It's Always Thailand Time

Is there really a way???

Faced with the impending terror of getting in my bathers at the end of winter, I did what any self respecting bogan would do.  Got a spray tan yo!!  Brown flab is so much better than white.  When I made the call to the salon round the corner I was asked if #1 If I could make it there in half an hour; and #2 If I could be a model.  "Are you serious?" I asked the girl on the phone "You would not be asking that if you could see me.  Winter has not been kind".  "Don't worry" she said cheerfully, "You're more like a practise person for a new student doing training".......Ah, I get it.  The Fuck-Up Person.  "Sure no worries".  Anything for a freebie.  There was a little bit too much time spent with two strangers peering at my arse cheeks as I bent over, but I must admit, she didn't do too much of a bad job, although one of my little fingers and the side of my hand were strangely deep brown.

A glamorised view

So here I am, slightly streaky and in Thailand faster than you can say "Give us a pad thai and a banana shake, my tiny little Thai friend".  Good old Thailand.  Favourite of backpackers and other scumbags the world over.  Although these days you get less bang for your buck than 18 years ago when I visited Thailand for the first time.  Then it was all new.  To me anyway.  I ended up on Koh Phangan (as you do),  dancing in the water at a full moon party with a glow stick and a bucket of Jim Beam and coke.  I literally mean bucket - they were all the rage back then.  I then abandoned my plans to travel the country and spent six weeks hanging with a bunch of sleazy shaman-types and freaked out flower children at a bungalow set-up, which was a boat-ride around the corner from the main beach of Haadrin.  They were all living on the proceeds of their dubious international border activities, and the savings earned from stripping at the hostess clubs in Tokyo.  Whatever finances your next bludge on the beaches of Asia I guess.  I never quite went there myself (too gutless and prudish), and hopefully I didn’t start calling people “sister”.  But I must admit to doing a spiritual belly-dancing course and wearing glitter as eyeshadow.

Reality is much more like this

But times change.  And 18 years later I am out of the five bucks a night shithole, and shacked up with a husband and two kids at the same glorious resort we tried out in December - a tiny private island, and a 5 minute speedboat ride from the Phuket Marina.  Mainly we’re trying to avoid the Aussie bogans that call Phuket their second Asian home – after Kuta Beach of course.  My first overseas trip was to good old Kuta at the tender age of just turned 18.  This is where I learnt that monkeys attack (and have a penchant for nipple biting), and also, after visiting a friend's bungalow one morning, that it is possible to actually shit your bed after too many shots.   It was also my first serious encounter with the ABO  factor (Australian Bogans Overseas).  And seeing as I have visited Gallipoli, it certainly was not the last.  Bogan knocking is such easy sport, and lots of fun.   That is until you investigate the website “What Bogans Like”, and realise that you are jiggy with far too many things on that list. For those of you who are disbelievers in your own boganity just have a little look.....and own up if you like Fascinators, 50 Shades of Grey, Cheap Petrol, Angus Beef, Zumba, Ducks, Losing Weight For Summer or  Car Parks.  Make sure you click on the ones you like and have a read.  It is embarrassing.

http://thingsboganslike.com/the-full-list/

And for all you superior types who think you’re so original and don’t resonate with anything on that list – just tune into “Stuff White People Like” - Roller Derby, TED, Picking Your Own Fruit, T-Shirts, Banksy and Snowboarding -  to feel like the knob that you are.

http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com

Private lushness

The weather was shit.  Apart from not being able to show off my tan job I was fine with it.  Rain means more lazing around, and less activities.  Guilt free sleeping-in as well.  The Chinese tourists didn’t share my enthusiasm.  They used to sit on the sun lounges in the driving rain, holding an umbrella and staring wistfully out to sea.  They just couldn't accept that their imagined holiday by the pool was not an option, and therefore went for it anyway, rain be damned.  Actually most people were pretty gutted.  Crappy weather and a fortune in room charges brings out the worst in people – not to mention the added issue of the shits from too many chili flakes in your pad thai.  There is something everyone should consider though, when taking a family vacation.  And that is, you spend a lot of time with your kids.  A LOT.  I’m not saying that it’s bad........yet I am also not exactly pointing it out as a positive.  Just be prepared – there is no buffer zone.  This mean that there are sure to be times when you consider strapping on your backpack, applying some glitter to your upper lids, and heading as far away as possible for a solo mission of the mayhem and cheap thrills only a sheet of homemade LSD can bring.

No more gong, please no more

Our hotel, while seemingly luscious, had it’s quirky elements.  One thing is the gong you have to bang when you arrive and leave.  I was like “Oh Jesus, that fucking gong AGAIN??”.  Then there’s a general sort of offbeatness in the restaurants and some unorganised staff issues going on.  As I watched Valli and Cordi get face-painted to resemble zombie tigers, a panting red-faced American sprinted into the games room.  When he saw his 5 year old son in there (who’d been looked after by a Thai nanny for the previous 5 hours) he almost started crying.  “Oh God, Warren, son, Jesus Christ son, you’re ok, oh son, oh God”.  Apparently he’d rung reception to say he was going to be late to pick up his boy, and the person on the phone told him that his son had been taken by "people unknown" on a boat to the mainland.  Naturally he freaked out, got put through to Guest Services who then told him that nobody knew where his son was, and they had no idea what had happened to him.  Hence the avoided heart attack when he turned up to see Warren Junior happily playing in the ball pit.

They may be terrifying, but at least they were happy

now the girls look like they've got some terrible disease

We avoided the babysitting ourselves, but the staff still get involved with your kid's fun - which is nice (or not, depending on whether you are an animal).  The Thai water sport boys showed Valli and Cordi how to dig up crabs on the beach, and then taught them how to terrorise our crustacean chums by chasing them, screaming, poking them with sticks and throwing sand on them.  It’s better than last visit, when I’m pretty sure the same young dudes were emulating masturbation while blowing up the long balloons for the “Balloon Art” session.  I really needed their help myself one morning when I was gathering food from the buffet.  I felt a twitch in one of my runners.  I ripped it off only to see a tail of something uncool inside.  My husband got a fork, and finally managed to drag out a 15cm long millipede curled up inside.  Apparently they are dangerous.  Apparently I was lucky.

But weird staff, dubious food, awkward dinner dancing displays, poisonous insects and shit weather aside, Naka Island resort gets away with it all, because it is so bloody gorgeous.  Especially when they have a special, so that when you you stay 6 nights, 2 of them are free – and with a room upgrade thrown into the mix, you can kick back from your private swimming pool overlooking the beach and wonder how much it would cost to move in permanently.

Nice

It really is an unreal world there.  No cars, no noise, no random stinks, no peddlers, no dogs, no chronic diarrhoea.  It’s not really Thailand.  It’s a shock when you do enter reality again, as we found a week later when we pushed our way through the Phuket airport crowds with all our fellow boganic countrymen.  The girls fell over on the ground and became instantly filthy, there was nothing to eat except Subway and Burger King, and I got somebody else’s tomato sauce splatted across my crisp white dress when I sat down to drink a coffee.  Time for a spot of Zumba anybody?  Or a wine tour?  And hands up anyone who likes Bear Grylls?


Oh well, it was good while it lasted.

Melbourne Round-Up

There she blows - the view from our bedroom

Mmmm two months in Melbourne, let me see......1 nice apartment, 1 trip to Byron, 3 trips to Tassie, 4 family visits, 3 Tassie friend visits, 200 glasses of wine, 35 nice dinners, 45 rendezvous's with various friends/family, 1 AFL grand final, and finally one psychotic shovelling of all kinds of crap into boxes, tubs and suitcases - most people call this kind of activity packing.  All in all not a bad effort.

Stay Back, Stay BACK!

I'm going to start with a brief summary of my trips to Tassie.  The Big Tas, the Old Map Of.  And I will start with the plane trip there.  Has anyone ever sat in the exit row of a Jetstar flight recently?  I did on my solo one-night-only Tas adventure in early August.  Usually you will be asked (while you're trying to concentrating on your NW Magazine - "Battle Of The Bulge - See Celebrities Who Have Stacked it ON?" either that or "Rake Thin - Which Of These Stars Have Gone Too Far" - both fascinating reading), whether you feel confident to operate the exit door in case of an emergency.  You usually nod, and think to yourself - "not a chance, but I'm after the extra leg room here love, so piss off".  Satisfied that you can rescue an entire planeload of people should the plane plummet into to sea, they typically leave you alone.  But not this time.  "Madam I need to know that you will feel able to fend off the other passengers"  "Yeah, yeah, sure.... WHAT???". She continues... "In case of cabin fire, the passengers will surge towards the front of the plane and you will have to stand up and hold them back like this" (she demonstrates a pushing motion).  "Umm, I just thought I had to operate the door".  "Yes, but in case of an emergency people will become panicked and flee towards the doors, so you will have to stop them".  But I thought the whole point of the emergency doors was to allow people, especially those on fire, to get out and hopefully not die.  "Just stand up and block the aisle and hold them at bay like this" (again with the air-pushing motion).......not if they're on fire I won't - For the love of god, I just want to stretch my legs out, not be responsible for restraining half crazed air crash victims.  ...."Then those next to you can get the doors open" my fellow passengers look up from their magazines and grunt a "yep, sure will".  So there you have it.  If you are going for the exit row for extra comfort, don't sit in the aisle seat unless Exit Door Defender is on your list of To Do's.

I found out a few things on my trips to Tassie, #1 My old Geography teacher's boobs reach her waist (as reported by someone who ran into her half naked on Mayfield beach) #2 Having random shots behind the bar at Syrup at 3am gives you a really bad hangover the next day, #3 Cinnamon donuts from Salamanca market still fix hangovers, and #4 Half of Tasmanian adults are illiterate.

I know, I couldn't believe it either, but unfortunately it is a statistic just released by the ABS (Australian Bureau of Statistics), and those bad boys just don't lie. Next time you are feeling a little down, just be glad that you can read.  I shall offer you a direct quote;

'A report by the Australian Bureau of Statistics for 2011-2012 shows half of all Tasmanians aged 15 to 74 are functionally illiterate, and more than half are functionally innumerate—meaning they don’t have the skills needed to get by in the modern world, like filling out forms, or reading the instructions on their prescription'.

http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/backgroundbriefing/2013-09-22/4962902

At least I know now why practically nobody I know comments on this blog.  You bastards can't read it.

The Spazzas

But back to Melbourne - my newly beloved future home.  Hopefully the people aren't living there aren't total thickies either, but I suspect the problem could be nationwide.  My daughters have been attending ballet classes the whole time we have been here.  And I use the term "ballet" very loosely.  When your children get a little older, the dance class doors are shut and you wait outside with all the other bored mothers.  Or you don't.  I would nick off to drink coffee and pray one of them didn't need a wee (those leotards are tricky to get down).  Anyway when the end of term concert was on - and again I use the term "concert" loosely here too - actually it was more like a display of what you've been paying for these last two months (conclusion = too much).  It wasn't exactly riveting stuff.  Everyone else was holding up their mobiles and ipads to capture every second.  Jesus, I was having trouble watching it once.  Was it cute?  Of course.  Was it entertaining? For about 5 minutes.  The rest of the time I was dumbfounded about what spazzas children are.  Including my own.  Especially my own.  Unfortunately my daughter was the only one to rock back a bit too far during the "Twinkle Toes" segment, smash her head on the floor and howl so much that I had to go up and cart her off (thank god I didn't go for that deeply desired coffee this time).  Both of mine also went a bit nutty during the ribbon waving part, never did what the teacher asked them, and in "Wishing Well" Valli was encouraging her classmates to wish for "Poo Poo Fairies".  They are the only ones who can't skip either, and thus completely rooted their skipping solo.  Who knew you had to teach that at home?  Anyway myself and my husband came to the conclusion that our girls are little buggers.  I tried to apologise to the teacher "Miss Catherine" after class, thinking she would reassure me that they were fine.  She didn't appear to be amused.  And I thought my childhood ballet teacher, Mrs Todd, was a battle axe. All those bloody pliés.

It's also been Miley Month of late.  Personally, I'm really fucked off with Miley Cyrus.  Bitch stole my signature move "The Tongue".  How can I ever pull it off again.  Not only was it my favourite everyday move, but it was also my favourite drunk picture pose.  God knows how many photos are out there of me with "The Tongue", but now it is all over.  Thanks to fucking Miley.  People even describe it as HER signature move.  I am gutted.  I knew I should have patented it.  But there's a new kind of Miley controversy raging at the moment.  In response to Miley going on a slut rampage, Sinead O'Connor wrote an open letter to Miley (basically calling her a prostitute) - Miley responds by pulling a red leotard up her fanny  -

and is now this artistic comeback is followed by Amanda Palmer's open letter to Sinead O'Connor about Sinead O'Connor's open letter to Miley Cyrus, and next Miley calls Sinead a mental case and finally in Sinead's next open letter to Miley, she goes all gangsta on Mileys ass (actually she mentions her tits).  All good stuff.  A few interesting points, some Miley put-down's from Sinead, a bit of Amanda Palmer's attention seeking bullshit (I still love her though), and more snaps of Miley's vagine.   But basically, nobody even mentions her ripping off "The Tongue" from me.  Pissed off.  I'd write an open letter myself, but basically nobody would give a shit, so instead I'll just reminisce over a few old snaps.

At a glacier

on a snowmobile

on Harriet

all over Liesel

In the middle of nowhere

with food accessories

There are a whole lot more - but I think you get the message.  I did it first.  But did I do it better?  Possibly not.  And let's face it, it's pretty fucking gross.  I really shouldn't post these, but of course I will.  It's so annoying when other people catch on to amazing and inspiring activities you've been doing for ages (like tonguing people and inanimate items), or start to like music you listened to WAY before it became cool.  This is part of the "I Did It First Syndrome" - which is annoying and pretentious.  Obviously I suffer from it, as I also think I was the first person to bring back boots over jeans (seriously, nobody was doing it 12 years ago), and to coin the phrase "beauty is in the eye of the beer-holder" (you've got to admit, it's a modern day classic).  I do however think I definitely could be the first person to identify and name this syndrome.

Another thing I want to address is that it is Year Of The 40th for all my friends.  This sickens and disgusts me.  When the hell did I manage to amass a bunch of old lameos as my friends and acquaintances?  No offence everyone, but you are all so fucken old.  For god's sake, just go and kill yourselves already.  I can get away with this abuse (or can I???), because I am still in my 30s.  Who gives a shit that it's only for 3 and half more months.  I am milking it, and will continue to do so.  Oldies!  Go buy some adult diapers you grey haired dicks!  Got your seniors cards yet fuckfaces?

I remember when my own mother turned 40.  My Dad gave her a card that said on the front "At 40 You're Still a Peach" and then  inside "Yellow, Fuzzy and Occasionally Stoned".  I think he was aiming at the yellowish part as my Mum was going through an obsessive carrot eating phase that actually turned her a pale orange kind of a colour.  It was the "stoned" bit that got me though.  My mother stoned???  I know she had smoked it once at university (unsure about the inhaling bit), and it made her sick. There is no way she could have become a deviant at 40.  It didn't make sense.  I used to wish she had been a stoner back then (mainly so I could knock off her stash), but now I love that my mother is sweet and innocent (and how her vomit smells like dried lavender).  She never did trashy things, like getting pissed or borrowing my clothes, or trying to crack on to my boyfriends.  I can appreciate that so much more now.  Even though at the time, I would have loved to see her roll up on a motorbike and smoke a joint while waiting in the school carpark to give me a lift home.  If you knew my mother, that image would amuse you.  Anyway, I was 19 when my mother turned 40, and my own daughters will be 4 when I do. That means I am going to be going through their teenage years when I am in my 50s.  Excuse me while I have a little rock in the corner.  God dam it.  There is always surgery I guess.

I hate those big fingers

And I suppose I brought up the Grand Final, but honestly, I am too bored with the topic to even discuss it.  I thought it would be in someway good being actually in Melbourne for the day of all days - the AFL Grand Final - on the the weekend just before we left too.  And yet......unmoved.  My husband was pacing around like it was Christmas Eve and he was 7 years old and knew, just KNEW he was going to score a Nintendo.  Who knew that getting pissed with your mates could inspire such excitement.  I really like my husband when he is retarded on alcohol.  Some people's husbands (and people in general of course) get emotional, some get abusive, some silly, some aggressive and some sleazy.  Mine gets stupid.  Kind of like Simple Simon.  He's really easy to manage, and kind of cute in a thicky sort of way.  It's a refreshing change from the know-it-all smarty he is in real life.  Remind me to challenge him to a game of Trivial Pursuit next time he drinks beer for breakfast.  Anyway I was forbidden to attend the boy's day - me and my friends were previously thinking we could have a family affair with one and all, until the kibosh was put on those plans.  Later I learnt that it was for our own good.  Who wants to see almost 50 year olds wrestling in the garden, piling up on top of each other in an embarrassing display of male bonding, and then exploding an egg on the barbecue.  I'm happy to pick the dummy up later and put him to bed.  Only this time he sobered up and came out with me and my friends.

I show my new chums "The Tongue" and they love it!!!

That's something I forgot to mention.  I have Melbourne friends.  At long last I have chums.  And they actually like me.  It's a miracle.  And these are new chums - not people obligated by family ties, or old old friends that have forgotten why they liked me in the first place.  I know I said I wasn't recruiting, but in this instance I will make an exception.  Zoe, Alex, and Sarah too, you are the best.  And of course I can't knock the old chums - my sweet Bec and gorgeous Liesel.  They may however be able to knock me after I tried to poison them with my home cooking one night.  I got the recipe from Mark Newhouse.  I think he's out to destroy me culinary-wise.  Let's put in this way, never make his lemon chicken.

Anyway, one of the best things about hanging with old friends is the reminiscing.  In this instance, one of my old friends brought over a letter I had written to her when I was about 13 years old.  It was about a trip up the East Coast of Tasmania I had taken with my parents.  Highlights include;  "Dear Bec, I am disgusted as today I nearly tripped over a little boy BOGGING in the sand dunes"; Obviously high-brow stuff.  Or, "Dear Bec, me and Louise (my then 7 year old sister) just spied on some bogans fucking their girlfriends in the caravan next door"  Nice activity for a 7 year old.  And a very detailed story about how my brother and I shoved a peanut up my Dad's nose while he was asleep, and almost killed him.  There are also some other exciting details about a giant brawl over Scrabble that ended in my mother packing her bags, claiming she hated us all (her kids not husband) and almost catching the bus back home; and an episode in which my parents had to cart saucepans full of water to pour down the toilet to flush away my father's rogue poo.  It was obviously a happy and fun filled family time.  Family trips were always so much worse than you could have imagined before they actually begun.  I was also amused to see that I wrote pretty much the same way 26 years ago.  Same focus on negative details.  Same bagging out of nearly everyone I know, and all the people I don't know.  Same swearing.  Same political incorrectness.  Same over-concern with shit.  How can I explain it?  As I said in my last blog, I've been a nasty little piece of work my entire life.  Even in my hippy phase I was still inherently evil.

So last time I eluded to the fact that I had not been accepted as an Israeli emigrant.  This still holds. My husband and children made the cut though.   I am however planning to enter Israel on a tourist visa next week, so it's still all systems go.  Currently we are taking a little pit stop in Thailand.  Some people may ask why, I myself, ask why not.  Thailand is always in favour.

But first - bye Melbourne.  Thanks for a great couple of months.  I am really looking forward to living in you in a couple of years (is it me, or does that sound kind of pervy?).  So long to the best coffee, the meanest drivers, the warmest winter on record, our amazing view of The Shrine, painful barre classes, caffeine fuelled park dates, wine nights, yummiest dinners out, yummiest dinners in, great shopping, hottest nightlife (not that I'd know - I'm almost a Senior remember....).  And most of all, so long to a bunch of total legends.  My family and friends, I miss you so much already xxxx

My little lamb's new passport pictures

Uncaring about Oversharing

I've often wondered what dickheads cough up $60 for a 15 minute carriage ride

I love old Melbourne.  Honestly, it shits all over Sydney - and if we are being even more honest - it completely spreads feces all over the entire state of Tasmania.  I'm allowed to say this by the way, as I am of course Tasmanian.  But if anybody non-Tasmanian ever uttered such a load of heresy about my beloved homeland, I would hold them down with David Foster's arse cheeks until they took it back.

Big Dave sorts out the Tas bashers "Don't you ever say that about Tasmania again you little pipsqueak"

Yes, that is in fact my arse.  Non airbrushed. And devoid of poo.

I've been having a lovely time here, doing some lovely, and not so lovely things.  The first topic of discussion - under the not so lovely category, are the three colonics I have subjected my insides to.  There's no way around it.  Colonics are intensely repulsive.  Even if they are endorsed by Gwyneth Paltrow.  That woman really looks like she would have a squeaky clean arsehole don't you think?  I'm sure she has a couple everyday so that absolutely no shit remains her system.  Ironic for a person who is so full of verbal diarrhoea that it explodes from her mouth every time she gives an interview.

Here are a few Gwyneth specials;

Haha - there is no shit inside me - not one tiny bit!!!

"People think that I'm aloof or old or breathe rarefied air.  That's not me"......No you're just a stuck up bitch who makes most people want to vomit.

"I am who I am.  I can't pretend to be someone who makes $25 000 a year".....Nor would I want to, those people are icky....

"I don't want to be rich and I don't want to be famous".......Uhuh - sure love

Get that fucking cream of corn away from my family

"I would rather die, than let my kids eat Cup-A-Soup"....strong reaction - surely dog shit would be worse?

"Sometimes I feel like everyone in the world has plugged into my kidneys.  I'm so tired"......What? Yuk.

"I'd rather smoke crack than eat cheese from a tin."  Good call, Gwennie, me too. But then I'd rather smoke crack than do a lot of things - including listening to you talk about canned cheese.

"Beauty fades! I just turned 29, so I probably don't have that many good years left in me."......now you're just fishing for compliments.

Someone just offered her tinned cheddar 

"Every woman can make time [to work out] -- every woman -- and you can do it with your baby in the room. There have been countless times where I've worked out with my kids crawling around all over the place. You just make it work."  Of course they're not crawling near me and my $500 dollar a minute personal trainer in my private home gym.  We have a team of nannies to deal with those particular issues.

Haters love to hate Gwennie.  Every since she dumped Brad and wore that unflattering pink dress to the Oscars, things have not gone her way.  Then her lifestyle advice was the final nail in her organic non-Amazonian Brazilwood coffin.  She just overshares waaaay too much.  Just like a certain someone I know......(that would be me by the way).

Let's see - major news - I am almost officially Israeli.  Hmmm should be interesting, becoming a member of one the most hated nations on earth.  Who would voluntarily decide to be situated very close to other (often mental) people who you want to wipe you off the face of the earth?  Me, that's who. Well all I can say is "Bring it Bitches"...... Actually don't.  Otherwise I will get scared and run back to my Mummy.  In order to get the all clear from emigration,  I’ve had a few deep probes from the Israeli government -  far deeper than the previously mentioned tube up my arse.  I had to give a detailed account of my movements between leaving school  (1991) and starting university (in 1998).  I was my typical vague self. “Hmmmm lets’s see – well I travelled round Australia for a while and then went overseas”.  Of course I had to answer the required where/when/why’s.  But the “for how long” really fucked me up.

Yes, I can see how breakfast bongs could be appealing

The most disturbing question was this “So you say you went travelling in Australia and overseas which was, in total, almost 2 years – um that leaves 5 and half years unaccounted for”  “No shit??? Really??? Five years you say”.  “Yes Miss Saunders, so what actually were you doing?”.. …..“Oh gawd.  How do you jazz up bumming around to make it sound like you are less of a deadbeat?  “Let me see, developed a penchant for breakfast bongs; worked as a shitty waitress in various even shittier establishments (no offence Doctor Syntax – you were make favourite shitty joint.  I love the smell of stale beer and old men); managed a café that went broke – it wasn’t my fault I swear it; cashed in my dole checks"…….jesus things were not sounding good.  The Israelis didn’t give a shit, they were just glad I wasn’t on the Pakistani border getting a hard-on for Allah.  But I was left with a bad taste in my mouth.  Where had my life gone?  Those early years were some of the least productive the planet has ever known.  What the fuck happened to me??

What's there not to like about Israel?

*Update:  I have been rejected, I repeat, I have been rejected by the Israeli government.  Thank goodness this blog hadn't been published by then otherwise I would have thought it was due to the following paragraphs.  Oh, and the breakfast bongs thing......

Horrid little bastard

I remember my childhood years much more clearly.  I was a little fuckmeister of a child – and that is being complimentary.  I’m sure some fellow classmates breathed a sigh of relief I didn’t grace our last year’s 20 year school reunion with my obnoxious presence.  As a young child I was worse.  I used to wish that I would get cancer just so I could get attention and presents.  I had my “top five wishes” for the “Make a Wish Foundation already planned (number one was “Buy Me a Mixed Lolly Shop”) How fucked up is that – the desire for a fatal illness I mean, not the first wish – although some would say I could have done better.  They would have had trouble with wish number 4 – “Make me a Mermaid”.   And number 3 was plain evil “Kill Ruben Brown (despised fanta-pants from my class)”.   I got worse with age.  When my cousin got glandular fever (and lot’s of attention and gifts), I saw not a chance to shower her with sympathy, but a way out of my impending exams. I made her spit in a glass of orange juice which I then sculled.  It didn’t work.  Once, upon discovering I had the beginnings of a cold I took an icy shower in my pyjamas, opened all the windows of my bedroom on a freezing Tasmanian winters night and had a frozen tortured sleep – just so I would get pneumonia, time in hospital and thus a shitload of presents.   My cold had cleared by morning.

Yes, I had a Cabbage Patch Kid - sold it at the market for lollies

I also chopped holes in my parents lounge room with an axe just to get a laugh from my best friend Bec (Success! I think she actually pissed her pants with hysteria), constantly begged money from the neighbours to buy lollies, and when that didn’t work, myself and my previously mentioned accomplice stripped the neighbourhood gardens of flowers, then re-bunched and sold them back to them.  And bought lollies.  While kids all over Hobart were crying over the impending break-up of their parent’s marriage, I actively prayed that my parents would divorce and my Dad would marry Bec's mother. I think I may have even tried to get them alone so that romance would blossom.   But even more horribly, I also hoped that something fatal would happened to both of my parents, just so that I could go and live with my beloved cousins in Melbourne.  Plus, I was sure that orphans got massive amounts of attention, and presents.  Probably lollies too.

I’m telling you, I was sick.  Just not in the way I wanted to be

Does a love of taxidermy reflect badly on me?

For a person once obsessed with getting a disease, it now seems strange that I would blow mass amounts of cash on health these days.  Including flushing out my poo with litres of water and a lots of discomfort.  I’ve also become devoted to acupuncture of late.  I’d dabbled a couple of time before, but after my three-and-a-half month chronic cough was fixed after just three sessions, I became a believer.  The god dam relief of not hacking your guts up over strangers was palatable.  I’m telling you, for the first month people were shooting me filthies and covering their babies.  And once, during the watching of a play, the people next to me changed places several times during the show to get away from me.  And one of them was my own husband.

The cute gang rock it out at the museum

So there you go.  Almost 2 months in Australia,  - pumping out shit, sticking needles in my head, and hacking up gorbies all over people - Time flits by very quickly.  I’m going to Tassie on the weekend, and when I get back it’s all systems go for Israel.  Another month, another giant pack-up.  Looking forward to planting my arse in Tel Aviv, where I refuse to move from…..unless The US bombs the next door neighbours……Here's to diplomacy.....

Fuck chemical weapons - just get a team of giant tarantulas on the job

If You're a Tourist and You Know It, Clap Your Hands....

Lushness Galore

At least put a conditioning treatment through your beard love

I had a few moments over the last week that made me wonder for the love of god why I ever left Byron Bay.  But then I'd go shopping at the IGA in the industrial estate, scope the clientele and wonder no longer.  No offence....sort of.....But those long, long grey locks could really benefit from a trim and some Nice 'N Easy.  Plus it's now time to overhaul the wardrobe you took acid in during the 60s.  Just saying.  Not that I'm condoning frocking up to go and buy a barbecue chicken, but it's obviously been the outfit of choice for quite a few tie-dyed years.  Luckily tie-dye has made a resurfacing I guess, but regardless, it's not a recommended choice to wait out 30 years in the same clothes until they come back into vogue.

Keep waiting out the age of Aquarius dudes

Happy in the sunshine

The weather was bullshit.  That's another factor that makes me doubt my mental factor for shacking up in Melbourne during July/August.  But come summer when your house in the Byron Hinterlands floods again, the mould grows thick on your favourite cowboy boots, while driving into the township risks death by drowning - you just want some relief for fuck's sake.  Nothing beats the sheer natural beauty of the place though.  So incredible that it takes your breath away every time with out fail.  And if you manage to be blase about your surrounding environment, whales and dolphins will jump up from everywhere going "How about NOW??? Does this finally impress you, you jaded cunt??"  I'm sure all the wildlife call us "cunt" by the way.  Wouldn't you?

Unpaid babysitters are the best kind of babysitters

Shattered first thing Monday

I had a bloody great time over the last week that was for sure.  Party because my parents were there footing the bill and looking after the rat pack, and partly because I swanned around like I owned the place, chiefly pissed.  But mostly, because I got to hang out with old friends that I miss and indulge in my all time favourite past-time - talking shit.  Life was good.  In fact you know you're having a good time when you find yourself standing on the beach on a Monday morning retarded on champagne and stuffed full of almond croissants from the gourmet french patisserie.

The Calvenator

Kundy Kunds and Tanika

Splish Splash

I did touristy things as well.  That's always a novel approach when you go back to your former hometown when you basically did jack for years because you were too broke, and/or lazy as shit.  I took a nausea inducing boat ride to the middle of the ocean to watch whales leap out of the water about 10 metres away from my face.  Apparently no-one really knows why whales breech.  Theories abound, about them trying to shake off parasites, scratch an itch, or communicate better.  But I know why they really do it.  To call us "cunts" to our face of course - it can be hard to hear abuse shouted underwater, as we all know from when we used to scream "fuck you shit poo dickface" to our mums while submerged in the bath.  I was a warm, loving, and respectful child.

I look like I'm loving it.  I am not.

I also jumped out of a plane with my father.  This is something I am not getting over in a hurry, so take this as warning to anyone who chooses to hang out with me in person in the next month - this is all I am going to be talking about, and you will have to sit through a DVD and photos that encapsulate my terror from every angle.  And yes indeed, there was terror.  Jumping out the door of a plane 14 000 feet above the ground goes against everything you know to be be acceptable behaviour for prolonging longevity.  The sensation of falling at 200kmph to your death is so ridiculously shocking that you actually kid yourself you are having the time of your life.  The feeling when the parachute is released, and instead of dropping like a rock to a gruesome and bloody death, you are floating peacefully high in the sky soaking up the beauty of the environment is like the greatest thing that has ever happened to you.  Luckily I didn't crap myself in terror, as I had already started my poos of panic at 5am that morning after a particularly bad nightmare about jumping to my death with a bogan instructor who had never done a tandem jump before.  It wasn't good.  On a brighter note, the fear and sense of impending doom gave me a clean out far better that the three colonics I'd paid 230 bucks for last month.

Dad nails it

Unbeatable feeling of thwarted death

I was first out of the plane.  This was a very good thing.  I don't know if I would have coped with seeing 8 other people sucked out of a plane door before I made my exit.  Including my own father.  He admitted that he didn't enjoy watching his daughter fall to her imagined demise.  But the way I see it, it was all his fault.  He came up with the skydiving suggestion the week before.  I just ran with it to humour him until I knew he was serious, and then by then it was too late, and I didn't want to be the gutless one who pull the pin on the death defying fun. On the way there, I suggested driving past the airstrip and heading for Dreamworld to ride the rollercoaster instead, but he didn't think I was serious.  I was.  Once it was all in motion, and the harnesses were strapped on, there was no going back.  My only consolation was that my instructor was hot, and if I was going to die, it was going to be with a hot young spunk on top of me.  Death could be so much worse that that.  Eaten alive by large spiders, drowning in a septic tank, being skinned and then rubbed with lemon and salt......obviously I've given this particular topic far too much thought.

So proud of him

But as fleeting as the experience was, the memories linger on.  I've always been close with my Dad, but this has given us something else to bond over, and that in itself is priceless.  I completely and utterly recommend it to anyone who loves thrills, and is willing to do something outside what they ever thought they were capable of.


My old mantra, when faced with a difficult situation used to be  "I've pushed two humans out of my vagine, I can do anything".  But my new one is now definitely "I jumped out of a FUCKING plane, this is NOTHING!!".

Yippeeeeeeeeee