September 2007 Archives

So it finally arrived... I finally graduated. Years after beginning my degree, overcoming serious writing-block issues, deferring the degree to take up a youth worker position and eventually coming back to have a proper tilt at the course, I completed my degree, and survived to see out my own graduation ceremony. Yay for me.

It was funny, doing the whole 'dress up' thing... It was like a little production line in the atrium at the uni... they just asked me what I needed and then dressed me. Did you hear that? I had a group of girls dress me. Last time I had that much service was when I was 6 years old and accidentally poo'ed my pants at my uncle and aunties farm when i couldn't find the toilet. For the record, the toilet happened to be at the end of a sloping pathway that lead into the rainforest. So shut your mouth.

So after making sure my gown and degree colours were all arranged nicely, with my graduation cap on straight, and the tassel to the correct (right) side it was time to doff the Chancellor and some other Doctor of education and collect my award. Sure, I forgot to re-do my own tie after putting it on in a hurry in the car, so it looked crap the whole time... but you can't be perfect all the time.

Hey, so whats this blockquote thing all about anyway? I mean, a quote of blocks? Realistically this is just little more than a test, a bad one at that...

I also got the token shot of me in the Student enquiries office, with... well, me. That pic was taken years ago in my first ever year of university -how different do I look huh? No more Nick Carter and the Backstreet Boys for me... I am totally Buff now.

I should give a little shout out. That guy in the picture next to me saved my bacon. I arrived at Macquarie overwhelmed, and set about not doing my readings or tute preparations (something that became a bad habbit). That guy next to me was like a little angel. I bumped into him during a lecture and we chatted... I bumped into him again one Friday, before an assignment was due the following Monday. I had done no research, had no idea about references or the art of referencing, and was wandering aimlessly around the library. If it wasn't for him taking me under his wing, showing me the ropes, I would have failed badly. So whoever you are, Mr "Always wears wicked good aftershave" - I salute you.

I graduated with the school education (I wanted them to write 'the school of hard knocks' on the degree but they refused), but surprisingly I knew more people that were graduating in the department of Earth Science than I did actual Edumacation students. Odd right? Yeah.

So the family came down to watch and made a fuss over me, to bring me gifts and wine and fuss over me some more. I ended up getting a Macquarie university coffee mug... and a nice little glass desk clock, which is just to my right as I type. I like my little glass desk clock. You can see through the glass bit. If I was a bird I would totally fly head-first into it and knock myself unconscious.

Interestingly I almost didn't get a desk clock, my mum was desperate to buy me a navy blue Macquarie University neck tie. A NECK TIE??? Where would I wear it? Did you not see how I am dressed? What makes you think I would wear a navy blue neck tie? It would look far more at home on a dusty old history proffessor in a tweed jacket... you know the ones that have elbow patches? Yeah. And I am way not there yet...

... and if you say I am one more time, I will punch you in the eye socket.

So until I return for masters, so long and farewall Macquarie University. Until we meet again.

So on to the runner up, or first place loser if you will. The highlight moment number 'two' of the Currarong weekend away. It all started with a simple holiday idea...

"Lets have home-style hamburgers for lunch."

Nothing out of the ordinary there. We made the meat patties, cut the salad and set the table... then threw the meat into the pan. Pretty soon they were sizzling away nicely, the buns were thrown into the oven, and the smell of fresh hamburgers wafted through the unit. But pretty soon, something else began wafting through the unit. A little smoke

Fi thought that it was the smoke from the hamburger patties, and turned down the heat... but still something was burning. So she moved the pan off the cooktop all together... still the smell of smoke ran through the unit. Then it happened. Fi opened the oven, sending smoke from the now charred black buns spiraling into the room. Everywhere. As you can make out in the pic above.

They were toasted as black as sin. Smoke filled the air... we all began to cough, running outside, only to have to run back inside to turn off the fire alarm that was now beeping in typically annoying fashion. I raced for my Asthma medication, the overwhelming smoke making my weak lungs decide to take a holiday from that whole 'breathing' thing...

Funny enough, the neighbors were outside on their ajoining decking enjoying lunch, and were witness to our coughing, spluttering escape. They asked if we were ok, and who was responsible for the smokey lunchtime burnt offerings. Like the good friends (and husband) we all were, we quickly absorbed the blame by pointing out that Fi was the sole person responsible for the rolling haze. You could almost smell the betrayal, and see us all pointing at her, and backing away leaving her standing on her own under the condescending glare of the fellow holiday folk.

Even funnier, the neighbors eating next door turned out to be the owners of the entire unit block, who basically sat by as their million dollar investment was threatened with the spectre of a firey demise. Oops.

Funnier still, Fi smelt like a chimney, as she copped the fury of the burnt buns full face on as she opened the oven. And I have it on good authority that later that night in the shower, she blew her nose and black charred remains of our hamburger buns came out her nose.

Gross.

I spent a lot of time in the bathroom at Currarong. Mostly because I needed to pee a lot. Now, I'm no rocket scientist, really, I'm not so I won't say I am... but I think that the reason I spent so much time peeing was because I drank so much.

In fact, we all drank quite a lot, with enough empty beer, wine, vodka and baileys bottles to create a wonderful little beer wall. Now lets be honest, it isn't the biggest line of empty bottles ever created, but when you realise that most of those were finished off by two people over two days... well. It's not a bad effort.

But back to the peeing... I spent a lot of time staring at the toilet during the Currarong weekend, and a strage and random thought hit me... about the 'half flush' on the toilets.

I don't understand the half flush system... I don't know if the half flush is the big button or the little button... depending on how you view the system it could be either. And heck, I can't tell the difference in volumes of water in the half flush. So here was my thought...

So maybe the half flush is the big button. Do you try to encourage people to save water by making the half flush the bigger and more noticable button... The rationale being that most people are kinda lazy and just hit the biggest easiest button. People don't care which flush they hit, as long as their business is gone. So could the water saving half flush be the big button?

Or maybe the sizes of the flush buttons are relative to the amount of water that rushes into the bowl. So in this case it would be the smaller harder to hit button that is the half flush and the bigger button is the full flush button.

I'm confused. Does anyone have any advice for me on this?

So far in the Currarong series, we have mentioned Dr Punjabi and Josh's spinning nuts and flying brocolli, along with some rather uncryptic references to alcoholic teas and other beverages... so now we can move onto the watersports part of the trip.

Now, as most of you know, I don't spearfish... rather I simply snorkel with a speargun. There are a number of reasons for this, the main ones being that I could not aim and actually hit a fish to save my life, and secondly, I only carry the gun because I am terrified of sharks, and in my mixed up mind, a speargun MIGHT just save me in the event of an attack. How I expect a speargun to save me when I cannot hit a slow moving fish from five metres, yet believe I will hit something the size of a cow racing at me at 60kmph is beyond me... but hey, the speargun is a placebo for me.

Anyways, Josh decided to go out for a spear. I didn't. It was way too cold for that kind of stuff, yet Josh still bagged me out about it all. I mean, Josh has a scientifically proven 'wintercoat' of blubber -the same type that whales use to keep warm in Antarctic waters- and a full on bodysuit that left little to the imagination, and he wonders why I get cold so fast in my tiny spring suit and 0% body fat index. Punk.

Well, Josh told me that he thought he looked like a secret "underwater ninja" when he dressed up in his outfit. Personally, I thought that as soon as he hit the water he looked a lot more like an elephant seal floundering around looking for his fill of fish.

And what a sight it was, when on land, watching Josh wedge himself into what can be described as being dangerously close to a 'full body lycra suit'. It was almost as akward as watching a group of people set the new world record for 'the most naked people in a phonebooth'. (Google it, the record really does exist, and is ever so akward... would you believe the record is 15?). Not to mention he had a giant hole in his outfit, just below the crotch on the upper left leg. I mean seriously man, be careful, there are children around in the area.

But as I mentioned before, as Josh paddled out into the water, I couldn't help but notice the striking similarities between Josh and a seal lion, or elephant seal. In fact I was looking for a group of small children to help me out in a little prank.

The idea was I would stand on the rocks and shout out to everyone around...

"Oh look everybody!! Its an elephant seal!!"

The idea being, that everyone would anxiously race to the water and stare and marvel intently... then as Josh paddles back in and stands up on the beach, everybody would be disappointed and groan... then from the front of the group, a rude little child would point and say in a high pitched voice something along the lines of...

"That's not an Elephant seal... thats just a really fat man!".

Although, he did look a little like the image below when he got out of the water, so who knows... perhaps the locals would have believed that an Elephant Seal was renting a unit overlooking the water for a weekend. It could have been something like 'The Captain and the Walrus'.

Tonight was the Colts presentation night, with both all age womens teams, three all age mens teams, and the over 35 mens teams in attendance. To be honest, I didn't even know that we had womens teams, but there they were. You learn something every day.

I didn't stay all that long to be honest... most of the boys were already messy when they arrived at 7, and by the time I left at around 10 they were much much more messy. I stayed there for quite some time, but realised it was time to leave when I noticed a few key signs...

Firstly, I noticed that Presso (who was so drunk when he arrived he was spilling his first beer at the pub down his pants) had begun to dance with both guys and girls indiscriminately. Bad sign.

Secondly, there was an excess of general man humping going on. I know the boys in the team are close, and have showed a lot of heart and comeraderie over the season, but that doesn't mean you need to rub chests with one another, even if you are drunk and think its funny.

Ok, lets be honest... everyone in the team was officially 'off their nut'. Especially Rus, who turned up to the presentation that he missed his award because he was so drunk he was throwing up in the bathroom when he was called for his golden boot award and trophy.

So eventually I left with my haul of three trophies and two metal award mugs... not a bad haul for a season coming back from injury. Oh, and Sam and Ibby, if you want your stuff back its now on my trophy shelf.

We have all heard of 'Long Island Ice Tea', an alcoholic drink that has no actual tea, but has quite a bit of vodka, named after the USA's largest Island in the contiguous 48 states. But have you heard of this new drink, created over the weekend called the 'Currarong Beach Tea'?

You probably won't ever see people ordering this tea at a bar or nightclub anytime soon. But if you ever come away on a weekend of craziness, you may just have the Currarong Beach Tea experience. I won't say too much more, other than it makes a very interesting and amusing prank to play on an unsuspecting victim. Simply make the victim a cup of tea, add a few healthy shots of vodka, stir and serve. And smile.

Tasteless vodka + hot relaxing cup of tea = victim having 'little sleeps' for around 4 hours in the afternoon. Funny when they don't expect to get slightly intoxicated and pass out.

The decking of our unit at Currarong wasn't a bad place for breakfast on a Saturday morning was it? In fact, many of you actually got picture messages of my lazy breakfast by the water... hopefully if you got that message from my phone, you had grey Sydney skies to contend with, to make you jealous.

But that food you see on the table doesn't magically appear, and seeing as though the boys were arriving a few hours (and a few beers) ahead of the girls, we decided to do the shopping. Apart from an abundance of beers, pies, ice-cream, doritos, salsa, chocolate and sausages and low fat milk. Because we watch our fatness.

We also bought nuts and vegetables... and as boys are prone to do, we had fun shopping without female companionship. So much fun in fact that most of the trolley was filled with snacks, steak and beer. Can you say 'flying broccoli'?

Yes. Here I was in the vegetable section, casually pushing the trolley around and minding my own business when Josh started lobbing vegetables at me... tomatoes, broccoli and even a freaking pineapple. And not from close range either... we are talking length of the aisle distance here. There was so much force that when I caught the broccoli, little pieces of green stuff disloged from the vegetable, and loged itself down inside my shirt.

And then there was Josh spinning and mixing his nuts. In the middle of the store. Some old lady even laughed at him for it. Josh decided to buy some nuts to snack on, and even though the nuts were different prices, Josh, being the sketchy entrepreneur he is, put a heap of expensive nuts in with the cheaper nuts to save money. Sketch.

Then I guess God decided to get him back... Josh held the top of the bag, and spun the bottom of it (you know... to close the top... as you do). But something went wrong. There was either TOO much spinning force going on, or Josh had crammed in too many expensive nuts into the bag with the cheap nuts.

The corner of the bag split as it picked up speed... sending nuts spiralling out of control in all directions in the middle of the vegetable section. People everywhere were being peppered with Josh's out of control nuts... children screamed and old women dived for cover behind the fruit tables...

... so Josh, please take care when handling your nuts ok? Oh, and the lady at the counter with the mullet also asked if you could not mix your nuts next time... it makes it hard for her.

You know you have probably partied a little too hard the night before, when the following morning you wake up, walk to the fridge, pull out the 'light white' milk and then say out loud "Why did we buy Custard?"

And why does someone (not mentioning any names) buy four big packets of doritoes and salsa, meat pies, chocolate and ice cream... but still go out of their way to buy low fat milk?

I figured I would kick off the new Currarong five in chronological order with what began as a simple voicemail message on my phone...

"Hi, Dr Punjabi? This is Anna, Bens mother. He has been having some trouble breathing and I know he is going to be ok but he really needs you to talk to him and calm him down"
*Womans voice trails off into what sounds like tears*

I look at Josh... confused... what? Did someone just call MY mobile phone, and listen to my voicemail recording that says something along the lines of "Hi, you've reached Will Dance, I can't take your call right now so please leave your name and number and I will get back to you" - and then assumed that 'Dr Punjabi' and 'Will Dance' sound familiar, and gone on to leave a voicemail message anyway?

Are you freaking kidding me? I assumed that whoever it was simply had the wrong number, would realise their mistake and call the real Dr Punjabi. And not Will Dance. But I was wrong... call after call came in, all beginning with something like "Hi, is that Dr Punjabi??".

I was beginning to get frustrated... do I even sound like a Dr Punjabi? Even after a minutes conversation people would still ask for Dr Punjabi, perhaps thinking I was just pretending that I wasn't the doctor to get out of having to help people avoid dying and the like...

It got so frustrating that at one stage I was literally about to answer the phone with a thick Indian accent and say something like:

"Hello, this is Dr Punjabi, how can I be helping of you today?"

Apparently a certain Dr Punjabi (according to the patient who kept ringing me) - a man who has obviously mastered the concepts and mechanisms that effect and influence the human body, has yet to master the concepts of phone digits and answering machines, using my mobile phone number as his after hours contact.

Well done Dr Punjabi, well done. As for the above pic, it was the only thing I could think of that potentially combined the elements of 'Dr Punjabi' + 'Will Dance' in the one image. Of course, with three little indians beating their drums, what Dr wouldn't Dance?

Dr Punjabi wouldn't dance... he is way too busy NOT receiving phonecalls from patients.

Empty beaches and white sand... the sound of waves rolling into the rocks only meters from the comfort of your deck chair... a few too many beers, Nissan X-trail jokes and pranks. It can mean only one thing. I have returned from another visit to beachside town of Currarong, near Jervis bay on the NSW south coast.

Last Christmas, I summed the entire trip up into one or two posts, including the 'currarong five' story, where I outlined the top five things that I witnessed on my epic travels, including spotting Santa Claus, an evening of strip poker, and the trivia night fiasco.

This time I will take my time carefully selecting (and editing) the stories, so that only the best (and suitable) stories make it to LOS. Perhaps even post by post, counting down the top five (or ten) currarong moments.

I would have done this all earlier today, but lets be honest...

...after spending a long APEC weekend away from the grey droll of Sydney during APEC, and after spending countless hours out in the sun on the deck, drink and doritos in hand... well. Whats the rush?

So how WAS dreary old Sydney during APEC huh? Suckers.

And so it is, my brother the enigma returns. Previously seen in other Life Of Such blog posts, such as "Oh I fell down the stairs and it's not my F$%&ing fault", and "Oh, I got caught out forging hours in my L's test log book... but it's not my F$%&ing fault", or "Oh, I steal your mirrors and hide them in my room, but it's not my F$%&ing fault", Sam returns in his latest epic...

...It is titled "My heart stopped working so I almost needed the defibrillator in hospital (and it's not my F$%&ing fault!)"

I can tell you are all shocked right now... but the real shocking part is that for once, as far as we can ascertain, it really ISN'T his fault this time. Wonders never cease.

In all seriousness, Sam spent last Saturday night in hospital. His heart rate accelerated and his heart was struggling to pump blood around his body. His brain was being starved of oxygen and he began twitching and shaking, and he had to be injected with some special drug to slow his heart rate down.

When that didn't work, and his heart rate climbed above 200 beats per minute, the doctors raced him into the resuscitation room as they were expecting the worst... that his heart would give out under the stress. When his heart rate continued to climb to 230 beats per minute, doctors fired up the defibrillator, as the human heart goes into cardiac arrest around 240 BPM. To put that in perspective, Sams maximum heart rate under severe exercise should be no more than around 195-200. Past that is dangerous. To make matters worse, he apparently needs to have heart surgery to correct the issue, although in saying that the doctors are not fully aware of what the actual issue is.

But by far the ultimate worst hardest to handle badderest thing, is that Sam is no longer allowed to drink sugary drinks, any energy drinks, or eat any foods with MSG. So basically his entire diet consisting of 'a coke and chinese from across the shops' is now off limits.

Mmm... I feel like Chinese... Hungry Sam?

Will out.

Just so you know, and so you don't all panic, I'm heading away down to the South Coast of NSW, away from Sydney during the APEC summit long weekend. So it is goodbye road closures, over caffeinated snipers and police water cannons, and hello beach, cocktails... and most likely a lot of rain.

Seriously, I am getting cabin fever just thinking about it. Being stuck in a beachside unit for 4 days, little phone or internet access... too cold for spearfishing... to rainy for sunbaking. I guess I just need to say a big 'thankyou Jesus' for inventing the playstation.

Well, I'm off... if I'm any later a certain J. Hinton will start to cry, and finding a man sized dummy can be quite a challenge. So don't call, cause I'm out of reception... going crazy... on the coast.

Now this is a special post for all you handy DIY people out there in cyberspace. Are you looking for a cheap and literally nasty way to spruce up your front yard? Are you looking for a way to add value to your property? Do you need to give your yard a bit of pizzaz, to keep up with the Joneses and make your stand out in the street? Are you lost for ideas? Then be lost no more good friend...

...introducing the all new 'kill a garden gnome by jamming a stick up its ass and planting it in the garden!'. Who needs rows of mondo grass and lavender, or little lines of daisies roses and tulips when you can have a gnome on a stick?

In fact, why limit yourself to a gnome on a stick when you can branch out and include other great ideas like a freddo or santa on a stick, or even a bart on a windowsill. The list goes on with gnomes, teddybears and even strange gremlins. Get out in your front yard and get creative!

In all seriousness, this is a pic from an actual front yard in Marsfield. Some freak has decided to go and murder a bunch of innocent garden gnomes and other assorted garden and household ornaments. If you want to go check it out, it is in Vimiera Rd opposite Moore Park. In fact, I suggest going along with a handful of extra garden gnomes... lets start a 'stick up the backside' gnome army!!

This is a fun little trick that I left me kicking myself for not thinking of it sooner. It provides a good few minutes entertainment when well executed (depending on the materials used - you will see what I mean) and potentially minutes more, if you do what I did and taught the little trick to previously tricked sibling (to stop them crying actually) and then send them off to get another hapless victim of their own.

All you need to pull this one off, and give yourself at least minutes and minutes of entertainment is a bright torch, as well as some kind of semi hard object, such as an orange, tennis ball or even an egg.

Call the 'victim' on, and lob the orange / ball / egg towards them so that they move towards it to catch it. Now, for best results, lob the item high, at least one to two feet higher than their head, so that it begins to drop at around head height.

Then, once they are in position - looking up at the item in flight - simply shine the torch in their eyes. They will be momentarily blinded, leaving the orange / ball / egg free to hit them nicely and forcefully in the head.

Minutes of fun. Just beware, if you take a page from my book, and hit your 7 year old sister in the head with a relatively hard orange, it might take a while to stop them crying. Your call though.

First of all, let me begin by wishing Roz a happy birthday, and I promise that those little baby photos of you that were shown at your party -the ones where you look like the love child of an unholy union between a troll doll and the marshmellow man, with your marshmellow thighs and what can only be described as a 'tuft' of dark black hair pointing to heaven- will never ever make it to the world wide web. No one outside your birthday party will ever see (for example) the image of you as a baby in a tiny nappy, struggling to stand under your own body mass on a bed. I promise. No one will ever see pics like that, at least not on this website. We are far too highbrow and mature to do stupid stunts to people like that. I promise.

So let us move on shall we?

I like to think that I am a pretty tough character, and that very little scares me. I'm not saying the previous statement is actually true, or that things don't scare me. All I am saying is that I like to think that I am pretty tough.

But there are a number of things in life that scare me. Snakes don't, but spiders do. I mean, you see a snake sliding towards you, someone shouts 'look out its a snake', and you all move out of the way. Spiders, well that is a whole different story. No one sees a spider coming towards them. No one shouts 'look out, there's a spider coming right for us!'. No, they just scream and jump and run off without explanation. The spider that caused all the fuss in the first place disappears using its super ninja skills and you spend the night wide awake, unable to sleep because every time the hairs stand up on your arm, or the pillow case brushes your ear, you are terrified it will be that damn spider.

In life there are a few phrases that strike fear and terror into the hearts and minds of those unfortunate enough to hear them. Phrases like "Excuse me sir, may I see your licence please? Are you aware that speeding is a federal offence?", and "Yeah, this might be a little uncomfortable, please just stand with your hands on the wall and spread your legs please".

You could probably add phrases like "hmm, no I don't think that rash is contagious..." and "Don't worry about it, I'm pretty sure that she/it was a girl" to that list as well. But I'd like to nominate a new phrase to add to the list of 'fear causing things'.

"Hey, I know... lets all do Karaoke!"

What started out as a lovely evening garden party for Roz quickly descended into a quagmire of poor vocals, poor lyrics and even poorer song choices. Of course, I must admit from the outset that singing in front of people is one of my greatest fears. I used to sing on special occasions, even singing with a male quartet for one special show, but now... never. I also don't dance. So don't ever ask.

Lets be honest though, Karaoke brings out the true character of a person faster than a psychologist or excessive alcohol consumption ever could. And all sorts were represented at Roz's birthday party. The quiet ones that avoided the microphone like the plague, those mischievious ones who deliberately kept picking horrible songs to make others sing, those who just like to 'get things done' in a hurry, who would always press the fast forward button mid song to get to the score at the end, those jokers who deliberately sing to sound bad and make others laugh, and then there is the final type of Karaoke singer... the worst kind...

...they who 'take karaoke too seriously'. Karaoke isn't an Australian idol competition. There is no need for massive vocals and equally massive dance routines. But there are always some who persist and try so hard to nail the melody and attempt to sound perfect doing it. You steal their microphone and they will punch you in the throat. The microphone is their friend, they cling to it like a life-line. Sometimes they can pull it off, like Alex and co at Roz's party... who tried hard because they can sing well. Sometimes they don't, like the 45 year old Chinese man at the restaurant, who was paid to sing Karaoke to the diners. He sucked. In either case, it can be painful to watch....

...but to be totally honest, in the case of Alex, Nathanial and that other guy who I don't remember the name off, it was just damn hillarious. Choreography, loud noise / vocals, and most importantly, the constipated facial expressions. These guys are naturals.

**updated**

...and the chipmonk version, which came from Roz's phone. For some reason the sound plays two times as fast as the video itself. Means it all sounds chipmunky, but you still see theif facial expressions. You love it.