The week of death & tears

I never thought George Michael would be dead this year.

Nor General Organa.

Or her mother.

Let alone all the others we’ve lost this year. Bowie. Prince.

They say that losing all your favourites is a sign that you’re getting older. Maybe I am.

But what happens when some of those that you’ve lost were before their time?

Antov Yelchin.

And then what age is too young? I consider anything under 70 young.

Because that’s just the way it is. A full life is someone dying in their 80’s. Or at least late 70’s.

So with that in mind, when a friend posted this link to a tribute to Carrie Fisher as Leia Organa I had to share. Because thinking about her and Debbie Reynolds still tears me up. Add in George Michael and I turn into a sobbing mess.

So in light of that, here’s something that was wonderfully written and imagined.

Vale you bright souls.

Leia Organa: A Critical Obituary – Because you’re always being judged

I’m dancing with the freaks too Georgie… We’ll miss you on the dancefloor at Mardi Gras…


With all my love, Australia…

You guys know how I love to share things that make me laugh until I’m crying. And I am trying to get my shit together to write about my travels in far away lands, however it’s hard to process and write about Turkey when it all went to hell in a handbasket and the feels this gives me. So until I can write about it, here’s something to give you some giggles too.

With love, from the land down under…

The title of the article I yanked this from made me laugh just as hard:


Waxing woes

Waxing. The modern dilemma of walking around looking like you got a bad botox job and clear goop dribbling off your eyebrows and chin.

They make you believe that this is how you’ll walk out…


When in fact this is what you look like


On your face.

I’m currently toting a swollen lip and eyebrows. Cern said I looked like some red oozy thing last night after I got it done. This morning the swelling has evened out more and looks like my upper lip wanted to have botox but failed.

I am not sure I’m going to enjoy this process of finding a new beautician after moving if this is what I have to live with. I may be paying more than double for the same thing in Newtown but at least I don’t walk out looking like my face has been put through a blender.

I’m so glad I didn’t let her near my vagina! Which is now cowering in fear.

I may have to drive an hour to Newtown just to get a wax.

My poor face. And Cern finds this endlessly amusing.

But I still have the upper hand. My pit hair is traumatising him. And I’m not going to wax it. I never quite understood why men get so bent out of shape about hair on a woman in the same place they have hair, yet theirs is ok and ours isn’t.

At least no one at work has doubled up laughing at my poor agitated face. If I didn’t hate ice on my skin so much I’d shove my face in a bowl of it.

I’m so glad this week is over.


Up and coming: The Diva Cup unravelled and baby foot trials!

I have a few things planned that are going to make for stupidly funny or horrific blog posts.

My friends, being my friends, know that mostly I’ll try anything for the name of science. Or a laugh.

So in that vein, I recently posted on my facebook an article about Alex Logan’s Ode of Hatred to her Diva Cup.

You see, I’ve been told to get one of these things into my life for a very long time. And I’ve been scared. Downright petrified of the thing. It’s not natural. Yet as a friend, TimTam, on facebook put so eloquently “Ohhh tralala Diva Cup is a magical vessel to capture the precious moon blood from my sacred yoni!

Well it’s not. And in amidst our discussions on menstruation cups, pads and tampons vs landfill and how to better be in touch with our vagina’s during their monthly cycle of I will flood you with blood so you suffer… SUFFER – oh and you wash so many sheets that you wish your uterus would have fallen out instead because it would be less messy and gross – I said that if someone sent me one for free I’d trial it and make a blog post about it.

And wouldn’t you know, my friends being the enablers that they are, one of them had one sitting around that they got for a present and never used because they were traumatised by their mild experimentations with a diaphragm. So she’s popped it in the mail for me to trial out and write about. Such a generous soul!

How bad could this be??? Right? RIGHT?!!!

Right. So watch this space. Apparently I need to post pictures too. No vagina shots. I have a shy vagina.

So anyway, next up is this baby foot stuff that my friends have raved on about on facebook. Baby foot I asked? What is this bloody baby foot business? I mean she’s recently had a baby, was she referring to rubbing it’s feet? But then they started talking about wait times and I thought no, she wouldn’t be sticking her baby’s feet into something for a period of time. Babies feeties are so soft and smooshy anyway!!!

So I pipped up and asked. What the fuck are you people talking about? Yes, we know, I have the class of a high femme fatale…

And then they told me. And I was horrified. Absolutely positively horrified. And grossed out. And then they showed me pictures that made me squeal and run around waving my hands around like a woman with her hair on fire. Especially since I hate feet. I do not do feet. AT ALL.

I then proceeded to ask them where to get said “baby foot” item from. Because I’m not above suffering for you lot.

Apparently you can get a Japanese version for less than $2 with free postage. So I ordered 2. I figure if I’m going to suffer so is Cern. So once I have the items I’ll be updating about those too. Pictures included because feet are disgusting and everyone should be traumatised with me. Sharing is caring right guys?

Oh the anticipation, it should have you all waiting with bated breath. Just don’t forget your mints.


First World Problem Alert: Balls. Big blue ones.

I don’t blame you for thinking that title is something kinky about making a man get blue balls.

But it’s not.

This week in all things work related, a workmate and I acquired some blue exercise balls. That you pump up to sit on instead of normal chairs. Because we thought it would be a good way to strengthen our core muscles while having better posture.

Yes I know, let that sentence sink in a bit more.

Well. Let’s just say that the week has been rather eventful so far and I’m only on day 2 of it.

The first day after I made all the boys at work pump the damn thing up with the foot pump I sat on it and bounced. I pretended to work, but what I was in fact doing was bouncing. A lot.

They have nicknamed our cubicle the ball centre. Yes I know. Full of blue balls. This caused much giggling on my part because my head being constantly in the gutter meant that my mind went to all kinds of weird and wonderful things you can do to balls to make them turn that pretty shade of purple/blue.

So I have a dilemma.

You see. When I sit on said ball, I can either sit so that my feet are flat on the floor and my but is at about a 80 degree angle. Which means that my feet and thighs are working overtime to keep my arse on the ball. Or I can sit back and in the middle of the ball. Which means that my feeties are off the floor and kicking around in the air. Which means that I’m practically practising for the circus ball balancing act. It’s not elegant and I squeal a lot. Much to the amusement of everyone around me.

So the question becomes, dear people, how the fuck do you sit on this thing?


Don’t get me wrong, I’m well versed in how to do sit ups with them and lunges and all manner or exercises that hurt your lower body. But sitting? Who thought it would be so hard…

Is there a relevant youtube video I can watch to sit on said ball? Does anyone have any tips? How do I stop myself from sliding off it like a squidgie and splatter on the floor?


Moved in, yet waiting to move in…

You know that limbo land you inhabit when most of your shit is still in boxes? I’m in that land.

My mother’s house is littered in my boxes and clothes and general shit. From cat carriers to take sick kitty to the vet to washed clothes to folded dry clothes but no draws to put them in.

My life feels like I may have moved locations, but I’m yet to move in so to speak… Cern has been lovely and helpful and keeping my sick cat company. But we’ve now gotten him a job (YAY YOU SEXY PANTS!) and from today my kitty will be all alone in the house. I envision coming home to all the photo’s mum has littered around the house face down on the floor because when I’m home he knows he isn’t allowed up on the benches. But it’s fair game when I leave him alone. I swear he would be knocking them down one at a time in the hopes that I’ll come barrelling from one end of the house squealing at him to stop being such a cuntycat.

The vet said this week will be the week that we need to keep a close eye on him because if he’s going to regress, it will be this week as his antibiotics wear off. He tried to kill me this morning as I tried to navigate to the bathroom through the box maze to pee before I peed myself because I was busting so hard so obviously he’s feeling fine today. I didn’t even stumble my steps as he latched himself around my naked thigh and howled at me to feed him.

So if it’s not my cat chasing me around the house it’s Cern. I’ve been sick, he was adamant that I needed to let him spray some gunk into the back of my throat. Now to be clear, the gunk he wanted to spray was medication. But I’ve had that medication before and it might send my throat numb and help with the pain, but it was like spraying the back of your throat with what I can only imagine a week old cum smells and tastes like. Which is fine for most people, but I’m a special case. It makes me throw up. So here I was getting naked to have a shower when he picks up said week-old-cum-in-a-spray-bottle and proceeds to chase me around the house with it while I squeal begging to not. He finally cornered me in the shower, I thought I would be safe in there. Obviously I was wrong.

We finally came to a compromise. He made me gargle (hahaha gargle, I drown when I gargle! He rolled his eyes at me when he realised that I was drowning trying to gargle the green liquid – I’m sure I would have been fine if it had been tequila instead…) this other green stuff that made my tongue and mouth go numb instead and I was pretty sure as I was trying to yell at him in the shower I was drooling and my tongue was flapping around without any control.

Suffice to say that I’m suckful when I’m sick. I get sooky and mopey and just a downright little shit to be around. Cern can attest to this.

Good news is that I finally found a bed that I want and it’s being built as we speak from real Australian woods and delivered to me in the next few weeks. At which point I can start moving into the bedroom! Hurrah! Did I mention that the Australian made and run company that sells Australian wooden furniture was cheaper than Ikea? Damn straight. So being that I am me, I wrote on the Ikea Australia facebook page about how disappoint I was with their offerings. They’ve been ignoring me. Figures.

So if you’re in the area and looking for awesome Australian furniture, then go to King Style on King Street in Newtown. It’s near the St Peters end of King St and I promise you won’t be disappoint. Like I was. In Ikea.


Stories telling stories

The other night we got to watch an 80s movie with the producer and some actors in residence for a Q&A afterwards.

To say that I was pleasantly surprised by the movie is an understatement. I wondered why I hadn’t seen the movie before now as it is a timeless art house production.

What’s the movie? It’s called The Navigator: A Medieval Odyssey.

It’s about men in a 14th century Scottish mining town trying to escape the Black Death. And in doing so you’re transported with them to 20th Century New Zealand in a quest to save the village of the plague.

Only there’s a twist. And I’m not going to tell you what it is.

But one thing the producer said during the Q&A struck home. It’s a story about a story. And sometimes those are the most powerful stories. And I think this story actually moved me. It was engaging and interesting. You have what the fuck moments but then it still keeps you interested.

And then when the lights came back on we were surprised to spot my friend a few seats down. Being that she’s a huge rock star I didn’t expect to see her at a small art house screening in Parramatta! Score.

Onto a personal note: I’ve been a bit quiet because I’m still unpacking and haven’t set up my computer as yet. And we had a storm rage through Sydney and the Central Coast (anywhere else in the world it would have been classified a cat 2 cyclone) last week that has caused a lot of damage which means I’ve been working super long hours trying to get power back to people who were going 10 days without power by the end there. It’s been 2 weeks of irrationality, stupidity and perseverance.

I can’t wait to go back to my mundane work week next week.


Shared things – like viruses, showers and other fun things.

I am dying. The man flu, or whatever you want to name it. I blame Cern. The last 2 times I’ve been sick it’s because he’s shared his germs with me.

Granted, I can’t lay all the blame at his feet. It’s not like I’ve kept my hands or my mouth to myself when he’s feeling poorly. One day, one day I’m going to get him sick instead of him getting me sick.

We went to the doctor today who basically argued with me that I had to stay at home tomorrow when I wanted to go to work. He even wrote me a medical certificate to say that. So in order for me to go to work I have to get a letter from my Dr saying that I’m well enough to. And we all know he’s not going to give it to me. Cern sat there and gloated at me in the Dr’s surgery while I whinged that I should go to work and not rest at home.

He also mentioned that he thought the Dr was actually pretty good, for a medical centre one. And he is. A lot of Dr’s locally have picked up their game and that makes me happy. They actually talk to you about medications and concerns about various things and will give you a prescription for antibiotics but tell you to only use it if you feel that the sick isn’t clearing up after a week or so just to make sure you kill it before it gets worse.

Ultimately though. I figured out, while we waited a whole 5 minutes for the dr, that Cern listens to about the first 2 sentences that I utter then he focuses on coffee and where he can get some. So I have 2 sentences to say things before I lose him. Granted, with me being sick, he has about 2 words so I can’t really fault him on that. Since you know, he was the one that got me sick and he’s still not recovered. I fear we both may have the attention span of a goldfish combined.

Although because he’s been sick for the last week and been totally out of it, we haven’t been shagging. And we all know how much I love my shagging. A lot. So I was rabidly horny yesterday. And we were going to go at it last night because he was starting to feel better and well, I’m constantly horny and going for nearly a week without was making me a bit crazy. Then I got sick last night. I passed out next to Cern on the bed before he finished his sentence about me lying down for a bit. There went the sexy times. Obviously the sex gods were against us getting off. But I won.


Totally jumped his bones this morning. I was sick as a dog but I didn’t care. My cunt wasn’t sick! My head may have felt like I had been hit repeatedly by a sledge-hammer. But the rest of me was up for it. And bloody hell. It was awesome. I may not have been able to breathe and felt that my head was going to explode at stages from the buildup of orgasms and the pain from my sinuses … but it was sooooooooo worth it. Sex cures everything. Well nearly. Since there was a wet spot on the bed that somehow I couldn’t avoid sleeping in… I offered him a shower instead.

What is it with men and stupidly hot hot showers? His showers burn me! They burn him but he thinks having third degree burns means you’re clean. I on the other hand, squeal and plaster myself against the wall in the hopes that his super hot water isn’t going to scald me. Although to be fair. he has his moments of holding me and then turning the water hot. Or cold. While I squeal and splutter under the running water. Please tell me I’m not the only one who has a partner that tries to freeze or fry them in the shower?

Granted all this is made up by the fact that I woke up at different points during the night to him patting my hair and murmuring if I needed anything. I tried to say no but I dare say all I said was snorreee as I passed out again. Being sick sucks.


Drag Queens, belly dancers and why it gets on my tits…

The last time I forgot, a white woman came out in Arab drag — because that’s what that is, when a person who’s not Arab wears genie pants and a bra and heavy eye makeup and Arabic jewelry, or jewelry that is meant to read as “Arabic” because it’s metallic and shiny and has squiggles of some kind — and began to belly-dance. – Article

I have to admit, this quote made me giggle snort a bit. Arab drag is so true in so many cases. You don’t need the heavy make up and the bikini to belly dance. You just dance. In jeans. In skirts. In shirts. In whatever you’re in. Friends have often asked me to belly dance for them and I do. In my own clothes. They have requested I get a proper belly dance outfit and put on a wee show for them and I die a bit inside because I may be an exhibitionist.. yet my inner shy child dies at the thought of all my bits jiggling in people’s faces!

You know those restaurants that have belly dancers? The ones that get up and sometimes actually nail the concept of belly dancing? Well most of those places make me cringe and want to run away. If only because the “dancer” isn’t really doing the dancing any favours. Where they having an off night? Maybe. But honestly, it’s not that hard to get up and shake your hips to music you like. Hell I can’t even keep my hips still when I’m cleaning and listening to some of my favourite Turkish songs.

In the Turkish culture, as with Arab and other middle eastern cultures, belly dancing isn’t really the same … what’s that word I’m looking for… Let’s just say that we have many things where there’s just women attending and the way we dance, without men around, is a lot different to the way we dance at say, a wedding.

So when I came across this article about why this lady can’t stand white belly dancers I had to agree with her.

The term “belly dance” itself is a Western one. In Arabic, this kind of dance is called Raqs Sharqi, or Eastern dance. Belly dance, as it is known and practised in the West, has its roots in, and a long history of, white appropriation of Eastern dance. As early as the 1890s in the U.S., white “side-show sheikhs” managed dance troupes of white women, who performed belly dance at world’s fairs (fun trivia: Mark Twain made a short film of a belly dancer at the 1893 fair). Many white women who presently practice belly dance are continuing this century-old tradition of appropriation, whether they are willing to view their practice this way or not.

Which then had me thinking a few things and about why I may be cringing at belly dancers in restaurants. I think there was one time, just one single time when I was wowed by a belly dancer.

And it was a man.

He was dancing at the Turkish restaurant that my mother loves to go to in the city. At the time the music started up and I went to excuse myself so I could go outside and play on my phone for a bit. But instead before I could jump out of my chair and high tail it out of there, I noticed that the person walking out of the back room wasn’t a woman. It was a man. He was middle eastern, easily. He had the right features, the thick full black hair and a piercing gaze. And a body to match his confidence.

Being that there aren’t many male belly dancers anywhere, I sat my arse back down in my chair and fixed my gaze on this specimen of a man while my mother giggled like a school girl next to me about how ripped his abs were and that I should ask him for his number. Never mind the guy came out in sparkly “hammer pants” and nothing else. Although I can’t be sure if he had glitter on his nipples or not… I wasn’t about to go up and rub them to find out if I got glitter herpes.

By the time the music had started, my mother and I had already had an argument about this guy becoming her future son-in-law. I was pretty sure this guy was gay, but she had other ideas.

The music started and he started dancing and both of us shut up. The man could move! His hips! He danced with a ceremonial sword on his chest and as his butt wiggled and the sword didn’t move I knew he was totally gay. No straight man can move that way. They just can’t, bless em.

Suffice to say he had the entire restaurant captivated with his dancing so much so that the second woman dancer to come out everyone ignored because she just wasn’t as engaging.

Now my other pet hate is when they grab you as you’re trying to get past to make you dance with them. Seriously chick, you don’t want me to dance with you. I’ve done this since I was in vitro, you’ve done it for a few years. But yet they make you. So you dance and they look surprised that your hips move and your boobs jiggle and you can dance, but you dance differently to them. For us it’s a celebration, it’s not a show we put on for an audience. So when I am cornered into dancing in a restaurant with the belly dancer, I leave her dancing in the middle of the room and wander off to dance at my family and friends sitting at the table who cheer me on and some get up and dance with me.

I dance because I want to share my joy with family and friends. We dance because we enjoy the music. We dance because we are celebrating someone getting married, engaged, a birthday… you name it and we usually dance at it. Hell, if they are anything like me then they even dance while cleaning and cooking to the point where I put down said cleaning or cooking implements and take 5 minutes to really dance my arse off to some wonderful davul and zurna music (translation: cylindrical drums and wind instrument).

This is what our dancing is about.

But, here’s the thing. Arab women are not vessels for white women to pour themselves and lose themselves in; we are not bangles or eyeliner or tiny bells on hips. We are human beings. This dance form is originally ours, and does not exist so that white women can have a better sense of community; can gain a deeper sense of sisterhood with each other; can reclaim their bodies; can celebrate their sexualities; can perform for the female gaze. Just because a white woman doesn’t profit from her performance doesn’t mean she’s not appropriating a culture. And, ultimately, the question is this: Why does a white woman’s sisterhood, her self-reclamation, her celebration, have to happen on Arab women’s backs?

For me this isn’t about an us and them thing, it’s not about white women riding the appropriation coat tails and it getting on my nerves. It’s about the irk I get being subject to bad belly dancers, it’s the irk I get because they try to be something they aren’t. It’s the irk I get because they are making something that brings us such joy and laughter and connection into something that’s just a cheap trick to be paid for in restaurants. Yet I can sit and appreciate the art of belly dancing in competitions and if someone has a certain something that makes me take notice. Are all white belly dancers crap? No, not really, but you do get the sense that they aren’t engaged with the music, they aren’t feeling it from the inside out. And I think that’s what makes an awesome belly dancer dance.

So to see the difference in what I think is relevant belly dancing as opposed to what you get when you go somewhere to eat… Here’s a few clips I found that made me get up and shake my booty.


The lurgy

I’m sorry guys, I really do want to finish up my story with Cern for you, however I got his sickness that he had over xmas and am now slowly dying.

Even if he’s told me I’m not allowed to.

So once I’m back on my feet without a fever and a furball in my throat I’ll finish it up for you all. Promise.

Till then, send all the help. I’m dying…