How to pick a mate with your nose [column]

Image courtesy of John Holden

Let’s be honest with ourselves. Romance is rubbish and love is nothing but a letdown. We are born alone and we die alone. Most of our lives are spent with our inner most thoughts insulated from the people around us, although I’m not too sure if ghosts can hear our thoughts.

Cinderella never got to the ball and there was no fairy god mother and there was definitely no glass slipper. Seriously, a glass slipper? What is with that? Obviously designed by a man who never had to wear high heels and therefore does not know the excruciating pain that can come from a shoe made of soft and delicate and expensive satin, let alone glass. A sick fantasy by a sick man I recon.

There is no glass slipper, no ball, there is no romance. Just like I tried to tell you.

Yet we all yearn for a mate, possibly driven by some unspoken need to live in misery. Why wash clothes for one when you can do it for two? Why spend Friday nights in your pajamas getting deliciously fat eating ice-cream and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer re-runs when you could be watching your mate throw up after one too many stubbies[BB1] ?

But if you insist romance is still alive and kicking and you really do yearn for a mate and I can never convince you that life is better lived alone, let’s talk about a new and exciting…wait…an ancient and smelly way to choose a mate. There is no romance in what I am about to tell you because I simply have to prove that romance is indeed rubbish. That’s how this writer feels this week anyway.

So, ancient and smelly. It has become a relatively well known fact that humans are more like animals than we care to admit. Furthermore, it has become widely accepted that we subconsciously choose our mates through our sense of smell. In a non-boring, non-detailed and non-scientific nutshell, if you like the way someone smells, they are a good mate for you. Apparently they smell good because their immune system and genetic coding compliments your own and that’s good for breeding and a good breeding mate means they smell good. Suffer from allergies that render you next to useless every spring time? It is guaranteed that all the potential mates who smell intoxicatingly good to you will not suffer from spring time allergies.

All the glass slippers and balls in the world cannot influence our choice in mate if we don’t like how they smell. It works both ways, men have to like the way a woman smells before they feel the need to choose them as their mate.

So, can expensive perfumes help us in our quest to attract mates? Can they make us smell better to potential mates?

Marilyn Monroe was the sexiest woman of her time. She was famously quoted as saying she wore nothing but Channel #5 to bed and this sex siren bagged a president. So it looks like expensive perfume can make us more alluring to even the most unapproachable men of society. As long as you are not too fussy about landing in a body bag in your late 30s after dying in suspicious circumstances. After all, we are talking about how to attract a mate, not keep one and stay alive.

For those of us who are up to date on the trending fashions of the modern dating world, we unequivocally know that speed dating is so 1998. Today, it’s all about smell dating. Yes, it’s a thing.

Men of all walks of life wear identical white t-shirts for 24 hours, the t-shirts then go into a zip lock bag and woman sniff the shirts until they find a smell they like. Simple, easy and Neanderthal. No time wasted on candles, Barry Manilow and lubrication. Straight to the smelly point.

For the small percentage of people who are born with Ansomia (meaning they can’t smell most things), it looks like you have no hope to find a mate that is your genetic opposite and therefore perfect for breeding. Your love life is over, possibly before it began. Maybe you could look into a life dedicated to religion. Any religion will do. Dedicate your life to P.G. porn and a god of your choosing and try to be happy with only God or Buddha or whomever as your spiritual mate.

For the rest of you who really want to wear the glass slipper and go to the ball, get sniffing. Just make sure that unless you are officially signed up for a smell dating evening try to sniff men in a way that does make you look crazy. Keep your nose clean and your mind open.   

---

 [BB1]

How to be a good girlfriend [column]

I have had many, many relationships and even a successful one (so far), which makes me a self-proclaimed relationship expert. Whilst living in the throes of marital bliss without the marriage I wanted to share with you my sure fire tips on how to be a good girlfriend.

1. Insist that your boyfriend watch videos of cats doing funny things when the football is on. This works best if you have a plethora of videos and it’s State of Origin. Do not wait for ad breaks. He may pretend to be very annoyed but we all know he would secretly rather be watching cats eating ice-cream than watching Johnathan Thurstan kick another conversion. He has seen that move a hundred times, it’s boring now.

2. Bringing your baggage with you into the relationship is perfectly normal. The best kind of baggage, besides a troubled teenager, or rants about an ex you just can’t get over, is an old dog that gets his way 100% of the time. This works really well to improve your relationship if your partner is not an animal lover because you are introducing them to new ways they can live their life – you are teaching them new tricks, the dog doesn’t need to learn them, he’s old. I also advice that it is really healthy for the relationship if the dog sleeps in the bed, between you. That way you know your dog is feeling loved and there is no risk of any funny business taking place.

2. Renovate a house together. This is even better if you have a baby and your tastes in style is the exact opposite to your boyfriend’s taste. Every healthy relationship should have the pressure of a major renovation put on top of it. Building a sturdy frame for a house is a metaphor for your relationship. This will also leave little time for romance and quality time. These things are not needed in a healthy relationship.

4. Make only vegetarian meals for dinner. Men love the joy of not eating meat, it makes them get in touch with their feminine side. They only pretend to like to eat it because they think it makes them happy. Thank goodness they have us to help them.

5. Empty out the beer fridge on a regular basis. What you replace the beer with is up to you, but you must do it regularly. There is nothing more a man loves than coming home from a long, hot day and seeing you have taken the time to replace his cold beer with homemade cupcakes. This will also ensure the beer tastes better because it has gone from cold to hot and will eventually get cold again. Yummy.

6. If you cannot think of a helpful way to replace the beer in the beer fridge you could use lite beer. Not only are you helping your boyfriend with his health you are making sure he is unable to enjoy the process of drinking. Then you could show him the rest of your cat videos.

7. Forget to wash his work clothes. Men really enjoy getting up at 5am to start their day as the primary money person in the relationship to find they have no work clothes. It makes them feel important when they are able to remind us to do what we normally do so well.

8. Invite your mother, best friend, dog or grandfather along to all events that require one-on-one time with your boyfriend. Everyone knows that men love the company of your friends and family and the more intrusive and opinionated they can be, the more enjoyment you will all get out of the evening.

9. Spend time with your boyfriend trying on clothes for him. This could be in the way of a shopping spree in which you try on 40 different dresses in various shades of pink and ask that he help you choose one. This can also be a lesson on the difference between fuchsia and baby pink. Men love to know these sorts of things.

Alternatively it could be in the way of trying on at least 42 different outfits 5 minutes before you are due to go somewhere and asking him which outfit makes you look fat. His answer will depend on a) what lessons you need to teach him in the language of woman speak or b) if he will ever get laid again.

10. Men do not really like sex as much as they pretend to. They would much prefer to lie in bed and listen to you read chapters from the latest book you are reading, especially if it is a book on feminism or on cats. Do not let them watch porn as a substitute. Porn corrupts the mind and men must learn that sex is not to be performed until you have finished reading to him. And if it so happens you do not finish until 3am and he is fast asleep, you are teaching him about patience.

I really hope these tips can help you reach your potential to be the best girlfriend you are able to be. If you have any questions, I am always happy to help my fellow sisters with some sage advice.

Never offer a homemade coffee to a coffee snob. Never ever.

Picture by Shirley Kim

Life as an infamous coffee snob is hard. Not because you are constantly trying to track down someone that can make coffee as good as you can, but because of the terrible attitude you get from the non-coffee snobs around you.

Apparently going for coffee with a coffee snob is such a trying and stressful experience that I have few friends who will still come with me to grab a cup of coffee. Ok, I literally have no friends who will join me for a cup of coffee. They say if I promise to not order a coffee and therefore will not spend the next hour complaining about the sub-human that attempted to put perfection in a cup but failed to do so, they will come with me. What am I supposed to do? Order a cup of green tea and not want to kill myself? Get real.

The struggle of getting a great cup of coffee is real but it is amplified when I go to other people’s houses. I am always terrified of the dreaded question - “Would you like a coffee?"

There are two ways this question is posed.

1/ “Would you like a cup of coffee - it won’t be up to your standards though.”

So why the hell would you offer me one? I haven’t drunk instant coffee since 1996 when I was at boarding school. Why would I start now? I like my life, I am happy, are you intentionally trying to take this happiness away from me? It looks like you are, and yet, I am the rude one.

Offering any decent human being an instant coffee is exactly like this: You have a super stylish gay best friend who is very fastidious in their attire and they only wear Gucci. He always looks sharp in his designer threads and these designer threads are his reason for living. You respect that. But then one day he comes around to your place and you say “I have a pair of 1980 stone washed jeans, complete with elastic waist band. I know it’s not up to your standards but you should wear them to make me feel better about my own lack of style.” It’s just plain rude. You wouldn’t do it in a rainbow fit so don’t offer a coffee snob some of your revolting coffee that comes out of a can.

2/ “Would you like a coffee? I have a pod machine and it’s really good, you have to try it.”

No. No I don’t. I won’t like it, it’s going to be undrinkable and then it’s going to get awkward for everyone. Don’t try to push your inferior product on me because I will karate chop you into next Tuesday. I know what I like and it is coffee that is roasted fresh to order (beans go stale within 30 seconds of being ground, FYI) and comes out of a commercial coffee machine. I have a commercial coffee machine in my house, so don’t try to give me your pod crap. I may as well kill myself. It would be the same thing only less painful and over a lot quicker.

We are not in the midst of a zombie apocalypse so there is no excuse for this behavior. Water is fine to offer and us coffee snobs generally WANT the water when you offer your “coffee”. So when we say, no thanks, water would be great. Believe me, the last residue of human decency just went into not killing you, so don’t push the matter. Throw your coffee out the window before I do and fetch the glass of water.

 

Modern man's memory

Picture by Scott Snyder

 

The memory of modern man is a complex thing, mostly because it doesn’t exist.

 

They understand the term, they can even use it in a sentence, but empirically the modern man does not have a memory. Instead, modern man has only the ability to logically organise, in their minds, tasks that they must do in the near future. But these are only tasks they really enjoy doing or experiences or things that they need to survive and unfortunately this ability when viewed by modern woman is incredibly limited. For example;

 

“I must watch the football.

 

“I must drink this beer.

 

“I must not change the toilet roll when it is empty.

 

“I must be surprised when the toilet roll is miraculously full again.”

 

The perpetual battle of who should change the toilet role is a mute cause. You cannot argue with a crazy person and you cannot train the modern man because he would not remember his training from one point to another.

 

Occasionally this ability to logically organise their thoughts expands slightly to tasks such as: “I must mow the lawn.” But this is invariably followed by “I must drink this beer.” And when it comes to more complex aspects of human memory the modern man falls drastically short.

 

“What do you mean a supermarket has entire isles full of useful things besides beer and sausages? Fascinating. I will try and logically organise my thoughts to account for this new piece of information – this ‘new’ piece of information that has been relayed to modern man over a billion times. But due to a lack of memory shopping bags are consistently filled with beer and sausages, a result of simple, organised thoughts propped up by generations of genetic coding and the pursuit of pleasure disguised as needs.  

 

This lack of memory does not equate to a lack of love or a lack of intelligence. For example;

 

“I can rebuild an entire motor in a day but I cannot remember to put my tools away.

 

“I must be surprised when they miraculously appear back in the shed.”

 

Modern man has a hard time configuring his thoughts to think about where a particular tool may be at any given moment. Having a memory would prove most valuable in these situations. But as keepers of the only memory in a heterosexual relationship, modern woman must help her modern man where she can and always exercise the greatest of patience.

 

The modern man can love deeply and faithfully but they cannot remember the pieces that form this love. For example;

 

“I wonder how my dirty clothes keep appearing clean and hanging in my wardrobe? I swore I left them dirty right next to the basket full of other dirty clothes.”

 

Instead of memory, modern man’s brain is a web of things, feelings and experiences that they like. They don’t need to try and remember these things because, unlike changing the toilet roll, they are part of them. Sex, beer, football, playing with the over tired baby well after bed time and then complaining that said baby is too cranky, these are things that naturally fill modern man’s brain. No memory is required to complete these tasks or enjoy these experiences.  

 

A woman’s memory on the other hand, is a fully developed tangible master piece. It has to be, so one part of the species is able to help the other part of the species live a better functioning life than they would be able to live without modern woman’s fully developed tangible master piece of a memory .

 

It is important to note that modern woman does not use her super power for evil, despite what modern man may think. Conversations are not recorded for future training and development. What men refer to as ‘nagging’ is simply the essential repetitive reminders to help modern man organise his thoughts so he is able to live a more fulfilled life, which according to most Socratics is the meaning of life so ‘nagging’ is an absolutely vital tool for modern man.

 

For this reason modern woman was designed to speak more words than modern man because they have to remember and then verbally relay to modern man what he must be doing beyond his organised thoughts of pleasure and happiness. Modern man cannot remember rubbish bins need to be emptied and refrigerators need to be filled.

 

It is not their fault, they are simple creatures of hedonism and as much as they need us we need them. There are many tasks that need to be completed that do not require a memory. Immediate tasks that require immediate action such as disposing of the demonic spider that just entered your view point. Or producing the shiny credit card on request when modern woman walks into a shoe shop.

 

Modern man cannot be trained, he cannot be tamed and he should not be changed. So modern woman must be well versed on when it is appropriate to use subtle verbal reminders, exasperated shrieking, complete with hair pulling, or sex to remind modern man of the correct behavior that should be applied in a variety of situations.

 

Yes, memory is indeed a complex thing. Since it is expected that modern man should be able to live peacefully with modern woman despite not being able to contribute in the way of remembering the more boring facets of modern life, modern woman must keep her rage in check, help her modern man and remember they are simple creatures who are needed for things other than changing the toilet roll. 

Emojo/picture thingies instead of words - not cool.

It appears, that at the age of 30 something, I have reached a point in my life where technology is getting away from me. Facebook is easy, addictive and well within my comfort zone. I like Facebook because you get to judge people without having to speak to them or interact with them in anyway if you so choose. Twitter on the other hand, is really hard – what the heck are the #’s all about and I have just discovered that I should be using Tumblr as a writer, whatever that is.

Today, modern technology just got a whole lot harder because for the first time, I attempted to use the emojo/picture thingies on my phone to express my thoughts, rather than laboriously type put words. Not good for a writer but an interesting experiment all the same. Except it wasn’t interesting. It was infuriating. This attempt was pre-coffee so I have every right to feel like I want to start killing people.

First of all, I wanted an emojo/picture thingy of coffee so I could send a text with a picture of someone getting punched which was supposed to be a quick and clever way to say ‘if you fail to bring me a coffee, you will get punched’. But of course, my phone emojo/picture thingy does not have a picture of a coffee cup. Now I don’t know what kind of world the creator of these things lives in, but it is obviously a hell dimension. No other dimension would consider a world without a need for a coffee emojo/picture thingy. I have pictures of a syringe, a hammer, and 20 million cats doing a variety of things but no coffee cup.

Needless to say I had to spend my entire morning ranting on Facebook about the absurdity of this and writing this blog rather than preserving precious pre-coffee energy.

Delving into this new world further, after seeing a clever response to my Facebook post about this issue which had deeply affected me, I spent valuable baby free time sifting through the hordes of relatively useless pictures to find one that exactly represents what I was trying to say without the use of words. It appeared to be a woman with her hands raised as if to say “Wow! Clever! Yay! Amazing!” and so forth. I pressed send, enraptured in my own brilliance, only to find that the picture changed to two blue hands. Now I look like a complete idiot.

Having a go at using these emojo/picture thingies was worth it because they may have made me look cooler than I actually am and anything that makes you look cooler is worth trying. But I think we have established that I am not very cool (two blue hands – what the hell?!). It was also worth a go because I really like Ancient Egypt and they used hieroglyphs which are pictures, not written words that come from an alphabet as such, so I figured if it was good enough for them, it might be good enough for me. It was not good enough for me.

As a writer, when did I become so lazy that I thought I could use these emojo/picture thingies rather than words? Words that I have spent years and too much money mastering? Are these emojo/picture thingies really essential to living in this modern world of technology? Do they make life better? No of course they do not. They are yet another way that multi-million dollar corporations get to take our hard earned money. When used in a text message, the message becomes a MMM and therefore costs money where normal text messages are usually free. Nice try multi-million dollar corporation but you can take your emojo/picture thingies and shove them up your (insert emojo/picture thingy of a donkey or butt here).

However in my short foray into using these useless pictorial expressions of feelings or circumstances instead of words I did find one positive use for them. If you want to imply violence towards another person, it is much safer to do so using pictures rather than definitive words. A picture of someone getting punched is much nicer than writing ‘I will punch you in the face’. The picture makes it rather funny and a little bit cute. Well, maybe not for the person receiving the threat of violence through the emojo/picture thingy, but it makes the sender feel better about being an advocate for violence when the situation calls for it.  

Nope, I will not lower my standards to use these emojo/picture tingies until there is an emojo/picture thingy of someone getting punched and a coffee cup.

Letter to a suicidal houseplant

With Vivaldi’s Four Seasons floating in the background of Mums kitchen, I notice her houseplant is dying. Some sort of fern she bought from the local nursery. It’s sad, withering leaves have been taken over by a brownness that oozes melancholy, a mirror of his own depression. No Vivaldi allegro can lift his spirits nor bring the seemingly good-as-dead houseplant back from the edge.

Please don’t die. There must be something around me that can show me how to live in a world that is not suffocating in a thick darkness that doesn’t end because at sunrise the darkness is still there, it just changes colour.

If I can save this plant I can save myself.  

 

                                        TO:

Houseplant number three

                                    ADDRESS:

                                                    Bronze pot

                                                                                          Cement plinth in the lounge room

                                               Australia

 

Image courtesy of Page Foster

 

Suicide doesn’t end the pain. It just passes it on to those left behind.

 

 

 

Dear houseplant that lives on the cement plinth in the lounge room,

You have just discovered that you are a relatively conscious being in a relatively unconscious world. You woke up one day figuratively and literally. You opened your leaves to greet the new day and you didn’t like what you saw. After a nice morning bout of photosynthesis, enjoyed from your expensive potting mix, your world as you understood it turned to mud.

It all started when the humans took you home. They ripped you from your brethren and from that moment on you smelled the smells of a human world, which predominantly smelt like bacon. It’s a good thing you were adopted by a carnivorous family as you are safer than if you were residing with a vegan family. They could get extra hungry and make a mistake one day. No bacon eating family is going to eat the houseplant by mistake. Unless they smoked another kind of plant and got confused.

You heard the noises of the human world, Dr Pill at 12, classical music at 4, and the screaming grandson most mornings. You tasted the air of a human world which was dictated by the gas heating or the airconditioner, depending on the season and the mood of the female human. And somewhere along the way you got confused as to what species you belonged to. You were deep in a human world, all it had to offer you which was mostly water and the more than occasional cat poo. Suddenly you noticed that your feet, which were in fact not actually feet, were rooted into a pile of dirt, not the plush carpet that surrounded your potted world. At least you are not a mushroom.

It was a sad day and the sadness has enveloped you like a haze of cigarette smoke from a 1920s movie. It will not, cannot leave you and with your small understanding of consciousness, you feel that you want to die.

But stay put (like you have a choice) my little fronded friend and hear what I have to say. There are still reasons to carry on and you can carry on despite the fact you need to re-equate with yourself. Transgender people do it all the time and not only do they survive, but they look damn good whilst doing it.

You have comfort. You are indoors. Don’t be a princess, or a prince or both at the same time. There is no pea under your pot and you are untouched by the elements, all warm and cozy or light and airy whilst your tougher counterparts are outside where plants actually belong. And they are generally better at being plants than you are.

You have provisions made for you. Everything you need is provided for you. Water, the occasional bought of Bachs soothing music, pun totally intended and you get to watch Dr Phil every weekday. Perhaps this is the real reason behind your depression. You don’t have to join in the embarrassingly coordinated rain dance with the other plants if the drought persists. Your water comes from a silver container with a spout on the end of it. Since your humans prefer the American Dr Phil over the American Ellen, you probably don’t know how to dance anyway.

You are safe. You have already lived through your involuntary transition from the nursery to the blue doored house in Dean Street. And despite the three year old grandson not being capable of keeping his mittens off you, you are safe.

You must think of others. You exist on a planet shared with other beings so your existence cannot be solitary in attitude. You must exist for the pleasures of others. And your primary reason for existing at the moment is to serve as the cats preferred litter box. There is no more a noble creature to serve. Also your humans paid good money to welcome you into their family so be grateful. 

Logistics. Have you actually thought about how a houseplant might kill themselves? I highly doubt you could hang yourself from the rafters, assuming your house has exposed beams. And that’s just the start of the problems with that scenario. You are an instinctual creature, void of any real reasoning powers so I doubt you could starve yourself to death even if you wanted to.

There is no more help for a suicidal houseplant other than this letter. There is no therapy available, there is no pill you can pop that will solve all your problems. The choice to live or die is entirely your own. But the consequences of your choice rests with those around you.

Make good choices,

Boy with too much time.

No wine for the pregnant

Picture courtesy of Jose Torres

Apparently it is now illegal to sell alcohol to pregnant women in parts of America. Yes, I am well aware that our culture is slowly but surely being swallowed up by the culture of Uncle Sam, that our own Aussie uniqueness is being overtaken by the red, white and the blue and that another blog dedicated to an American theme is not needed. But of course, I write whatever takes my fancy and today it is the movement of the western world into a complete nanny state.

Drinking alcohol is bad when you are pregnant, we all understand that, we are not complete idiots who need laws to tell us what the right thing to do is in pretty much every circumstance. But as Jim Jefferies says, we have to walk as slow as our slowest person. Apart from an intrusion on our own moral judgement and apart from having another law that exists only for the really dumb, there are a few problems with this late night law.

picture courtesy of Izor Simonovioe

 

A woman would have to look pregnant for a bar person to refuse to sell them alcohol. But what if the person reserving the right to serve alcohol to a pregnant woman got it wrong? What if Cloe was indeed not knocked up but had been knocking herself around in the bottom of a biscuit tin after her relationship bottomed out? Should the filling out of her bottom and tummy mean that she is not served alcohol, and by god she needs to drown her sorrows after the bastard broke her heart for the final time. And what if Meredith really is pregnant but is able to order an entire bottle of Yellow because she insisted to the bar person that, no she is not pregnant, just getting fat after the rowing machine in her living room conked out. Are they taking bar people aside for secret classes on how to identify who is pregnant and who is fat? Not all women get that lovely rounded tummy that looks like they swallowed a basketball. It’s easy if a woman is heavily pregnant and looks heavily pregnant, no mistakes can be made here.

This brings us to our next problem. If a woman is heavily pregnant the chances of her getting the energy to lift a full glass of wine let alone get off the couch and into a bar are slim to none. So the chances of these women being in a bar in the first place makes the law a little redundant. And if this poor fatigued and feeling awful pregnant woman, by some miracle, got an energy rush that allowed her to get up, get dressed and get down and dirty would then she would have to wade through a sea of dirty looks from people who do not approve so it would hardly be worth the energy required to move. May as well ruin your babies’ brain development and get tanked in the comfort of your own couch.

And what about all the “bad” things that pregnant woman in the 70s did? They ate nuts, lettuce, deli meats, cuddled their pets, smoked and drank. They even rode in cars without baby carriers and rode bikes without helmets. Kids from the 70s seem pretty normal. Those pregnant women didn’t spawn a generation of underdeveloped simpletons. There is an entire generation of kids who survived this madness.  On the flip side, with all the laws and regulations and dirty looks reigning pregnant women in, does this mean that the kids born today are going to be some sort of uber human? Will the kids born of previous generations be stupid in comparison?

It seems as though freedom of choice is an illusion. People need to be free to make their own choices, even if they are very very stupid.

I stand with the LGBT community. And rainbows are cool.

Today the rainbow that represents the LGBT community is covered in blood. Another day, another massive amount of people dead. It must be Monday.


Image courtesy of Getty stock images.

Usually I prefer not to get too involved with media frenzies that seem to only cover tragic loss that occurs in the western world. Forget the dying and the dead in Africa or Asia, they are not important, or not interesting enough to sell advertising space. Westerners only drool over the dead from Western lives.

But, to me, the Orlando Pulse Nightclub shooting and the 50 odd dead is different. I know more gay people than straight people. I like them. They are fun and, wait for it, they are actually NORMAL people. They eat food, sometimes they even meat. They have jobs, sometimes of which are in industries other than fashion or events and they even have families that love them. Well, we hope they do anyway.

The LGBT community has been persecuted for so long, I actually thought the maltreatment of them was mostly over. Finally, it was looking like they were going to be free to live their lives as they see fit and splash rainbows around as much as they like, except of course, without the right to marry. But that is a whole other argument.

Obama, Clinton and Trump are taking to their virtual and literal microphones, no rainbows in sight, to blame extreme terrorists for the deaths in a community they usually don’t seem to care too much for. Not publicly anyway and certainly not at election time with all those evil terrorists out there that must be annihilated at all costs, they have to get their priorities straight. The LGBT community doesn't do much for an election because they are gay and happy and therefore less likely to go on a rampage and kill 50 odd people. It’s the threat of mass shootings and bombs going off that wins elections in America these days, not acts of homophobia.

It’s absurd that what was clearly a hate crime has yet to be properly declared as one. Instead politicians are using this tragedy to fuel their own agendas; terrorism and gun control.

What a great day for American politics and the American people. The straight ones anyway.

Two guys sharing an innocent kiss in what was actually THEIR TURF, namely at a gay nightclub, makes it so much worse. It’s a gay nightclub filled with gay people, what did he expect? If you don’t like gay people don’t watch them kiss at a gay nightclub. It is so 1953 to not like gay people, so beige, so vanilla.

Over 50 of the LGBT community are dead because one American idiot with a gun that he never should have had access to, took offense to a small, demonstrative display of affection in a public place.

Living in 2016 is not a choice but choosing to live with a 1953 attitude is.

Homosexuality is not a choice but homophobia is.

I stand with the LGBT community and my rainbow flag is flying high.  

 

10 Things I learnt from having a baby and only 2 are related to Buffy.

This is not my child but it encapsulates reality with a child very well. Image courtesy of Andreas Bauer

 

Read this before attempting to have children. It may save your life, or the lives of those around you. Good luck. And remember, dogs are easier.

·         You will find yourself wishing that Buffy had children just so you can ask “what would Buffy do?” and it would still be a relevant question. Otherwise the answer is ‘kill the demons, save the world’. Not great since your children are the demons.

·         Having a baby changes you. Seems obvious but the way it changes you is subtle and creeps up on you like a shark at dawn. I know this because I used to be ‘team Angel’ but I think I may be ‘team Spike’ now. I’m not too sure. It’s hard to explain to non-Buffy people but this is a potentially profound change that would shatter my entire existence as I know it. Currently I’m trying not to think about it to much as I have a lot on my mental plate. Like, oh god, do we have another tube of toothpaste? This tube is definitely empty. I know I have been saying that for a week but I really mean it this time. And, who the hell did Negan kill on Season 6 of the Walking Dead? I think its Glen but I am going to be so mad if it is. Mad as in writing angry letters mad. If that doesn’t keep a woman up at night, I don’t know what does.

·         I leant it is possible for a human to survive on less than 10 hours sleep a night. For many, many, many nights in a row. I wish I had not learnt this. The long term damage of this accidental discovery is yet to be determined but so far it’s not looking good. Seriously, how can 2 people use so much toothpaste!  I bought a lot at the last shopping venture, 6 months ago. It was supposed to last a life time. That’s it, no more teeth brushing.

·         Long, hot, uninterrupted showers are not needed to be a semi-functioning member of society. Smelling good is also not needed to be a semi-functioning member of society. Neither is being able to be a semi-functioning member of society.

·         Boobs can be used for more than bedroom calisthenics. They don’t have to be but the option is there.

·         Coffee can be drunk cold and not is a peaceful place usually reserved for internal reflection. There is no proof that this will not kill you.

·         When you give your daughter a boys’ name and dress her in gender neutral clothes, people will assume she is a boy. And that’s ok.  It is also ok not to correct them.

·         People actually like babies. And they give the baby lots of presents, which is the same as giving you lots of presents. A big bonus right there.

·         Time has no meaning. Sometimes the sun is up, sometimes it is not. That is all you need to know and that is all you will know.

·         Puke is the new fashion accessory. Wear it with style but not pride.

Nothing can be written about having a child that has not already been written. The irony is that you cannot read anything that will prepare you for having children.

The lost art of the RSVP

Image courtesy of Getty Images

 

There are a myriad of blogs about etiquette and manners and a lot of them focus on the loss of basic etiquette and manners in modern society. Ironically enough, these blogs are mostly read by people who already have manners. They read the complaints and nod knowingly, feeling the pain of the loss of decent customer service and table manners and pants that sit above teenage boys buts. But these blogs should be read by people who have no manners and who want to learn, to better themselves and move up the rungs of society.  Much like Gatsby did but I bet he already had manners, he just needed the money, which he made. You can’t buy class, not even Gatsby could have bought that. Luckily he didn’t need to buy it as he is class. He even had more class than Rhett Butler. (If you think that Rhett Butler had more class than Jay Gatsby please comment in the section below. I promise I will not judge you.

Anyway, this is yet another blog to add to the plethora of winging about how common decency has gone out the window, and with it, manners. At least it’s a one off for “Words of Happy”.

My gripe today is with the lost art of RSVPs. When an event is occurring that requires a RSVP it usually means that the host needs to know numbers for a specific reason, usually catering but it could also be to make sure there is a percentage of clowns even to the small children attending. It could be to make sure there are an even amount of swinging couples attending the swing party hosted by the innocuous neighbour. Imagine turning up to one of those shindigs and being the odd couple out – literally. Or attending a catered party and eating the share of canopies that was reserved for your food obsessed, overweight manager. If that isn’t grounds for being fired I don’t know what is. (Of course one would have to have a job with a manager to find out.)

Invitations, whether verbal or online or printed on lovely expensive paper always clearly state ‘please RSVP’ if they need an RSVP for reasons listed above. Yet people take it upon themselves to either be too lazy to bother or to see themselves above the simple task. It’s rude and egotistical.

Replying to an RSVP is not time consuming and it’s not hard. They are designed to ease the stress of the host which you should be willing to do since all you have to do is turn up and eat, or look at clowns, or have sex, depending on which party you are attending. Still, the art of the RSVP is another concept that is becoming extinct. We have already lost the black rhino, being able to have conversations with people whilst they refrain from checking their phone and we have lost Prince. How many more great things of society do we need to lose before we sit up and take notice? When you live in a society you are signing a verbal contract to live in that society which means abiding by basic rules of common decency.

When F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote; “… it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams …” I always thought he was referring to the super B#%*h Daisy. Now I think he was most certainly referring to people who don’t bother to RSVP.

A rock star's dream

 

When you have a dream and if you are brave enough to live by it, roads can open up that lead you to interesting destinations. But dreams can change as you get older, and as you decide what road you want to take, there should always be the inspiration of a dream to lead and motivate you.

Sameera Bashir has been living her dream as a rock ‘n roller for years. She’s a small and quirky yet powerful woman. She is her own muse and upon entering her bricked house one can’t help but be taken aback by the beauty of the autumn coloured tress that flank her property. The vegetarian doesn’t take her rock star life style home with her, but the rock star attitude will always be a part of her.

When performing at night she belts out her original music, overriding the din of the drunk patrons cheering her on with her surprisingly solid voice. It’s a classic scene for most performing musicians; melodies competing with the preferred beer of the night. But now this rocker from a small town has her sights set firmly on the glittering world of Hollywood and she has one cowboy boot in the door.

At 11 years of age Sameera picked up her first guitar with a dream of being a rock star. And after years of hard work and practice she was performing her unique sound of adult contemporary and blues on a regular basis and to a variety of crowds. But dreams change and that’s ok.

“Music is a way to use my creative energy,” she said. “I’ve been doing it so long, I used to dream of being a rock star but now I dream of making money from my dream.”

And the possibility of making money has been presented to Sameera through the signing of two contracts, one of which is with a Hollywood agency.  After sending a demo to Usher, Sameera was approached by two agencies, one representing the T.V. industry in Hollywood, the other representing the T.V industry in Scandinavia.

Sameera now spends her days writing and producing electronic music that, with a bit of luck, will be used for anything from a David Attenborough documentary to the Kardashians. It could make her a lot of money and she almost feels guilty about it. It's interesting, this innate guilt that pours out of artistic people. For most, the dream of making money from their passion is so minuscule, that those who are offered the chance to make a living from their dream seem to be inherently guilty about it.

But this isn’t just a tale about a small town girl making it big in Hollywood. We’ve all seen that movie. This is also a story about how, at long last, artists who reside in rural locations are no longer at a geographical disadvantage. The internet and the flow of Sameera’s music amid fans helped her reach this stage of having her boot firmly in the door of Hollywood studios.

“I used to hate technology but now I am using it to write my music and look where it has gotten me,” she said.

Based in the small town of Narrandera in the Riverina, Sameera spends her days living the life of a different sort of rock star. She writes and produces her electronic music that will serve not only as, fingers crossed, an effective money making machine but as a way to sooth her soul of creativity.

With the natural landscapes of a naturally beautiful country town to inspire her, Samerra lives her new dream. She dared to dream and to stand tall in a crowd of fellow musicians and now Hollywood has taken notice.

 

How to kill a spider without wanting to die

Image courtesy of Thorarinn Stefansson

Most people, if not all, who inhabit our planet have come across them and not liked the experience. In any way. At any time. Whether it be in real life, late at night on the kitchen floor, or in the deep recesses of your sleeping mind – the place reserved for the scariest of scary nightmares - all Aussies have seen them and immediately wished they could wash their eyeballs to rid themselves of the horror they just witnessed. Or, wash their bodies in acid because that would be more soothing than seeing something that has eight legs scurrying in a most evil way across your view point.

And nothing is more terrifying than those eight legged bastards we call spiders. Not serial killers, not clowns, not even – and I don’t make this comment in a nonchalant way – not even sharks. Every normal human being hates them and refuses to hear the apparent use they have within the ecosystem. Stuff the ecosystem. I can tell you their use, it’s to jump out at you when you least expect it, or when you do expect it, it’s mind numbingly petrifying either way, and then they try to eat you whole. That is their one and only reason for existence. It’s a conspiracy that people think spiders are helpful because they eat flies. I have never seen a spider eat one, have you? (If you have you are more of a victim of this cleverly plotted conspiracy than I originally thought and there is no help for you.)

All spiders need to be killed and be killed dead but killing them is not an easy feat. It can be such an ordeal that you may think it is better to die yourself than spend another moment trying to kill something that is way too agile for its own good. 

Killing a spider whilst the only male in the house is peacefully slumbering in the bed, all wrapped up and cozy in the Egyptian cotton sheets and happy and oblivious to the terror that is happening in the very next room, is an amazing feet when taken upon without said man doing the killing. Yes, the idea of tackling a spider is a sexist undertaking as it is one of the few tasks, perhaps the only task that a man should do, not a woman. I wish to protect my fellow sisters in this form of horrific warfare. We should be sheltered from these hell dwelling antagonists. Let the men folk handle them whilst we get on with more important tasks like organising world peace, or much harder, getting the baby to sleep for more than 45 minutes.  At least the male orientated role of spider killing lends credence to their argument for their species still being relevant. With woman mowing lawns and wearing steel cap boots with style, men are of course worried they no longer have a need in modern society. Spiders prove that men are still needed. As long as spiders still exist, so too shall men.

Come to think of it, this is a problem. We need men to kill spiders. Therefore men exist because spiders do. Therefore, men may be less inclined to kill spiders because if they succeed they are no longer required to be a part of this human experience. Best not to let them know they are needed. Best to pretend we would like to use the spider killing opportunity as a chance to see their muscles. Men like that sort of stuff,

 Being in the same room as the creepy crawly bastards is feat number one. If you can remain in the same room, you may just have a chance of killing it and saving yourself, or at least reversing some of the fear back onto the useless creature. Let them feel what it feels like to have your life flash before your eyes and all you see is cup of coffee, cup of coffee, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, more coffee and your dog. Remaining in the same room is very hard and takes more self-control than is fair to ask of someone. It is, however, a lot easier of the spider is anywhere near the only exit of the room.

If you took your eyes off the spider, then a safe and effective killing should consist of throwing shoes in the general direction the spider was last seen heading. It doesn’t matter what type of shoe or who owns it, or how many you have to throw, it’s a free for all in these circumstances. I usually find screaming hysterically really helps calm the nerves, ironically enough.  It also helps with the accuracy of the aim. Please note, booties and shoes made of feathers are not ideal weapons. (If you own shoes made of feathers you are just a weirdo and probably like spiders anyway so this blog is not relevant to you.)

Now these creatures can move fast. They appear from nowhere and vanish just as fast and if you don’t see exactly where they went, you are in some serious trouble. So always be on the ready, on high alert and limbering up is an absolute must. Enjoying a cup of strong coffee on the comfy couch? Be ready because the serenity you feel could be destroyed at any moment. At any moment, one nanosecond further in time, life as you were just experiencing it will be over, replaced with a non-shakable need to kill and kill fast or die and die fast.

You must not only limber up before attempting the kill, it is also recommended that you remain limbered up at all times because at one point you are seated on your rotund butt (of which toning up is on your list of things to do) enjoying your coffee and the next thing you know you have glimpsed the devil creature and suddenly you are perched precariously on top of the couch.. Often exactly how you got from the comfy seat to the back of the couch in one gravity defying leap is a mystery. Hence, if you stay limbered up at least your muscles won’t be sore from all the leaping.

The same goes for your shoe throwing arm. Those muscles will also get a workout, there’s no doubt about it. Especially if you own a lot of shoes and you have terrible aim.

Never ever take your eyes off your eight legged foe. Reach for shoes with one arm, one eye, one finger, whatever it takes, do not look away from the soul consuming demon that is attempting to cohabitate your home. They move like a rocket and their entire reason for existence is to kill you so you must kill them first. It’s kill or be killed.

In the event that shoe throwing is not successful, you should play ‘Warcraft’ as much as you can. Get used to using a gun and get used to living in a world of war. Watch every episode of ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ to draw strength from and remain inspired to fight your demons. If all else fails, join the army. This should get you the skills you need. And don’t be afraid to master the bazooka. This was the Mona Lisa’s choice of weapon, the included picture is unquestionable proof of this. These weapons are underrated when it comes to arachnid annihilation. The only downside to using the bazooka is the ensuing mess and mayhem may be a tad bit difficult to explain to the now wide awake man of the house.

Spiders are horrible. They make people scream in really high tones. They have no real use and they have no right to live in our homes, especially when they don’t contribute by paying the rates or weeding the garden. So just remember; it’s them or you so if you have to explain the gaping hole in the living room, you have done your part and you have lived to tell your tail. You are a survivor and no builders’ fee can take that away from you.

One spider down, several billion to go.

Words of Happy

Words of Happy - the blog

A blog is every writers fashion accessory, so I hear. And as a professional writer I simply must have the latest fashion accessory. Yes, I actually get to call myself a professional writer as I have and do write, on a regular and paid basis, feature articles and columns for national magazines. The most unusual of these is as a dating and romance columnist for a magazine that is produced solely for prison inmates. The most fun was for an industry magazine for cafes.

I have also been a journalist which took me a weird place because the last paper I worked for put me on as the sports journalist. Really odd choice considering I didn’t even know there were three different types of football. I wish I didn’t know there were three types of football. There really only needs to be Union. The other 2 are just trying to be cool like Union but fall embarrassingly short. League has a thuggish overtone to it and AFL has a propensity to love the sound of their own whistle. The bloody whistle goes off every 2 seconds, it’s ridiculous.

And hell, cricket is without a doubt the most boring sport I have ever watched and I have watched at least 4 different sports. Plus flies go up your nose a lot when you are out on the field. Not ok.

My writing career began when I was 11. I wrote a story for my Aunt for her birthday, it was about a princess called Ashley (my middle name – lucky I wasn’t writing a mystery) who was going on a quest to kill her younger sister (I have one of those) because she was evil and was trying to destroy the world. In this case I can assure you - life did not imitate art. Younger sister is still alive but if 11 year old me had more of a say, this would not have been the case. We get on now though. She lives in another country and it’s far far away. A safe distance away. Just kidding, she’s a good bloke. 

Pre-blog, I did my homework, which consisted of thinking really hard about the name for the blog and reading Blogging for Dummies (yes really). Then it was a matter of stocking up on my writing material. According to Blogging for Dummies this will be a ‘life’ blog. It’s about everything and anything and most of all it is supposed to be entertaining and perhaps even a little bit funny.

And like all writers, especially the cliché ones, I have written a novel. It’s totally going places, it’s sitting in my top draw. Sometimes I take it out and think ‘holy s#*t this is a literary masterpiece’. But most days I take it out and think ‘oh god, this is a disaster’. And since the novel, after three years, is completed, I need an outlet for my sarcastic humor, so this blog is it. Apparently if I get a million followers, book contracts will fall out of the sky and I will be not only be a professional writer, I will be a rich and famous one. Fingers crossed. 

Comments are very much encouraged on this blog. Feel free to post as you feel, you can even say that you don’t like a post I have written. I doubt this would be the case, but the freedom of choice is there, if you so choose to use it. If you have a specific topic you would like me to cover, that would be super fun also. The only things that are off limit are my friends and family, which is a big shame because they are all very much insane and would make very interesting posts. But then I would have no friends or family and then there would be on-one left to read my blog and then I would never be rich and famous. Catch 22.

Finally, and most importantly, this blog is an excuse, a means to use my Philosophy Major. So now, after 20 years of people asking me ‘what can you do with a Philosophy Major’, I have an answer – write sarcastic pieces of writing and post them on the internet.