The (almost) Relationship Ending Fart

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.
Never before have I released gas that would have caused an echo if we were in a canyon. The noise rung out for longer than it takes for most British royalty to be announced – in fact that fart itself probably deserved its own royal title – it certainly was impressive. Though I can’t say my boyfriend felt the same way and as soon as the last note rang out I could feel a change between us – and it wasn’t just that the temperature had risen thanks to an increase in warm gasses, no it was something more complex than that. At first I didn’t think too much on it – he was on his way out the door to work but as I went to kiss him and he pulled away exclaiming “god it even smells bad too” and promptly walked out the door, I started to think that something was truly wrong.
As I continued my morning, spending far more time thinking about the fart than I should have, I began to wonder, would this be the gas that broke the camel’s back? Had my flatulence caused an irreparable rift between us? Would he ever be able to hold me tight again without being worried that he would squeeze another one out, producing further discomfort for his airways? I almost certainly ruled out ever being proposed to at that point – what if when gently placing the ring on my finger he gently tugged on it by accident?
Sure it was his idea to have Indian food the night before – so he couldn’t really blame anyone but himself. Everyone knows that Vindaloo is the ultimate wind breaking dishing, he really should have had a bit more foresight when jumping on Menulog but I guess I couldn’t lay the blame on him entirely, I could have held it in for a few more moments, though the sheer relief of letting that beast rip certainly can’t be put into words – despite the stench it caused.

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He isn’t innocent either – I mean love is all shaved legs, tidy lady (and man) gardens and sweet smelling perfume when you’re first trying to impress each other but as soon as you shack up that seems to go out of the window. Never have I lived with a man who sheds so much body hair all over the house – I know the local plumber just as well as I do the guy at the bottle shop (which is pretty well, in case you needed clarification), my last live in boyfriend had less body hair than a baby dolphin and now I share a home with a yeti. He may be an adorable one, but he’s a messy yeti none the less.  Staring at clumps of man hair in the shower is gross. As is having to yell for him to bring you toilet paper because you’re stuck on the loo with none, as he neglected to replace the roll after his last visit – so maybe he deserved the fart. Yeah, unbeknownst to me at the time, it was a revenge fart – for all the times that he’s been an icky manly man. One time he even drooled on my pillow, so yeah, he deserved to suffer through that stench – and instead of being ashamed of my fart I decided to Google the world’s longest fart. I’ve got a bit of training to make it to the 2 minute, 42 second world record but luckily there are plenty of useful food options within a short stroll.

P.S somehow he still loves me…which I think says a lot about him, but I’ll leave it up to you to work out what that actually is.

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The More I Bleed The More I Learn – Part Two: The Hello Kitty Maternity Hospital

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.
For more info on why I write about the facts on Libra wrappers, check out part one here or read on below for part two….

FACT # 2: There is a Hello Kitty themed maternity hospital in Taiwan.

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So I assume that the clever people in the Libra marketing department make the conscious decision to include fun facts on the wrappers of their sanitary napkins as a casual distraction from the fact that not only are you suffering grave discomfort but you’re also surfing a tidal wave of emotions, inexplicably having thoughts of the devastating way that your year 6 crush was also the boy that spearheaded the campaign for you to be known all over the school yard by the descriptor rabbit teeth – that was a really tough time emotionally. “Why do you I keep playing the moment over again in my head”, you wonder, “where he said to my face that he’d ‘be surprised if anyone could kiss you without getting bitten by your massive chompers’ – he was actually really mean. But he was pretty hot for a 13 year old”. A sentence that is probably going to get me on a watch list somewhere.
Anyways, I rekon Libra put the “fun facts” in their wrappers to distract you from thought processes like that.

Like all people in modern day marketing, often they get it wrong – and this “fun fact” (okay so they don’t call them fun facts, they call them “odd spots” which is a cute little period pun (probably a phrase that should never be used)) is actually not really that fun when you actually start to think about it.
You see on the surface learning about the existence of a Hello Kitty themed maternity hospital in Taiwan seems fun. Quirky – how “Kawaii” (yes, I am aware that is a Japanese term and this is about a hospital in Taiwan, themed around a Japanese cat, I think I am being culturally appropriate enough but if not, deal with it), but dig a little deeper, think a little harder when the hormones are hitting hard and it won’t be long before you’re having an existential crisis as you process this information. Think about it babe, you’re living in a world where women choose to give birth in a hospital where a giant statue of Hello Kitty dressed in a doctors uniform greets them as the first stages of labour kick in – but luckily miss Hello Kitty (is that her name?) is there to (in the words of the hospital) “ease the stress of childbirth”.

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Image of what looks like a birthing suite designed for a child (sorry not sorry) sourced here: https://goo.gl/images/xab2UF

Women enter a pink elevator filled with yet more Hello Kitty imagery and their new born babies are dressed in Hello Kitty themed rompers while being tended to by nurses dressed in pink uniforms with cat themed aprons. You get the picture. You don’t want to though because the more you picture this the more you begin to wonder if you still want to live in this world.

The hospital claims to be the only medical institution of its kind which has been authorised by the company to which I say “good” – though I would be interested to see the kind of people who would be attracted to a Hello Kitty themed cosmetic surgery hospital. I’ve heard of women getting work to look like Barbie…but this is something new.

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It’s not okay. Image via: https://goo.gl/images/NywIFO

When researching this I found the following extract from an article; “The director says he hopes the white, mouthless cat that is one of the world’s most recognisable characters will ease the pain and fear associated with childbirth and being admitted into hospital” which was basically too good not to share.
Personally I consider Ronald McDonald or perhaps Big Bird to be more recognisable – and I wouldn’t want either of them making an appearance if in a situation where I’ll likely shit myself.

Anyway, long story short, this is why seeing the aforementioned fact while at the most emotional part of my cycle made me doubt the world we live in – I just hope that I’m not alone on that…

 

Embarrassing tales of Christmas’ past.

 

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.

 

First of all, let’s go back to last Christmas, when you (okay, me) got drunk with some of your aunties. One of them revealed that she can read palms (knowledge passed on from generations before) so you were keen to know your future and held out your hand. After gazing at your palm for a moment she declared, in front of family that “you are a very sexual being” – a conversation best reserved for friends rather than family but one which you survived none the less.

 

Now let’s kick back to a couple of years ago, when you had an afternoon Christmas lunch with colleagues. What a grand old time it was. Drinks and merriment were shared. On the way to catch the bus home you bumped into some old mates (friends of friends to be precise) and they convinced you that tequila shots and a strip club at 6pm would be a great idea. By 8pm you had vomited out of a taxi window and declared, in front of your parents at their work Christmas party “I’m gonna use my University degree to become a stripper” – I am not proud of my actions.
I believe at some stage that night I vomited on a cat.

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Aged 21. Hungover.

 

 

As an incredibly self conscious teenager I believe there was a Christmas spend it a cousins backyard swimming pool in which I didn’t realise white bathing suits could lead to embarrassment. Lest we forget.

At some stage in my teenage years I had two UDLs while hiding in a bush at the Stirling Christmas pageant and genuinely believed I was drunk. That in itself is incredibly shameful.

Prior to that, aged 14 I chucked a tantrum because I received a t-shirt that I didn’t like. It was the 2000s so of course it had a sassy slogan on it. The t-shirt said “it’s all about me” and I sulked – not at all comprehending the irony of that situation.

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Aged 19. Beginning to lose self-awareness.

 

There are probably plenty more festive moments that would haunt me if they unexpectedly popped into my head, so I choose to block them out, thanks to selective memory and years of therapy. In order to keep up the tradition of making a dick of myself at Christmas time I intend to use the following joke on as many people as I can at this afternoons work Christmas party before they tell me that “perhaps you should come back when the office re-opens next year” – here goes (feel free to adopt it for your own use should you have the same end game):
What does your job have in common with Christmas?
I don’t know Alicia, what could that be?
You do all the hard work and the fat, rich man in a suit takes all the credit.

 

Thank you and good night x

Ten Thoughts I’ve Had While Moving House

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.
Moving sucks. It sucks the big one. I’ve only been in this place for three years but I managed to accumulate so much crap (okay a lot of it was left here by my ex – a.k.a he of poor taste and excessive amounts of novelty aprons) SO. MUCH. CRAP.
I would estimate that I’ve taken around 25 garbage bags worth of stuff (that is probably not actual crap) to the op shop and chucked around 10 bags straight into the bin. Aren’t humans terrible consumption machines?
Once again, I digress. So here are some of the things that have popped into my mind as I’ve trawled through it all…

  • I don’t have much stuff, I can totally fit my entire life into my Ford Fiesta.
  • Actually would two moving vans be excessive? Better make it three for good luck.
  • I’ll need to get rid of some clothes, this should only take an hour or so…*five hours later* “can someone please cut me out of my year 12 formal dress? It seems I gained some weight at some stage in the last seven years”
  • Ohh look it’s the diary I kept from the age of 14 to 16, this should be filled with all kinds of juicy memories…*three hours later* “Okay, I was either the most boring teenager in the world or incredibly paranoid that my parents would read this…I’m hoping it was the latter”
  • OMG I loved this top when I was twelve, I wonder if it still fits. Yep, fits. I sure was a chubby twelve year old. Tie dyed dolphin t-shirts are cool, don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.
  • Hmm does out of date medication still work? And is it okay if it has someone else name on it?
  • I wonder if old Kinder Surprise toys are worth anything?
  • PAUSE – sorry, I zoned out for a bit, I was watching the Spice Girls movie on VHS. I still have a video plays – how crazy is that?!
  • Who was Richard and why do I have a pair of ladies underwear with ‘his’(?) name on the tag?
  • Hmmm do you think people would pay actual money for an urn full of Grandma’s ashes? Also, why do I have an urn labelled ‘grandmas ashes’ – both my Grandma’s are alive…

 

Spotlight: Where Happiness Goes To Die

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 morning I awoke with only one simple goal – to purchase a pack of millinery brooch pins from Spotlight. A ten minute drive to industrial suburbia should do the trick and then I would be free to explore the surrounding stores within the 62,000 square meter compound of home making ‘bliss’. Right. I set out with all the determination of a true crafter (I woke up and watched outright abused my Netflix subscription for two hours in my pyjamas on the couch). By eleven thirty I was on the road, passing by a number of precarious establishments claiming to be ‘motels’  but better known as the safe house of many an affair.

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The unassuming location of my near emotional and physical breakdown.

It wasn’t long before I was navigating my trusty (often breaks down with no rhyme, reason or explanation) Ford Fiesta into the car park of an establishment that is likely responsible for more marriage breakdowns than Ikea and reality TV combined; The Gepps Cross Home Maker Centre.
If aliens visited earth and landed here, without a doubt they would get right back in and go back where they came from. A monstrosity of concrete and Mecca of capitalism taken most advantage of in the form of twelve month lay-buys and interest free plans by residents of surrounding working class suburbs; visiting this place is a risky voyage for the most mentally of sound individuals – unfortunately it attracts those who are not.
I undertook the voyage alone, not sure enough in the strength of my long term relationship to take that level of risk. I could have taken a friend however I value my friendships far too much to gamble what we’ve built on such a volatile yet petty expedition.

I entered Spotlight with all the trepidation that such an undertaking deserved. I was keen to get in and get out quickly so that I could soon reward myself with an overpriced warm drink in a nearby cafe. My goal was to engage as few people in conversation as possible – I would have no such luck. I made my way to the area that I expected to find the pins and in the process achieved my entire required daily step count, yet what I was looking for was not to be found.
Next step: engage a staff member – a task that turned out to be far more difficult than finding a genuine connection on Tinder. A few more laps of the store layout, a conversation with two staff members who looked at me as if I had three heads (to their credit I’d forgone makeup application for the day) and finally I found reached my goal, however satisfied isn’t a word I would use to describe myself. Looking at the selection of millinery brooches I was forlorn. Six for $3.50. In the past I’ve purchased 50 for around $10 in the same store however I wasn’t ready for my trip to be wasted. I grabbed two packs and headed for the checkout.

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Stealthy shot that I took of the line up. I hardcore resent the smiling woman.

 

This, dear friends, is the moment where I truly began to see my grip on reality fading away. Two very young and determined yet hopeless staff members had around thirty middle aged women, a few broken husbands and a handful of bratty children lined up and expecting to be served. A saner person would have dropped their potential purchase there and then and headed to the nearest fast food restaurant to eat their sorrows into oblivion however by this point I was determined – I had my overpriced pins  and I was going to buy them – even if it killed me.
By the fifteenth minute waiting I started looking at the woman in front of me, wondering, if I got the rest of the ever expanding line to team up with me, could we take her down and survive off eating her body until we were rescued?
The situation began to get dire when a woman marched through the line to get the drinks fridge near the front – she swiftly took water back to her shopping buddy who was clearly becoming dehydrated – in the mid-winter chill.
Never before have had I experienced a group of people share such a strong, negative emotion as they did when a woman marched through the shop door and immediately approach the front of the line exclaiming “I’ve just got a quick question!”  – she was swiftly shut down and sent to the back of the line, where she is probably still waiting, five hours later.
I was almost at the front of the line and I heard a woman paying $950 for the collection of curtain rods and throw cushions in her trolley. I couldn’t relate – I use milk crates for all manner of furniture in my home.

Finally I was served, paying resentfully for my overpriced pins, attempting to feign a mixed look of sympathy and disappointment towards the assistant as I left.
I took a deep breath of what felt like my first taste of fresh air (which is reality was steeped in outer city fumes) as I walked out into the overcast day and appreciated my life in a way that I never had before. Whence previously I had looked forward to an afternoon alone strolling the 62,000 meters looking at Italian designed, Chinese made furniture that I could never justify buying, I was now just searching for the quickest escape.

As I got into my car and drove off, I experienced a feeling of freedom the likes of which I had never felt before. While my feeling was temporarily dulled by a red light causing me to stop and reflect on the hour that had felt like eternity, I had a new appreciation for online shopping and drive thru fast food.

Now as I sit here, now full of food that I took myself out to eat, to console my broken soul I Google “millinery brooch pins” and look what I find. Fuck bricks and mortar stores, it’s eBay for me here on out.

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Free postage as well. *Sigh*

This is How You Adult (Apparently)

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.
As I sit here writing this, I’m wearing my unicorn pyjama pants (which I also wore to the supermarket yesterday…) and keeping warm with my purple hippo heat bag. Am I doing this adult thing right? Because when I was 16 (that’s TEN years ago) this isn’t how I imagined it.

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Oh yeah, mermaid leggings too.

I had this idea in my mind of what I would be like as an ‘adult’ and, though I’m not sure why, this certainly wasn’t it. I pictured power suits, late nights at the office and a house full of furniture from Freedom (because it was pretty, heaps pretty). I don’t know where my idea of adulthood came from but I remember thinking, aged 18, that I only had a few good years to keep wearing my classic Converse Chuck Taylors before it became silly – real adults wear real adult shoes. Seriously WHO RAISED ME?
Flash forward eight years and I’m dating a man (yes, MAN) who is thirty years old and those are basically the only shoes he owns, like twenty eight pairs of them or something. For some reason I pictured a corporate high flyer with who woke up early to go to the gym and enjoyed visiting farmers markets on Sundays – just for kicks.
Now somebody please slap past me because I’m pretty sure she had absolutely no idea who she actually was – the things that she enjoyed or wanted from life. I don’t like waking up early and while farmers markets are alright, I’d rather my food be prepared by someone else before it hits the table (I’m also fairly partial to the kind of specials that fast food outlets spin from time to time, yes I’m looking at you Maccas and your magnificent 24 nuggets for $9.95 deal) so why in hell would I want to date someone who was into those things? Sure, his bod would probably be a little more in check than my fellas (gosh, sorry babe) but the fact of the matter is that he’d probably be a self absorbed asshole and we’d have nothing in common. Plus, I could never date anyone more in shape than myself, I’ve got enough insecurities without having my physical superior lying next to me in bed every night.

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If I dated a health nut, all this beauty would be off the table. Like in the bin. How sad.

Thing is, not much has turned out the exact way I imagined it ten or so years ago and for that, I am so bloody thankful. I can’t imagine being stuck in a high flying corporate job where I go through as many pairs of stockings as there are jerks on Tinder (lots) or have to put my fakey professional attitude on all day long. I’m lucky to have a job where I get to have a nice fancy big computer screen that brings out envy in all the other staff, where I get to be myself for the most part and in some ways express myself creatively.
I am an adult, a ‘real adult’. Most of the time I pay my bills and I’ve even got a couple of ‘signature’ dishes up my sleeve (because Mexican food is easy to make and Banoffee pie seems fancy but really is truly simple). I’ve gotten pretty good at looking after my mental health, I can force myself to exercise and I eat spinach without it having to be hidden in my food.
I might not own a ‘power suit’ and while I do have some rather nice office wear, I’m most comfortable in a scuffed up pair of boots, the ones that are held together with a bit of tape. I’m happy. Way happier than I would be if I lived up to what I had thought I was ‘supposed to be’ all those years back. I’m glad I didn’t waste long trying to be someone who would have never made me happy – and the time that I did spend doing that was an interesting learning experience to say the least (if not some good comedy fodder…)
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve just started learning to hula hoop and I’m getting rather good so I’ll be practicing that until I fall asleep.

I Come From a Proud Family of Liars

If there has been one constant in my life, it would be the lies that I have been fed – regularly and casually by members of my family. Usually they were innocent enough and mostly just off handed jokes that I was gullible enough to fall for. I genuinely believed for a long time that my grandma was a witch. Not JUST because my Mum (her daughter in law) would call her ‘that witch of a woman’ (kidding, they have a great relationship, though there was that one time that my Mum, in her early 20s called the incredibly proper, lovely woman who was to be her mother in law ‘fuckle features’ to her face – but that’s a story for another time). No, I genuinely believed that my grandmother was a witch because there was this HILARIOUS in joke in my family about it. I have literally no idea where it came from because that woman is as God loving as they bloody well come however for some insane reason apparently she was a witch, complete with her very own broom featuring handle bars and a bike seat. I shit you not. So there I was, all of eight years old, waiting to be handed a wand and taught the ways of people and I’m sure you can imagine how bloody disappointed I was, age eleven when I never did receive my letter from Hogwarts. Damn.

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This is me with my witch of a grandma (looks pretty innocent, doesn’t she?) at a dress up party.

I literally had no hope though – turns out liars have been in my family for generations. My great grandparents fudged the date on their marriage certificate. When cleaning out the house after my great grandfather had passed away, my Mum and my aunties found the marriage certificate in question, complete with poorly applied whiteout placed strategically over the date, altering the date of their marriage by two months.  How they thought that they could get away with it is beyond me. I get it, it was a different time, photoshop wasn’t a thing, but shit, Nanna Jarrett must have really been on another planet to think she could sneak that one on by. Even if she had been able to do a half decent job using the stationary her plan would have been thwarted by anyone with a half decent grasp of MATHS and MONTHS. My grandpa was born suspiciously soon after the hastily organised wedding date – that’s all I’m saying team.

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My mum and her sisters, all born into a web of lies.

The lies carried on though, I recall finding a ultrasound picture at my aunties when I was nine. “OH MY GOD YOU’RE HAVING A BABY” I shrieked. “No” she calmly replied, “The cat’s pregnant” which was a weird coincidence because a couple months later my auntie was married and not long after I had a new cousin. Furthermore, the cat suspiciously never had any kittens. EVER.

I’m no innocent bystander here though; I was a mean, mean terrible sister. I lied to my brother heaps. The most memorable, I will never live down. The tale goes as such; I was six years old, nagging my Mum to take my brother and I to the local kindy fete. Nagging, nagging and nagging some more. I do not blame my Mother for what happened next, she was not an irresponsible parent, I was just a really shit child. She snapped and without thinking said; “why don’t you just walk then?”
So off I went, to scrounge up some change (approximately $5) and find my four year old brother so that I didn’t have to walk alone. This was before my brother became a bad ass rule breaker (that didn’t happen until he was at least seven) so I needed to tell a half truth (LIE) to get him to come along. I knew that mum didn’t actually want us to walk. I was smart enough to understand sarcasm, but I still wanted to go, so I just told my darling innocent baby (like actually he was pretty much still a baby) brother that Mum had said it was okay.
Flash forward 45 minutes, Mum notices we’re missing, Dad finds us about 2kms away wandering down Greenhill Road and Mum learned that sarcasm isn’t an ideal parenting technique. I never actually revealed (until now) that I purposely lied to make this happen – so I guess my whole life has been a lie?

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Look how cute we were (okay, the story in question happened a few years later than this photo)

I’ll leave you with this though and that is, sometimes lies are important – or half truths at least. I wish my mum hadn’t told me the truth of how she found out she was pregnant with me, how, after a booze filled weekend in Melbourne she returned to Adelaide and thought “hmmm maybe I am up the duff”, did the test and a few months later – hello, Alicia’s here! It’s all good, I mean she was married, to my Dad (though if she wasn’t that would have been fine – no judgement, obviously) however what I wish she had lied about (a little) was the vomiting in gutters level drinking that she achieved just prior to finding out that she was with child. I mean sure, I’m proud of her, she’s the lady that truly taught me how to party but it’s just that, every time something weird happens in my life, every time my brain is a little bit erratic and I feel unnecessarily violent I wonder if I can blame it on my Mum. Rather than just accepting my own personal failures like a normal person. So Mum, while I love you insane amounts, I wish that one time you had lied because now there is always going to be a little bit of me that feels like I genuinely can blame you for my failings.

 

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Here’s a photo of my mum before I came into her life and made her cool. She is on the right at the front (the only lady in the picture…) and behind her…MY DAD!

 

That One Time I Got Lash Extensions…

I should probably start this by explaining that I am certainly not the most sophisticated of women; I buy my make-up from the supermarket and I wouldn’t even think twice about eating an entire Dominos Deep Crust all to myself. However, when I was offered the chance to try an eye enhancing treatment thanks to the excellent folk at Essential Beauty, I was intrigued.

Furthermore, when I found out that it would mean I could get flawless eyes without having to wear (and therefore remove) any eye make-up for at least two weeks, well that’s when this lazy girl was sold!

To read the rest of the article, head on over to Adelady.

Confessions of a No Lights No Lycra Addict

Those who know me may have heard me raving about one of my favourite past times – No Lights No Lycra (NLNL) because it is SO FREAKIN FUN. Head to the link for the full story but in short, basically you go into a room, the lights get switched off and you dance your ass off to excellent tunes for an hour – without the fear of anyone seeing your potentially heinous dance moves. I love it. I head along whenever I get the chance, to the Adelaide one in Stepney and shake what my mumma gave me. It’s a chance, for most, to switch off mentally however I have found that with the tunes pumping and my feet moving, some odd things pass through my mind – so I thought I would share them with you…(and hey, maybe you might want to come along some time?)

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  • Oh Wow, it’s so dark…OHMIGAWD WHOSE HAND IS THAT ON MY NECK? Oh wait, it’s mine…
  • Argh how great is this song, hey if Missy Elliot can learn all the words to a Missy Elliot song then I should be able to as well. I’d be a sick rapper…
  • Not enough people pull out the ‘shopping trolley’ move in the club. I must incorporate it next time I hit the d-floor
  • Oh wow, I’m stuffed…how has it only been four songs….
  • SHIT YEAH THIS SONG TOTALLY SPEAKS TO MY SOUL, I AM TOTALLY ADDICTED TO BASS

 

  • Note to self, I must download ALL Taylor Swift songs when I get home, especially the earlier stuff
  • There really isn’t enough Prodigy on the work playlist, I think I’ll add ‘Smack My Bitch Up’ when I’m in the office next
  • Shit I am good at this, I wonder if ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ is still a thing…actually I may as well go straight to the top, hopefully Britney is still taking applications for dancers for her Vegas show, I’m a shoe in
  • Oh shit, note to self, don’t pull that move again, Alicia you need your ankles functioning for the purpose of WALKING
  • Oh what is this song, I must ask the girl who programmed the list, I really want to add it to the playlist for my fantasy wedding reception (actual legit thing)
  • Holy shit, I like most music but for some reason Dubstep really makes me want to destroy every electrical appliance I own – even the ones I really like…
  • Gee George Michael really was so sassy in his prime – and I honestly think that the use of tambourine in Faith is pure musical genius
  • Oh wow, this song is great, I haven’t heard THIS club track since 2003 when I thought Celicas were the coolest cars in the world because the cute boy down the street drove one…he turned out to be a bit of a knob. No surprises there.
  • WHAT?! Last song already…okay I better enjoy this…
  • Just sayin, how bloody awesome is my damned fine, strong, beautiful, powerful and capable body that allows me to dance like crazy for an hour? AND how awesome are the bits that jiggle when I shake ma thang? They the best.
  • OHMIGAWD IT IS SO BRIGHT…BRIGHT LIGHT BRIGHT LIGHT.

 

12 HOURS LATER:

Does anyone know a good physio? It hurts when I try to human.

48 HOURS LATER

Eugh can’t it be Monday already? I wanna dance again!!!!

 

The excitement of an alone stroll…

Today I went for a walk, look at me go! Unfortunately, being a public holiday, the rest of Adelaide seemed to have the same idea. The thing is, when you get a whole heap of people in the same place, suddenly some people just seem…worse than others. Rather than enjoy the scenery, I kept myself distracted by noticing the flaws in those around me and I choose to share them now with you, in this blog post – enjoy xx

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At least the scenery was worth it.

Car Park Wankers

Without being reminded by my fellow walkers, I already find it weird that I am DRIVING MY CAR to go somewhere to WALK. Growing up in the beautiful surrounds of the Adelaide Hills, you just go for a walk where you live however since moving to suburbia, I’ve had to get comfortable with the concept of driving to nature – rather than just stepping out of the front door and into it.
On top of this, on a day like this, the park was absolutely full to the brim with a number of cars (predominantly ‘tough’ 4WDs) parked in non-designated parking areas – ALL OVER THE NATURE. The cars were parked on the nature that their inhabitants were there to enjoy. I just don’t get it. For the record, I parked further away and…here’s an abstract concept…walked to the walk.

Croc Sock Dag

Someone is very embarrassed to be related to this human. Not only was he wearing crocs, he was wearing them with socks on a hike up a rocky hill. Go home.

Headphone Farter

She may not have been able to hear it but surely she could feel it? Sure she was blasting T-Swiz pretty loudly through her noise cancelling headphones but that is no excuse for farting loudly whilst walking past another group of walkers. None at all.

Ipad Dad

Taking photos with an Ipad is bad at the best of times however when its half way through a three hour hike you really have to question everything you ever thought you knew. Furthermore, if the photographer in question is dressed head to toe in bike riding Lycra with not a single road nor road bike in sight, perhaps it is in fact time to give up on this world.

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I shouldn’t judge though – I was snapchatting shitty pictures of koalas…

Glasses Buddy

This lady was wearing the same sunglasses as me so walked out of her way, just to tell me. It wasn’t a huge shock as I could in fact easily see that we were wearing the same glasses myself. Wearing the same glasses is not reason enough to become friends and someone should explain that to this woman. After pointing out out common eye wear to me, she then tried to continue the conversation – lady I just wanna enjoy nature on my own – enough!

Couples Therapy

Next up I was stuck behind Michelle and Lucas; Lucas barely ever empties the dishwasher and having to constantly ask Lucas to do so distresses Michelle as she is very conscious of not nagging him. My life is enriched with this knowledge.

Selfie Stick Owner

They are big, they are awkward and they are pointy and you look like an idiot.

Star Wars Spoiler

I’m torn, I can’t decide if this is adorable or super shitty. Whilst catching my breath in the car park before heading back to my car I could over hear a woman reading out the Wikipedia plot overview of Star Wars to her incredibly eager child. Now I haven’t seen Star Wars however I am incredibly familiar with the Wikipedia plot overview – because I’ve read it just to keep up with pop culture and to make sure I’m down with the youth. So anyways, my gripe? While it was kinda cute how much the kid was loving it and how adorable the entertainment method was I was concerned for THE PEOPLE – the woman’s voice was kinda loud and what if the other people didn’t want to know any Star Wars spoiler alerts? WHAT IF?

10/10 Douche Bros

For a solid three minutes, the absolute worst of my life, I was stuck within hearing distance of two ‘roided up twats who felt the need to rate every single woman that they spotted on a scale out of ten, pulling apart every aspect of their physical appearance in a terribly degrading way that only a truly insecure person could. They were terrible people and I hope that their dicks shrivel up and their hair falls out. For the record, I’m a seven with a great butt who could ‘lose a bit off the thighs and should check out fake tanning ’ while they were far too muscular for my liking with faces that only a paper bag could improve and personalities that could never be saved.

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This is what a ‘7’ looks like – taken WITHOUT a selfie stick.

Runners

Up the hill, down the hill, super fast on the flats and constantly making us non-runners feel inadequate. Runners are not your friends, they are super human beasts put on this earth to keep the rest of us in our place – and they deserve every shin splint that comes their way.

 

So if you ever decide to go on a walk and spot me out and about, perhaps have a nice trait that I can write about next time I do this?