Welcome to my Blog. This is where I share my musings, ideas and links to articles that I have written elsewhere.
Feel free to wade through the articles or click through to some of the following links
Have you, as a qualified adult individual, ever sat in a meeting, a professional business meeting in your grown up adult joby job and felt like you might be a child playing ‘work’ for the day? And have you ever shared this feeling out loud with your (awesome) co-workers only for them to absolutely agree? I don’t think it’s imposter syndrome, before you go down that path (even though in some way it likely is) but what I think it might be, is the fact that we really are all just big kids pretending to be what we think adults should be, like a solid 90% of the time.
I don’t recall ever running away from home as a kid – but I do recall almost scaring my mum to death when I decided to walk to the Ashton kindy fete.
The year was 1995, as a shy five-year-old, I was surprisingly keen on the local social scene – the highlight in my calendar was the kindergarten fete.
Let’s take a moment to set the scene: It’s 2006, I’m fifteen – but I’ll be sixteen in July. This is a detail that’s always important until you turn twenty or so. No matter what age you currently are, it is important to highlight the age that you will be next (as if the person you’re addressing can’t count). I don’t have sex, my friends and I don’t talk about it – we weren’t “the type” (which is a definition I regret making between us and what I assumed of other groups).
Dear reader, friend and foe, I recently experienced a cultural phenomenon I thought only existed in American movies and pre-online shopping myth. I was caught in a throng of thirsty bargain seekers, early one morning out the front of a suburban Aldi, anxiously awaiting access to their famed special buys range.
As spring starts to ease into summer and the air becomes clearer, the scent of the previous months begins to fade, with many breathing a sigh of relief. From about the beginning of September each year, people are on guard, keeping a look out for white petals beginning to bud on trees in what were previously safe and innocent suburban neighbourhoods. As the branches begin to bloom on the visually stunning Ornamental Pears, an awful smell begins to suffocate anyone who dares leave their home.
Last week I hurt my back while putting on pants. They weren’t complicated pants (whatever that means) and it wasn’t just a ‘ouch that hurt a little bit’ pain. It was a ‘looks like I’m stuck in bed requiring assistance when I need to go to the toilet’ kind of pain.
It fucking hurt.
A little while ago I entered a short story in the ‘WriteMore’ writing competition in the Moreland council. I didn’t win anything (but I got a snazzy certificate and a went to a fun writers talk) but I thought I would share what I wrote so that someone gets to read it.
I sit at home on my couch in Melbourne writing a reflection of my shortest yet most absolutely brilliant Adelaide Fringe festival so far.
It’s the last weekend of Fringe, my boyfriend has jumped on a plane to head over for the final weekend party and I’m here with beer, my laptop and party tunes playing from the TV (which has made me realise that Mandy Moore’s ‘Candy’ really didn’t get the credit it deserved- or maybe that beer is stronger than I thought…)
(Originally published on Adelady) Fringe has arrived and just like Christmas (but without your weird auntie Sharon getting drunk and taking her teeth out) it’s exciting, confronting, and sometimes a little bit overwhelming.
Without a doubt it’s the best time to be in Adelaide; the weather’s great, all your mates are out and there a million and one things to do but it’s always good to grab a little advice – so we got in touch with a couple of ladies who know exactly how to help out…
Three days ago I involuntarily unleashed a sound and scent from my body that caused me to question my ability to love myself. I couldn’t even begin to think about how it affected my boyfriend who was standing a mere meter away. Sure, I’ve farted in front of him plenty of times before – hell; I’ve probably even farted on him but this fart was different on so many levels.
I’m not crying, you’re crying…okay I’m bloody crying, there’s a torrential downpour of salty dampness falling from my peepers and I bloody love it, okay? Okay. I did this to myself, I have no one else to blame and I regret nothing.
This is exactly how I feel after watching Cool Runnings. Or Save The Last Dance. Or Dirty Dancing. Not because they’re sad, per se – sure it’s sad that I’m sitting here in a Friday night, sure it’s a bit sad how (spoiler alert) the fast running dude doesn’t get to go to the Summer Olympics and it’s definitely a kick in the guts when (spoiler alert) Julia Styles’ characters mum dies, and it’s definitely a complete tragedy when Baby’s sister embarrasses herself by singing – but it’s not ‘choke on your Kahlua and milk because you can’t breathe between tears’ level sad. But somehow that’s exactly what I manage. Every. Single. Time.
It’s been almost a month since I turned 27, an incredibly freezing cold and unremarkable one. Sure I’ve cried at work (standard) and sipped red wine from a bottle mid week, like a thirsty baby whose parents should really be punished but otherwise life has been a little uneventful….
Ever woken up, checked the calendar (okay, more realistically the date on your phone) and thought “oh golly gee, seems like I should be surfing the crimson tide today” (okay, more realistically “fuck it, my period is due sometime soon”)? And like, it’s never really a good day when you realise that (if it comes it’s a 4 or so day bummer and if it doesn’t…blargh let’s not go there) – you’ve gotta find silver (crimson) linings where you can though, it’s the small things y’know? Like the excitement of reading the fun facts in the Libra wrappers. Yeah, life is really peaking.
‘Get Out’, the hit directorial debut from comedian Jordan Peele has received rave reviews, wowing critics both here and in the US.
Mixing both horror and comedy, the film presents moments of true spine-tingling fear mixed with well-crafted jokes to create a thoroughly enjoyable, entertaining and thought-provoking piece of film.
So you might not be aware but menstruation is a thing that happens on the reg for many around the world. For the uninitiated let me enlighten you: there ain’t much joy to be found in it. For some, slight happiness can be found in the revelation that they made it through another month without accidentally bringing life into the world but that’s where it stops for silver linings – or in this case, more like reddish brown linings (sorry not sorry).
Today I stopped by Bunnings just to get a sausage. I wandered in the door to make it look like I had a legitimate reason to be there and all I did was pat a dog (yes, people can and do take their dogs to Bunnings, note to single men out there, take your dogs to Bunnings, it is an excellent place to pick up).
Adelaide, you’re amazing! You’re my home town – the only place I’ve ever lived in fact, but that’s all about to change as I do one of the most typical Adelaide things to do…and leave Adelaide.
Many a list has been put together of fantastic things to do in Adelaide (here’s one from the Adelady gals) before you kick the proverbial bucket but what about a list of things to do when you’ve decided to leave the city (for a while)? What about a list for when you say “I’m going into hiding (moving to Melbourne) for a while”?
I present to you, the Adelaide stuff it list.
Hey gorgeous! If you’ve made it this far you’re probably my kind of people already. I mean to get here you had to knowingly click on a link or type in a URL featuring my name – which is pretty confronting in itself – so go you! Pour yourself a wine, you deserve it.
“The Final Countdown” by Journey is blasting from my tiny iPad speakers and I have no one to blame except myself. I was the one who selected the “Ultimate NYE Party” playlist from the plethora of options on Spotify and it’s a decision that I’m sticking with, despite the current outcome.
Merry Christmas my loves, at this time, this precious beautiful time of year, let us all take a moment to remember the special moments of festive seasons past. I hope my reflections help you too, to reminisce about the times that you wished you could swap families, go into witness protection or simply disappear, never to be heard from ever again.
Hello Internet, I am moving house! Probably not news if you’re my Facebook friend though, since I’ve posted about 50 million status updates attempting to give away my furniture over the course of the last five weeks but that’s beside the point (however if you’re after a queen sized bed frame or a lounge, hit me up!). I digress.
A quick and innocent Google search of the term ‘Snowtown’ inevitably returns a Wikipedia page detailing the gruesome murders and decaying corpses, an IMDB link to the film that dramatized them and numerous news reports with in depth information explaining exactly how it all unfolded. Not a single page mentions the absolutely top notch curry and fried chicken that can be found at the Snowtown Servo. I believe that this is an absolute travesty that needs to be rectified post-haste so I took one for the team and ventured (far) past Gepps Cross to retrieve curry so good that it should be consumed by the barrel full.
There has been much hype surrounding KFC’s new Cola BBQ Wicked Wings (mostly on KFC’s own Facebook page which I follow since I am of the sincere belief that simply seeing pictures of fatty food (and then consuming it) can make a hangover literally disappear).
It was due to this genius marketing technique (and a stream of constant ads on Spotify) that I found myself drawn to find out if they lived up to the hype.
I’m really sorry to say this but the word ‘sorry’ sucks. Is it just me or is it insanely over used? I know that I am constantly apologising for things completely out of my control – usually in the work place. I like to think that it makes me come off as a good person; helpful and polite. Whenever I do it though, I feel like a complete twat.
“My body is the only thing that I truly own…I will strive to make it perfect in every possible way” – that’s something that I jotted down in a note book; I think I was eighteen or nineteen at the time.
While I was lucky enough – and yes, luck did have a lot to do with it, to spend a number of my adolescent years relatively unaffected by body image issues, as I hit my late teens looks became the primary focus of my attention.
I don’t know what it is lately but I’ve been getting super nostalgic. All I listen to is throw back playlists; anything released in the last ten years makes me want to violently plug my ears and I am OBSESSED with the memories function on Facebook. What was that? Six years ago I rode my bike to the beach? Shit, past me was a far more glorious creature than I am now.
I would like to tell you that this is a happy story but it is not. At the beginning of this experience I was a happy go lucky young lady. Well a lot has happened since this morning and I write to you as a broken and fragile woman. This is not a tale of heroism; it is merely a tale of survival. There was no triumph over adversity in my adventures today however a simple and gracious, acceptance of my own mortality did occur.
This isn’t the first time that I’ve had to write a post like this. I hope and pray that it is the last but I’m not that naive.
I’m the one who’s always making a joke, always up for a bit of fun and general silliness but I can’t make jokes about this because it’s tearing my heart in two. Every ounce of my being aches as I write these words, as I think about the state of the world that we’re living in today.
Tomorrow I turn twenty six. Today I went to work wearing a purple tutu, unicorn jumper and a flower wreath in my hair. Instead of the customary birthday office cake (usually from Costco or made by a loving wife) I took honey crackles. Partially because I don’t have a Costco membership or a loving wife but also because I am a big ‘old, silly ‘old kid at heart.