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The Bachelor: Prick From a Rose

16 Sep

“Will you accept this rose?”

Damn straight I will!  Why?  Because there is nothing I love more than watching 25 single, desperate women with enough botox and fake tan to put Heidi Montag to shame, competing for the affections of an eternally shirtless ‘chiropractor’.

Come on, we all gave a little snigger when pensive Dr Tim explained how hard it was being a ‘chiropractor’ and having no time to find love, all the while running down the beach in little more than a loin cloth.  Seriously, the producers of ‘The Bachelor’ must have v expensive water bills considering all the bloody beachside showers that man is having!

But despite all of this I am totally and utterly digging on this show in the most shameless way.

Not so much because of Dr Boardshorts, but more because of all the CRAZY BITCHES TRYING TO MAKE HIM FALL IN LOVE WITH THEM!  It really is just the most hilarious concept for a TV show and I just cannot help but love it hard.  I used to think eating a large packet of peanut M’n’Ms in my underwear was a good day, but this is way better.  And much better for my ass.

As you would know, the premise is that Dr Chisel Face spends time getting to know these nutcases by taking them on individual and group dates, and then at the end of the episode, he hands out a single red rose to the ones he wants to keep around; the ones he believes are one step closer to being ‘Mrs Fake Doctor’.  Can you just hear the Celine Dion soundtrack in the background?

At this early stage of the competition it is very hard for me to pick a fav.  However, there are some obvi standouts who are already giving Kimberley from Melrose Place a run for her money and crazy pills. And she is not even a real person.

First of all there is Ali, or as she is called in my house, Doe-Eyed Crazy.  Seriously, the girl couldn’t be in a more perpetual state of awe if she was sucking on laughing gas.  The poor pet got a little too eager on the first night and tried to plant one on unsuspecting ‘chiropractor’ Tim.  And he awkwardly pushed her off.  For reals, you couldn’t MAKE better television!

My other fav is Bianca.  Or Sav Blanca.  In a word, she’s a drunk.  And for that reason alone I like her.  I feel like the ‘Fitness Model’ thing is a lie and she’s really just a recovering junkie doing her community service on national television.  But she’s got some serious tude.  And a speech impediment.

Mention must also go to whiny Laura whose damsel in distress act is starting to get really old.  Almost as old as Penny, the 35-year-old fitness instructor who likes to salsa and wear terrible hair extensions.  Gosh, it’s like this show was made just for me!

I think the other reason I like this show so much is because it also makes me angry.  It’s just a Naomi Campbell bitch slap in the face to feminism (and every other remotely independent woman-type movement ever made).  I mean, these 25 women are COMPETING for a man to fall in love with them!  And they all live together in the same house while they do it.  I mean, it’s the first rule of multiple dating, bro – keep those bitches separate!  But I realise this is the whole premise of the show and, consequently, a moot point.

And while we’re on it, what the shit is going on with host Osher Gunsberg?  No no, I haven’t had a momentary episode of dyslexia, the man previously known as Andrew G slash Andrew Ginsberg has gone on some spiritual and professional quest to America and come back with a wanky name change.  Don’t worry, I looked it up online (I totally research) and evidently he met some wise shaman while holidaying in Israel who told him his name had bad energy around it and he was heading down a path of ‘destruction and sadness’.  Very ‘Eat Pray Love’! Look, I’m no expert, but I think this had more to do with the fact that he’d been working on some of the worst television shows ever created and someone was pissed.  But I digress.  The point?  Osher is actually ridiculous.  Only Prince can get away with that shit.

The other thing I love about ‘The Bachelor’ is the ridiculous ‘acting’.  Like last night, when seven unsuspecting bitches were taken out into the Australian sand dunes for a group date.  When Dr Wet Hair made his big entrance over the top of the dunes like Indiana Jones, GOSH it was dramatic!  They were all so shocked and impressed that it was him!

WHO THE EFF ELSE DID YOU EXPECT IT TO BE?!

But again, it may seem like I am bagging on this show, but quite the contrary.  It has allowed me to truly understand the meaning of guilty pleasure. It’s like when you go off carbs and get a cheat meal on Sundays.  It’s that massively greasy pizza and tub of ice-cream you shove down your throat.  Bloody good for the soul.  Because watching it reminds me that I am actually an awesome person with half a brain cell and natural breasts.  Mind you, the women on this show haven’t had a pizza or ice-cream since they were in nappies, so you gotta shed a tear for them in that regard too.

And I urge you to watch it.  Just prop your eyelids open with a couple of match sticks and force yourself to witness the excruciating drama unfolding.

Then come and gossip about it with me like we actually know these people.  It’ll be amaze.

And stay tuned. I don’t imagine this will be the last time you hear of me, Dr Used-To-Be-A-Stripper.

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Ode to My Father

1 Sep

“Some people say I look like me dad!”

You said it, B*Witched.  (And if you don’t know which circa 1999 Irish girls group I’m referring to, YouTube that shit immediately.)

There is a common belief that most girls end up looking like their mothers.  And from observation I have found this to be true.  But not for me.  I thought by this age I would have started appreciating cane furniture and shopping at Laura Ashley.  However, this does not appear to be the case.  Despite the fact I sometimes bear an uncanny resemblance to him in photographs (which is a little disturbing when you’re a 29 year-old woman) fate and genetics seem to have decided that my future is heading directly towards Fathertown.

And since a) today is Father’s Day and b) my father works in some random part of buttf&*# nowhere (also known as Western Australia), I have created this blog post as a dedication to daddy dearest (who will most likely never read it, as he does not have sufficient internet access or possibly internet knowledge.)

10 Reasons Why I Am Turning Into My Father:

1.  I yell at the television.

This was originally restricted to State of Origin matches. ( Yes, I am an avid QLD State of Origin supporter and don’t even start.)  This kind of behaviour is acceptable in a live-to-air football match.  However, a few months ago, I found myself screaming “SHE’S LYING TO YOU, HAYLEY! STOP LYING TO HAYLEY LEWIS!!” during an episode of Biggest Loser.  On my own.  Give me a recliner lounge and a rum, and I’m Dad.

2.  I fall asleep in an upright position.

Don’t tell me your dad didn’t doze off in front of the telly.  My dad even did it with his cup of coffee still in his hand.  And I would watch with gross fascination.  But now that I have a real job and have been practically forced into taking multi-vitamins for Energy & Vitality I TOTALLY get it. I do it at work, on the bus, in the movies, on my couch, at the doctor.  I even drool sometimes.

3.  No parking space is ever good enough.

We used to live within 5 minutes of one of the biggest shopping centres in south east Brisbane, if you don’t hardly mind.  Any mum’s dream.  Any father’s greatest dread.  Dad never came to the shops except at Christmas and birthdays.  And it took him an hour to find a space, because “everything was too bloody far away.”  Mum would park in the next suburb if it meant she had access to the Myer Stocktake Sale.  But not dad.  And not me.  It’s a prime spot or I turn that car around.

4.  I have to turn off all electrical points in the house.

I cannot leave the house without double checking that everything with the remote potential for catching fire is turned off.  At the wall.  Things like the heater.  The kettle.  My hair straightener.  The TV.  Now I understand why it took us half a day to leave the house for a holiday and why my mother had to have a scotch and orange in the morning. Whatever, when YOUR house burns down from electrical failure, don’t come crying to me.

5.  I like beer more than a lot of things.

Cheap beer.  Even at 58, dad will still take a XXXX over a Corona.  Before you judge, I do not drink XXXX.  In Victoria, you can get assaulted for that.  But I would take a VB.  Or Carlton.  Whichever.

6.  I laugh at my own jokes.

It’s bad enough that I’ve been telling dad jokes since I was 17.  It’s worse now that I am the one laughing the loudest.  And I don’t even care.

7.  I wear singlets under everything.

Remember Chesty Bonds?  Mum used to pick up a two-pack for dad at Woolies because he wore them UNDER EVERYTHING.  Apparently it was a thing back in the late 80’s/early 90’s before it was acceptable for men to wear fluoro coloured muscle shirts.  Initially I thought this new habit of mine developed because I lived in Melbourne.  But the fact that I am still doing it well into Autumn and Spring begs to differ.

8. I like to watch documentaries.  And Seinfeld.

Dad’s favourite shows are docos.  I used to see docos as dead bloody boring with a few shots of old ladies with their boobs hanging out.  Not anymore.  ‘Inside the Human Body’, ‘Airplane Investigation’, ‘National Geographic’s Search for the Green-Eyed Girl’ – I’m mad for it!  I turned down ‘Bridezillas’ to watch a doco on the volcanic eruptions on Mars on a flight to Brisbane last month.  WHO AM I?!

And the Seinfeld thing?  I used to hate it.  Now I own the DVDs.

9.  I go to Bunnings.

This is a bit of a stretch.  I went to Bunnings.  Consider the fact that I had never been before in my life, I have now visited that place three times in the last year!  In my defence I was wearing a leopard print maxi and a purple cape.  But still.

10.  I’m very concerned about petrol prices.

Gosh they’re getting expensive.  It’s bloody daylight robbery!  When I got my licence, it was 68 cents a litre!

 

 

Truth be told, I still don’t know how to change a tyre properly or how to check the chlorine levels of a pool.  But give me another few years and she’ll be right.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

 

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A Royal Pain

23 Jul

Kate Middleton had a baby last night.

This was news I was anticipating and also dreading.  Why?  Because along with the expected hoopla and celebratory tea and scones from the Brits (which, once again, reinforces to me how much I wish I was British, but that’s another story), we also got the obligatory ‘who gives a crap about the royal baby?’ whingers.

And they were everywhere! Declaring their feelings of resentment and not-caring to anyone with ears or a functioning touch screen.  No-big-deal mums claiming that they went through childbirth along with every other woman on earth and why should we be so interested in it?  Political pains who decided to take personal offense to Australian fascination with anything to do with the monarchy. Gosh, it was dramatic.

Well, you know what Debbie Downers?  I AM interested in it and it IS kind of a big deal! So scoff all you like, but I unashamedly love the royal family and their hoity-toity accents and interesting choices in headwear.  I think Kate Middleton is a bloody fox and a half and she just gave birth to a future king.  AN ACTUAL KING!  Not like when regular babies are born and their doting, blinded-by-love parents call them their little ‘prince’ or ‘princess’.  No, no.  This kid is ACTUALLY A PRINCE who will one day sit on a freaking throne and have his face embossed on a two dollar coin.  Let’s just say, if I was living in Britain right now I would be all about the union jack face paint and a smart plastic crown.

The funny thing is, all the Negative Nancy’s publishing their disdain for the royal birth are the same people who like to clog my news feeds or water cooler discussions with football score updates or their kid’s latest bowl movement. (I could go on for days about this, but that’s another time, another blog). People in glass houses…

My fascination and affection for Queenie and her strange family has no political motivation or meaning.  I just really like her and her colour blocking outfits.  I always thought she looked a little like my nanna.  And she lives in a palace.

Speaking of my nanna, there are some people here in Australia who just die for the royals.  As well as other relatives of mine, my nanna kept and to this day still owns the souvenir edition of Woman’s Weekly from when Charles and Diana got married.  And Fergie and Prince Andrew.  (God, remember Fergie?  That was an epic ginger mop.  And she married a prince.  Now that’s the definition of inspiration.) These are the people who grew up with the royal family and tape Queenie giving her Christmas Day speech on VHS.  Don’t they deserve a moment?

And you know, it’s nice to still have the royals around, considering the usual media saturation given to things like Kim Kardashian’s butt.  And ladies don’t tell me the sight of Prince Harry in his military uniform doesn’t make you drop an egg.  But I digress…

Look, the point is, haters gonn hate.

But it’s one day.  Let us have our British fun, would you?  Tomorrow you can go back to talking about what you made for dinner last night.

Long live Prince-Whatever-His-Name-Is!

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The Five People You Hate on Facebook. Lesson One: Selfies

15 Jul

Inspired by the book ‘The 5 People You Meet in Heaven’ I have decided to put together my own little life-changing series based around social media.

Now, unlike aforementioned book, this particular blog series is not so uplifting and poignant, but rather a little more harsh and a little less heart-warming.  And I am aiming it at everyone who uses social media.  Because social media is pissing me off.  For realz. 

I chose Selfies as my first lesson of the day because this has been an issue that has long since troubled me.  Anyone who knows me in real life, regardless of capacity; workmate, close friend, beautician, relative, post man etc, should by now be well aware of my position on selfies. I do not enjoy.  Repeat:  DO. NOT. ENJOY.

(I should probs clarify here that I’m not referring to a random selfie once every six months when you get a haircut, so just stem your flow before you get all flustered and defensive.)  

No, I am specifically targeting the Excessive Selfie Taker.  The EST.  

We ALL know them.  We ALL see them.  Some are even likely to be really good friends of yours who you just cannot bring yourself to tell that their incessant selfie-taking is hurting your soul.  

With the invention of social media such as Facebook and Instagram, the popularity of the selfie skyrocketed like Amanda Bynes’ meds.  At first, we were all just loving ourselves sick online and really, just revelling in the newfound vanity of sharing self-portraits with people we’d never met.  But, a couple of years down the road, a number of EST’s noticed that people weren’t liking or commenting on their amazing selfies as much and realised that maybe it was just starting to get annoying……. Yuh huh.  

So, the new-age selfie started to emerge.  The new breed disguised as something less vain but still created for that very reason. And I believe I have narrowed it down to the top four categories:

1.  The Arty Selfie:  I blame Instagram for this.  Slapping on a Valencia filter and highlighting your lipstick colour with some fancy editing app I don’t know how to use and then hashtagging #red or #portrait does not make your photo any less selfie-like.  I can see straight through your bohemian, hipster facade, Van Gough.  That’s still your face.

2. The Weather Selfie:  For some unknown reason, people have started to become heavily influenced by the day’s forecast.  Like when it’s a really clear, bright day and, suddenly, all these selfies appear on your feed with the caption “Loving the sun today.”  Obviously not as much as your face.  Same goes for selfies taken on the first day of a new season i.e. ‘Autumn selfie.’  John Schluter would be ashamed.

3.  The Location Selfie:  This one’s been around a bit longer.  But it’s no less irritating.  Have you ever had a selfie appear in your feed with the caption, “OMG!  I’m in/at <insert exciting event/exotic location here>!” That’s a thinly disguised Location Selfie, my friend.  Look, I’m really happy you’ve made it to Yemen, but seriously, it’s still just your face.  You could be in your lounge room for all I know.  (I once had an Instagram friend post several selfies outside the Moulin Rouge.  The effing Moulin Rouge!  Maybe just…take a photo OF the Moulin Rouge?  Too outlandish?)

4.  The Gym Selfie:  Just like the hundreds of you who constantly complain about gym-related status updates, this is dedicated to the gym-related selfie.  I didn’t really care that you were at the gym to begin with, so a mid-session selfie isn’t really going to turn that boat around.  What’s really alarming is that, recently, gym selfies are morphing into half-naked gym selfies.  Men in their underwear at the gym are for Grindr only.  Word.

 

Please stop.  Just stop.  

 

Now, as any self-respecting vain bitch, I more than appreciate a smart selfie when you look in the mirror and everything is just working for you.  Like when it would be goddam criminal to deprive the world of your face today.  I’m picking up what you’re putting down, girlfriend.  And yes, I have taken them myself.

But daily selfies are just not OK.  Unless you’ve magically grown an extra head overnight.  Then I would probably pay to see that.

As a rule, I’ll allow one a month.  Maybe two.  That’s twenty-four a year.  That’s a lot.  Don’t worry EST’s, we won’t forget what you look like.  But we probably will like you a lot more than we did.

I’m sure you’re all v v attractive, but hang up those duck lips for the sake of humanity.

 

 

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Yeah I did…..

11 Jul

So here it is, my first blog entry.

Wow, what an inspirational opening.  But regardless, thats exactly what it is.  A friend of mine told me to simply get online and start writing about myself.  Now, the shamelessly vain, self-involved part of me (which you will come to know in time) was v impressed with this advice as she had been drinking copious amounts of cheap champagne at the time.  But after the hangover and the piecing together of the weekend’s conversation on Monday morning, the regular me opened her laptop to begin, and…nothing.  Why?  Because writing about yourself is bloody hard!  How on earth Jordan managed to write herself four (yes, FOUR) autobiographies is more than beyond me.  I guess showing your bits and planning the world’s most hideous wedding to Peter Andre make for unending reading.  (Note to self: must buy Jordan’s autobiography.)

Obvi, I believe my own opinions and thoughts are incredibly important.  In my mind, I am quite hilarious and entertaining.  So, the logical and sane thing to do would be to publish these said thoughts and opinions on the internet for the world to see and judge.  Yep, good decision.

So welcome.  I hope to make you laugh a bit or a lot.  Preferably a lot.  And if not, make you feel better about your clearly superior joke-telling skills at least. I also hope you can take some amusement from my life; like today, when I was grocery shopping but ended up getting a five-minute lecture from a random elderly gentlemen about the health benefits of yoghurt brands available at suburban Coles.  There were about six other women in the aisle (who were most likely wearing bras and make up, unlike yours truly.) But he picked me to share his unending wisdom of acidophilus with. Evidently, Dairy Farmers make a good quality, well-priced natural yoghurt that comes in a container that can be washed and used by the little kids as a drinking cup.

For realsies.  

Luckily he walked away before I brought out my knowledge of mega bitchadophilus.

Anyway, please come back and keep reading.

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