Friday, June 18, 2010

sounds like friday afternoon

sally seltmann inspires all my haircuts.

my brain is ruined.

My friend Bert is one of my favourite people to make "your mum" jokes with, and indeed in highschool my group of friends became obsessed with the "your mum" and "that's what she said" lines. We all blame my friend Bart (not to be confused with Bert) because he was from a small country town and brought those phrases with him when he came to our school. It was year twelve and I was housesitting for neighbours abroad in Vietnam. My friends all more or less appointed themselves guardians because they didn't want me to be alone. This caretaking consisted of eating all my food and playing computer games. Also they raided my neighbour's vintage playboy collection (3 hours later, "Alex, this thing is just FULL OF WRITING"), but that's another story. By the end of my stint as house and dog sitter all our vocabularies had shrunk to "your mum" and "that's what she said".

Bart: I'm going to eat the last of this muesli

Matt: I'm going to bed now

It got so bad in the end Bart began giving what we later dubbed "The Bart Glare", which was a fearsome gaze he would implement under great annoyance. This was it; you know you've crossed the line when your jokes upset the laziest nerd you know. We tried valiantly to stop but it became a new game to see who could achieve the best Bart Glare. Eventually however, my neighbours came back to Australia and we all went back to our respective homes. The phrase died out. We began with basics like "Yes", "no", "pass the salt please". Personally I think heroin addicts have it easier than we did; you can always avoid heroin but you HAVE to talk. Anyway, I digress.

I just saw a comment on facebook from Bert in a conversation with another friend; "Tender. How's your mum?"
I immediately began to laugh hysterically. Bert, you crazy kid, what could have brought on a revival of "Your mum" jokes? As is the nature of facebook, I decided to stalk/read the rest of the conversation.

Bert: You have to see Get Him to the Greek, it's AWESOME
Friend: Haha okay I will. How's your ankle?
Bert: Tender. How's your Mum?
Friend: She's still in hospital but getting better :)

I blame Bart for this misunderstanding.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

What could be better

You know what's better than sitting in front of people with a screaming baby on an 11-hour train ride? People with a screaming baby who eat with their mouths open and constantly rustle packets. And a girl next to you who alternated between a)sleeping with the tray-table down, totally comatose, thus preventing you from getting out of your seat and b)on her mobile phone, her entire vocabulary consisting of variants of "I'm raging aye, I'm so fuckin' angry". And a woman who is having what she seems to think is a private D&M with a bewildered-looking old woman, only due to her mirror-shattering loud voice everyone in the carriage can hear it, talking about "kids these days and my 16 year old daughter's just had her second abortion, back in my day things were different!". And a totally charming individual, some guy threatening to jump off the train if we don't stop soon so he can have a smoke, making fun of the train attendant or whatever you call them ("that guy's a full homo aye! oh my god, like a full fucking FAG"). And the train guy threatens to call the police. And kids are running around screaming their tiny lungs out. And then the train driver somehow found out his daughter had terminal cancer and all hell broke loose.
There's this thing in the fashion world where people have the ability to turn even the most mundane description into a plethora of flattering adjectives. When I say "mustard cardigan" thoughts spring to mind of McDonald's cheeseburgers and old-lady handbags. You say "Burnt orange" and I think of all things classy, like Paris and sunsets and girls with perfect hair.

Those stupid internet advertisements that are on the side of the page BUT THEN POP UP AND TAKE OVER THE ENTIRE SCREEN

Blah blah blah, fuck off. I've a runny nose and bed hair. I'm in no mood for your obnoxious nature or your stupid bright flashy "look at me!" Paris Hilton bullshit. Do you know what I do when SEX AND THE CITY 2 flares up all over my computer screen and I have SJP's foot-like face baring down on me like a donkey on acid? I run out of the house and I go see the new film immediately! NO, I WRITE IT DOWN ON A LIST AND MAKE A POINT TO NEVER EVER EVER BUY THAT PRODUCT/WATCH THAT MOVIE/EAT THAT ICE-CREAM. EVER. BECAUSE YOU INTERFERED WITH MY PRECIOUS INTERNET TIME. So fuck off and die in a damp, dark hole somewhere please.
Love Alex

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Phone calls with my brother

Mum: (muffled) do you want to speak to your sister?
Him: (In background) No
Mum: Your brother wants to say hi!
Him: Hey
Me: Hi!!!
Him: Um. So. How's Uni? and stuff. Getting drunk every night?
Me: (sarcastic) Oh yeah EVERY NIGHT.
Him: Haha. Good one. Well. See ya.

Me: Hello?
Him: Hello?
Me:... Alex speaking, hello?
Him: Hey
Me: Jay?
Him: Yeah?
Me: Are you alright? What do you want?
Him: Um. Need a lift. Mum there?
Me: No, Mum and Dad went out
Him: Oh. Okay. See ya.

Him: Hello
Me: Hey! It's Alex.
Him: Oh, hey.
Me: Hi
Me: How are you?
Him: Playing x-box. Hurry
Me: Oh. Is Mum there?
Him: Um. No. Pretty sure she's out.
Me: Are you sure?
Him: Yeah I think so.
Me: Can you check?
Him: Oh. She's here. Well. See ya.
My best friend lives far away and is not great at keeping in contact with people. She is definitely not the sort of person to send a "how are you, miss you, visit soon xoxo" type message. Today I got a text from her that simply read "perfect for you: the new ski yogurt has no chunks so I don't have to watch you waste half your yogurt anymore while picking the bits out". To me this is the equivalent of a 10-page letter and hours of phone calls.

Friday, June 11, 2010


I knew there had to be a name for this retarded phenomenon.

The Best Kinds of Random Injuries

Hurting yourself while dancing on polished floor in bed socks
So I'm just sitting here listening to the Pixie's cover of "In Heaven", aka the Lady in the radiator song from the David Lynch film Eraserhead. I'm also eating lemon tart and ice-cream... this could be love.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Me: (on phone): Hey Mum! I'm coming home on Thursday
Mum: Wait, I'll put you on speaker
Me: (having long since given up telling her speakerphone is pointless because I can barely hear her and Dad doesn't listen to the conversation anyway, I remain silent)
Mum: (muffled) can you hear me?
Dad: (making incoherent noise in background that sounds like "Hey Ali", but like he's been gagged and is underwater)
Me: Yes. Yes I can.
Mum: Oh I can't wait for you to come home! We can go to Kelly's on Friday! And go shopping! I'm so pleased. I bet you're excited to get back to your car!
Me: Yeah, I'm looking forward to it.
Mum: Your brother's been driving your car to school every day!
Me: (horrified into silence)...
Mum: But don't worry, I've thought about this, you can just drop him and his friends off at school in the morning.
At this moment I am picturing my brother's friends, who all seem to be in the vicinity of 6'2''+, gigantic-shouldered hulking masses who occasionally peek through their matted, greasy hair to mumble such witty one-liners as "hey BIG AL, ha ha ha it's funny cos you're short".
Me: Mum, I don't know-
Mum: He'll love it! (I have to note here that my mother is a sweet person who has never used sarcasm in her life)
Me: Don't you think it will be like that episode of "The Simpsons" where Homer drives the kids to school? And he's like, "You jive turkey! A turkey is a bad person. You guys listen to Grand Funk Railway?". I mean no seventeen-year-old boy wants his nerdy sister dropping him off at school. Don't you think? Mum?
(There is silence on the other line except for my dad laughing in the background)

Oh well. At least he listened to that conversation.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Today I finally bit the bullet and decided to study. That was at 7.30am. First I decided to make a coffee. Then watch skins and do a bit of textiles. Then check facebook. Then eat a sandwich. Then make a cup of tea or two. Finally, four hours later, I pulled out my lecture notes.

Something important I'd like to remember for future reference: If I'm making the effort to go to a lecture I should probably start by taking actual notes. Most of the things I've written down can be best described as the nonsensical rambling of a drunk four year old, and I have benefited in absolutely no way at all for having re-read them. I'm not even sure where to start, perhaps it was:
"BLERG" written down the side of the page multiple times
"A. Streeton- practised a lot"- he practised what? Tennis? THANKS FOR BEING SO SPECIFIC.
"FUTURISM" scrawled in giant letters taking up about a quarter of a page- why? Why would I write such a thing?
"To do: buy safety goggles, look up course outline, your mum"- Really mature
"I'm hungry" is written in a list about 15 times, no wonder I understand absolutely nothing of the Impressionist movement. Also mentioned on this page is the craving I have for spaghetti.
A little cartoon of my lecturer with the caption "I hate you"

Wednesday, June 2, 2010


whenever I read "Flickr" out of the corner of my eye, I always think it says "Fucker"

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

My Uncle: The best thing about Marcia Hines is that by hating her I am considered both sexist and racist

sleep walkings

Recently my friend came to visit me and we went out for drinks with my cousins friends and various persons from my textiles class. As often happens, the situation degenerated until we were snorting handfuls of coke and eatings bowls of weetbix. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep. "Dear me" I thought "It seems there is a highly annoying beeping noise that makes me want to neck myself". Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep. Morning light, a hideous taste in my mouth. I've woken up and my alarm has been going off for two hours, which I assume was the culprit of my strange dream, pounding head and alarmingly bloated face. check the time: 8.33am. Oh, lovely. I get up and promptly stand on a power cord, swearing profusely. "Fucking cunting motherfucking shithead of a morning" I say to my stuffed bear with the calm intonation of one coaxing a small child to tie their shoes.

It seems I always have two recurring things in my life: strange dreams and mysterious injuries. I can only assume that the two are connected. Perhaps I have a Tyler Durden-esque alternate personality running a fight club in Newtown. Alarmingly, the other day I cleaned my room and found a drawer full of cans of baked beans, tuna, and a pair of pantyhose, and I'm not sure how any of these objects came to be. Theories include me climbing out my bedroom window and heading into the city to fight hobos for their evening meals, which would certainly account for the meager food collection currently stashed in my dressing table.

On Saturday I had a dream. I was having a party. My phone rang, I couldn't answer the calls. The entire dream was me attempting to dial my friend's number and failing, and then missing her calls, over and over. Then my phone rang and I was able to answer it. "Hello?" I said. "Sweetheart, it's your mother. Your aunt is dead. She left the twins to you; you're their legal guardian now". I woke up sweating harder than Kirstie Alley at the mention of a bake sale.

Then there are the strange injuries; the knee that has randomly become jarred, the bite-like bruise on my knee, the purpleness and swelling on my calf last thursday. Yet again, I feel that the fight club/hobo battle scenario is a key factor in this mystery.

"Eat half a wheel of camenbert cheese" my uncomfortably attractive tutor tells me. "Then you can have crazy cheese dreams just like Salvador Dali and tell me all about them!".

somehow I'm not sure I need to take this extra measure.