Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Grandma - Babysitter and baked bean terrorist

When I was young, my mother worked two jobs and went to night school. As a result, we spent a lot of time at my grandma’s house across town. We didn’t mind, except for the fact that she only owned 3 videos – Priscilla: Queen of the Desert, Riverdance and Lord of the Dance. Really, how many times can you watch these things? (answer: 714)

Anyway, one night my mum was coming home late, so we were staying the night. Grandma let us choose whatever we liked from the kitchen for dinner. I went for the chicken (it was a safe bet. The time before we had had liver) and my youngest sister, N, wanted baked beans.

Grandma chucked the chicken in the oven, set the baked beans can on the top of the stove and we all settled in to watch Hey Hey it’s Saturday.

After about ten minutes, the kitchen exploded! My grandma, who had been through WWII did the most logical thing and squawked, then hid behind a pillow. L, N and I went to investigate and learnt that cans which contain compressed contents don’t take well to heat.

After it was decided that I was the tallest person under 70, I would have to get onto the bench and clean the walls and ceiling. To make matters worse, Grandma was too busy critiquing my cleaning and burnt the chicken. So this is how I spent a Saturday night in winter, as a ten year old.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Is this why I haven't been recruited onto a home improvement show?

So every year after Christmas, V and I have a tradition. On Christmas Day, we come home and clean out all our cupboards in order to fit the new gifts and get rid of stuff we haven't used (Oh yes, the spirit of Christmas is alive in the Antarian household!)

Usually this ends up whipping me into a home makeover frenzy, with V being dragged along sadly with his tool box

Unfortunately, things never work out as they do in my head

So without further ado:

Antarian's Guide to Failing at Home Improvement!!

This year, I decided I was sick of the door to the walk-in wardrobe in our room, since you have to close it to even get to the clothes on one side. So we removed it

Step 1: Remove Door

Step Two: Use my genius

In one of our spare bedrooms, the door handle is falling off.
Exhibit A:

So in my genius state, I said to V "Rather than having to remove one door handle then put on the one from the wardrobe, lets just replace the door with the wardrobe one!!"


Step Three: Replace door

Easily done


Step Four:
This last step is easy. Close door and bask in my own excellence!!


This resulted in my alternating between hysterical laughter and yelling at the door for not growing and outlining its inadequacies as a means of closing off a room.

BUT THEN!!!! I forgot my final step:

Step Five: Use genius once again!!

Rather than immediately fix the door, I gave the excuse of "Let's just wait to see if the door settles into the frame before we see if it needs replacing.", and then one day, I realised that this home improvement tragedy is really a whole new means of entertainment for hours!!!

Creepy staring!!

Heeeeeeere's Johnny!!

Take THAT Better Homes and Gardens!

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

There's one in every workplace

The Did you get that Thing I sent you? Guy.
How the interwebs have changed our lives. I don’t even have to step outside to go shopping, speak to friends and family, share precious memories captured on film, even order a pizza. In the workplace, email prevents me having to go to the other side of the school/building/room/desk to talk to people.

But there are people who abuse that power, using email like a magical ninja would use time wasting ninja stars (think about it. It's only a matter of time).

Here’s a picture of a cat! Here is the background to the picture of a cat story! Wow, this story about the man who had his finger bitten off by a crocodile but still plays the banjo is inspiring! Oh look, a whole list of reasons why men are better than women/women are better than men/cars are better than turtles! READ THEM ALL!!! I CRAVE ATTENTION!!!

If the email is relevant to only ten percent of the organisation, they will send it to everyone. With a background that takes up half of your email usage.

However, it doesn’t stop there.  Then three other people send replies to the email, but of course they can’t just reply to the sender, THEY REPLY ALL!!!
Usually leaving people with actual work to do reduced to this:

5 hours to answer a question guy
You just needed to get some envelopes and then you miss your lunch and end up staying after work for an hour just to get to the point:

Aaaallll you wanted to was have your lunch in the staff/break room. And they start. First the conversation is relatively innocent, then it turns into their child’s nappy contents/medical issues/favourite sexual positions/fight they had with their partner. And you are halfway through your sandwich with no justifiable excuse to leave:

The Questioner
"Whatcha doing? Where you going? What’s happening on the weekend? Where did you get that? What you eating? Whatcha thinkin? Why are you leaving?”

Running but never getting anything done person:
Where are they going? Why are they always in a rush? How come nothing is completed?
Like looking serious and holding a clipboard = achievement?

The random angry guy:
The random angry guy is a time bomb waiting to go off. He is one of those pop caps. You turn it over and wait forever. Then nothing happens and you think it’s safe and go to inspect it and it bashes in your face.
Some things that may set of Random Angry Guy:

Of course, this is a very short list. The random angry guy could go off at anytime, over anything:

What other types are in your workplace?

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

A family trip to the snow

A couple of years ago, V took my two sisters and I up to the snow. His parents have a caravan where we could stay that was only 30 to 40 minutes from Falls Gap and Mount Hotham. My sisters and never been to the snow before so we were all suitably excited. Now, on a normal day, neither of my sisters (who will now be known as L and N) nor I have a particular skill of not running into or tripping over things. Growing up was like one of those stupid slapstick movies without the bad music and the laugh track.

In hindsight, deciding to add immense amounts of frozen water to our situation probably wasn’t the best idea.

But at the time we thought it would be freaking awesome.

So, when you are headed to the snow, what’s the first thing you pack? ALCOHOL, because when you are headed to a slippery walking surface, the best way to counteract this is to use substances that will wreck your balance.

On the way up, L, N and I decided the past way to pass time on the four hour road trip would be to play a My Big Fat Greek Wedding drinking game (you take a drink whenever they mention food or eating. The bottle will never leave your mouth).

Drinking in a tiny Celica is not the greatest idea, and we ended up making about twenty pit stops, adding two hours to the total commute time. Of course, V had to park at the furthest possible point from the actual toilets, making us run across the truck stop.

When we finally got there, all was good, we tried to cook sausages in the dark, burning my hand. I apparently spent the rest of the night touching frozen things saying “Wow, my hand is still warm!” Then N decided to exhibit her excellent distance and obstacle judgement skills by running into a glass sliding door. Rather than actually trying to open the door, she then made a second attempt of walking forward. Finally we gave up and went to sleep.

The next day, we packed the car and headed up the mountain. It was fairly uneventful, until we were almost at the top of the mountain, in various states of awe over the snow. Then all of as sudden, we hit a patch of ice. As we skidded towards the high wall side of the mountain, L, N and I frantically grabbed at each other in the hope that holding hands would bring forth our powers as the Charmed Ones and would stop us from dying, while V spun the wheel in the other direction. The wheel clamped over to the other side and we began coasting over the edge. As I breathed heavily on the window, I watched the white coated trees come closer to my vision. Just as I had made peace with the things in my life that I had not yet achieved (Gone to Rome, successfully stalked Dave Grohl), we snapped back and continued driving. As we hyperventilated and tried to shake the spots from our eyes, V started singing along with the CD Player and calmly stated “You know, I really like this song.”

L, N and I looked at him incredulously while he looked back at us like a dinosaur puppy that just ripped off your roof and when you start yelling at him, can’t understand why:

(Yes, I AM comparing Sarah Palin to a dinosaur that randomly vandalises people’s homes without provocation and is then confused by any backlash it may cause. What’s your point?)

After retrieving our hearts and placing them back in our chests, we went off to explore the snow. V went off snowboarding and L, N and I decided with our EXTREME SNOW WALKING SKILLS, we would go sledding.

After going from one hire store to another, each one turning us down (actually, they had run out, but we felt like they were against us personally)

As we trudged out of the last hire shop, a shining beacon of hope glinted in the late morning sun:

A Sled! Right there waiting for us!!!

After a quick conference and a deciding game of rock paper scissors, N was deemed the retriever. After sneaking off with our prize, we spent a glorious afternoon sledding and causing future severe lower back pain.

We struggled back down the hill while V went and got the car, when all of a sudden a woman walked past, back tracked, and cried in surprised anguish “HEY! MY SLED!!!!”

They told us they thought it had been stolen, while we told her that we were on the toboggan hill and some family had given it to us to use, before sheepishly handing it over.

All the way back to our caravan we commiserated the unfairness of the loss of OUR beloved sled

We drank in honour of the sled, which had since been named Roberto (Bob for short), and then spent an hour trying to convince N that she was sitting too close to the heater (“But guys, I am not even near it! I can't feel the heat!"), before going to bed.

The next day we returned home. Just as we left, N said "You know, my back really hurts” and lifted her shirt to see a nice BBQ grill pattern on the small of her back.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Why slasher films and daytime television are the same.

As most people who have gone to uni would know – a quarter of your year is spent going to lectures and studying, and the other 75% is spread between trying to make the best tasting drink possible from the cheapest liquor you can find, stealing road signs, and of course, watching TV at random times like 1 PM and 4AM.

Because of this, I have a minor in horror film and day time soap studies. And, of course, one stormy afternoon, watching Passions (still can’t believe that they cancelled that masterpiece) after finishing the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, it became clear:

Ever seen Deliverance? Ever heard the phrase “Squeal like a pig?” Don’t need to add anything else. Deliverance is some inbred fucked up shit right there. Not to mention The Hills Have Eyes, Wrong Turn, etc. In horror films, inbreeding equals cannibalistic murderer

In the quality of daytime drama program, someone is always marrying someone and at the last minute some random person runs in and says “STOP! He’s your son!!” which in turn causes a 15 minute close up of a shocked face before cutting to a commercial break, followed by a return with another 10 minutes

Yelling at the screen
A key element of both of these genres is yelling at the screen

You know that they can’t hear you, and people around you are glaring and pointing but you can’t help it.

It’s important in either genre to over gesture every emotion, no matter how small.

Your father/cousin/husband/brother in law just died? Throw yourself to the floor!!

Trying to stab someone? Go for a full windmill arc arm! Give the killer time to have shot you twelve times before your arm even starts going downward!

Getting some revenge on your mortal enemy? Say it out loud right next to the person you are plotting against! If you stare into space, they can’t hear you!!

No sense of real time.
Okay, go right now to your television. Watch any episode of any soap. Then go back a year later. IT’S STILL THE SAME DAY!!! THE MAIN CHARACTER STILL HASN’T FINISHED HIS DRINK!
However, at the same party, the kid who was 3 a year ago is now 24.

In horror movies, one minute the soon to be murdered students are just finishing school, then in the next scene the skankily dressed lead is walking home with her school books at 1AM.

I know why they are both so bad.
Clearly, this is the entertainment industry’s way of making our expectations so low that they can release movies like The Ugly Truth and we think it’s good in comparison.

I’m onto you, you bastards!!

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Tacos tried to kill me


Looks innocent doesn't it?
Looks delicious?

Hahaha (Just in case you're wondering, I am laughing condescendingly and shaking my head slowly in amusement).

How naive you must be.

Back when V was the boyfriend, not the husband, and I was living in Ballarat for uni, I would take the train down to see him on the weekends.

One night I was saying how I felt like tacos. V said he had never eaten a taco.

I'm going to let that marinate for a second.

A twenty four year old. In the free world. Had never eaten a mother freaking taco.

My facial expression was something like the facial expression Heidi Montag has in the opening credits to The Hills where you think she's that side stand at the circus that you throw balls in (hehehehe, dirty) to win a prize:

I was all, "We must make tacos immediately!!!! What if you die in your sleep tonight? You will never eat a taco!! What if the world ends? We will be too busy fighting mutants to make tacos. WE MUST GO NOW!!!"

We went to the shops and bought the necessary supplies and made them. Then we sat down with my final comment:


This is how the tacos looked at this point:
All nice, happy and innocent.

After basking in the reverent kudos of V, I smugly strutted around the house in a manner reminiscent of the intro to Saturday Night Fever

I was the taco queen. I pwned the creator of tacos. I was going to rule the world, one taco at a time (No I wasn't overreacting. V's mother is an awesome cook and up until that point in my life, I had hardly cooked anything. I spent three years of uni living on two minute noodles and toast. This was the greatest cooking triumph in the history of the world).

After being the taco queen got exhausting, we went to bed.

Waking up at 3 in the morning, I had that specific feeling you get when your body has been invaded by miniature hockey players, and the hockey players have hands like Edward Scissorhands. And they just found out there is free beer right outside your body, and they haven't had anything to drink in three years, and there has been an announcement that there is only enough beer for half of them, and it's first come first serve. It turned into freaking anarchy.

I commando crawled down the hall while their cat took a swipe at me and set up camp around the toilet.

After three hours of pain enduced delusions, and crying "WHY? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHY?" at the cobweb in the corner of the ceiling, my mind became strangely clear. There was no happy taco. My excitement of not burning down V's parent's house while cooking actually hid the true nature of the tacos I had ingested. They were evil.

If you go and ask the doctor, he'll say I was in the early stage of appendicitis. And that because I was so sure that it was the tacos trying to shred my insides, I avoided going to the doctor for two days. And that apparently I nearly let my appendix burst and could have died. HE obviously got his medical agree at http://www.freemedicaldegreesandcheaphawaiianshirtbonanzawarehouse.com/  and refused to go with my suggestion that tacos had decided to use my internal organs as a nuclear weapon testing area.

I didn't eat another taco for six years. And even now I run a metal detector over one before it is eaten

Tacos. The silent appendix killer

Saturday, November 6, 2010

A disturbing update!

The neighbours have had a meeting about us.

In my completely objective and logical mind - it is the only reason I can think of for waking up and finding this:


Obviously, they realised that I have begun to feel guilt about my lack of house pride, and they read my blog (one of my almost forty hits - taking over the internet, forty people at a time) (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, see here) and sensed my fear of being percieved as a crack dealer. So they took the blatantly conspicuous final step - a discarded shopping trolley.

Everyone KNOWS crack dealers have front yards full of trolleys.

After a short show down with the trolley:
(To understand the seriousness of the following battle, please listen to the music in the attached scene http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nX3KsHDZ1sE)

Da da da da da da da da da da da

De de de de de de de de de DE DE



Then the shame overtook me and I weeded the garden. So now we look respectable.

Well played faceless neighbours, well played.
(I am under the impression that none of my neighbours have faces. Their heads are always turned away or they stand in front of the sun so they are blocked. It's a freaking horror movie) (Except for the guy over the road, he has a face and looks like the Colonel from KFC. But that is the house that V and I suspect are the drug dealers I mentioned last time, so that guy is working with a whole other set of secret herbs and spices).

I was actually going to come on here and tell you about the time tacos tried to kill me, but I had to inform you all of the unstable nature of the current situation.