How bears and bile stopped me buying beer

My family (and some friends) are spending Christmas this year down the coast. My godmother leaves this evening. In an attempt to be organised, and to ensure that all the necessary things for a pleasant holiday are available down there, my father requested that I take some time out of my very busy schedule and purchase some alcohol to be sent down with her. 

I had arrived at the shops and had managed to get myself a trolley when I was bailed up by one of the WSPA guys. I stopped. I usually do, but I always preface our conversation with the 'I appreciate what you are doing here, but I'm really not in a position to provide funds'. The sensible ones wave me on, but there are others that continue to chat to me in the hope that I will change my tune. 

Today I ran into one of the latter. And he was brilliant. He was charming, informative, funny. He was also incredibly attractive (in an unwashed hippy kind of way, which no doubt helps passers by find him believable as an activist type).  He explained to me the dilemmas about bears being caged for bile, about becoming endangered, about the necessity of whales to the ecosystem, about great things the WSPA has done, how he supported them when he was surviving on Youth Study. Had I been in a position to do so I would surely have signed my life away to monthly payments right there. Unfortunately, as I explained to him, I did not find myself to be less unemployed at the end of the conversation than I was at the beginning.

So I took my trolley and walked towards the Liquor Store. And I realised that having turned down the opportunity to save the whales, and the bears (who, by the way, are forced to live in a cage the size of my trolley), on the basis of needing those funds to purchase food, I wouldn't be able to walk back past the WSPA guy with a trolley full of beer, albeit beer bankrolled by my father. And so I was forced to abandon my trolley, and my mission, and skulk back to my car empty handed. 

Don't get dumped in Boorowa

If there is one thing this weekend has taught me it is don't get dumped in  Boorowa. Or perhaps more generally, think very carefully about who you get a lift to a 21st with. 

21sts in the country are always excellent, partly because being in a paddock, everyone can get decidedly loose. Plus everyone is going to crash there. It's like a big giant alcohol fueled co-ed sleepover under the stars. And then there is the road trip. I love a good road trip, which given that I am prone to motion sickness says a lot. Perhaps it is a subconscious recognition that it is the journey not the destination or whatever, but the road trip is always an excellent addition to the party proper. 

This weekend my brother Terible and his friend Stoz got a lift to a 21st in the country from an acquaintance. According to all reports (theirs), the trip up was pleasant and banter filled. They nicknamed their driver "Scrappy" and thought it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. All was going splendidly, until the next morning.

They awoke to yelling, directed at them. Scrappy, it seems, could not fit the swag in her car. 

Stoz told her not to worry, they would walk back. Terible thought they were joking. She took him at his word. And so they walked. To the Boorowa pub. Where they discovered that there was no public transport, and not a great deal of potentially hitchhiking opportunities. Perhaps one of the locals they met during their sojourn put it best upon hearing their tale when he said 'so she gave you a lift here? But she's not taking you back? I just don't understand mate. It doesn't make any sense'.  

The early bird often has to kill time

I am habitually early. It's one of the reasons I wish I smoked. Alas, there are not so many things to do while waiting for someone to join you if you do not join the ranks of those with limited lung capacity other than loiter, and I am not a naturally talented loiterer. My earliness is perhaps further compounded by the chronic lateness of several of my friends. One in particular would be so late, and I so early, that I would often be left with 45 minutes to fill for a coffee date. I try to manage this time delay by always carrying a book, or meeting at interesting places (like museums, or galleries, or markets), but this doesn't always work.

This morning, for example, I had arranged to meet some friends at the markets at 11. I arrived there at least half an hour early. I got myself a coffee and began to have a look around. Sadly, as a result of poor weather, there were less stalls than usual. Having failed to dress weather appropriately I was less impressed than I might otherwise have been with what was on offer. I had finished the book I had been reading last night and was yet to find another. When I looked through the second hand books at the stalls I found nothing that appealed to me. I became impatient. At two minutes past 11 I called one of my friends demanding to know why they were so late. This type of behaviour is not endearing. And so, I am going to attempt to be less punctual in future.

Lather, rinse and repeat if necessary

To my horror I am finding myself increasingly concerned with the state of Robert Pattinson's hair. To be fair, I am in company with millions of teenaged Twilight fans and Heidi Klum:


Recently Pattinson told screaming tween fans "I haven't washed my hair in about six weeks. It's disgusting." The continued mania surrounding him would indicate that this has not put too many of them off. Presumably they would agree that it IS disgusting, but continue to be enthralled by him despite this. I, however, find myself more attracted to him not in spite of his failure to wash his hair, but because of it.

I am not sure if this is because it clearly indicates his lack of regard for the obsessive teenage affections targeted at him that are based around his portrayal of the allegedly dreamy vampire Edward Cullen, who is supposed to be every girls fantasy, despite the fact he is a) undead, b) a stalker, c) not fun and d) fictional. What this says about girls these days, who would like to trade places with the masochistic heroine of the saga, who wants only to be slain, is a story for another day.

It could also be his failure to conform to the clean-cut Hollywood image, but it may be symptomatic of what Madam Von Mook refers to as my attraction to hobo chic, which, if Pattinson has half the influence of his compatriot Sienna Miller, may become just as popular as boho was in the coming months. And that would certainly be a wonderful side-effect of the Twilight phenomenon, particularly in light of the GFC and the rise of the Recessionista.

How very Leonard Shelby of you

I recently had coffee with my friend Chris, who had the misfortune to attend a conference on the Gold Coast in the midst of Schoolies. The streets lined with drunken 17 year olds, it was not the tropical getaway that might be envisioned. 

Schoolies is an opportunity for the kids to cut loose. And good on them. We all know someone who has woken up missing half an eyebrow because they passed out before their friends. I know people who've gotten pierced or inked after several too many drinks. Tattoo artists must love the ridiculous things drunk people decide to mark on their bodies. Such as the boy Chris saw at the coast who had tattooed on his shoulder "Schoolies 08". 

Evidently it had been such a big week for this guy that without a permanent reminder he may have forgotten he'd been there. 

He's yelling at possums

My brother is in town for a visit. Last night he went out drinking with some old school friends. Several hours later I received a phone call, to see if I was awake. Having answered the phone I did happen to be awake, and agreed to drive into the city to pick him up. This is because I am an excellent sibling. And because Zeb really loves nothing more than a midnight spin.

On the return trip my brother, with the logic of the inebriated, queried whether I really was awake and whether I had been before said phone call. After we arrived home I changed back into my pajamas and then realised that the front door had been left wide open. I chalked this up to forgetfulness, having previously lived with two guys who were incredibly lax about home security (we once had to have a house meeting listing reasons it was a top idea to at least close the front door).

When I went to lock up I discovered my brother standing in the front yard staring into the distance. I also heard some distant barking. When I asked what was going on he explained "I'm just waiting for Zeb. He's yelling at possums".

Downloads killed the video store

My mother occasionally laments that the real victims of the digital age are video stores. Apparently during my childhood, before we grew up and started illegally downloading films, the video store was pumping on a Saturday night.

This Saturday I decided to embrace my anti-social nature and spend a night in with Zeb the Wonderdog. Which we began with a trip to the video store. While there I saw:

• a mother with children
• an expectant couple
• one of the body builders from my gym
• a girl dressed in fairy wings and glitter with another girl in a sky-divers jumpsuit with glitter and a couple of other girls with less interesting outfit choices
• a couple of young guys
  

And I thought to myself - the video store is still totally popular with lots of different people. What on earth is my mother talking about? And then I thought about it some more and realised that the video store is really only popular with those who have one thing in common. Being responsible for young children, pregnant, unable to afford the carbs, or underage, all these people couldn't go out and paint the town. The fight against binge drinking is the fight for the video store.

Conversations at the cinema

1: At the counter

Me: Hi, could I please have two tickets to the movie?
Him: Sure. That'll be thirty bucks. You'll be two of four people in the theatre. And its the biggest theatre we have.

Me: Right, well that's... could I just put that on EFTPOS please?
Him: Wow, your card is so flat, you must use it a lot. I mean, not to be judgmental or anything.
Me: You did sound mildly judgmental there, but I'll try not to be offended.
Him: No, really, it's just I've never seen a card with the numbers so worn down. It's quite impressive. Although actually, I have seen a card like this once before. But it was a fake.
Me: It's the real deal, I swear.
Him: Oh no, I mean, I didn't mean to say that this was a fake card or anything. That's not what I meant. Its just unusual is all. That the numbers are so flat.
Me: Perhaps I should use it less? Or lose it more?
Him: Yeah, I mean no. It's fine. If you don't have cash on you what are you going to do?
Me: Yeah. I guess I'll try to make sure I have cash on me at all times in future. It'll save time if I ever get mugged.


2: With the usher

Him: How are you going this evening?
Me: Well, thanks.
Him: Really? Or is that just your standard response when anyone asks you how you're going?
Me: No, I'm doing pretty good this evening. But thanks for asking.
Him: Really? I mean, would you really start telling some random usher if you were having a bad day or something?
Me: I can't see why not. You seem genuinely interested. What's to lose? Why? Do you think that people aren't honest with you? Does everyone tell you they're doing ok?
Him: Well, actually I got cancer patient once, who wasn't having such a good time of things. That went on for quite awhile. Makes you start to wonder if you should ask people at all.
Me: Yeah. Well it's good to maintain an interest in people I guess. Anyway, we should get into this movie...
Him: It's a good choice of movie. Quite funny...
Me: (noticing the growing queue behind us): Thanks. You have a good night.
Him: I will certainly endeavour to do so. And you certainly will. It's really a great movie.


3: In the hall, then in the theatre

Me: I'm just going to duck into the loo, you want to get seats?
Her: Yeah, it's going to be tough to get good ones what with the cinema being so jam-packed.
About ten minutes later
Me: Ohmygod I couldn't find you any where.
Her: Wow, I thought you were having a difficult bowel movement or something. I was going to text you to check you hadn't died in there.
Me: I was going to call you but I forgot my phone. I've been into EVERY theatre looking for you.
Her: Why didn't you just come into the theatre that the movie we are going to see is on?
Me: You took both the tickets. I didn't know which theatre we were supposed to be in. They aren't marked biggest to smallest.
Her: But we're in the FIRST theatre. Why didn't you just start at one and work forward?
Me: Well, I saw these people going to the movie and I figured it might be the same one so I just followed them. But they went into this one that was already started. And it wasn't the movie we were seeing. Then I had to go into each one and check if you were in there or not. People think I'm a crazy person.
Her: Crazy, but at least not constipated.

Bumfluff - The fags you don’t Bogart.

“Man I wished I smoked…”

All throughout my university life I thought this. During our tutorial breaks I for longed it. Well, it was either smoking or drinking lattes and flat whites while my fellow classmates discussed how this latte wasn’t as good as the latte they’d had an hour ago “far too weak and frothy” they‘d say. Funny how these would be the same people who last night would happily lick stale beer off the pub floor, yet complain about the quality of the virginal coffee beans used to make their $3 cup of coffee. I hated this whole ‘wanky’ coffee culture we mooched off the Europeans, so I decided upon smoking as to me it was the lesser of the two evils. But I hesitated when it came to lighting up. I never smoked as a teen as I feared that it would stunt my growth and for rest of my life I would forever be a short little battler. I shouldn’t have worried though, I was already doomed to view the world at 5ft2. But now my fear was public humiliation. It’s socially acceptable and sometimes astonishing to see a 16yr old coughing and wheezing after taking their first drag of a cigarette, much like witnessing a child taking their first steps, but I doubt that’s the same case for a bitter lass in her mid 20’s.

With my original plans thwarted, I suddenly thought why not cigars? It’s not like you have to inhale them, their strong, like inhaling 20 cigarettes at the same time, you ‘bumfluff’ them! Therefore I wouldn’t have to worry about the coughing and choking and crude stares from passer-by’s. And I could wear my straw fedora hat while smoked them and feel like a South American drug baron. Oh just think! But alas I did not live in Cuba, in this land smoking cigars in lieu of thin seductive cigarettes was only limited to triumphant sportsmen and business tycoons. My forward thinking ways would be too much to handle, I would be ridiculed and shunned by society, the government and even by my fellow smokers.

Why are people so unkind?…

Knicker's in a not?

"There is a limit to the engineering possibilities and material potential that we humans can exploit. Please understand, there’s only so much control top underwear can do."

To my horror...I find myself repeating this little rant frequently on a daily basis to not so jolly, middle aged chubbers who are now finding many of their hopes and dreams being crushed between their ever expanding folds of fat. "Magic Minimizing Knickers", "Thunder Thigh Thinners" and "Bulge Busters", much like overconfident movie supervillain's they promise you the world but in the end only give you Kabul (and the dodgy end no doubt). Refusing to heed my advice, seduced by the dark side no less, these portly individuals decide to endeavour into the unknown. However, when these disgruntled lardo's realise the lack lustre results these synthetic fortresses provide, their already foul mood intensifies, their breathing spikes, they begin to communicate in a series of groans and grunts, begin sweating profusely, question my ethnicity and visa status, then struggle to free themselves from the control garments they are now imprisoned in. In these weaker moments I almost pity them.

Vindaloo is not for you...

“How come you don’t smell like curry food?”...

To my horror...one of my workmates asked me this question not so long ago, in reaction to a customer who was of Indian origins and smelled like Indian food. Even though I knew my workmate meant no ill intent, they did however frequently 'grind my gears' so I wasn't too averse to the idea of messing them about. So I took it upon myself to make them feel guilty and self conscious about their question. As they internally wrestled with the regret of their curiosity and quietly waiting for my response, I pondered...

Did all Indians smell like curry? Were we like vampires? Did we too have a unique scent characterized by what we ate? Maybe not as sweet (unless you factor in fruit based curries) or alluring as the walking un-dead (or so I hear, personally I thought vamps were meant to smell like death seeing as they are technically 'dead', but that's a whole other can of worms) but just as evident. Maybe. I on the other hand never smelt like curry or curry related paraphernalia, I knew this as I was frequently sniffed by others (my unholy fear of stinking fed this compulsion). I didn't eat curry, I preferred noodles or chocolate. That might explain the absence of 'marsala' from my scent and the reason why others of my kind instinctively avoided me. Had evolution given us this extra gift as a survival mechanism, to weed out the 'bad eggs' like myself?

Finally I answered my beleaguered workmate. I knew what I should say, what was normal, the guy probably worked in an Indian Restaurant and the smell was the result of his workplace environment. But why be normal?, instead I muttered "because I bathe in natural yoghurt, it dulls the smell of the spices that ooze from my pores like summer in Calcutta". In reply I only got a puzzled look from my workmate, did I expect anything more?

Why Halloween is fucked

I turned down an invitation to a Halloween party, in favour of a quiet night at home.

Which is not to say that I have completely avoided the debauched celebration of the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain. Indeed, I got my pagan partying done early, at a function hosted by someone who had not only dressed as a One Night Stand, complete with alarm clock, but who spent the latter part of the evening cutting around with a hollowed out watermelon on his head. 

And so my brother and I decided to pop out and get some take away and watch a movie. So, as we drive along, a fucking massive example of a firm halloween favourite, le spider crawls down the windscreen and we nearly have a mad accident on the highway. 

Halloween is fucked. 

Marie Antoinette Moments

Last night the now largely defunct EECC was resurrected for the great and noble purpose of baking. And bake it did.

Three hours and 48 cupcakes later we retired our whisk (no electric mixers for us thank you very much) and drank tea.

And so today the future Mrs Medvedev and I took these little parcels of sugar and joy to the founding place of the EECC for a chance to catch up with old colleagues. Needless to say they were very well received*, perhaps none so well as the one personalised cupcake.

Looking at this iced perfection you could easily be forgiven for thinking that the Phil referred to is one of the world's greener souls, the type that mixes with Hayden Panettiere in an effort to save the whales. You would be wrong. Phil is against global warming though, because of the way it kills polar bears. As he carefully explained to us:

more global warming --> less polar bears --> less game on leisurely hunting trips

Clearly, global warming is a disaster. Cut those emissions baby.


*with the exception of two of the most charming ladies of my acquaintance, one of whom grunted at me when I said good morning and subsequently disappeared, and the other of whom also avoided such pleasantries, although thankfully did not grunt. No cupcake for you I thought loudly, and went on my merry way.

Are Tramp Stamps The Answer?

This morning I returned from the gym, and discovered, to my horror, that I had my pants on inside-out. This may not be a problem with the plain black leggings so favoured by yogis and Lindsay Lohan. Unfortunately my pants were not like these, but instead had clear seams. It would have been glaringly obvious in the unnatural light of the gym that they were inside-out.

I told all this to someone who attends the same gym as me (but who failed attend this morning, and so was unable to spare me my embarrassment), who responded to my chargrin with an amused "don't worry - no one is looking at your pants, they're too busy looking at everyone's tattoos".

This is likely true, the tattoos on those in my spin class being ever more on display as we head recklessly towards summer. Which led me to thinking - I can't be depended on to put my pants on properly, especially not on my way to the gym when my natural vagueness is compounded by a failure to be fully awake - so what is the best way to ensure that should this happen again everyone would focus not on the inside-outness of my pants? Perhaps a tramp stamp is the answer.

Don't judge a blog by it's banner

As I reflect on my youthful exploits I remember a simpler, happier time, a time when you could walk down the street wearing a scrunchie in your crimped hair, where the answer to all your questions could be found in a slightly outdated Dolly Doctor, or when a plump person could wear spray on leggings and not feel self conscious or be the target of fashion intolerant stares.

Alas this is not the case, these days ... when to my horror my perennially cardigan wearing colleague criticised my outfit....

To my horror someone bumped into me while I was negotiating the streets and I dropped my phone in a puddle....

To my horror a third of the world is starving...

To my horror the global financial crisis remains a global financial crisis...

To my horror I have no recollection of Saturday evening....

In the maelstrom that we consider life much is irritating, vexing, or dare we say it - downright horrifying.

Join us as we ponder the happenings of a life lived, rant over what really gets our goat, and muse on that which amuses us.