constantly squawking in protest. We weren’t quite fast enough and exhausted after an evening of aimless driving in the dark, we finally pulled our convoy into a random car park in Kaikohe, hoping not to be shifted during the night. Personally, this illegality just added to the drama of the day for me and I felt very ‘Into The Wild,’ sleeping on the side of the road, dodging the law. Ok, maybe it wasn’t that dramatic but bogans are known to exaggerate. Although a little less than fresh in the morning, we awoke with no vagrancy tickets on our vans, so all in all, ‘twas voted a success.

Van Life

Stay tuned for the next episode where we hug some bloody great big trees, dip in some hot pools and I recount the anti-climactic tale of my failed skydiving attempt.

Long Live The Legends!

The One Where I'm Very Melbourne

2012-05-15T11:38:00.001+09:00

Why hello powered van car park in Wellington, where we basically paid $50 to take a shower and the microwave. It seems you would be a good place to catch up on the bloggy blog blog.

So Melbourne. What happened in Melbourne? Well basically I went there and watched a million sunsets and sat under fountains eating sandwiches and having life epiphanies. That is apparently what certain blog readers want to hear. But you know what? I ain’t no Julia Roberts and I’m not attempting to Eat Pray Love my way around the world. Well, that’s half untrue. I am probably eating my way around the world. No petrol station bag of chips stands a chance against me. But we’re talking about the Sunshine Coast, people. I think I’ll save my life changing moments for a more glamorous location. I must stop my rant now because a certain individual will be getting too much of a big head knowing that I dedicated time to have a blog tanty about his rudeness. This is why I’m Oprah and you’re Gayle. (awkward in-joke).

So, Melbourne. As we are very travel and very smart about such things as public transport, we wasted no time in getting ourselves to the humble abode of the very attractive Lauren Edwards. Lauren is another friend from uni days and my new Official.Melbourne.Best.Friend, for when I move there and live a very chic Melbourne lifestyle. She is also a woman of my own heart, as not long after we arrived, she suggested drinking wine and watching Girls of The Playboy Mansion. I’d marry her based on that suggestion alone. I must take some time to thank her and her lovely constable bf, Bailey, who I have decided that I love sheerly because of his extensive knowledge of bad pawn shop reality shows.

Some attractive Melbourne ppl being very Melbourne.

Whilst in Melbourne we marketed and dined and spent quite a bit of time stalking another friend, Polly, at her place of work. I ate lunches in the sun on public park steps with all the office workers and just really thought about how well I was assimilating. My one downfall is that my attire was not very Melbourne. Try as I might, I just don’t think I could pull off high heels with socks, a yellow cape and a black beret, which is what I saw one Melbournian working on the high street. Our visit was all very quick but probably one of the highlights was being driven down The Great Ocean Road by Dave’s former travel buddy, Henk. Even cynical old me was moved by the attractiveness of some great big rocks by the sea. I can hear my mother cringing at how ignorant that last sentence sounds. Of course, the best part for me was visiting Bells Beach, where the final scene of the Patrick Swayze-driven surfing movie, Point Break, was supposedly set. Any chance I can get to be a bit closer to sexy Swayze is, of course, the best thing ever. Oh Patrick. You were taken too soon. She’s Like The Wind. Single tear. Also, that day Dave and I sank to a new low of just how many couple photos it is possible to take in front of some of Australia’s greatest scenery. The answer is a lot, and each one cheesier than the last.

A coupla average rocks by the ocean.

Just being very photographer. V.v National Geographic.

Our very last day in Melbourne was spent traipsing around the outside of the MCG and Rod Laver Arena. Yes, that’s right, the outside. With all the interesting concrete and locked doors and all the….rubbish bins. You see, Dave thinks he is very sport and that these places were a Melbourne ‘mecca.’ This is how I will sum it up- I took one picture during this excursion and it was of a New Kids On The Block poster. Nuff said.

Oh finally. Australia blog entry done. Le sigh. Look, it’s not that I don’t love Australia; in fact, I think I get more patriotic when I’m overseas. But it’s very hard to reflect on events from a month ago, when actually, all I wanna do is write about how I spent the day running around New Zealand with plastic elf ears on.

So without any further ado, I present to you, NU ZEALAND bro! (You actually have to go to the next post to read it, suckas!)