Bring Back… Summer Holidays

When you are 10, summer holidays stretch on forever.  Everything shimmers.  Even the boredom.  There’s nothing on TV but Days of Our Lives and Huey, with his bronchial chuckle, cooking up a fatty, caloric mound of chicken & sauce. 

You’ve long ago read everything you borrowed from the library.  You sneakily polished off Dad’s sci-fi books, the ones you aren’t supposed to read because they’re too grown up with their topless aliens and leprotic humans, copulating and spawning freak babies… you’ve even, in your desparation, read the back of all the shampoo bottles – twice.  And if you even say “mu-“, let alone “muuuu-uum”, one more time you’re absolutely certain to cop a wooden spoon fair across the leg (clearly, long before ‘summer fun activities’ became de rigueur and a deserved thwak became passe).

A viscous slick of sweat runs down your back.   The air is stifling and thick with heat.  It’s hot.  The piercing wail of the sun hits you upside the head, like that moment when you have one more mouthful of tequila, you know, the one too many.

You sit in the fork of a tree eating sticky half-frozen oranges and dreaming of a grown-up life.  Imagine being able to do whatever you want.  Not being told what to do.  Never being bored.  Never waiting around.  Imagine being rich.  Living in a big house with a double-bed and modular lounge.  Imagine putting on make-up and going out to a restaurant, eating souffle and drinking champagne.   This is the adult-life you imagine that YOU will have. 

The heat of the day is still clinging to you when Dad finally comes home and succumbs to your pleading for a swim at Nana’s.  You pack into the car, sweat running down your neck, your back and onto the vinyl so you can slip around and along the back seat like a stubby water slide.   You refuse to allow the air-conditioner to be turned on and all windows must remain closed so that when you get to Nana’s you’re practically fainting from heatstroke but the water feels jarringly, teeth-achingly cold.  

You keep your head underwater and listen to the muffled sounds.  Water slapping, neighbours yelling, magpies growling.  Just like every movie ever made about kids on school holidays.  That glow and glisten.  That squeal and squelch. 

This moment.  This is the highlight.  This is the break in the agony of the summer.  It’s as good as it gets.  Tomorrow will be the same long, stretching boredom.

Torturous summer holidays are gone forever.  But nothing really changes.  You know that slow burn on a Friday afternoon from about 2 o’clock… when the day just won’t end?  Instead of 6 weeks or 8 weeks or even a day, now it’s compressed into an excruciating couple of hours.  When all you can think about is a glass of champagne and a bloody souffle!

Advertisements

Double-dogging Dare #1 – Become a TV Producer in NY

One of you soft-cocks finally gave me a dare which I completed, if I do say so myself, with great success…

Matt and I were in New York recently – he was there for a conference and I was on holiday! So, I crashed a couple of industry parties… I’m not a TV type, I’m an IT nerd but I have gleaned enough knowledge over the years from my husband and all of our TV-type friends to, well, bullshit my way through it…

So, here I am, imbibing illicitly-gained cocktails, eating unethically obtained finger-food and rubbing shoulders with a number of Abercrombie & Fitch mid-level TV flunkies in New York. At this point, Matt decides to make it interesting… he dares me to see if I can do what all the other loser-Aussies and Kiwi’s are desparately flailing around doing and try to get myself a job in NY – as a producer. No showreel in hand. No business card. No experience for that matter. Just me and my ability to bullshit.

Never one to turn down an absurdly pointless challenge, I build myself a promo-producer persona. I’ve been free-lancing around Sydney for 6 years or so. Prior to that I worked at Channel (Insert Channel Number here – depending on who I’m talking to at the time) for 4 years. And before that ABC – a public government-run station. Last year or so has been really focussed on switching to digital in Australia which is interesting and brings it’s own set of challenges in terms of re-educating the audience, finding the real selling point for your audience and so on. You get the picture…

I start quietly by just talking to the people who happen to sit down on the couches next to me.  This is pretty slow going and I can only sit still for so long after all because at this point, I’ve had enough vodka to shame David Hasselhoff. So I grab Glenn (he knows EVERYBODY) and we do a circuit of the room.  Glenn points out a few power-house people to me and so off I go!

I’m like a machine… I work that room like Lindsay Lohan works an ounce of blow.  I’m charming, witty, knowledgeable, interested and so damn creative it blows my mind! Boom! And, most importantly, I’m not afraid to flash a bit of boob should the situation call for it.

But how does one measure success in this type of dare?  Clearly I’m not actually going to be offered a job on the back of one booze-sodden clutch in a dark cocktail bar… so the agreed upon measure?  Business cards baby!

  • Cherine Anderson, VP Marketing & Business Development, Push Creative
  • Jonathan Block-Verk, President, Promax|BDA
  • Charlie Mawer, Executive Creative Director, Red Bee Media
  • Reemah Sakaan, Head of Marketing, BBC
  • Martin Poole, Director, Sway Media
  • Charley Holland, Chief Squirrel, The Charley Holland Agency (to be frank, this one doesn’t count because he knows my true identity)
  • I don’t have photo or video evidence of completion of this dare (as per the double-dog dare rules) however I do have the business cards and several witnesses. I’m hoping that will suffice.

    So if any of you promo producers out there are looking for a job in New York, come see me! I’ve got contacts coming out of my arse!

    And please, please… SOMEONE give me another dare!

    Have I Offended You Yet? No? Well, let’s remedy that!

    I’ve always held the belief that I’m un-offendable.  Clearly this is patently untrue.  What I mean is, if you tell a dirty joke, or say a rude word, I’m laughin’ mister!  Presuming it’s actually funny of course.  Although anything about boobs, bottoms (both front and back) or poo is really a gimme… the inherent comedy is hard to ignore.

    So at Em’s place on Friday night, in what is essentially a room full of loud & crude women, this random guy says, and I quote –

    “You girls are great. You just say ‘fuck’ whenever you want. I love it.”

    Well, jeez mister.  Thanks!  I feel so liberated.

    I fully acknowledge that there are women out there who aren’t so comfortable with ‘curse words’, who don’t like dirty jokes and who don’t have men as ‘mates’.  But for christs sake, are we such a shocking breed?  Are we so rare that it must be commented upon?  For that matter, is it so uncommon that it’s even noticeable???  Really, I would have thought that for anyone below the age of about 45, that sort of language is pretty normal.

    I came across this question on a random forum on the interweb

    “I had just finished taking my second law school exam this week. A 3 hour exam had just finished and I was packing up my stuff when I heard this 20-something year old woman say to another 20-something, “I thought that test was shi_tty!” I used to hear men talk like this all the time, but it seems that women now use more profanity than the guys. What gives? A generational thing? Some kind of new trend?”

    I should add that the questioner was tagged as a ‘senior member’. I guess it’s all so subjective.  In ‘senior member’s mind, the word ‘shitty’ has a lot of power.  Whereas to those girls it was a bland statement of fact, nothing extreme about it.  I’m sure it didn’t even cross their minds that it could be construed as such. Not unlike my experience on Friday night.

    A response was later posted to Senior Member which I had to show because well, just read it…

    “Because women think that they can do anything that men can do. This is one of the main reasons that men stopped respecting women. Women have the mentality that they are tired of being on the receiving end of everything and therefore are dishing it out as much if not more than men. Can you understand why men don’t treat women like ladies anymore. I am a very traditional woman, and I feel flattered when a man holds a door for me or picks up something that I dropped, etc. Men and women were created with very specific roles and because of their rebellion, women have created nothing but problems for themselves, their families, and their children.”

    (a) I’m gonna leave that first sentence alone cause it’s just too easy

    (b) I can’t say that I’ve noticed men are less respectful… have you?  In my experience, men, in fact, both men AND women, do these kind acts out of respect, kindness and politeness.  The fact that I curse like a sailor doesn’t seem to have made a difference.  Doors are still being opened, dropped things are still being picked up…

    (c) My attitude doesn’t seem to have “created nothing but problems”.  I’m happy… my friends are happy… my family are happy… I have a great job, car, house and things… a wonderful husband and many male friends that I consider to be GREAT mates.

    So I’m gonna continue in my childish way and be as crass as the next ham, male or female. Whatever tickles my funnybone. So to that end, here is a video of one of the funniest jokes I have ever heard, as told by Bob Saget… ah yes, Em it’s that one!

    WARNING!! if you are easily offended, fuck off because you WON’T find this at all funny… in fact, even if you are not easily offended.. be warned!
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_cKCK6Blv0

    Fanny Farts are measured in “hectometres”

    It’s been a couple of weeks since my last post but in my defence I was on the other side of the world!  Back this week, I was lying in bed the very early hours of this morning unable to sleep.  Just thinking in that leapfrog kinda way… bouncing around from one thought to another.  It came to me that if fanny is used by Americans to mean arse – so what then do they call ‘fanny farts’?  I really had no idea.  So I started googling. I fully acknowledge that there’s something odd about sitting in the pre-dawn darkness googling “fanny fart” however dear friends, my curiousity needed to be sated.

    It seems Australians and Brits are in agreement on the use of ‘fanny fart’ whereas Americans use, most commonly, QUEEF.  According to the interweb, it’s onomatapaeic.  I can see that.  Or hear it, as the case may be.

    Other terms used less commonly:

    • Queeb
    • Queve
    • Bonqueefa
    • front botty burp
    • Breath of Vulva      (this one’s just creepy if you ask me)
    • muff guff
    • pussy fart
    • varts (seems oddly inappropriate – perhaps because it’s not crass enough – yet somehow it works)

    Interestingly, in Canada a ‘quief caker’ is someone who overly enjoys having a vaginal fart in their mouth…  I can’t begin to… you know what, I’m just gonna leave it alone!

    And in other parts of the world:

    • FRENCH – pet vaginal
    • ITALIAN – scoreggia vaginale
    • GERMAN – misen furz
    • SPANISH – moreno (mostly used as an insult)

    Most of these literally translate to vaginal fart. It’s hard to find ‘euphemistic’ terms in other languages, most likely because it’s difficult when you aren’t a fluent speaker. 

    In my hunting, I came across a number of other terms which amused me no end:

    German
    einen furz loslassen – to “cut the cheese”
    der Analhusten  – anal cough (fart!)
    der Pups – fart
    bierficker – literally ‘beer fucker’.  Apparently a bierficker is someone with a small penis.  Huh?
    der hinterlader – literally “breech loader”.  What it means though is ‘he who receives’, if you get my drift!
    moesen saft – translates both literally and figuratively as ‘cunt juice’.

    French
    putain de merde – literally “whore of shit” – but means Holy Shit or Fucking Hell
    se faire chier – literally “to cause someone to shit” – it means “to piss off”
    tarte de creme – a term to describe semen dripping out of a vagina post-coitus – interesting that they have need for a term dedicated to describing this…
    couler en bronze – I guess it translates to something like ‘to hang a shit’ – literally it’s more like ‘to slip a turd’

    Italian
    porca puttana – means ‘fucking hell’ but literally it translates to ‘pig whore’
    testa di cazza – dick head but literally ‘head of the small head’
    gnocche – cunts – next time you’re in an italian restaurant take care not to mis-pronounce your order!

    Latin
    perfututum – ‘totally fucked’

    So there you go – my trip around the world of ‘le vulgaire vagin’…

    Oh, and yes, apparently the speed of fanny farts can be measured in ‘hectometres’….  I read it on the internet so it must be true.