Thursday, 30 May 2013

Apparently I'm Sexist.

I just got called sexist after saying that I don't think eyebrow rings look good on girls.



Ok firstly, I hardly see how that statement is demeaning to women. I mean fuck, I'm saying a piece of metal shoved through the skin above her eyeball isn't to my taste - I'm not judging her ability to iron her husbands 100% pure Egyptian cotton shirt whilst simultaneously cooking a roast now am I?

And secondly, I know I dress a bit tomboyish but rest assure, I AM A GIRL!!!

What am I sexist against my own sex?

Makes NO sense.

Public Transport At Its Finest.

I have discovered the four Metro Peak hours.

8:50am train : Plebs, Centrelink appointments and school kids who slept in, getting Mumsy to drop them at the station in their Range Rover that has never roved a range before in it's life. People who are 30% head, 10% brain and 60% giant Dr Dre headphone.

7:50am: The Suits.

6:50am: The "I must talk super loud on my hands free phone to invade everybody around me's personal hearing zone because I work far too hard to have the energy to lift my 140gram smartphone that probably isn't even out in Australia yet."

5:50am: Tradies.




-snaps back to reality-

Getting up early has it's benefits. So much fluro... So many work boots and 2 day shadows...


Wednesday, 29 May 2013

Don't Worry, Be Happy.

I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that happiness is just a scale balance between expectation and reality.

You know, like going to the fridge for a midnight snack, thinking: "Ooh what treat awaits me!!"

And finding a red onion and a jar of mustard.

Tuesday, 28 May 2013

Is It Just Me?

Or does anybody else get really self conscious when eating a banana in public?

I get really nervous when I start thinking about how long I'm taking with it too. I mean fuck, I want to eat the damn thing not turn it on.

Next minute I've pretty much given up on enjoying it and I'm shovelling it in so fast it's practically being enhaled.

I blame porn.

Sunday, 26 May 2013

On The Topic Of Leggings.

To be honest, I've never understood leggings.

I never got the mentality of "Fuck yeah, let's show off the graceful silhouette of my ass crack today. Don the wife beater and have my Muffin Top hump my Box Gap at the intersection of Slutty Bum Cheek and Showing Slight Bit Of Ankle Road."

But at some point in the last five years, a demon Carrie Bradshaw rose up from the abyss and made them a trend, so now they're fucking everywhere and I jumped on the bandwagon, like a pleb.

"Hmm, how can I be a diamond grade, egotistical, exercise nutcase and show off to the world the fact that: Yeah, I Squat. Oh I know! I'll walk around looking like someone has dipped my bottom half in black varnish, leaving nothing to the imagination so through the mundane duration of walking down the street, the public can bear witness to the most intimate details of special spots."

Fucking brilliant.

That and every now and again I have the thought of: "Fuck pants. Seriously. Pants are just shit." This is undoubtedly followed with a flamboyant Quicker Than ChipnDales maneuver of removing said pants, an art form I have perfected to a 1.7second average.

It's not that simple.

Going out to buy pair number 7,000 yesterday, I stumbled. I went to Jay Jays because they're $20 and machine washable. (Single handedly the most important feature a garment can have for me and quite frankly I just can't keep dishing out the dollars for Black Milks).

Yep, cool XS that's the smallest size, try them on...

I am aware that I'm skinny, but I'm not THAT skinny. I have shape and muscle and definitely am slightly bottom heavy, owing the calves to The Boss who is pushing 6'7" and designed my kitchen making it impossible for me to reach the back of my oven without standing on my toes.

They were too big. Not excruciatingly so, just enough so that I can pull them up nice and tight and as long as I don't walk, breathe or make any sudden movement whatsoever, I can avoid having my knees look like a Bulldog's face.

So now my day is accompanied by the constant fucking stress of having to hitch them up - legs now looking like the transformation from Homer Simpson to Grandpa (See scene of the marathon and dehydrated Homer).

My point being - why was there no smaller size? There were plenty of bigger sizes... Seeing an XXL pair of black patent 'leather' leggings just made me want to screech: "NO! DON'T ENCOURAGE THEM!!"

Camel toe due to an overweight girl in yoga pants is actually a fear of mine.

I like leggings, but I'm sorry, unless you're Miranda Kerr and your 6 foot 100, slender, stilts of perfection are lickable and delicious, instead of resembling a large bratwurst with a kink in the middle - wear an appropriate top.

For example, maybe a long jumper? Or a singlet that actually covers the less than aesthetically pleasing curves of your rectum.

When worn approriately, (and I really should capitalise, bolden and slant the word appropriately) boys apparently like the cruel intentions of the designers from the Autumn/Winter 09 Milan fashion shows. Best thing to happen since women took up pole dancing as exercise. But for me it's like corset tops. They will not suck everything in and whoever told you that is a dirty liar.

But back from my rant to my problem, it makes me wonder where are the skinny girls buying their leggings?

And does anybody know a way I can shrink these up? Without resorting to eating lots of cake and burning my yoga mat.


Friday, 24 May 2013


I go to buy cereal and they don't have the one I like... But there's one there that looks kind of similar for the same price but with "25% Extra".

Ooh this could be good!

Get home. Cereal box is 3mm too tall for the shelf.



Fuck this shit.

Sanitarium, go snort a pine cone.

Thursday, 23 May 2013


Whenever I see a random girl on the street conduct a really wide yawn - my first thought is unquestionably always:

"Ha... So that's what your porn face would be."


I'm not normal.

Tuesday, 21 May 2013

Happy Birthday Old Fart.

On average, my Dad has six birthdays a year.

At least, that's how many times I use the excuse: "Oh sorry I can't, it's my Dad's birthday."

This is very rarely questioned, however it is occasionally met with a: "So? Dads don't care..."

"Oh yeah but Mum would kill me."


Well today is his actual birthday and I'd like to give a shout out to him.

To the smartest, (smart ass) most terrible joke teller and top bloke I know, Happy Birthday Daddy.

Thanks for teaching me how to throw a ball like a boy, how to play 500, how to win every fight by 100m and for getting me out of so, SO many events. (Still owe you for the World's Longest Lunch clean down where I left the mountain-like stack of dishes to the three boys on work experience.)

But by my records, it's pretty much Happy 108th!!!

Looking good for an old fart.

Love you x


People don't understand our obsession with knives.

My knife kit receives more attention from me than any pet, house plant or lover on any given day.

It is also worth, on average, 3 times more than any car I will ever own.

So the boss walks in needing to open a bag of coffee beans:

"Hey Cheffo, can I borrow your knife for a sec?"

Then whilst slicing through the tip of the bag, he cuts himself.

"Ah fuck! That's fucking sharp!"


"Yes. Yes it is."

"Well I didn't expect it to be that sharp now did I? Fuck that hurts!"

Monday, 20 May 2013

Don't Make Me!!!

It's not going to work that I have a problem with.

It's getting out of bed.

I really need to find a career that accommodates for this... You know... That ISN'T a hooker.

Thursday, 16 May 2013

Stupid Girls.

Girlfriends of mine are always saying "Oh sometimes I just can't talk about my problems with my boyfriend. It's just not something that helps."

What the hell is wrong with these people?!

I tell my boyfriend EVERYTHING! Because at the end of the day, he's going to stand there and cuddle me, tell me I'm right, that I'm gorgeous, that I shouldn't feel bad and that everybody else is wrong.

If not because he loves me, then because he's in fear that I'll deny him sex.

Monday, 13 May 2013

The Awkward Moment...

How do you know you spend too much time at work?

When your Boss reminds you of your anniversary.


-clears throat-

Ma baaad.

Oh Come Onnn!

So, I've been doing a fair chunk of exercise and eating heaps lately in the lead up to going overseas.

Basically shaking my metabolism out of hibernation so that I can sit on a beach and eat cheap noodles and drink even cheaper beer and retain what I consider to be a half decent Box Gap.

It sounds shallow, but I just worked really hard for it and I'd like to maintain the inch of abyss that lives below my special spot.

Now, I don't really fuss over the Gap. It's not like I believe if it suddenly wasn't there that my boyfriend would abruptly ditch me for a Miranda Kerr cardboard cutout and my friends would be utterly repulsed to the point of having to keep a ten metre radius from me to avoid projectile discharge and convulsions.

No. That's just silly.

It's not the Box Gap that's going to stop me from being a 65 year old with 17 cats and old episodes of George and Mildred recorded to my (now horrifically retro and outdated) Blu-ray player.

It's a tiny detail yes, that seems to probe a girl's brain. The same as boys and their physiques. Little do the boys know, although I hope that it will be apparent soon, that girls don't really care about the details of the masculine amenities.

It kind of goes from skinny, lean, average muscle, strange out of proportion muscle (usually footy players and their bicep curl obsession), muscular, baben, bit fat, fat.

I read an amazing quote from a random girl's blog I stumbled over that said "Girl's don't obsess about bodies other than our own, we don't stand around in public bathrooms together discussing 'Oh yes the dimples surrounding his elbow when he straightens his arm make my mouth water. Let me sex him all up and down and around', when in reality we're probably just talking about how penises look icky."

Fucking lol.

To be honest my boy doesn't even notice when I put on a bit of weight. I do of course.

They say it takes two weeks of a body transformation stage for you to notice, four weeks for close friends to notice, and eight weeks for everyone else.

So basically, eat a Maxibon and your boy is still going to get hard for sexy time.

-clap clap clap-

But point is, all this exercise and eating right and crap has got me quite frustrated.

Because the first thing I notice is that my ass gets quite tight and firm (*quiet squealing yay*) ... And my bra gets way too big (*facepalm*).

It seems I have to pick between the two. For fuck's sake, it took puberty 22 years to come out of the closet - MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND!!!

So whilst it's not an impending enslavement radiating through my daily thought process (to be fair, my brain can function for a full 24hours without thinking more than "hmm am I a bit hungry?" and "geez that wax job is itchy, fuck I'd scratch that if I wasn't in public), it still ticks my annoyance box. Pun not intended.

It's still like choosing which child you like more...

Energizer Bunny.

Waitress: "You are by far the most energetic person I know. I really don't know how you do it."

Me: "Clearly you've never seen me on a hangover day. Seriously, sloths have memes about me."

Saturday, 11 May 2013

Get! OUT!

The new trialling waitress just turned my kitchen Azmac compilation off that my cousin made for me and replaced it with The Best Of 90s Blues.

I have officially cracked the shits.

I have a full restaurant and in a wave of rage, hailed the Boss and as an overly exaggerated gesture of annoyance, put my flexible spatula on the pass, threw a pizza tray with the accuracy of a well trained tray-spinning machine and demanded it resume the speakers.

Being able to hurl any object using any utensil to any target within 5m with 100% accuracy is a skill every kitchen worker prides him or herself on.

Because let's face it. 8pm on a busy night when every cunt wants their food in and out with the speed of a prepubescent boy's orgasm at the sight of his first naked chick, you really need these kinds of qualities.

When I'm busy, I'm not going to say "Please excuse me Mr Kitchen Hand as I have a rather stingingly hot tray grasped within my hand, would you be so kind as to clear the landing as I carefully place it in the sink?"

Fuck off.

I'm going to screech "Hot to the sink! Hot backs! Trays! TRAYS FUCKER MOVE!"

Before gracefully twirling the 11 inch piece of aluminised steel into the sink.

Watching a kitchen on a good night in full spring, is like a ballet... Or at least a really good amateur porno.

Honest to God it's a beautiful sight. The way chefs move and dance between each other. There is nothing more exciting than smashing a hard service with your best line cook beside you.

But anyway, back from my tangent - I cracked the shits.

Told the boss either Azmac goes back on the overhead, Newbie gets fired, or I quit.

Moral of the story. There are certain things you don't fuck with a chef about.

1. The location of their bin.
2. Their favourite utensil.
3. Their music.

Just remember. We are passive aggressive cunts with strong tendencies towards alcoholism and anger management with an array of hot, sharp and blunt objects at our conveniently placed disposal.

Don't, fuck with us.

Thursday, 9 May 2013

This Could Be The End.

There are always thousands of reasons as to why chefs quit. Some see it as a weakness but I just like to think of it as a change in desire. You do it because you love it. When you don't love it anymore, you don't do it. Simple.

But it can also be pressure. Allergy. Family. Age. Mental breakdown. Seachange.

Even the sudden inability to multitask.

A chef is not just a chef. A chef is a matrix of occupations. You must be able to watch over ten pans simmering away, to the confit trout in the oven, whilst simultaneously acting therapist to your sous chef who just caught his girlfriend cheating on him with the mailman who is also your second cousin and not to mention doing all this while pretending to be a plumber as you unclog the dishwasher with the aid of a flexible spatula and your soup ladle.

That aside. At 22 years old this could be the end for me.

We talk of fancy tools. But it's all talk. Sous vide machines, razor sharp knives, our wit, our comedic effect, our passion...

But really, we have two best friends.

The first being your Sous Chef.

Guarantee: stuck in the city, drunk at 3am with no cash and someone else's vomit on your singular shoe? I'm not calling my parents or my partner. I'm calling the guy who puts up with me day in and day out through every mood, who just like 8:15 on a Friday, is at the ready and prepared to pull me out of the shit.

And the other?

Well the other best friend is your back. You can't do what we do, without the back of a Roman warrior.

And the other day I truly fucked mine. I gave my boyfriend a slightly too enthusiastic hug and I heard it. The bit below my shoulder blade.

So I see the physio tomorrow and the specialist on Monday and I am really scared of what they'll say.

Medical experts have never understood what we do. I once got told to take four days off work when I had the sniffles. I only went to the GP in the first place to get the cool painkillers not the shit ones.

Hunnybunch, unless I'm bleeding out of my eyeballs or chundering into my Jerusalem Artichoke soup so that it is ACTUAL chunder and not just soup that looks like it...

I'm going to work.

So here it goes. I could be returning to work with a clean slate and a very expensive bill and even more expensive reference for 'The Best' deep muscle therapist in Melbourne, or you could see me sitting down on an ALDI stool at the register at age 34.

Wish me luck. I am not ready to give up yet.

Wednesday, 8 May 2013

True Story

This woman should get an award.

A crowded Virgin flight was cancelled after Virgin's 767s had been withdrawn from service. A single attendant was re-booking a long line of inconvenienced travellers. Suddenly an angry passenger pushed his way to the desk. He slapped his ticket down on the counter and said,
"I HAVE to be on this flight and it HAS to be FIRST CLASS".

The attendant replied, "I'm sorry, sir. I'll be happy to try to help you, but I've got to help these people first, and I'm sure we'll be able to work something out.."

The passenger was unimpressed. He asked loudly, so that the passengers behind him could hear,"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO I AM?"

Without hesitating, the attendant smiled and grabbed her public address microphone: "May I have your attention please, may I have your attention please," she began - her voice heard clearly throughout the terminal.

"We have a passenger here at Desk 14 WHO DOES NOT KNOW WHO HE IS. If anyone can help him find his identity, please come to Desk 14."

With the folks behind him in line laughing hysterically, the man glared at the Virgin attendant, gritted his teeth and said,"F... You!"

Without flinching, she smiled and said: (I love this bit)

"I'm sorry, Sir, but you'll have to get in line for that too."

Being A Chef...

The most confronting change I've noticed since moving from apprentice to sous to head chef, is that the percentage of my day spent holding a clipboard has significantly increased.

I manage to keep it around the 18% mark and I don't plan on having it grow from there. I like the down and dirty bits about the kitchen. The heat, the sweat, the pressure (won't lie, I could do without the smell...)

But the day I finish a dinner service with a clean jacket, I will hang it on the wall and walk out. Get an office job or ask "Would you like fries with that?" Hey, at least it'd be a pay rise.

But doing my nightly ordering just kills me. I'm tired. I'm sore. I don't want to crunch numbers and call suppliers. I want to go home, chuck on Breaking Bad and have a beer or seven.

Being a chef to me, pretty much means ordering shit I don't want, to make meals I won't eat, to satisfy cunts I don't like.

Tuesday, 7 May 2013

God I Love Her.

During one of the usual chin wags between me and the girl who works next door to me.

Me: "Gyyymmm? What is this gym thing you speak of?"

Her: "Oh you know, something that takes up an hour of your day at an inconvenient time, surrounded by egotistical guys, makes you lose the ability to walk, and makes your ass hurt... So it's kind of like gang bang anal."



Monday, 6 May 2013

Ashamed Of Myself.

Super glueing the sole back on my chef shoes.

Next to Black and Gold powdered mash potato - this is a new level of poor.

The Awkward Moment...

When you send a text to your boyfriend and accidently send it to his best mate...

Then having to furiously type out an explanation as fast as humanly possible. It's like texting on performance enhancing drugs.


Wednesday, 1 May 2013


Ok so, I'm in heels and a dress. And fucking stockings.

Haven't worn heels since Melbourne Cup and all I can say is thank God I still remember how. There will be no walking like drunk Elvis for me today. All that training down the hallway when I was fifteen has clearly paid off.

I also managed to convince the boss to shut the restaurant for a few hours so I can go to this event and I mean... Well for fuck's sake if The Boyfriend doesn't know I love him after this then I'm pretty sure he's never going to.

Have not been this uncomfortable since I had to wear the bridesmaids dress from hell. Full length, bright purple backless, silk shit.

Except today I at least look ok whereas that day I looked like The Purple People Eater meets Alannah Hill.

Someone please bring me my Levis and a very strong drink.