Monday, 28 October 2013

Inflicting Pain!!!

When I was young, I could pretty much eat whatever I wanted, but since turning 30, I seem to be putting on kilos in my sleep.  And I know it's only going to get worse.

I was having visions of myself, lying on the couch at home eating Pringles while watching The Biggest Loser, and then being lifted out of my house by a crane, live on Jerry Springer.  I even had a recurring nightmare in which "A Current Affair" was doing one of those hard hitting reports into dodgy diets and when they cut to the slo-mo stock footage of all the big beach bums bursting out of their bikinis, I recognised my own bum!

OK, the first thing I did was join a gym. 

Now before I continue, I've got to say, I've never been a gym junkie which is a weird term now that I think about it.  It conjures images of people standing outside the Fitness First gym saying "hey fatty .... have you got 50 cents. I need a quick walk on the treadmill?" In fact the only time I've attempted a gym workout, I woke up the next day so sore that even my eyelashes hurt.  Plus it always seemed stupid to pick up heavy things, when if there's something heavy at my house that needs picking up, I pay someone else to do it.

So it was with some trepidation, that I went to my first assessment session.  Walking through the door of the amazing brand new gym. I was pulled aside and introduced to the chiseled Adonis who was going to show me around.  It didn't help my nerves that he looked m up and down and said "Hello, my name is Attila".

Attila? Attila?? Attila???

To cut a long story short, as it was, Attila turned out to be an awesome bloke.  He was a former triathlete who tried to design a gym that wasn't just exercise equipment, but it included heaps of fun stuff like rock climbing and boxing and there was even a DJ, although I did wonder if it was a good gig. "Hey dude, where are you playing on the weekend? Playing at the Big Day Out?"  "Nah, love. I'm on the Wheels of Steel down at the gym."   Well, I guess in both places there are plenty of sweaty people drinking bottled water.

But i digress.

There were two of us newbies - the other being another chiseled Adonis who really didn't look like he needed any exercise.  I filled in my forms. Just doing the paperwork made  me break out into a mild sweat, and then it was time to do some real exercise (and there was I thinking that's what the paperwork was)!

It seemed that the first item on the agenda was - wait for it - pulling a car using a rope. Huh? At least I think that was one of the exercises. Either that or Attila needed a jumpstart and he was taking the piss.  I was ready to collapse in fright when I realised he had this planned for my newbie male friend.  Phew!!!

From there we moved onto push-ups.  Attila had to see how many we could do it a minute.  A minute??????  Ok, I admit, I didn't make the entire minute without stopping.  Neither did my newbie friend, Jason.  Should this be an indication of his performance in the bedroom. 

Then there were sit-ups, bench presses, holding the medicine ball above my head while stepping through tyres ((I'm sure this one is going to come in handy next time I need to hold something heavy above my head, while I step through tyres).

Next I got to swing on the monkey bars. (I'm not sure  if this was one of the exercises or just recess).  After that came a great one where Attila made me sprint up a flight of stairs but take the escalator back down.  (The perfect time to sneak in a quick smoke, I thought).

Finally it was time to jump into the boxing ring so Attila could see how many punches we could throw in a minute.  To be honest, by this stage, my arms were trembling so much, I struggled to put the gloves on in a minute, but luckily my manager was Don King and he had paid off the judges, so I won by a nose.

At last, I was done. Sweaty, sore, stretched an broken, I resolved then and there to come back. But not for at least 12 months when my body had stopped hurting.

The only other time I'd been in that much pain, was when I went on a skiing holiday with some friends.  Growing up in sunny Melbourne, my family didn't do much skiing, so when a couple of friends suggested we go to the snow for a week, I leapt at the opportunity.  Little did I know it would be the last time I would be capable of jumping or even walking, for the next month.

You see, I didn't realise that some people see skiing as a wonderful way to spend a couple of weeks, I didn't.

While my friends had a really good time, I spent o much time face down in ice and when I wasn't face down, I was bum up. I think they made a mistake by attaching the skis to the bottom of my boots. They should have jst strapped them on to my bottom, seeing as that was the part of my body that made the most contact with the snow.

I also ended with my ankles behind my ears so often, it looked less like I was skiing and more like I was auditioning positions for a new Kama Sutra.  I spent so much time doing the splits, even Miley Cyrus would have thought I looked a little trashy.

Foolishly, I thought the trip might be an opportunity for romance, but the only body my legs wrapped themselves around was my own (plus at the end of a day on the slopes, my body was so bruised and broken, that the only person I wanted touching me was a licensed medical professional or possibly, a coroner).

All jokes aside, I returned from that trip convinced that skiing was invented by the same person who came up with Candy Crush, colonoscopies, and the Crazy Frog ringtone.  It's entertainment for masochists while their dungeons are being cleaned during Spring. 

By the way, my skis contained secret magnets at the end.  Try as I may to keep them straight, they would go in the complete opposite direction. Elton John has more chance of going straight than I did.

Saturday, 19 October 2013

School Days

If I were Prime Minister for a day, the first thing I'd do - after passing a law that says Brad Pitt has to marry me - is to give teachers and nurses a pay rise.

It doesn't say much for our society, when a stripper who performs as a 'sexy schoolteacher' or 'naughty nurse' gets paid more than the people who actually do these jobs for real.

Of course if there are any kiddies reading this, I should point out that this does not mean the next time Miss Jones bends over to pick up the chalk in biology, you should try to slip your lunch money into her garter belt.

All jokes aside, I truly do believe that teaching and nursing are the most noble and important jobs in the world, an it really pisses me off that sometimes  we treat teachers as though the only qualification you need to teach grade 2 is to have passed grade 3.

Look, we all agree that nurses are great, but I'm not saying that all teachers are great.  There are certainly a few who found their way into it, not through a love of nurturing the next generation but through a love of having 6 weeks off at Christmas.

i had one teacher who was so bored, he used to stand up the front of the class and sniff the whiteboard markers all day long. (I have no real proof, but that's what I think).  On the upside, he did always give me great marks, and once said that I was one of the smartest clowns he had ever taught. Errrr .... hang on .....

I know this will come as a bit of a shock to most of you, but I was a bit of a brat at school.  Almost every report card I received contained the comment "Katelyn will do well in life, as long as she stops trying to be funny all of the time".

My major problem at school was boredom.  In most humanities, arts and language classes, I had more As than a Queenslander making a speech, but in Maths and Science, I scored so many Cs, my report card sounded like a Spanish couple on their wedding night. (Come on, think about it).

In year10 maths, I remember being so uninterested, that a couple of us would sit up the back of the room, tear up our text books, throw them up into the ceiling fan and when they scattered down, we would sing Christmas carols. 

In science, my friends and I spent most classes seeing how many things we could turn into bongs.

Don't even mention economics. we spent every lesson trying to hide the entire class from the teacher. (Errr ... sorry Butch).

And even back then, I would constantly get into trouble for things I said.  In one class (and this is not a joke) the teacher was so frustrated by my questions, she snapped "Well Miss Taylor, if you think you can do a better job, why don't you come up here and teach the class?" What a mistake!

I did.  I immediately sent her to the principal's office, cancelled all homework and asked everyone if they wanted to go on an excursion to the pub. Boy, was I a great teacher.

Oh, and I almost got expelled on my last day of school.  At my school there was a tradition among year 12s, to parody the daily school bulletin.  Unfortunately our version proved a bit too much for the teachers we targeted and they demanded we get kicked out. 

Imagine that?  Making fun of those in power.  Phew, lucky we grew out of that!!!!

But while a good teacher can inspire you, a bad one can scar you for life.  When I told one teacher, let's call her 'Mrs Brown' that I wanted to fly when I was a little older, she told me that it was never going to happen.  

That day, I went home in tears.

I'm not going to make any jokes about nurses. I owe those angels my life.  Just pay them whatever they want!!!

Thursday, 10 October 2013

Costume Hire

This is an old post - read the second one below if you want a new one - written a few months ago.  I actually like it, so I thought I'd repeat it.

My complaining started the minute we received the invitation in the mail. Fancy Dress Party: Come dressed as the thing that scares you most! “But I’m not scared of the usual stuff like spiders, snakes, vampires and ghosts” I complained, “and the costume shop never has something for existential angst!”

“Stop being a wanker,” my friend replied, “just make a list of things you are scared of and then choose one of those.” So I did, and you know what, it turns out I am scared of heaps of stuff.

For example I’m scared that when people around me are speaking in a foreign language that they are talking about me being fat. 

I’m terrified that I will die before the final episode of Lost and I will never understand what was going on with that bloody island; I’m even more terrified I will see the final episode of Lost and I will still not understand what was going on with that bloody island; 

Babies… you know, just in general; 

I’m anxious that the fun I had in my twenties will destroy my brain and I will become one of those old sheilas who just repeats her same stupid jokes all the time; 

I’m scared that I am too happy most of the time to think of anything genuinely deep to say; 

I’m virtually terror-stricken that one day soon a comedian will make a joke and the Australian Family Association will complain they really shouldn’t be joking about things crossing roads, I mean won’t somebody please think of the chickens? 

I’m scared of having an ugly baby, but I don’t know it’s ugly and all my friends pretend but then one day I am walking down the street and someone says: “Why do you have that monkey in a pram?”; 

I’m fearful that I will be shunned at dinner parties in Fitzroy and Newtown if I tell my friends that even though I loved The Wire, I think SVU is a far-superior crime series; (Oh and while we are on a roll I didn’t get the end of Twilight either); 

I’m scared that one day I will push a cotton bud too far into my ear. 

I’m worried I should have kept more receipts; 

I’m scared that I’ll never be mature enough not to giggle when they mention former IOC President Dick Pound’s name on the TV; 

I’m scared our government will never have the balls to let gay people marry and I will have to be ashamed of that all my life; 

I’m scared that someone will be staying at my house and open a cupboard in my house and find something embarrassing like a bong or a DVD box-set of Home and Away; 

I’m terrified I will become one of those boring middle-aged people who gets angry at young people for doing the exact same things I did when I was young; 

I’m scared that I’m right and there is no God, and existence is meaningless, and I really should have just gone to the beach; 

I even more scared the crazy guy in the mall with the cardboard sign is right and there is a God and he is going to be really mad at what I did as a teenager; 

I’m afraid that I should have done something productive in my life like settle down and have a baby; 

I’m scared shitless that if I did settle down and have a baby I would immediately regret it and wish I had spent the money on buying DVD box-sets which I would enjoy a lot more and would never tell me they hated me and that I had ruined their life; 

I’m terrified of falling over and knocking out some of my front teeth, I’m even more terrified this will result in people thinking I am British; 

I’m scared that pain in my hip that I have now had for a couple of years, and assumed would go away at some stage, is now just how my hip feels; 

I am scared the person I am in my head isn’t the way that other people see me; 

I’m afraid I don’t tell the people I love that I love them enough, and I am terrified I tell strangers in the mosh-pit at the Big Day Out that I love them way too much; 

I’m scared that I will die young and never get to see Hawthorn win another premiership; 

I’m scared that I will live to 100 and get a telegram from King William that says: “I’m sorry you never got to see Hawthorn win another premiership”; 

I’m afraid the one thing I will regret just before I die is that I didn’t eat enough cake; 

I’m scared that I should have spent more time in my life worrying about things like world poverty and less worrying about whether I taped Masterchef Australia; 

But, you know, where do you get a costume that says that?

Wednesday, 9 October 2013

Tit for Tatt

A girl I know has a tattoo of a dolphin on her bum, which I thought was really cool, until one day she put on a pair of fish-net stockings and suddenly she looked like a Japanese whaler.

Not that I have anything against tattoos. I admire anyone who is willing to put themselves through that much pain in the name of art. Sure Van Gogh cut off his ear, but that's nothing compared to the agony of getting a half-naked man riding a unicorn inked on your inner thigh.

Recently, I've been thinking about suffering for the art myself, (thinking, I said) but I have a couple of reservations.

Firstly, I'm a wimp. I'm terrified of needles. I'm the sort of girl who tends to freak out if a nanna knits too close to me on the bus.

The closest I have ever come to having body art is writing "Buy bread and milk" on my hand in pen and, even then, I could hear my mum's words ringing in my head that I'd die of ink poisoning.

Secondly, I'm worried that, while a tattoo might look great now, when I'm older and wider, that little dolphin on my butt might resemble something Greenpeace would roll back into the ocean.

The biggest issue is I'm not sure what style of tattoo would suit me. I think I can rule out a "tough dudette" tattoo. You know the ones that who look so tough even the tattoos have tattoos.

These walking canvasses are mostly spotted hanging out at biker bars, operating the rides at local shows, or breaking your knees if you don't make the payments on your new couch - replete with beards that look like they have come straight off a ZZ Top video clip and teeth that look like they were designed by the druids who built Stonehenge.

These guys have so much body art, you think if you stare at them for long enough, you'll see a 3D pirate ship. You're not sure whether you are meant to be scared, or trying to find Wally.

Some of the really tough ones even have "love" and "hate" tattooed on their knuckles, although you get the impression for some of them "left" and "right" would be more useful.

There is only one establishment where you can get this style of tatt done, and I'm not sure I'm willing to steal a car or kill a guy in a bar fight just to get a cool tattoo. Plus, I'm the sort of girl who would get it done, then lose a finger in an accident and have to spend the rest of my life explaining to people why I have "love" and "hat" on my hands.

So if the tough-girl tatt is in tatters, the next choice is to get something symbolic, like Chinese or Japanese symbols that sum up something important in your life. But, in my case, I'm not sure there is a Japanese symbol for chocolate.

Of course I could go the popular option of getting a partner's name tattooed on me, but this is risky. Remember Johnny Depp had to change his "Winona Forever" to Wino Forever when that relationship broke up. (Perhaps this is the reason J.Lo's bum is so big. She has to keep it that way to fit all the names of her previous husbands there.)

Even worse, Rod Stewart's daughter Kimberley had her boyfriend's name tattooed on her groin, and then he promptly dumped her.

Surely if you are going to get a tattoo on your groin, the safer option would be to get your own name tattooed, then at least if you have a lot of one-night stands, your partner would know what name to call out in the height of passion.

My ex's name is Mark. Although I hoped we'd be together forever, I had the fear that if I had his name tattooed, when we did break up, the first time I'd got intimate with a new partner, it would be hard to explain a "Mark Forever" tattoo. "Oh, no, it's not another guy, I'm just a big fan of the Cricket and Mark Taylor was  my favourite player".

David Beckham went the safer option and had his children's names tattooed on him. Perhaps if he also got Posh tattooed across his fingers, he might remember who his wife is next time he sends a text message.

Above all else, I think the main reason I haven't got a tattoo yet is I have such appalling fashion sense. You're looking at someone who once thought wearing a hyper-colour shirt with tight acid wash jeans was the height of pret a porter.

I'm scared skinless I'd get adorned with something I thought was incredibly groovy, but before the ink dried would be so out of fashion I'd need a visit from the producers of Embarassing Bodies Australia.

So if I do take the plunge, you can guarantee I will have thought it through.
I don't want to be the old girl taking my nighty off in the nursing home to show my grandkids my tatts, just to hear them say, "So Grandma... what does Bootylicious mean? And who's Bon Jovi?