Tuesday, September 30, 2008

i heart gary anderson, apparently

heard of Gary Anderson? no, me neither. but his people have heard of me, it seems.

i googled myself today. firstly, don't pretend you've never done it. secondly, i should have been preparing for tomorrow's job interview (as i should be doing this very moment) but am a star procrastinator, hence the self-google. thirdly, i was wondering whether my blog would surface by searching my name.

it does, and a few pages in, so does this gem. scroll about three-quarters of the way down the page and you'll spot my name.

for the lazy kids in the house of camel, apparently Kate Jacka of The Sun on the Gold Coast in Queensland (a description which kind of singles me out) claims "the way Gary moves drove the girls crazy. He's a True entertainer"!

i cannot begin to describe how random this is. as i've mentioned, i have never heard of this guy, let alone been to one of his shows.

furthermore, i don't write like that, what's with the capital t and put the exclamation mark inside the quotations. shees.

i'm a bit disturbed to be honest. my next move is to email the website and tell the punks to take it down. but then my hyperlink is totally destroyed. i'm in limbo.

Monday, September 29, 2008

any excuse to type the word beaver

I have never forgiven Manly for devouring the North Sydney Bears. Truth be told, I never liked them too much before the Super League crisis.

But I'm not a great fan of Melbourne either. The grapple is dirty, I hate Brett White, Steve Turner's word is as solid as custard and Victorians, who claim to be the country's greatest sports lovers, couldn't give a shit about them.

Who to barrack for come Sunday? Easy...

Beaver

I have never met Steve Menzies but he strikes me as a champion bloke. Tough, intelligent, consistent; he has represented his club, state and country honorably. Most impressive, at least to me, is he will leave the NRL a one-club man.

There aren't many footballers more worthy of a fairytale farewell.

It will be difficult, but I will be cheering for the Sea Eagles to take out the 2008 grand final. And by cheering I mean reluctantly supporting the lesser of two evils. Still, any player who can create such a miracle deserves to go out a champion.

Meanwhile, Cowboys: 2009 Premiers (did someone say glutton for punishment?)

Saturday, September 27, 2008

goodbye Australia, goodbye ex

(Un)lucky 13.

In a light hearted way only they can get away with, my friends always tease me about being Asian. Of course, I’m not Asian. But when I smile, so they remind me, my eyes threaten to disappear, hence the nickname Jacka Chan.

If only they could see me now. After about two straight hours of tears last night, and the mounds of soaked toilet paper to prove it, I am sporting a face puffier than a battered and bruised Wallaby. My eyes are drowning in cheeks. What’s that? Allergic to bees? No, just hugely emotional right now. It’s the kind of face which prompts acquaintances to ask ‘have you done something different?’ and friends to cry ‘oh my god, you’ve been crying. Are you okay?’

The problem, as almost any girl can tell you, is asking a female if she’s okay is akin to pressing the cry an ocean of tears button. Yeh, I have one, it’s somewhere round the back.

Tonight I leave the country indefinitely. Last night my ex came around to say goodbye. Sitting at my computer, stealing songs from my iTunes, he was soon privy to the photo slideshow which is my screensaver. It’s a reel of some of my favourite memories and so many of those memories include him.

Pictures from our trip to Thailand a few years back, our last New Year’s Eve together, our kitten who was hit by a car two days after we broke up (it was a bad week). I didn’t realise he had been quietly watching the photos roll by until he piped up: ‘it’s hard to see these’.

Yeh. Yeh, it is,” I replied somberly.

More silence. Then, at the same time, we looked at each other and both saw the tears welling in each other’s eyes. Seeing him like that was all I needed to crumple into a blubbering mess.

We talked, hugged and cried our way through the next few hours. Somehow it was horrible and wonderful at the same time. Either way, it was necessary.

Post breakup my life has been consumed by a possession split, property settlement, and mad-planning for my South American-come-European adventure. There’s been no time to breathe let alone mourn the death of my six-year relationship – easily the most significant and special I have experienced.

But last night, finally, I mourned.

The thing is, although we broke up eight months ago, we have seen each other often since. We attended each other’s birthday parties, we’ve caught up for numerous coffees, and he was one of the most important guests at my farewell.

Now that I am leaving, for the long term, our split has become so much more real. For the first time since we first met in 2001, we will be apart for more than five weeks, much more.

The things I will miss about him are endless but I think, most of all, we will both miss having that person by your side who you can share anything with and who makes the tough times a little better.

Ironically, I am likely about to embark on some pretty tough times. Traveling a continent solo with a minimal knowledge of the local tongue, for starters.

But, that was the whole point. Step outside my comfort zone and do a little self-discovery. As wanky as it sounds, the plan is to challenge myself and, in turn, find out who I truly am, and that’s something I need to do alone.

I am flying solo in more ways than one and the adventure starts tomorrow.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

wrong dot com

girl wears neckline-to-the-bellybutton dress to brownlow medal ceremony. wow. unheard of. except for the fact someone does it every single year.

i don't know who this girl is, but she dates a footballer. cool.

it's been six years since J-Lo wore "that" dress. will the copy cats ever cease? i'll save you the research time. no. no, they won't.

to be fair, i own a dress or two with a plunging neckline - not to this extend mind.

but here's my rule (and i'm a regular fashionista so listen up): only one Slutty McSlutsky feature at a time. hence, frontless orrrrrr backless, not both. Blondy FitzOrange broke my rule, and that's just rude.

how do you spell that Family Feud wrong-answer noise?

Monday, September 22, 2008

vegan bitch


I'm a bit behind the times but I finally decided to pic up the cult read Skinny Bitch.

Let me save you the same trouble.

"Become a vegan, you fat cow".

That pretty much sums it up.

I've decided to kindly decline the advice of authors Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin, mostly because I have a life (but also because they're anti ice cream and that's just wrong).

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Nicolas Cage, for the last time, stop talking

Column 12. Anne Frank: forever an inspiration.

“I’m blessed with many things: happiness, a cheerful disposition and strength. Every day I feel myself maturing, I feel liberation drawing near, I feel the beauty of nature and the goodness of people around me. Every day I think what a fascinating and amusing adventure this is! With all that, why should I despair?”

These are not my words. They come from the pen of a 14-year-old Anne Frank, written from an attic in Amsterdam, where she and her Jewish family were in hiding for two years after fleeing the horrors of Nazi occupation during World War II.

They should be my words. But instead, mine often adopt a slightly different tone.

“I know I’m blessed with many things but you know what really pisses me off? Slow drivers, bad advertising, early mornings, rednecks, sand in my bed, Nickleback, losing, disloyalty, banks, Nicolas Cage’s voice, and this goddamn breakup.”

Where do I get off letting Anne Frank trump me in the optimistic stakes?

I am days from my last shift and less than a fortnight off leaving the country indefinitely.
Excited? Nope, shitting myself.

On the surface, my main issues are the fact that I still have to sell my car and that this nightmare of a separation I am going through is yet to be finalised. How is that taking so damn long by the way?

Moving on. Despite these lingering loose ends, I am successfully calming myself through deep breathing and the constant reminder that I WILL sell my car, even if it is post departure, and the separation WILL happen, even if cross-continent technology has to come into play.

But what’s really freaking me out right now is the looming giant leap outside my comfort zone. Never have I embarked on such an independent life-change. My relocation to a new city for university was independent, but it was three hours from home and I moved in with about 2000 friends on tap. Campus life rocked my world.

The two following moves were both shared with my now ex-boyfriend. The second was a move to a city far closer to home, where I knew many people and had a job lined up. No wuckers.

Flying to Peru, alone, with no paid work in the pipeline…what am I doing?

When I decided to take this next step in my life, my dad asked me whether I was doing it because I wanted to or because I wanted to get away from it all.

I told him it was the former but, the truth is, the two options he threw my way are one and the same. I am doing this because I want to get away from it all.

And I’m getting away to a place which, I hope, will shove a little perspective in my face. As The Four Seasons, The Carpenters, Gloria Estefan, Tom Jones, the girls from Beverly Hills 90210, and many other artists sang, ‘breaking up is hard to do’. But, compared to a life lived in Peruvian poverty, or hiding from religious persecution in an attic, I’m on a pretty good wicket.

That’s easy to forget but so important not to. Too bad I have a terrible memory.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

blinded by love (well, almost)

If you can be arsed, check this out. If you can't, here's the brief: Katie Milligan, the girl who recklessly head-butted her boyfriend Greg Bird's broken beer bottle, is standing by her man.


Dumb and dumber


I have made no secret of my hate for Greg Bird. He is a grub and I drew this conclusion long before he almost blinded his girlfriend. As an avid Blues supporter, I am embarrassed he has represented our state. I hope he never does again.

But, here's the thing. Just like her boyfriend, Katie Milligan is a FUCKING DICKHEAD and, along with others like her, the very reason there are still men out there who think beating up women is okay.

As Shakespeare once said, 'trick me once, shame on you. Trick me twice, shame on me'. Of course, Shakespeare never said that, and I completely stole that joke from this guy I know, but you get my point, right?

He will hurt her again. She won't deserve it. But she will have herself to blame for giving him the chance.

Fool.


* Thank you K.Lo for the research.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

my heart aches

this is not a movie review. i don't have the energy to re-live the experience. i've called on youtube to help me cheat...

see it. take tissues and take a friend who will understand you might just need to sit, stunned as the credits, and your tears, roll.

never will i be able to comprehend such hate. never will i be able to accept the ugly capabilities of ignorance.

i cannot rid my mind of this movie's final scene. i am drained.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

dazed and confused

Legs 11.

Talk about a cliff-hanger.

Did you read last week’s column? If you didn’t, this is going to be tough to follow. In fact, you probably shouldn’t bother. No, no, kidding. Let’s try to bring you up to speed.

This is part two of a love story. I suppose it’s like any other love story. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. The difference though is boy and girl never told each other until nine years later (also known as last week) when boy (played by Matthew McConaughey) professed his undying love for girl (Jessica Alba).

“I have been feeling sick for the last six years,” Matthew told Jessica, referring to her recently defunct relationship. “I have been convinced I had missed my chance. I have to take it now. I’m sorry. I have to. I love you. We are meant to be together.”

Jessica was speechless. She was stunned. But, once she managed to pick her jaw up from the floor, she found a few prize words.

“You’re an idiot. An idiot. My God. I spent three years loving you, convinced we were meant to be. The tears I cried over you. You had to have known. Argh. You idiot. Where was this nine years ago?”

While Jessica was speaking the truth, she was more dumbfounded by the comedy of errors than angry.

“I don’t quite know how to react,” she continued, her tone taking a serious turn. “I know I’m supposed to say ‘it was always you’ as I jump into your arms and kiss you passionately, and I feel as though that would be the appropriate response to such a gallant gesture, but I can’t. The timing…it’s…I’ve just broken up with Brad, I’m about to leave the country. I just can’t.”

“I know,” he replied. “I didn’t expect any different. But you had to know. I’ve waited six years for you, I can wait another. It’s us. I’ve never doubted we should be ‘we’. I love you.”

The wine continued and so did the conversation. Somehow, most likely because of their friendship, Jessica and Matthew were able to play a game of hindsight, looking back of ‘that time’ and ‘this time’ and seeing things in a whole new light. For Jessica at least, it wasn’t awkward, it was actually really special.

Matthew slept the night, but on the couch, and left the next day much lighter for having revealed his long-kept secret, even though he didn’t know whether it would come to fruition.

Jessica, on the other hand, was left utterly confused. Still feeling the shockwaves from her breakup with Brad, she was now presented with the possibility of something she once wanted so very much.

But what about the timing. Was it too late, or just right?

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

it's groundhog day

It appears The Australian's archive system has been put to good use.

James Madden and Nicola Berkovic shared the byline when The Australian reported Johnathan Thurston's Dally M success last year.

JOHNATHAN Thurston arrived at rugby league's night of nights with no one on his arm, but he left Sydney's Town Hall with the sport's highest individual honour after winning the Dally M Medal for the second time.

Last night The Australian, courtesy of neither James or Nicola, reported Matt Orford's victory in similar fashion.

MATT Orford arrived at rugby league's big night alone, but the Manly halfback came away with the coveted Dally M medal.

Five points for originality. No. Wait. I meant minus five points. But, to be fair, five points for a sub-25 word lead. Congratulations, you've broken even.

touche hairy man

This guy, Russell Brand, is really popular in London. I hadn't previously heard of him but his MTV Awards bit has won me over.
"Some people, I think they're called racists, say America is not ready for a black president.

"But I know America to be a forward thinking country because otherwise why would you have let that retarded cowboy fella be president for eight years?

"We were very impressed. We thought it was nice of you to let him have a go, because, in England, he wouldn't be trusted with a pair of scissors."

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

chivalry is alive and well

My how these are flying. Column 10. Not originally part of the equation but...things change.
xx

The whole idea of this column was to present Townsville Bulletin readers with something heartfelt and honest. It’s been easy to sit down and write this column but much harder to hand over and allow to be published. But, true to my word, I have been honest and will continue to do so. That’s why, despite not being so sure I want to, I am about to tell you a little story.

I have just played the protagonist in the kind of scene you’d find in a Hollywood romantic comedy. For ease of relaying the tale, I’ll be played by Jessica Alba (thank you very much) and conveniently, Matthew McConaughey (hot!) has been cast as the male lead.

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Jessica. Jessica had just finished school and was off to Canberra for university. No sooner had she moved into her room on campus, had she met the man of her dreams. His name was Matthew, and he had moved in two doors down. Jessica and Matthew connected instantly and they became the best of friends.

Despite their bond, Jessica never felt confident enough to act on her feelings and the unrequited love broke her heart. As their university careers came to a close, and with a helping hand from a little alcohol, Jessica and Matthew finally hooked up. Jessica was elated. They would finally be together. But such dreams never came to fruition.

Enough was enough. Jessica would pine no longer. Not long after this decision, Jessica met Brad Pitt. They connected, mentally and physically, and spent the next six years together.

Fast forward to Jessica and Brad’s breakup. Jessica was devastated and called on the support of friends. These friends, including Matthew, were there for her unconditionally.

Home alone one night, Jessica heard an unexpected knock on the door. It was Matthew. After a phone call the night before, during which Jessica had burst into tears relaying her horrible day, Matthew had decided to drive the 11 hours from Sydney as a show of support. At least, that’s what he said on arrival.

After dinner and a few red wines, Matthew abruptly announced: “I have to tell you something. And you have to make me tell you.’’

Ahhh, okay. Go,” Jessica replied, a little confused but also amused by his unnatural awkwardness.

Matthew said nothing. Deep breath after deep breath, he was smiling, laughing but again, it wasn’t natural.

“Okay, hang on. Let me wee first,” Jessica piped up. She’d never been good at holding on and had a feeling this was going to take some time. In fact, she started to get an inkling for exactly what she was about to hear. She returned to the couch, a little nervous.

“Okay, okay, I just have to say it. Just let me speak. I just need to tell the whole story. I need to just say it all in one hit. Okay.’’

Long pause.

“I am completely and utterly in love with you and I have been since we met.”

Jessica’s jaw; floored. She was speechless, although that wasn’t an issue because Matthew really did intend to keep talking.

“I am an idiot for not telling you back then. I am actually embarrassed, ashamed. I can’t even explain it. I guess I was scared. I was 18 and wasn’t ready to be with the girl who knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. It was so clearly you. It has always been you. No one makes me feel the way you do. No one comes close.

“At the end of uni I had made the decision to tell you. I was standing at your door. I was about to knock and I panicked. It was ridiculous. My heart started beating so quickly, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t do it.

“The next day you introduced me to Brad. My heart sunk but I figured I would tell you as soon as you guys broke up. I have been feeling sick for the last six years. I have been convinced I had missed my chance. I have to take it now. I’m sorry. I have to. I love you. We are meant to be together.”

Jessica’s response? As they say in the classics, stay tuned.

Friday, September 5, 2008

the hunt continues

Rarely have I felt more rejected than during the not-as-brief-as-I-might-have-hoped period between university graduation and ‘first real job’.

With a degree in my hot little hands, I poured coffee, waited tables and answered phones, among other things, before a game newspaper editor gave an educated but inexperienced wannabe journalist a break. Phew.


That was more than five years ago and I have since managed to avoid returning to the black hole of unemployment. Until now.

I am in London. I have only been here two weeks but the pound is already demolishing my Australian savings. I must find a job.

I didn't expect it to be easy and it hasn't been. Today I got an email from a recruitment agency I had earlier sent my resume to. It was hard to swallow.

Hi Kate,

Thank you for your email.

Unfortuantley (sic) we are not in a postion (sic) to help you as we do not get roles like your (sic) in. Your (sic) best to approach companies direct or agent that specialise in media (sic, sic, sic).

Rejection is tough. Even tougher when the rejector (yes, i know, sic) is a moron.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

oh, how i laughed

Why does Snoop Dog always carry an umbrella?

Fo' drizzle*


*Joke blatantly stolen from Defamer

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

my first kiss

Eeek, why did I write this??? I will never know. Column nine.

PS: if you haven't already figured it out, these columns are dated. It's actually been almost one year since "we" broke up. It was also our seven year anniversary last month. Well, would have been. That felt weird. Just waiting for the weirdness to end. And for someone to give me the power to invent words like weirdness.


So, I kissed this guy on the weekend. I know, what am I? Thirteen? Regardless of how juvenile that sounded, the point is, I have had my first passionate lip-lock with someone other than my ex since 2001.

Embarrassing as it may seem, after that long with the same guy, jumping back on the market feels a little like starting all over again.

And remember how crap it was starting over? Ugh. I’m not sure about you but there was such a fear involved as the inevitable milestone of my first kiss crept up on me. A fear of not knowing what to do, of possibly discovering I was a bad kisser, of the idea ‘he’ could tell everyone how much I ‘like, totally sucked’.

When I was about 13, even after my first kiss, I used to get so nervous if I found out a boy ‘liked me, liked me’. It actually it occurred to me one day maybe that meant I was a lesbian. I know, laugh, it’s stupid. Even sadder is that, back then, the idea I could be gay was mortifying. How would I ever live it down?

Anyway, the bonus of a “first kiss” in your 20s, apart from the fact your partner in crime probably doesn’t taste like the potato chips he ate at recess, is the benefit of alcohol.

Alcohol was the catalyst for the public embrace between Mark and me last weekend. I don’t think it would have happened any other way. That’s not to say there was anything wrong with Mark, quite the opposite; it’s just that, despite being about six months into my breakup, I felt like a horrible cheater.

Once I had convinced myself that wasn’t the case, and that my ex had most probably and quite rightfully got up to similar shenanigans, I was still questioning the decision. I know it’s ridiculous. Six months is a far more substantial mourning period than most would commit to. But, to me, it was as if the time spend being single, without moving on to that kind of bachelorette lifestyle, was my way of respecting not just my ex, but the six years we had together.

Putting those feelings aside, back to the kiss. I’ve actually known Mark for quite some time. He’s a friend’s cousin and also went to the same university as me. But I hadn’t seen him for years. Our kiss, shared at a mutual friends’ birthday party, was borne out of lost inhibitions (or alcohol) and swing dancing.

You see Mark is a PE teacher and dancing, so he told me, is the subject of prac this term. Lucky for Mark, he has rhythm and he was happily busting a grove on the dance floor. Working the genres, Mark soon progressed to swing dancing, for which he needed a partner. It doesn’t take much to drag me onto a dance floor so Mark, a good looking guy, had no trouble convincing me to join him.

Have you ever had a crack at swing before? It’s fun but, when wearing a low cut dress, it’s dangerous. Perhaps it was the unintentional boob flash I gave Mark that attracted him, perhaps it was the beer – I’ll probably never know – but he moved in for the pash and I kindly obliged.

It’s worth noting, as part of my commitment to you, before I write a column of this nature again, I’m going to come up with some better, more adult words for “pash”. Promise.

Anyway, the pash continued well into the night until the inevitable question arose: your place or mine? My inevitable answer, at least for now, was neither. That jump is going to take a little more time.

Monday, September 1, 2008

slave labour

I am job hunting. It sucks arse (I've moved on from so many crass and juvenile terms but, for some unknown reason, sucks arse is not one of them).

Today i was perusing some site and came across a freelance job. Five hundred words a story, three stories a day, five days a week, all due by the 9am deadline.

"So you are free to write the articles at a time that suits you," the advertisement boasted.

The job was kind of striking a chord with me. It was a niche market which I think would be fantastic to write about. I was gearing up to adjust my generic cover letter.

Scroll down.

"For each article you will be paid $5.50. You will therefore earn a daily sum of $16.50..."

Firstly, I don't know where the pound key is. Quite likely there isn't one.

Secondly, thanks for the sums. I may be a writer but I am not a mathematical retard.

Thirdly, I laugh in the face of your offer. $5.50 a story?? You have got to be kidding. Who in this world is going to apply for such a position.

Journos, I know you appreciate this.

To bring the rest of you up to speed: I have been given the thumbs up to submit freelance stuff (yes, that's the official term) for a certain Australian publication while I am overseas with a guide of $150-$250 per 600-1000 word yarn.

I am not special, that's simply what such a job is worth.

Back to the hunt, or maybe facebook first.

from the mouths of babes

Waiting, waiting, waiting for my delayed easyJet flight from Lyon to London....

The rain is teaming, the thunder rolling, the lightning illuminating the makeshift terminal three...

A six-ish-year-old calls out...

"Mummy, mummy. What happens if we all die?"

Food for thought during the rocky 90 minute flight.
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