MELLIPOP AND THE FAT TEMP

Ok, so I had a wee run-in with one of the temps at work yesterday. Those who know me in real life will be fairly surprised by this, because although my Mellipop alter-ego indulges her shadow-side far too readily with it's penchant for insensitivity, scorn and mock outrage, her real-life flesh-and-blood vessel is a far more accommodating and polite creature. A fairly robust sense of humour accompanies my dealings with others and it takes a lot in other people to truly annoy me.

Though I tend to avoid conflict over petty trivialities (avoiding "negativity" for the sake of "negativity"), I will gladly and wholeheartedly step up to the plate if someone is being a truly obnoxious arsehole, or if my sense of injustice is aroused. Which isn't all that often, but is readily and easily dispensed with. I’m no wallflower.

It's all a hangover from my days working in the "woo woo" (aka New Age) industry. Four solid years of spirituality shop-talk and self-help ramblings absorbed by osmosis and doused in copious amounts of beer. I still quote Louise Hay. I still do angel card readings for myself every day. And I have a stash of affirmation cards at work which I inflict on my colleagues daily.

But this temp really pissed me off. Her only crimes? Being utterly humourless and attempting to patronise me. The only two qualities I absolutely cannot tolerate in other people.

So I was sharing lunch in the kitchen with three of my fellow colleagues. A round-table take-the-piss-fest, with ample doses of laughter and a complete deficit of seriousness. The temp was sitting alone at the table behind us.

Temps have it tough, at the best of times. The ephemeral nature of their employment essentially renders them entirely invisible to the rest of the full time staff. Most temps understand this, and tend to actively cultivate this air of invisibility almost as a kind of protective shield. It's a case of, "yes I am invisible and I just want you to know that this is also by my choice, hence I will not look at you or speak to you, and will ensure that you never hear my name mentioned in the office".

Just to clarify my personal stance on the temp issue: I myself don’t adhere to this particular modus operandi. I talk to temps. It's because I tend to talk to anyone and everyone in my immediate sphere. Why deliberately undercut your potential audience?

So I had already previously spoken to the temp at issue. I can't remember her name (though to be fair I also suspect the reciprocal is true), but at this point I need to set down a few identifying markers so I can stop using the phrases "the temp in question" and/or "the temp at issue". Far too clunky. Plus, I’m lazy.

Ok, so this temp has it a little rougher than other temps. She is fat and has a beard. Not just slightly overweight. MORBIDLY OBESE. Not just a few errant chin hairs. A full-on GOATEE. God was very unkind with that particular combination of genetic material, though it's nothing that diet, exercise and permanent laser hair removal can't fix. Hence I am entirely justified in lacking any sympathy for her physical misfortune.

So anyway, just to be all anti-PC about the proceedings (as if you would expect anything less), we'll call her the Fat Temp from here on in, shall we?

The first mistake the Fat Temp made was to interject in our inane conversation about fish oil capsules. Interjections into conversations I don’t mind. Exterminations of conversations I do.

So we’re piss-taking with a vegetarian colleague, telling her that she needs more protein in her diet and should eat fish (though what she really needs is a few hefty Quarter Pounders and a juicy rump steak or two). So with a cavalier jocularity we suggest she ingest fish oil capsules instead.

VEGGIE BEC: No, but the fish have to die so they can get the oil.

MELLIPOP: Maybe they MILK the fish, so they don’t die.

(thinks) Ha ha, yes I’m hilarious really….. Even though no-one else is laughing….

FAT TEMP: (interjecting) Fish aren’t mammals, so they don’t produce milk and you can't extract oil through the mammary glands anyway and blah blah blah blah blah

MELLIPOP: (being a smartarse) Alright. What about WHALES!

(thinks) Oops – she’s fat. Better cover in case I offended her.

MELLIPOP: DOLPHINS!

FAT TEMP: (patronisingly) Yeah well whales and dolphins aren’t fish, they’re blah blah blah blah blah

MELLIPOP: (dismissively, as she gets up and walks over to the bin in disgust) Mate, I was being FACETIOUS.

(thinks) Jesus! Can the fucking wildlife lectures already….. Patronise ME! I just used the word “facetious”, bitch. Make no mistake, I might be blonde and cute, but I’m not fucking stupid.

Aaah, yes….arrogant indeed, but this was my honest knee-jerk reaction to the Fat Temp’s clumsy attempts to assert some sort of heavy-fisted intellectual dominance over me. I hate being patronised. She might be fat and smart (or so she invariably thinks) but I’m thin and smart. I win. With added bonus points for not having unsightly facial hair.

So my colleagues and I continued with our conversation, which somehow veered onto a bizarre tangent about being drugged up on the train. Even despite my casual dismissal, Fat Temp again decides that her earnest and humourless input to the conversation is both valid and appreciated.

FAT TEMP: (self-righteously) My flatmate has diabetes, and was injecting insulin into her stomach on the train once, and the guard came along and whacked the needle out of her hand and the needle broke off in her stomach.

MELLIPOP: (sarcastically) Yeah, well maybe she should have set her alarm clock a little earlier then.

FAT TEMP: No! You can’t just do that. When you need to inject insulin, you have to do it. You can’t just do it whenever you feel like it.

MELLIPOP: I dunno, I think maybe I’d be organising my train trips around my insulin shots, though.

FAT TEMP: (getting agitated and demagogic) Well you can’t. If you knew anything at all about living with diabetes, you’d know that you can’t just do that. If you need to inject insulin, you just have to do it. You can’t just organise your life around it. It’s impossible.

MELLIPOP: (sardonically) I was just joking.

(thinks) Should I ask whether her diabetic flatmate is also morbidly obese? Do I go down that road, as exquisitely tempting as it is? No. Keep your mouth shut….. End this now Melli….

FAT TEMP: (launching tiresome rant) Well I hate it when people who don’t understand just think that……

MELLIPOP: (interjecting) MATE, I was JOKING. It’s what I do. It’s called having a SENSE of HUMOUR…..

(thinks) For fuckssake woman….. Let it go!

FAT TEMP: Yeah but…..

MELLIPOP: (bristling) Jeee-sus Christ, I WAS JUST KIDDING FOR CHRISSAKE….. Have you got a bloody sense of humour or what???

(thinks) AVOID AT ALL COSTS THE TEMPTATION TO PUT A DEFINITIVE END TO ALL THIS WITH SMARTARSE COMMENTS ABOUT MORBID OBESITY AND ITS LINK WITH DIABETES…. NO MELLI, NO!!

MELLIPOP: (overtly disregards Fat Temp and takes control) Right. Let’s take the piss out of Veggie Bec again now. Much more fun….

So having been once more categorically alienated from the conversation, the deflated Fat Temp subsequently leaves the room.

Looks of eyebrow-raised astonishment are briefly exchanged amongst the remaining four colleagues until we start to take the piss out of Veggie Bec again, and all resumes as normal. A couple of minutes later, heads are shaken and comments of “What the fuck was that all about?” are offered rhetorically before the whole incident is entirely dismissed from our minds.

Now I make it a point to studiously ignore the humourless Fat Temp. Despite her considerable heft, she has now officially rendered herself invisible. Why should I concern myself with humorless bores when the alternative is so much more readily available? Surely that doesn’t make me a bitch? And if it does, I really don’t care. I'm here for a good time, not a long time.

MELLIPOP AND AISLE-SEAT ASSHOLES

OK, so note to rail commuters on packed suburban peak hour services: MOVE THE FUCK OVER.

So I’ve been commuting to the city for work over the last couple of months and have noticed a dramatic upsurge in a somewhat bizarre seating phenomena that threatens to tear at the fragile fabric of our urban society like a burgeoning (and most unwelcome) subculture with it’s own inexplicable behavioural codes of conduct.

What’s with the fucking aisle-hogging?

Surely anyone who has had the misfortune to have hopped onboard one of City Rail’s finest in the last few years would have noticed this. An inexplicable stubbornness to move over in one’s seat to allow other commuters to slide their tired arse in effortlessly beside them. What the fuck is that all about?

This isn’t Greater Union or Qantas Economy. There are no snack bars or other “conveniences” we require facilitated access to. So why this insistence on clinging stubbornly to the aisle spot and making your fellow commuters squeeze themselves through the Kate Moss-like micro-gap between seats and knees to park their sad arses in the window seat (after first having parking them in your face to get there).

At the risk of sounding repetitive. And perplexed. Just move the fuck over.

I think about some things a lot (and some other things a lot less than I should), one of which happens to be the behaviour of my fellow human beings. At the risk of sounding both pompous and deluded, I also fancy myself to be a fairly perceptive and insightful lass. But for the life of me, I can’t work out this obsession with the goddamn aisle.

Sitting rigidly in the aisle seat = people shoving their arses in your face to get in and out. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Annoying. Inconvenient.

Moving over in your seat = a seamless seating arrangement assurring the maximum comfort of all passengers. Logical. Courteous. Fucking obvious. And very fucking simple.

So what up?

Ok, so I understand that there is a tangible dichotomy in seating arrangements on City Rail trains. We have the two-seaters and the three-seaters on either side of the carriage. The Commuters Apartheid.

And, to be fair, I can extend my fecund powers of behavioural analysis to understand the profound difference between the two modes of seating, vis a vis the lamentable aisle-hogging behaviours I’ve witnessed of late.

Admittedly, three-seaters pose their own unique challenges, not least of which is the “Stranger Sandwich” (insert the word “Sweaty” as required). I can acknowledge that there may be those amongst our kin who aren’t all that keen on extended periods of thigh-and-torso rubbing with two total strangers (also acknowledging that “strange” takes on new meaning when we’re dealing with the typical patrons of public transport).

However, this rampant aisle-hogging in the two-seaters leaves me profoundly bereft of insight. We’re talking about the window seat here. The fucking window seat! Don’t we usually fight for this on airplanes? Though as an irrelevant aside (are there any other kind?) – I have noticed an interesting trend with online airline bookings and the relatively new facility of choosing your possie from an online seating plan. If the jaw-dropping stupidity of humankind is recorded for all of posterity in no other way, surely the overwhelming tendency for the majority of seats at the BACK OF THE PLANE to be reserved first has to speak true to our woefully ignorant hearts and minds.

For God’s sake people! Take it from me. If the fucking airbus is going down, YOU’RE ALL FUCKED. The hapless travellers in seats three D and three E are just as likely to meet as fiery and pulverising an end as the even more hapless passengers in seats thirty fucking three D and E. This is not an episode of Lost. Just to clarify. You are going down from 40 000 feet. YOU’RE ALL FUCKED. In fact, the folk at the front are actually better off because they generally perish instantly on impact. By choosing the seats at the back, you’re only afforded the luxury of dying more slowly - in addition to the added luxury of getting to the bathrooms more quickly. Before you die. It’s a trade-off.

Anyway, so back to my spurious point about suburban rail commuters. As far as I can see, all you get in the aisle seat is elbows, handbags and other assorted bodily parts connecting painfully with your head as the rickety old train weaves and winds its way over the raggedy old patchwork of railway tracks constituting Sydney’s “complex” rail system (quoting official NSW Government PR material here).

The window seat is king. No accidental blows to the head. No uncomfortable squeezing in and out. No connection between your arse and some random stranger’s face. And – best of all - no connection between your face and some random stranger’s fat, sweaty arse.

Just move the fuck over for godssake.

(And this is Mellipop’s grand comeback? Two long-necks of Tooheys New and too many “fucks”. Bodes well.)

Editors note: Just to clarify for any bemused punters, the previous several posts are old material that I've recycled from the archives to disguise the fact that Mellipop was in the deep midst of a profound and protracted blogging rut (which she has hopefully now overcome). Hence all the quizzical chronological references to Perth and jobs I've long left behind. They are all posts most definitely past their use-by date. I just like them, is all.

MELLIPOP AND THE NON-SMOKER

Ok, so where do you fucking self-righteous non-smokers get off lecturing me about my lifestyle choices?

So we had after-work drinks at the pub yesterday. Mistaking the informal gathering for an anti-smoking seminar, one of my colleagues took it upon himself to lecture me about my smoking. Guess what I learned? And I want to share this secret cabal of non-smokers wisdom with my fellow puffing pariahs, in the hope that I can save you from certain death too.

SMOKING IS BAD FOR YOU.

SMOKING CAN KILL YOU.

SMOKING IS HARMFUL TO OTHERS.

Holy shit, it was all I could do to stop myself getting up and hurtling across the room to hurl my packet of cancer-sticks out the window and into the path of oncoming traffic. So I lit up another one instead.

My colleague then had the audacity to end his uninvited lecture by saying, "After all I've just said, how can you possibly light up another cigarette?".

Umm...let's see.

1. I think you're a pompous jerk and I have absolutely no respect for your otherwise enlightening tutorial
2. I quite enjoy smoking
3. I have a half-full glass of beer in my other hand
4. I am in a legally-sanctioned smoking area of the pub - these are as rare as non-lecturing non-smokers these days
5. I am hoping that if I ceaselessly chain-smoke in your presence, you might just drop dead on the spot from an acute case of saturation passive smoking
6. I feel that it is far more polite to utilise a cigarette to sublimate my otherwise impolite desire to spit in your self-righteous face

I then spent the rest of the evening deliberately segregated at the other end of the room, enaging in a mass-suicide pact with my fellow smokers. Which is otherwise known as having a couple of brews with a fag or two thrown into the mix. But without all the lectures. This is known as "Smoker's Apartheid". We simply don't want to mix with the likes of you, who get off on warning us about the certainty of our impending death. Like you fuckers are really gonna live forever.

I mean, I'm not here to defend smoking. Let me just inform my benevolently concerned non-smoking brothers and sisters that we do already know it's not the most healthy of lifestyle choices. What I am here to defend is the right to make that LEGAL lifestyle choice, without being constantly badgered by these self-appointed guardians of public health.

WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU PEOPLE GET OFF ANYWAY?

What the fuck does someone who has never smoked before, know about the reasons why people smoke? And the reasons why we find it difficult to quit smoking, if the notion ever enters our head to stop. Like their few words of smarmy, unsolicited advice - chosen carefully from the wide pool of anti-smoking propaganda - is going to make me stop all of a sudden and say,

"Hey, YOU'RE RIGHT you know! This IS a rather quite silly thing to do. Let's go jump in a dinghy and save the fucking whales or something. Oh, and please know that you have my undying gratitude for SAVING MY LIFE. You're a fucking HERO mate, that's what you are".

And reformed smokers are THE WORST. They are even more self-righteous than non-smokers. They masquerade their desperate desire to stick a bunger in their gob with this lofty air of moral superiority that pisses me the hell off. Go join your fellow non-smokers for a massive moral circle jerk and leave me to die with my ciggies in peace.

Fucking non-smokers. There should be a law against them.

MELLIPOP AND MR MUSHROOM HEAD

Ok, so it’s 3:30 on a Monday afternoon and you’re tripping off your head on a combination of acid, mushrooms and alcohol.

Question: Who do you choose to sit next to on a busy commuter train?

Answer: Mellipop.

Yes, your resident “freak magnet” friend and narrator got herself a live one today on the way home just now.

So I’m sitting quietly on the train, reading my book (Marianne Faithfull’s autobiography, for the trainspotters amongst us) and am contentedly engrossed until a huge swaggering bear of a man staggers onto the train and falls into the seat next to me, leaving his screaming gal pal fumbling at the ticket machine on the platform as the train pulls away. The man reeks as though he has just recently bathed in a tub full of white spirits.

He is ranting incoherently, swaying into me and calling me a cunt. He is also pointing at the poor little Indian guy on the other side of him and is calling him a cunt too. I inwardly cringe while maintaining a neutral expression, my eyes fastened on my book. This is what I like to call my “Crazy Dog” technique. The hypothesis on which it is founded is that crazy people - like crazy dogs - are best neutralised by avoiding all eye contact and not making any sudden movements which might otherwise antagonise them. You do this until you determine the level of threat involved and then proceed to act accordingly.

My initial diagnosis was not a positive one. I naturally assumed from the guy’s stench that he was a raving mad drunk. Raving mad drunks are often only one small step away from being aggressive and violent. Especially ones that point at you and call you a cunt.

MR MUSHROOM: So he’s a cunt, and she’s a cunt and it’s like the male and the female, and the penis and the vagina. I’ll never understand these cunts. (pointing at me and the young Indian guy sitting on his opposite side)

MELLIPOP: (thinks) Oh dear. This guy is drunk off his nut and has just had a domestic with his woman. Only four more stops until North Fremantle.

MR MUSHROOM: Yeah so I’m on fucking mushrooms and acid man. I’m on fucking mushrooms and acid. I’m so fucking tripping. Perth has shit fucking drugs man. These fucking cunts are from Perth (pointing at me and the Indian guy again). I’ll never understand these cunts. I’m from Melbourne, man. Melbourne has the best fucking drugs. Coke, acid, fucking mushrooms, speed. Perth has SHIT drugs. Perth is fucked, man. They’re all cunts. Sydney has great fucking drugs.

MELLIPOP: (thinks) Phew!!! He’s only on acid. Thank God! He’s harmless.

(listens with more interest now that the imminent threat of violence has diminished)

So, it's quite ironic that as soon as I find out that he is on a “harmless” combination of illegal hallucinogenic drugs - and not alcohol - my fear of him completely diminishes, and I can begin to enjoy our little interlude as unexpected drive-time entertainment. What does that say about so-called “legal” drugs like alcohol?

Anyway, so at this point I think, what the hell, the guy’s talkative. And seemingly harmless. Might as well talk back to him. I mean, he had acknowledged me - even though he called me a cunt. It’s only polite to acknowledge him back. And I'm nothing if not polite.

MELLIPOP: So, where you from?

MR MUSHROOM: MELBOURNE, man!! This cunt here is from Perth (pointing to the Indian guy again, who still looks frozen with terror). And he still lives with his mother. And his mother is his fucking wife. His mother is his wife!

MELLIPOP: And I’m from Sydney.

MR MUSHROOM: You’re from Sydney? Where you from in Sydney?

MELLIPOP: Leichhardt, Newtown….

MR MUSHROOM: (eyes lighting up) Really? You got any coke?

MELLIPOP: Umm….no. I’m in Perth now man. The drugs are shit, remember.

MR MUSHROOM: YEAH!! They’re all cunts here. Perth is fucking shit!

So even drug-fucked Melbournites know the score. PERTH IS FUCKING SHIT. I’m totally straight, he’s totally fucked and yet two ex-pat East Coasters still managed to bond over the fact that PERTH IS FUCKING SHIT.

MELLIPOP: So what are you doing over here, if you hate it so much?

MR MUSHROOM: I’m importing, man. I’m setting up and importing.

MELLIPOP: (train pulls into North Fremantle) Yeah alright. Enjoy the rest of your trip, mate.

(thinks) Brilliant pun Mellipop! Shame the guy’s too fucked up to fully appreciate it.

And then I got off the train and walked home. Monday afternoons, huh? Crazy.

MELLIPOP HUMILIATES THE OLD AND BLIND

Ok, so I have a chronic case of "foot in mouth" disease. See, my problem is - I know everything. And I have this compulsive need to tell everyone that I know everything. Plus, I have to be a freakin' smart-arse ALL THE TIME because I have been TOUCHED BY THE HAND OF GOD and I am PERFECT.

Supermarkets are full of easy targets for the insufferably sarcastic like me. The aged, infirm, infant, mentally disabled. No one escapes my razor-sharp wit.

Yeah, ok so I mortified myself the other day. Walking down the bread aisle at my local supermarket during our weekly shop, my attention was momentarily distracted by a shrinkwrappped tray of six freshly baked iced-donuts for only $1.99. I mean, Donut King sell piddly-sized donuts for $1.10 each. I was in the midst of a guilt-ridden internal dialogue regarding said tray of donuts when it hits me. Literally. A shopping trolley. Driven by what appears to be an intoxicated elderly woman.

She subsequently issues a belated apology and weaves her way down the rest of the aisle. Having been horsewhipped into politeness at all costs by my parents, I replied, "That's OK, mate". Now, that should have been the end of it. I should have went back to the donuts and forgotten all about the searing pain in my left hip.

But no, I take the opportunity to make wise about potential lawsuits and the supermarket's responsibility to breath test geriatric customers before granting them the use of a shopping trolley. Forcibly restraining my partner so that he could witness the woman's difficulties navigating the aisle and thus appreciate the the full extent of my mean-spirited sarcasm. And laughing. And feeling like, yeah, I really zinged her good!

So anyway, I turned my attention back to the shopping list. Whizzing through the rest of the aisles with the finish line in sight, my partner had his head stuck in one of the frozen food freezers and I turned around from the ice cream cabinet to see that our serial collider was back for a bit more biffo. Her and her trolley were headed straight for my partner's round peachy buttocks, still jutting out from the freezer. With a wry smile on my face, I pointedly called out for him to watch out and pulled him back to safety by the waistband of his jeans.

It was only then, as she passed under my wry gaze, that I got a chance to get a look at her face. My first "oh fuck" realisation came when I saw her unfocused, UNSEEING eyes. My second "oh fuck" realisation came when I realised that in addition to pushing her trolley (which is a difficult enough chore on its own), the lady in question was also using a white cane at the same time.

Look, not one of my finest moments, I'm the first to admit that. I still can't help but wonder how many of my snarky comments she actually heard. I'm so wretched....

MELLIPOP AND RETAIL TORTURE

Ok, so am feeling fairly blank again this morning as I stare down the barrel of 9 hours at the record store. Which is fine. But this also means that I have to listen to the new Robbie Williams "Best Of" album for NINE HOURS STRAIGHT. Again.... Store policy. The alternative is to play the new Rod Stewart "Best Of" album over the same time period, which is just unnecessary cruelty.

The store is also located next to a couple of three-foot high Christmas snowmen that dance and sing "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow" all freakin' day. And you get home and all you can do for the rest of the evening is walk around singing "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow", because the language centre in the frontal lobe of your brain has been temporarily colonised by a couple of Christmas decorations. Weird.

The retail environment: Perfecting the art of torture...

MELLIPOP AND THE MULLET

Ok, so I was at the record store today and, like most days, managed to make a right dick of myself.

A few nights ago, the Channel 7 current affairs program broadcast a five minute feature on a competition run by one of the local radio stations. A “Best Mullet” contest. So Anton and I watched with avid glee this freakish parade of fat-woman mullets, long-term prisoner mullets, ADD-kid mullets and your garden-variety bogan mullet. I mean, mullets are a dime a dozen in Fremantle, anyway. No biggie.

So I was at work today and the guy from the loading dock brought up a few boxes of stock that had arrived for the store. As soon as I saw him I did the classic double-take. Where had I seen that mullet before?

As soon as the penny dropped I went bounding across the shop floor, squealing “I saw you on TV the other night!”, loud enough for half of Fremantle to hear. I got a kind of quizzical look from Mullet Guy, and yet pushed on regardless. “Yeah – I saw you on Channel Seven. You won the ‘Best Mullet in Perth’ competition. I SAW you!”

Mullet Guy gave me a priceless look of utter confusion and slowly shook his head in response to my enthusiastic assertions, not sure if he should laugh or be pissed off. And no doubt wondering, "Who the fuck is this sheila, anyway?". And I’m still there insisting that it was DEFINITELY him that I saw. Like he somehow forgot entering and winning a Mullet competition that was also filmed by a camera crew from Channel 7.

All the while my colleagues were just laughing hysterically, and staring at me with the kind of stunned, “Oh my God, Mel WHAT were you thinking” looks that I have seen innumerable times before in my life. And then Mullet Guy joined in and they all laughed at me, while I stood there sheepish and blushing like all buggery. Now Mullet Guy keeps winking at me whenever he walks past. We have a bond now, you see.

MELLIPOP GETS FUCH'D

Ok, so I had an amusing phone experience this afternoon. I’m working today and I have to make a call to a company called FUCHS LUBRICANTS. Yes. Fuchs Lubricants. Founded by a German bunch of Fuchs in 1931, according to their website.

So I’m trying to decipher just exactly how one would pronounce this correctly. Do I risk saying “FUCKS” and embarrass whoever picks up at the other end (and myself), or do I say “FOOKS” and risk looking like a uninformed dickhead.

Before I pick up the phone I carefully script what I am going to say, a conversation that completely excludes any mention of the business name in question. So I look on my sheet and it says I need to speak with Joe. And so I dial. The wrong number, as it turns out….

The conversation proceeds as follows:

MELLIPOP: Yeah, hi, this is Mellipop from Whatever Job Inc, I’d like to speak with Joe please.

JOEY (female voice) : Ok…Well I’m a Joe with a “y” on the end. I'm Joey. (sounds confused) What company are you calling for?

MELLIPOP: Umm…..

(Quickfire internal dialogue: FUCK!! I can’t say “FUCKS” because she’ll think this is a crank call or I’ll just look stupid for not knowing how to pronounce it correctly……Fuuuuck!!!! Shit!… What do I say…?)

MELLIPOP: Umm…yeah…..F….U…C…H…S.... Lubricants.

(Quickfire internal dialogue: Yeah, great idea Mellipop. SPELL it out really quickly. Coward!)

JOEY: Sorry, what company was that?

MELLIPOP: (Quickfire internal dialogue: FUCK!!!!!)

Umm…it says here…I think…Fooks Lubricants.

JOEY: No…..I think you’ve got the wrong number darl.

MELLIPOP: Right. Thanks. Sorry about that……

(Quickfire internal dialogue: FUCK!!! Now I have to make this same freakin' phone call all over again!)

Shaken and confused, I make the phone call again immediately. Dialled correctly this time. And was relieved to hear a perky receptionist at the other end of the line saying "FOOKS Lubricants, this is Kelly speaking, how may I help
you?".

For some reason, I felt an instant empathy with her. I really wanted to plead with Kelly to get out, for her own sake. I instantly envisaged all the lame-ass innuendo she would have to endure from the predominately male, mining, automotive and industrial lubricant clientele. And the horrible pick-up conversations she would be having in pubs.

DRUNK HORNY GUY: Yeah, so where do you work gorgeous?

KELLY: I work for Fuchs.

DRUNK HORNY GUY: (winking salaciously at his mates) Alright boys, I got me a little go'er here.....

And what about the fate of Kelly at parties. I mean, party conversations are generally excruciating. You circle the room, having the same basic conversation with everyone. Promptly forgotten. Ignoring the patronising questions from people who have better jobs than you do. Or who own their own house instead of renting. Imagine poor Kelly's plight....

NEW ACQUAINTANCE: Yes, I'm the national account manager at Clinique. Since I've taken over the role, we've increased overall market share by 20%. So what do you do, Sally?

KELLY: I'm a receptionist at Fuchs. And my name is Kelly.

NEW ACQUAINTANCE: Are you serious? You work at a place called Fuchs? That's so fucking hilarious! What does Fuchs do, Nelly?

KELLY: Lubricants. It's Kelly.

NEW AQUAINTANCE: Get out! Ha ha you are so yanking my chain right now Melly!

KELLY: No, I'm not. But say another word and I might just punch you in the twat.

I wanted to tell her that there is more to the world than working reception for a boring old lubricants manufacturer with a stupidly inapproriate name. That she can DO MUCH BETTER! That perky girls CAN DO ANYTHING! That she must GET OUT AT ALL COSTS!

But instead, I just asked to speak with Joe. Career counselling receptionists is not part of my job description.

MELLIPOP'S ONLINE DIAGNOSIS

Ok, so the situation in Perth re: doctors is obscene to a healthy Medicare-levy taxpayer like myself. Forget the trusty Medicare card as your ticket to free health care, in Perth DOCTORS EXPECT TO GET PAID! Cash exchanges hands. Then you have to line up with all the dirty unwashed at the Medicare office to get your piddly cash rebate, which generally doesn't cover the full cost of the consultation. Abso-fucking-lutely criminal! The government here should be BLOODY ASHAMED of themselves!

See, I go to the doctor only once or twice a year, for a total of about five minutes a pop while they write me out a new prescription for the pill, take my blood pressure and ask me when I had my last pap smear. And I lie to them and say that I've already had one this year so THEY DON'T EVEN HAVE TO POKE AROUND IN MY PINK BITS FOR THE SMEAR. That's what a $500 Medicare levy gets you. Ten minutes medical attention a year and the warm glow one invitably gets when they know their hard earned money is supporting the obese, the elderly, and the hypochondriacs that fill GP waiting rooms around the country everywhere.

Anyway, because I refuse to support the user-pays (and pays and pays) system currently in place here in Perth, I have been forced to go online for my diagnosis. Now most online diagnostic tools ask for your credit card number before they ask for your symptoms, so I had to resort to a veterinary website that was dishing out the good stuff for free. I mean, we're all freakin' mammals, right.

Now the first choice I had to make was whether I was a cat or a dog. Now I much prefer the nature of dogs as an animal, but alas, feel that I embody more of the characteristics of the feline species. Selfishness, laziness, moodiness, and arrogance. Plus I like being alone and generally enjoy taunting others with my superior cunning.

So the next category was to select which was the affected area: eyes, ears, anus etc. So I chose "internal", because migraines are fairly intangible monsters. From the list of symptoms I was able to select "Vomiting" and "Swollen Abdomen" (but I think that the last one is more the result of my early middle-age spread than my migraines).

Thankfully, it was not necessary to select "Worms (look like rice segments) near anus". Not this time, anyway.

So I clicked submit and the website gave me my diagnosis. Turns out, I have BABESIOSIS! So my migraines, it seems, are the inevitable result of my ass-kicking babe-licious good looks. IT'S NOW OFFICIAL - I AM SO GOOD-LOOKING IT HURTS!

Thankfully in humans, Babesiosis is generally not fatal. Besides the migraines and nausea, other symptoms I suffer from include: being constantly hit on by blokes in pubs, being stopped by photographers in the street begging me to pose for them, being harrassed constantly by the producers of reality TV show Search for a Supermodel, having men run up to me in the street with bunches of flowers in spontaneous displays of love-struck awe and simply being captivated by my own image every morning in the mirror. That's why good-looking people are always, late, you see. It's the Babesiosis.

I tell you, it's such a relief to finally be diagnosed...... I always felt so ABNORMAL. Now I know it's not my fault. It's just the Babesiosis.

In cat's however, Babesiosis is an entirely more serious health matter. And I quote:

Babesiosis is a disease transmitted by a certain species of ticks. It is a single cell parasite that attacks the red blood cells causing anemia. Some signs may include anemia, not eating, lethargy, high temp, vomiting, dehydration and jaundice. In some cases the spleen and liver may be enlarged. Your veterinarian can properly diagnosis this disease with an examination of the blood. Treatment is highly effective.
AREA: BLOOD DISEASES, MENTAL/BEHAVIOR, INTERNAL
SYMPTOMS: ANEMIA, NOT EATING, LETHARGY, HIGH TEMP, VOMITING, DEHYDRATION, JAUNDICE

Tough break, pussycats.

And tough break, Perth GPs. There's $50 you won't be getting from me.....

MELLIPOP GETS PHYSICAL

OK, so what's the ettiquette when you physically threaten a mate's girlfriend?

It's now been TWO WHOLE WEEKS since that fateful New Years Eve and I've still yet to hear from my best mate. Not a single phone call, email, SMS or AVO (that's a restraining order, for those of you who just missed the punchline there..)

I mean c’mon – it’s Mellipop here! I am an absolute pussy when it comes to physical intimidation. I WAS JOKING! I haven’t hurt anyone physically since I seriously kneed my brother in the balls when I was 10. And he’s sired two children since then SO THERE WAS NO PERMANENT DAMAGE DONE! I mean, he started it anyway….

Ok, so here’s a quick NYE re-cap for new Mellipop users. Put yourself in my shoes. So I call my cobber in Sydney on NYE and he puts his new girlfriend on the phone, whom I’ve never met or spoken to before. We say hello and chat for a bit about how great this guy is. All very amiable. Then I threaten to break her legs if she dumped him. That’s all.

I WAS JUST BEING PROTECTIVE! I WAS TRYING TO BE NICE!

What if I told you that she called my mother a whore? What then, huh? Ok, so she didn’t actually SAY that my mother was a whore. Or even IMPLY that my mother was a whore. Or allege that my mother was in any way at all connected with the Sex Industry. In fact, she didn’t really say anything nasty about me OR my mother at all. But my point is, SHE COULD HAVE! I mean, that conversation was just getting WAY OUT OF HAND!

You understand, don’t you Baz?

So all my closest mates are blokes, right. To be honest, I love meeting their new girlfriends because they often find me a little bit intimidating and most-likely suspect that if I haven’t already slept with their boy during the course of our longstanding history, then I am already hatching sinister plans to add that puzzlesome sexual oversight to my current To-Do list.

So for the record, can I just state for all past, present and future girlfriends of my best mates:

I HAVE NOT SLEPT WITH A SINGLE ONE OF THEM.

They’re all yours girls, unsullied by the evil taint of Mellipop….. Enjoy!

Maybe I probably should apologise to my mate for the NYE incident, though. Maybe…. OK. So I’ll apologise. LOOK, I’M REALLY SORRY I THREATENED TO BREAK YOUR GIRLFRIEND’S LEGS.

She knew I was joking, right?

And YOU know I’m joking, right Baz?

I DID like her, you know. She seemed like a nice girl. I mean, you KNOW I'm a deadset twat, but that's why you love me, right?

Call me B…. xoxox

MELLIPOP LOVES MEATLOAF

Ok, so lately I have been walking that fine line between being ironic, and being a bogan.

My favourite new item of clothing - liberated from a local St Vincent de Paul store – happens to be a tight-fitting t-shirt from Meatloaf’s 2004 tour of Australia. I pounced on the bugger as soon as I saw it, the delectable taste of postmodern irony rising up in the back of my throat like the sweetest-tasting bile. A few alterations (or should that be altercations) with a pair of scissors later, and the transformation was complete. I had the perfect item of take-the-piss kitsch coture to call my own.

Or so I thought. The voice of my “inner-indie chick” kept telling me that I was a walking testament to the power of self-referential irony. Until my middle-aged hairdresser mistook me for a bogan later that very same day.

The conversation went something like this:

HAIRDRESSER: (lip discernibly curled up in distaste) Oh, so you like Meatloaf, do you….?

MELLIPOP: (momentarily stunned) Oh…..NO! GOD no! I HATE Meatloaf... The t-shirt is meant to be ironic….

HAIRDRESSER: (looks completely blank) Oh.

(head tilts slightly to the left like a dog trying to understand a new command)

What do you mean, ironic….?

MELLIPOP : (stunned again but quickly reinstates a patronising composure) Um…. Ironic. It’s like…. Taking the piss…..yeah? It’s a joke.

HAIRDRESSER: (assumes an extraordinary facial expression that simultaneously combines both perfect understanding and utter confusion) Oh right. Sure. Ha ha that’s funny…..

(continues to look at me in an oddly confused way, as though she is entirely unable to comprehend why anyone would wear a t-shirt of someone they professed utter disdain for)

This was my first brush with the possibility that maybe my idea of irony is someone else’s interpretation of sincerity. To be thought of as a Meatloaf fan - that disturbs me. I mean, how can anyone like Meatloaf WITHOUT irony. What kind of person would that make me. A fucking bogan - that’s what! I didn’t move 4000 miles away to escape my westie roots for nothing you know. I might as well pack up my Meatloaf t-shirt and move back to Blacktown, for all the progress I’ve made.

That’s the inherent danger of irony. You’re always at risk of becoming the joke yourself, when what you’re really trying to do is to smugly host it at someone else’s expense.

Which is where the presumptuous girl in the next real-life anecdote got it completely wrong. Ok I ‘fess up. It was me….. Irony got me again.

The following incident took place during the course of the day of training I had to do when I got offered the job at Virgin Music, replete with 50 other fresh-faced new recruits. Based on their openly-stated recruitment policy, the Virgin HR team sought to choose only the cutest, hippest young things from the pool of 4000 candidates who were interviewed for positions. And me.

One of the many excruciating team-building exercises we had to partake in that day involved each of us standing up and telling everyone what our favourite movie and recording artist is. And as an aside, it’s amazing how many Michael Jackson fans there are still, considering the fact that he hasn’t recorded anything remotely decent since the early 80’s.

Now anyway, this perky blonde girl gets up to speak, and she would have been all of 19 years old. She tells us that her favourite artist is Meatloaf. Now I think that she’s taking the piss right, so I immediately burst into hysterical laughter. Then I notice that no-one else is laughing and that everyone in the room is glaring at me with sharply berating eyes. Including the 19 year Meatloaf fan, who looks somewhat stunned and less than pleased with my unexpected outburst.

I felt bad for her at first. But seriously, why should she be spared the full extent of our (read: my) vehement ridicule and scorn? Think about it for a second…. This girl has the ENTIRE HISTORY OF WESTERN POPULAR MUSIC to choose from, and her favourite artist is fucking MEATLOAF!?! You know what I think? She might be very nice but that girl is an absolutely clueless fuckwit and she deserves to know that about herself. And I reserve the right to make that clear to her.

Because I am a perfect study in self-aware irony.

And she is just a dumb bogan.

MELLIPOP AND THE TATTOO

OK, so I've been seriously thinking about getting a tattoo for a few years now (I can right this moment hear my mother wailing from 4000kms away).

Something small. Something discrete. Something that means something.

It's something I keep putting off doing, not because I am unsure about the unquestionable permanency of branding my skin with a symbol that will last forever. But for the denial of what that symbol stands for. The ineradicable truth of what that symbol means to me - which is something I have lost forever. Something which goes much further than skin deep.

I lost one of my best friends almost four years ago. Someone I still think about at least once every day. More than just a friend, she was the little sister I never biologically had, and she was only 17 when she was killed in a car accident. Of the many things we excitedly talked about, were all the things we would do together when she finally turned 18. Clubbing, pubbing, credit-card shopping, prowling for boys.

Me with my few extra years of valuable experience accompanying her on those many rites of passage that make themselves available to us when we legally come-of-age. Me dragging her out onto the cheesy dance floor. Me warning her about the dangers of mixing drinks. Me watching over her maternally while she vomited in the dingy toilet cubicle at some dingy suburban nightclub, making all the appropriate, all-knowing, non-verbal gestures of comfort and sympathy while holding her hair back from the mess. Me kicking the worthless asses of the hordes of young men who dared to mess with her on my shift.

The other thing we talked about was that we were both going together to get tattoos when she turned 18, so neither of us could pussy out when it came to the pain factor. By “neither of us” I meant her. We both agreed that I was the brave one and she was the pussy when it came to the pain factor. I was going to have to hold her hand through it. I never knew exactly what my eternal epidermal totem was going to be, but thought that I still had plenty of time up my sleeve to work it out before the clock ticked around to the big 1-8 for my little sister. Turns out I had more time than I ever could have envisaged, and almost four years down the track I’m still tatt-free.

Amy always knew what tattoo she was going to get. In between bumming my fags, talking about boys, dying my hair some unspeakable colour from the latest Loreal home hair-care range, complaining about her teachers and updating me on the latest bitchy in-fighting going on at school, Amy would talk about her horse. And all things horse-related. And she’d play me the theme song from “The Man From Snowy River” on her piano just about every afternoon while I’d sit and drink endless cups of coffee. She hated playing the piano but she loved playing that song.

Amy wanted a galloping horse as her tattoo.

I quite dislike horses, myself. Truth be told, they terrify me. That didn’t stop Amy from trying to get me on that damn horse of hers. And as persistent as she was, she never did get me anywhere near the stirrups. The closest I ever got was feeding the darn thing carrots through the paddock fence, with my arm at a full superhero stretch. She always thought that was hilarious. But it didn’t stop her from continuing to try.

As it turns out, I never got on her horse and she never got her tattoo. So for the last three years I have been thinking about getting that horse tattoo for her. But I keep pussying out because of the pain factor. Not the physical pain of going through the process, but the emotional pain of what that process now represents, and how fundamentally it differs from what was supposed to be a celebration of our love, our friendship and our misguided sense of youthful immortality. Now - in addition to those other things - it represents mortality, mourning and separation.

So that’s why I haven’t yet gotten that tattoo. The pain factor. I guess maybe I did need her to hold my hand after all.

MELLIPOP AND THE DEAD KOOKABURRA AKA 20 GOOD REASONS NOT TO GO ON HOLIDAYS WITH YOUR PARENTS

Ok, so an initial disclaimer is called for. I absolutely love my folks and had a fabulous time during their stay with us in Perth. But gosh darn it, they are simply so gosh darn easy to take the piss out of. Keep in mind I kept all the good, generous (ie unfunny stuff) out of the following. Love you Mum & Dad!

1. You and your parents visit Margaret River, an area famed for its plethora of boutique wineries. After tasting a variety of different wines at one of the vineyards, your parents’ sole purchase is a $9 CASK of red wine.

2. You overhear your mother telling the haughty staff member, “That’s OK darl, I just mix it with lemonade anyway”. The haughty staff member smirks. You cringe.

3. Your father insists on eating cheese and tomato sandwiches everywhere you go. For some reason that really irritates you.

4. Your father insists on pointing out every bit of roadkill you pass on the five hour drive.

5. Your father also – inexplicably - insists on pointing out every Bayswater Rental white Hyundai you pass. This makes absolutely no sense to you because your parents have hired a white Hyundai from Europcar. This habit becomes alarmingly irritating rather quickly.

6. Your father insists on saving an injured kookaburra from the middle of the road – in the middle of Nowhere, WA. You and your parents shortly arrive at your intended destination – the Treetops Walk – and are dismayed to realise that your plan of dumping the injured kookaburra on some unsuspecting staff member will not eventuate because it appears that there are no facilities there. Just lots of trees and tourists.

7. You and your parents subsequently make a 30 kilometre round trip detour to a wildlife park to try and save the injured kookaburra.

8. Your father gives frequent pep talks to the ailing creature on your lengthy journey to the wildlife park. These pep talks start out as “You’re alright mate – we’re on the way to get help”, continue as “C’mon mate, we’re almost there – hold on” and descend into “Don’t die on me now, you scumbag”.

9. Your parents think that the kookaburra has been “sleeping”, on your arrival at the wildlife park. You take one look at the lifeless kookaburra and pronounce it DOA. You also take the opportunity to snidely remark that “sleeping” and “dead” look remarkably similar.

10. Your parents then get sucked into paying $30 entry into the shitty wildlife park you never wanted to visit anyway. The park superintendents promise to give the dead kookaburra a suitable burial for your trouble.

11. You and your parents leave the shitty wildlife park and head back to the Treetops Walk, your initial stop with the at-that-stage yet-to-be-dead kookaburra. Still reeling from the devastation of your failed rescue mission, you head down a bush track to reveal that there is, in fact, a souvenir shop and ticket sales booth at the attraction. Even more ironically, there is also a “Wildlife Rescue Centre” manned by a volunteer who has cages full of the fortunate wildlife she has saved in the past. You can’t help but think that the poor little bugger would still be alive if they had maybe posted some signs up around the place. Your father is crushed.

12. Your father offers you beer at 7 in the morning. Faced with the prospect of a full day in the car with your parents, you seriously consider the offer, but ultimately decline. Six hours later you regret your decision to forgo the beer.

13. You are constantly cold because all you pack are swimmers and boardshorts for the trip, to a region that subsequently boasts of itself as being “The Edge of Antarctica” - and for good reason. Your father offers his jacket for you to wear. You emphatically refuse to wear the jacket, claiming that is still smeared with the taint of roadkill, having been employed to wrap the dead kookaburra in. Your father has a dummy spit and calls you a “fucking idiot”. You choose to remain cold, regardless.

14. Your mother insists that you stop at shitty tourist places like the Busselton Jetty, which she insists you walk all the way to the end and back. After what seems like hours, you complete the journey and stop to read the sign posted at the start of the jetty while you wait for your mother with her gammy knee to crawl her way back to dry land. Reading the sign, you are informed that it is the longest jetty in the Southern Hemisphere. Elementary mathematics calculate that you have walked four whole kilometres of fucking jetty.

15. Your mother somehow manages to lock herself in the hire car - twice - in the space of ten minutes. Your father has yet another dummy spit and calls your mother a “fucking idiot”.

16. Your parents choose to dine at the cheap-ass restaurant at the cheap-ass $50 a night motel. After much argument, and a spirited dummy spit or two by your father, you relent and decide to risk food-poisoning for the sake of family harmony. You and your parents rock up to the restaurant at 6:30pm to be told that without a booking you cannot be seated for dinner until 7:30pm. Your father has a dummy spit and refuses to wait. You decide to eat at Hungry Jacks instead. When you turn up to Hungry Jacks, you are unable to enter the restaurant because of renovations. You suggest drive-thru instead. Your mother refuses to do drive-thru because she needs to see the menu first. You stop for Chicken Treat instead. On returning to the motel your father has another dummy spit because someone else has parked in your car space.

17. Your father insists that you order seafood every time you eat out for dinner, even though every time you eat out for dinner, you tell your father, yet again, that you dislike seafood. Your father subsequently has a dummy spit whenever you order anything from the menu that isn't seafood

18. Your mother steals some rosemary from a display home site so she can use it to cook with that evening’s lamb chops.

19. Your father is utterly incapable of following road signs on his own. Your mother has to direct him at all times. Your father will see a road sign that quite clearly states in which direction one is to turn to reach one’s desired location. At each and every sign he will confer with your mother as to which direction he needs to turn. In absolutely all cases, your mother’s advice reflects that which the road sign has already clearly dictated. Your father even needs your mother to guide him in and out of carparks. You constantly marvel at your mother’s patience and quietly want to smack some sense into your father.

20. Your parents insist on paying for everything like you were only 14 years old, and treat you like a charity case, leaving a cash donation, a carton of fags, a six pack of beer and a pantry full of food on their departure.

My parents rock!!!! Plus, the house has never been cleaner!

MELLIPOP: NOT A GENIUS, REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU MAY HAVE HEARD TO THE CONTRARY

OK, so I was bored and uninspired last night, so - in lieu of having anything remotely witty or eventful to post on Mellipop - I sought to boost my flaccid self-esteem by doing a totally kosher on-line IQ test.

I wanted to feel clever and superior, see. I needed external reinforcement to support my own innate claim to uncontested genius. Plus, it was multiple choice. I had it in the bag. What I didn't actually know, I had at least had a 20% chance of successfully guessing.

I couldn't possibly fail. I was going to yank that fucker right off the scale. Bell Curve my arse! They'd have to create a whole new paradigm of intelligence to process my score.

So it turns out that I am only marginally Above Average.

I clocked 116. The average is 100.

According to their IQ scale, I am neither Gifted nor Genius, which completely fucks with my self-concept. If nothing else, it means I’ll need to have new business cards made up.

It was the goddammed puzzles that did me in. I have no spatial intelligence. This confirms the testing done on me as a “volunteer” psychology undergraduate. Essentially, I’ve been denied genius status by a series of puzzles, dice and triangles. These things mean nothing in the real world, for at least three reasons that immediately spring to mind: 1) We do not live on the fucking set of Tron 2) No-one uses IUDs anymore 3) Mr Squiggle never did return to our screens following that unfortunate pedophilia scandal in the late 80’s.

Fucking puzzles.

And the bollocky number series questions. What is WITH those?

Q: What do the following set of numbers have in common?

4859 5949 3850 0184

A: Nothing! Everything! Who the fuck cares! I just made the fuckers up, you morons! For all you know it could be my fucking VISA card number!

The thing is, you can manipulate numbers in an infinite variety of ways, to support any harebrained theory you could ever care to devise. Numbers don’t mean anything – they are completely arbitrary and random.

And - more importantly…. This skill will not help you survive. This skill will not make you the much-sought-after conversational centrepiece at dinner parties. This skill will not get you into bed with the ladies. This skill does not make you a genius. It may in fact reveal that you are a dribbling autistic.

The only numbers that ever really matter in life are:

Number of sexual partners you have ever had :
** (a lady never tells)
Number of your “call in case of emergency” person:
02 9671 ****
Number of days before debt collectors turn up on your doorstep: 47
Number of times today you wish you hadn’t said what you actually said: 14
Number of minutes before your partner comes home with cigarettes: 36
Number of beers left in the fridge: 0

Being a seasoned psychology undergraduate/drop-out from way back, I know how shonky attempts to measure human “intelligence” are. But it still pisses me off that there are people out there scoring HIGHER than me. And some of those fuckers are just guessing. Guessing!

Sigh… I guess you can’t argue with standardised testing. I’m categorically, quantifiably, AVERAGE. Even though some anonymous internet IQ arbitrator told me I was Above Average, the fact that it would deign to use the word “average” at all is depressing enough.

I’m special. I really am.

Genuine sample question: Water is to Ice as Liquid is to…?

a) Solid
b) Dogs Bollocks
c) Venereal Disease
d) Beer
e) I don’t know

MELLIPOP LOVES NETBANK

Ok, so I must commend the Commonwealth Bank on their “new and improved” NetBanking website.

It seems as though I’ll now have time to post lengthy erudite blog entries in between waiting for each and every transaction to load, as it now takes three times longer to actually do anything. Brilliant.

So far I’ve clocked about forty minutes (and counting) to pay three bills.

I’m quite thrilled, really. It also allows me to take time out from my hectic schedule to stare intently into a hand mirror and witness the evolution of my crows feet, in real time. Or I could squat over the darn thing and spend some quality time getting to know my snatch. Either way, it gives new meaning to the phrase “a wrinkle in time saves ninety minutes waiting on Netbank”.

Alternatively, if I’m feeing particularly Zen-like, it gives me the option of simply staring blankly into the tantalising white space that promises me that my bill payments are “loading”, but without reassuring me that anything is actually taking place.

Oh, wait a second. Maybe things aren’t what they seem.

I’ve just received this curt message – having been ruthlessly hurled out of my own account - which promises me that at least some level of mysterious intelligence is at work.

For security reasons, your NetBank session has been terminated as a result of being inactive for a period of time. You will be redirected to the logon screen. To continue using NetBank, please logon again.

Hey! No fair! I’ve been very active. I’ve managed to do the dishes, write a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, plant a vegie patch and paint the back fence. And all this whilst squatting over a hand mirror. The only thing I haven't done is pay these fucking bills.

So what have YOU been doing, Netbank?

You’re looking out for me, right? I’m being protected. So why don’t I feel secure in this relationship?

So I’ve logged on again like you asked me to, and am staring at this fucking white space again. “Loading”. Right. “Freeloading”, more like. You’re just messing with me now. Don’t think I don’t know it.

Didn’t you make record profits last year? Have you invested it all in internet porn? Did you blow it all on cheap hookers and cocaine?

I’m still waiting, by the way.

I’m not a girl who copes well with rejection. I trusted you, man. I logged back on, just like you asked me to.

Why are you doing this to me?

Are my accounts too small? Is my credit card debt too big? Are you seeing someone else? Is this all just a game to you?

You’re really important to me – I really want this to work. Talk to me. Why do you have to be so darn unresponsive? Look, I just don’t know if I can trust you. Relationships like this just can’t work without mutual trust. Just give me a fucking sign, man.

Look, I’m going to try one more time. Please don’t kick me out again.

Ten minutes later…..

Fuck. I just got rejected again.

For security reasons, your NetBank session has been terminated as a result of being inactive for a period of time. You will be redirected to the logon screen. To continue using NetBank, please logon again.

Don’t do this to me, man. Do you want me to beg, is that it? Or are you just playing hard-to-get? If you want me to fuck off, just tell me man. Fuck all this game-playing shit.

Look, I can’t do it. I just can’t cope with another rejection. Surely there are others out there. Ones who will treat me with the respect I deserve. I mean, what have I done to deserve this level of contempt? Please Netbank, don’t shut me out. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on with you. I promise I won’t get mad.

You promised me “over 20 new improvements”. Do you think that you’re too good for me now, is that it? I’m trying, man. I’m trying to be a better person. I’m doing it for you, man. I’m fucking doing it for you…

God, I hope you’re not cheating on me, Netbank. Those transactions happened, didn’t they? Please tell me they did. I need to know.

Fuck – you’ve just kicked me out again. I guess this is the end, then. Is it? Look, just tell me. I want the truth. I have dignity, you know. I won’t be crawling back to you again - not today, anyway. Ok look, let me know when things are cool with you, and we can talk. Yeah? We’ve really got to talk about this.

I need you, man…. I really do…. Don’t let it end like this….

MELLIPOP AND THE TESTAMUR

OK, so through six prolonged years of sheer bloody-minded apathy I’ve managed to destroy the most expensive piece of paper – nay – the most expensive single material item I own.

And I can’t even blame the demon dogs for this one.

So I pulled my university degree out today. I was actually looking for my complete academic transcript, which was stored with the illustrious piece of shoddy laser-printed paper that passes for a degree these days. If I’d known before I’d enrolled just how shoddy a document it was going to be, I would have forgone the five years and countless thousands of dollars and hours it cost to achieve, and would have just whipped something up in Photoshop instead.

Anyway, so my degree and transcripts were still stored in the original plastic folder they were handed to me in. Also contained in the plastic folder with my expensive pieces of paper was another, less expensive yellow slip of paper (photocopied, ironically), still there after six years.

A short extract from the yellow piece of paper reads:

STORAGE OF DEGREE/DIPLOMAS

“The enclosed degree/diploma testamur is produced on a laser printer. Do not store your testamur on a long term basis in this plastic folder as damage may occur….It is recommended that your testamur be framed and hung in a dry environment”

Besides wondering what the fuck a “testamur” is when it’s at home, I also wondered who the fuck takes notice of warnings like that anyway. “Dry clean only”, “Hand wash in warm water”, “This medication may cause drowsiness - do not operate heavy machinery”, “Smoking will kill you”.

P’fff…. whatever....

I mean, to reiterate, what the fuck is a “testamur”? I looked it up in the Macquarie Dictionary and the goddamn word isn’t even in there! It goes straight from “testament” to “testes” with nary a “testamur” in sight. Testify!

But get this, right....

MY DEGREE COMES FROM MACQUARIE UNIVERSITY.

THE SAME UNIVERSITY THAT PRODUCES THE MACQUARIE DICTIONARY.

THE SAME UNIVERSITY THAT ISSUES ME WITH A WARNING TO TAKE GOOD CARE OF MY “TESTAMUR”.

THE SAME UNIVERSITY THAT DOESN'T EVEN SEE FIT TO INCLUDE THE WORD "TESTAMUR" IN IT'S OWN FUCKING DICTIONARY!

So how am I expected to take a warning that contains a word that DOESN’T EVEN EXIST seriously? How was I to know that the “testamur” I wasn’t supposed to store in the plastic folder was actually my fucking shoddy laser printed degree.

Ok, so I kind of guessed it wasn’t a good idea to keep my degree in the plastic wallet. The text has now come off onto the back of my academic transcripts, which were stored in front of it, resulting in a very tragic “double vision” type effect.

Yeah, so my degree is totally fucked now. But that yellow slip of photocopied paper is in as pristine a condition as the day I got it. Hell, I might just frame it.

MELLIPOP: THE NEXT GENERATION

Ok, so Mellipop has been dying a prolonged, agonising death for a long time now.

She's not regular, she's not stimulating, and she sure as hell ain't entertaining. Damn dogs.

But there's still hope. The mutant spawn of Mellipop is gestating. I'm working on a new project. I'm far too superstitious (and far too drunk) to reveal further details, but hopefully in the next few weeks I'll have further detail - and a new link.

Not sure what the future holds for the Mellipop blog, but undoubtedly no-one cares anyway.

MELLIPOP AND THE CENSUS

Ok, so I was going to post on this whole Census thing today. That was, until I received a typically hilarious email from a friend and ex-workmate over in WA, on that very same topic. It was so pants-pissing funny that it took the wind out of my smug little sails. So, in a Mellipop first, I'm going to post his Census thoughts instead of my own. He's from Texas, by the way. But don't hold that against him. He's funny.

Yep, just did the electronic version of census.

Top Ten Results of Completing Your Census Online

1) Maybe the internet servers will resolve the glut of traffic so you can PROPERLY surf porn sites.
2) The banks will identify all the fibbing bastards in Balga claiming to earn $2,500.00 a week.
3) The government may actually respond to your answer "blow-job" on the occasional care requirement question.
4) Your employer will be publicly humiliated by your response to the annual income question.
5) Your statistics will be listed in the National Archives so you can be laughed at by future generations as well.
6) Your answers will be screened by Interpol and a heavily lipsticked and overcoated agent named Natasha will pay you a visit at 2:00 AM (See 3)
7) The system may not pick-up on your answer "killing neighbours with rat poison" on the occupation line.
8) The government will receive only input from lifeless singles because families with nine children and a nana won't be fucked.
9) The Census site may develop a free "Meeting Other Singles" section (with photos)
10) You may answer all further government questionnaires by ticking the "Torres Strait Islanders" box. Shit, they are really into that! What is Torres Strait? Why the fuck do they want to identify all of them?

Ha ha, that's why I happened to mention that he was American. Aaahh... Number 10..... Torres Straight..... That's so fucking funny! I might just leave it there as it's patently clear that I've been well and truly outclassed on this occasion. Thanks Mikey!

MELLIPOP ON HER CHEMICAL-FREE SOAPBOX

Ok, so clearly having too much time on my hands, I’ve embarked on a domestic detox of sorts, to purge my household of the panopoly of toxic chemicals that appear in horrifying amounts in everything from toothpaste, face washes, household cleaners to grooming products. By all accounts, if this forthcoming blog post is any indication, I may also have purged myself of all humour. Bear with me on this one. I’m trying to be serious. Boring, I know.

The following is what inspired me on my latest Amish-lite quest - the list of ingredients in my daily facial cleanser.

Those without a Ph.D in Carcinogenic Chemicals and their Insidious Presence in Everyday Life may elect to skim over the following list of ingredients. Smartarses are advised not to make any smarmy mention in the comments field of my cigarette addiction. We’re all a complex tapestry of contradiction in our own unique way.

Ingredients: Water, Sodium Laureth Sulfate, Sodium Chloride, Glycerin, Coco-glucoside, Cocamidopropyl Betaine, Glyceryl Oleate, Sorbitol, Polysorbate 20, Panthenol, Dipopylene Glycol, Polyquaternium-10, Fragrance, Propylene Glycol, Peppermint Leaf Extract, Polyquaternium-39, Sodium Hydroxide, Green Tea Leaf Extract, Hydrolised Milk Protein, Disodium Phosphate, Limonene, Citric Acid, Alcohol, Magnesium Nitrate, Tris (Tetramethylhydroxypiperidinol) Citrate, Tetrasodium EDTA, Sodium Acetate, Mathylparaben, Isopropyl Alcohol, Ascrbyl Palmitate, Lecithin, Methylchloroisothiazolinone, Magnesium Chloride, Tocopherol, Propylparaben, Butylparaben, Ethylparaben, Isobutylparaben, Phenoxyethanol, Methylisothiazolinone, Hydrogenated Palm Glycerides Citrate, EDTA, Potassium Sorbate, CI 42090, CI 19140.

Phew…..Taking huge breath……

Not just scary the polysyllabic, indecipherable chemical names featured, but the sheer number of them certifiably freaks me out. I have a half-baked though intuitive theory that all of these food additives and chemicals are linked to unprecented rises in things like cancer, asthma, allergies, obesity and mental illnesses like depression and ADHD. Remember when we were kids? There was one token asthmatic and one token fat kid at school. Kids with allergies were kinda freakish. The opposite is now true. To be a skinny kid without a learning disability, behavioural syndrome, life-threatening allergy or respiratory illness is an unusual thing these days.

What the fuck is this all doing to my face, let alone my immune system, my cell biology, my fertility, my mental health? It sure as hell isn’t doing what it promised me on the packaging – “Oil Control” – so why the fuck am I slathering this chemical cocktail onto my still-oily ugly mug twice daily? And paying these fuckers for the privilege.

I’m sure the water is OK. The Sodium Laureth Sulfate is a suspected carcinogen. A quick census of my bathroom cupboard reveals that not only is SLS in my facial cleanser, it is also in my toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner and putrid green bubble bath. I have no idea what the fuck anything else is, but I’m sure there will be no harm in removing things like Disodium Phosphate and Tetramethylhydroxypiperidinol Citrate from my grooming regime.

So I made my own facial scrub today. Natural yoghurt and oatmeal. My skin feels soft and smooth as all buggery, though I’ve yet to verify whether I actually smell like a tree-hugging vegan’s idea of the perfect low-GI breakfast. No doubt Anton will give me a brutally honest assessment when he gets home. Oh, just realised that vegans don’t eat yoghurt. Animal product and all… Fucking vegans. Ruin my metaphor, why don't you, ya lousy lettuce munchers?

I also made my own toothpaste with glycerine, baking soda, peppermint oil and salt. Despite the lack of a lathering agent (our good friend SLS conveniently catalyses “bubbles” in addition to it’s other delightful cancer causing properties), it tastes and feels just the same as normal toothpaste.

My first experiment took place a couple of weeks ago, when I decided to dispense with the humble household cleaner for a classic mix of vinegar, baking soda and water. It was nice to clean the bathroom without the head-spinning-sensation-of-wanting-to-faint-as-I-feel-my-chromosomes-mutating-in-real-time that I usually have to endure. Though I did have a wee (tee hee!) accident with the toilet cleaning recipe, which called for a mixture of baking soda and vinegar. I kind of suspected that the combination might be a little fizzy, but assumed that the recipe would have warned me of that beforehand.

So I’m standing at my computer, reading the recipe. Add baking soda to vinegar. Easy as fuck. So I did it and a minor explosion of vinegar and baking soda thus ensued. There still remains a haphazard stain on the carpet outlining the hot potato trail I blazed as I hopped, skipped and jumped my way to the bathroom in Olympic record-time. Though I’ve yet to discover the chemical-free recipe to effectively remove the aforementioned stain.

The best thing I’ve discovered about all this is that the recipes – in addition to being a natural alternative to harsh chemicals – are cheap, easy to source and easy to make. I’m far more lazy than I am zealous, for the most part, hence the “easy” factor is important here. But there’s also a refreshing sense of empowerment that comes with all of this: not buying into the megalithic corporate chemical wankathon; knowing exactly what goes into the products you use to clean your house and your fine self; and the beautiful simplicity of it all. Two common ingredients. Three common ingredients. Not 47 (I counted!) esoteric scientific chemical compounds.

Best of all is the liberating sense of “I made this!” that taps into our long-muted creative core as producers that still lies buried deep beneath the numbing apathy of the mindless consumers we’ve allowed ourselves to become. It’s like reclaiming a little bit of the pre-WW2, pre-consumer, pre-petrochemical pioneering spirit of women who have been making their own homemade lotions and potions for centuries, before the mega pharma and food companies colonised our self-efficacy by pumping out their production-line goodies and lining supermarket shelves with them. For our convenience.

Geez, that made for rather self-righteous, solemn and dull reading. First the poetry and now this. I think I’m in trouble. Oh well, it gives me a new topic to rant about at the pub anyway.