What I Learnt Camping.

- The Alpha male of the group is the man who controls the tongs... Even if it isn't his BBQ.

- Beer. Meat. Petrol. You need nothing else.

- An outback Jack will let his 15 year old daughter smoke... In front of her kids.

- You need an IQ over 60 to be able to tie shoelaces... Hence we invented thongs.

- 'Foreplay' in country Victoria consists of a prod and a 'You awake Mum?"

- People from Dargo listen to both kinds of music - country and western.

- A beer is superior to a woman because you can enjoy a beer all month long and it'll silently wait for you in the car when you get out to take a leak.

- EVERYTHING can be fixed by having 3 blokes stare at it for 20 minutes, closely followed by duct tape.

Fuck This Shit.

Global warming they said...

Planet's getting warmer they said...

Blah!! Why am I dressed like a fucking mushroom then? It's only March.

I earned this bikini body. Can we at least wait until I have my winter fat before I have to cover the damn thing up?

So cold right now, could open doors with my bare breasts if I wanted to.

Are You My Soulmate?

So I'm running for the train at Melbourne Central down those God damn stairs because the stupid thing is fucking early and I am carrying a fair bit of stuff.

Anyway, this absolutely unbelievably gorgeous brunette is running behind me and steps on my shoe.

Now, I mean gorgeous. As in if Jessica Biel bred with Natalie Portman type gorgeous. She was wearing All Stars and a boys jumper and had a delightful black bow headband on.

Anyway, she stepped on my shoe, causing me to trip and drop my bag, holding my arm out to stop myself from falling.

She helps me up whilst screeching "Fucking cunts Metro, my God are you ok you gorgeous thing? I am so sorry! Fuck these fuckers where's my bar blade when I need it!"

...

-cough-

Oh my God she's a hospo with a potty mouth and a taste for Hugo Boss.

Attractive qualities aside of course, (I'm no 10/10) either I have a twin my parents never told me about or I just met my soulmate...

Bit Harsh.

This is going to sound mean... But if people use the phrase : "You can't trust a skinny cook."

Can I say : "I can't trust a fat PT?"

Ladies, Who Needs A Gym?

Pretty sure I owe my Vs to PMS.

Cramps be shredding yo.

Oh Man I Laughed.

Clubber's life for a sober person. Giggling your motherfucking ass off at everyone around you.

Rich Bitch.

Only my mother would send me a text saying "Bought myself some bling bling."

Closely followed by a picture of a Tiffany bangle and diamond ring.

Someone needs to inform this woman of the definition of 'bling'.

Fuck I want to be rich too.

Bedroom Time.

So I bought myself a new bedroom suite and doona set etc.

See down -> pretty funky ay?

I love it. Except for the fact that stripes may not have been the greatest choice when your boyfriend has mild OCD...

Gonna be a looong winter.

You Know What I Fucking Hate? : Part 3.

Introducing: The "Oh Did I Wake You?" Guy.

This morning I got woken up by a phone call from Dad.

"Hey gurt, oh sorry were you asleep?"

"No Dad, at 6:06am on my day off I like to knit sweaters and practise the trombone. What do you want?"

"Oh don't worry, not important, go back to sleep." -hangs up-

...

I am aware that small time zone differences might not have crossed his mind but I still have a few problems with this.

1. Who makes phone calls before 8am? (his time) If I haven't had a coffee, I am like a vegetarian zombie. Purely vegetarian because they've been up for three days and are too fatigued to bother trying to chase after brains and feel like tofu will suffice. You know you're tired when fermented bean curd will suffice.

2. Was there another option OTHER than going back to sleep? Well I assure you I had no idea, thank God that Captain Obvious will always be around to save the day.

3. If you've woken me, at a time that is probably pointless for me trying to drift back off to my beautiful dream of marrying Jake Gyllanhaal overlooking a Colombian sunset wearing Bettina Liano, at least tell me what you were ringing for. It had better have been important because as far as I know there is only one situation I haven't been upset about being woken up for which was when my neighbours were having exceptionally loud and by the sounds of the moans, amazing sex, so much so I felt like I needed to light up a cigarette succeeding her third orgasm.

I could not be more annoyed if I lived in a top floor apartment and the floor below me decided they need a skylight.

I Might Be Racist...

So, I get on the train to work and it's full already. This rarely happens because I live a decent way out of the city.

I'm thinking "fuck, I have to stand the entire trip".

I move up and down carriages, nope, nothing.

So I start looking for the best location to stand when I notice four Asian girls in a 4-seater.

Now there are two kinds of racist people in my eyes: people who know  they're racist... And then the people who have no idea.

You know the ones that say things like : "I'm not racist, but..."

This is one of those moments for me because I parked myself next to these girls with the slightest whisper of hope that maaaybe they're getting off at Box Hill (formally known as Bok Choy Hill, my old hood).

I'm still not 100% sure if it was racism or simply careful conjecture...

But fuck me it worked.

Helloooo window seat!

Bahahaha!!!!

Giggled my ass off.

R.I.P.

R.I.P. My Dear Blundstones.

You have served me well these last 7 years, I am very sorry I put my foot entirely through your toe this morning.

I feel like my heart has turned to leather and become unstitched too.

I don't know who to curse for this tragedy. I have not been so distraught and confused since I discovered they put Braille on drive through bank machines in America. Why?! What blind person is driving?!!!

We have taken good care of each other, I will never be able to replace you (sentimentally and financially).

I hope you enjoy a long and prosperous afterlife at Vermont South tip.

Goodbye xx

Hospitality's Best Compliment

Sometimes I wonder why the hell do I have a longer work day than the sun?

I was whinging about this to the boyfriend this morning, complaining that I start work before the sun comes up and will still be here long after it's having knock off drinks.

He replied with : "Aww I can try brighten your day?"

To which I said: "You are better than any cloudless day... Even the one's that fall on my RDO."

Ahh RDO. The three sweetest letters in the English language.

But seriously, I don't think a hospo could give a bigger compliment.

Fuck I'm cute when I'm fatigued.

Idiots And Lincoln

I constantly read Facebook statuses saying things like: "Omg can't sleep brain please turn off already!!"

Except it's usually 'oh em gee' and 'turn of' but I'll look past that.

The thing is, these statuses come from people who until they informed me via this status, had led me to believe they didn't actually have functioning cerebrals.

So maybe, just maybe (And I'm just throwing ideas around here like a whore on brand new Egyptian cotton sheets) it's not that your brain can't turn off, but perhaps it simply decided to turn on ... At an inconvenient moment.

Maybe you could try to 'turn it on' at a more appropriate time? (Complete with full-bodied enthusiasm of sexy pole dances and any amount of icecream to the body because let's face it, you need a decent wedge of help.)

An appropriate time like... Using the self service machine at Coles. Or touching off your Myki during peak hour. Or even the good ol' simple Hook Turn that separates the Einsteins from the 'Tards in Melbourne's CBD every day between 7 - 9 and 4 - 6.

But if it so happens that your brain never gets the chance to experience exhaustion after a long 17hr day at being useful, maybe try and put your time to better use.

Abraham Lincoln, Bill Clinton and Vincent Van Gogh - all insomniacs.

Just sayin'...

SkinnyGirlProblems

I get a little angry when I check in at airports.

Mainly because I always get stuck behind 'the fat guy'. Which wouldn't really bother me except for the slight unfairness of the traumatic, 'bank-breaking' (gold star for phrase manipulation) ordeal I have to endure whenever I go over my 30kg baggage allowance.

Now, I won't delve into my weight, but on an average week, I don't push over 50.

Why then, does the 160+ should-be Biggest Loser contestant in front of me whose left ass cheek alone would probably tip my entirety off a seesaw, get the same baggage allowance as me?

I usually have to tackle my aggressive tendencies at the prospect of paying extra for the 400 pairs of knock off Levi's I bought by getting heinously drunk and forming a one man conga line down the Business Class aisle.

And that's not fun for anybody.

Next time I'm just cutting out the middle man and strapping everything to my body.

"What's that Mr Security? Yeah I like to wear 7 pairs of jeans simultaneously. Problem dipstick?"

There should just be an averaged weight people are allowed to have. Like... 120kg. So if you weight 110, you get 10kg of free luggage. See my point?

That's a hell out a lot of Brazilian boots for me.

It'd also give a fuckload of motivation for people to lose weight before a holiday - The Qantas Weightloss Program For The Fat And The Poor.

But nooooo.

Gah. Choking on my own rage here.

Me Growned Up

So I bought myself a new bedroom suite yesterday.

Nice. Simple. Cheap.

New doona and cover etc. My room is going to look lovely and grown up.

Except, not going to lie, I've been on eBay for close to an hour now looking to destroy the newly acquired aesthetics with what I see to be a 'must have' for all adult bedrooms.

One of those car carpet cities.

Chyeah ;)

Gold.

Easter.

I love Easter.

I sit on the couch for 4 days eating chocolate...

And I watch the road toll.

I barrack for Victoria.

We're not as big as NSW but we're mental!

Condoms And Fallout 3.

It's before work and I'm rushing through the pharmacy for some ibprofen for the boss.

Because you know... I'm chef/receptionist/personal assistant/laundry do-er/therapist.

Anyway. There was a young boy in there, maybe 8 or 9 who was standing next to his Dad asking about condoms.

Pause for hilarity, I have not seen a man this confused about how to answer a question since I asked my year 12 English teacher if there was another word for 'synonym'. Or maybe at least not since my little cousin couldn't explain to my uncle why he still ate the icecream he dropped into the potentially poo-ridden tan bark some years back.

He did however, give a pretty amazing response to : "Dad, what are they for?"

-clears throat-

"Well... Son, girls have cooties yes? And um... Boys have boy germs. When you get older, you stop being scared of cooties. But it's like when we play Fallout 3... After a while you might not be scared of your enemies anymore and you can get closer to them, but you're darn sure you're still going to wear the T-51b Power Armor and helmet."

Condoms: protecting us from super mutants like a boss.

Ps. 20 minutes later. Still laughing.

Write A Book.

People are always telling me I should write a book. I probably should take it as a compliment that there are some who can see past my excessive drop of the C-bomb and endless supply of sex related stories and appreciate my ability to string two words together with some form of grammatical intelligence, but I don't.

Because more often than not, the babbling drones who tell me to write a book are the ones who still can't differentiate between bought and brought and construct their sentence like a 4 year old.

"Yous should write a book."

-sigh-

Writing a book wouldn't be my thing. It's hard work, clearly much more difficult than people think. It's like being a chef, it's the greatest job in the world, if it wasn't hard, everybody would do it. That and nobody wants to hear anything a 22 year old outspoken Liberal supporter with tasteful topical attraction to sex, tradies and anger management issues, has to say.

But what gets to me is when people say things like:

"I could write a book. Can't be that hard. I have a great idea for your book."

No, no you don't. You shift soil for a living. Stop it.

Is It Just Me?

If I purchase a pair of jeans or a coat or whatever overly priced piece of stitched cotton polyester I absolutely HAD to have (do not underestimate how much a girl will spend on a pair of denim shorts that don't make her look fat), and the label on the back says "Do not machine wash or tumble dry."

Guaranteed. It will never get washed.

B... E... No no. COFFEE. COFF-EEEE

Due to the 'hot box' like state of my house, I passed out on Heineken on my dining room floor last night.

The combination of cool linoleum, beer and a fan made it seem like a good idea at the time.

I have however, royally fucked my back today.

So if anybody is heading from the city back out east at 10pm tonight, I'd adore a lift.

I will pay you in beer and adoration.

Bleeding ears.

Nothing pains my ears more than the phrase: "Want some fak?"

...

You know what? No. No I do not.

Here, allow me to aggressively hurl this dictionary at your face so that you may escort it back to the treehouse.

I mean please, you wouldn't even know what to do with it.

Alone Time.

I am quite a chatty person. I say chatty, what I mean is more of a downward spiralling helicopter of word vomit ready to plummit whatever topic I feel is of gargantuan importance, directly at your face. In fact, there are times when you'll find it very challenging to actually locate the mute button on my babbling.

Aside from maybe utilising a balled up sock, a Gobstopper or an intense Hawthorn game, I'm quite literally (in the words of David Spade) "the thing that wouldn't shut up".

My boss even went as far once to lower his 6"7' lump of a body to his knees and 'pray' to the skylight "Oh to be Helen Keller!" after asking (purely out of politeness) about my weekend.

But I'm ok with that.

Because I know at least I'll never be taken hostage. Osama would put up with me for 92 seconds before either letting me go or shooting me.

But also because for every moment I'm on one of my golden rolls, I have times when I don't want to talk.

Like for example, before my morning coffee.

A Nazi after a bad haircut and a pebble in his boot on a march in the snow, is in a better mood than me before coffee.

But I've started buying my coffee from a place in the city that I've attached my adoration to. A place that is a good 33 minute train ride from my stop (not that I've timed it or anything when there's a farting man to my left and a screaming baby to my right and ye old stress ball is securely forgotten on my bedside table...)

-cough-

And there's always some random dipshit that wants to be friendly and chat when I'm running on empty.

Now, right at that moment, I don't want to talk. If you're bored, go pat a dog. Yes. That one, the most likely rabies-infested, snarling, choker-chained hyena that's tied up outside BP. Trust me when I say you have less of a chance of being snapped at.

Here comes the cunty point of my story I promise.

I've started wearing earphones.

Nobody talks to you when you have earphones in and if they do, I can just blindly ignore them.

Thing is... I don't have an iPod. Or any music on my phone and my data usage reaches maximum capacity 6 days before the end of the cycle every, freaking, time.

I am simply rolling around Melbourne with earphones in listening to absolutely fuck all.

I think I might be a genius... An asshole no doubt... But quite possibly a genius...

It's Not Just Me.

Yep... Pretty Fucking Humiliated.

I've been through a bit of shit in my life. I mean, fuck, everybody has yeah? The kind of miserable days when you feel like you're walking ankle deep through shitty mud in socks with some 'imaginary friend' with a grey beard looking down on you from the clouds with an expression like those 4 year olds that do the moose ears with their hands going 'nieh ne ne nieh ne'.

You get the point. A really bad fucking day.

I mean I've stood tall for a lot of it, from having dickweed bosses throw limes at me from across the pass to copping the verbal abuse day in, day out, those days kind of suck monkey balls. I figure the chefs did it because they had tiny penises and needed a false ego in order to make up for it so that they wouldn't be found huddled over a bottle of José and a Gourmet Traveller by age 27 wondering what 'could have been'.

But I don't really cry much. At least I haven't for the last ten years. Sure I've had chefs break me, at one point I didn't ever want to step foot in a kitchen again. Thankfully I had the one good chef out of the bunch who pulled me out of the rubble, kicked an oven door in and yelled at me to pull my head in and go back to work.

So I did.

It takes a fair bit to break the tear sockets on me though. My mother tells me I have the interior of melted gold but the exterior of a stone lion. Although I am one of those people that once I start the sobs, you probably should grab a ShamWow and a cup of coffee, 'cos you're gonna be there a while.

The blessing of the kitchen is that I have two escapes. The coolroom, which is a small enclosed refrigerated area with a split design: 50% fridge, 50% individual or group therapy room. You cannot pay any psychiatrist any amount of moolah to get the same release as giving a box of lemons the old steel cap boot busting.

And the other is chopping onions. You can cry your little heart out while mandolining a shallot and nobody's the wiser. Until you cut yourself of course. The mandolin is a chef's best friend and worst enemy.

"Oooh look at the perfectly sliced zucchini sexily garnished with what was a moment ago, the top 7mm of my thumb. Cheers cunt."

But even though I've lost best mates to accidents, illnesses or just grown apart, I've still always thought crying wasn't the option. I really believed that crying in front of your head chef is probably the most defacing act in the world, ever. This morning I discovered how wrong I was.

This morning I said goodbye to my best friend who is going overseas. It started off with a goodbye hug in the car and a few dropping tears. Not sobbing, just a gentle stream, like what you get when you've had a couple of wines and decide to chuck on I Am Sam or The Lion King ("NOOOOO MUFASA NO!). But as I reached the train station to head off to work, it actually dawned on me that I will not see that happy sparkling smile for a very long time.

Safe to say I had a little bit of a breakdown. I didn't sob, I didn't make a noise, I just sat on one of those uncomfortable seats that have clearly been designed for a giraffe and let the salty drops of emotion pool into my lap. They just kept coming like a depressed Sylvia Plath version of a raging orgasm. One after the other of endless tears.

I was comforted however, by a young kid, maybe 17 or 18, who handed me a tissue and sat down next to me and essentially... Let me blast out the whole story.

What a fucking champion. I mean of course I don't think I've been this genuinely humiliated since Bobby Macfarlane kissed me in second grade in front of my teacher and parents, or maybe at Portsea when I got dumped by a mammoth wave resulting in the complete loss of bikini top much to the lifeguards delight...

But who does that? What sk8rboi kid (yes I'm using that spelling for it's comedic and visual effect) just sits down next to a random girl and says "Hey, let it all out, I've got pretty good ears."

So here's to that kid. Who gave me a tissue, a shoulder and nine minutes of his time until the next City Loop express whilst I blurted out how much I'm going to miss my best friend.

Thanks kid, as far as life is concerned, you're doing it right.

Making Pancakes.

I am ashamed to admit this...

But kitchens get hot. Chefs have a little trick to avoid the excessive accumulation of sweat in their crutch region. Essentially it involves no underwear and a fair chunk of talcum powder or corn starch. But as you can imagine, that doesn't STOP the sweat. It sort of just... Absorbs it, morphing it into a paste like consistancy.

Point being, it is so hot in this kitchen right now, I just opened up my service fridge door, put my hands subtly in my pockets and pulled the waist of my checks out. Just to get a breeze.

Hence the phrase: "making pancakes".

Can't Breathe.

The decision to wear a bra underneath a size 6 corset top in order to give off the illusion that I have boobs was undoubtedly, a bad one.

Looks like breathing is just a luxury I can't afford tonight.