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.

MELLIPOP AND THE MISSING PERSONS

Ok, so this isn't a "proper" Mellipop post, per se, but a shout-out for a few "missing" compadres.

Busty - Where and how the hell are you sport? Anton has tried calling your number but it's disconnected????

Graham and Kylie - We've left a phone message for y'all, but no answer. I bumped into Hazel yesterday and she tells me that you're not using your work email anymore Kyles?

It's ironic that in these days of wireless-bluetooth-SMS-email-internet-mobile phone-mega-mass-communication overload, you can actually lose touch with anyone.... I fucking hate the global village. I want the pre-industrial, no technology, town hall, one pub, three main streets, white picket peering-over-your-neighbours-fences style village.

Fuck this friends in far-flung places, high-flying, high falutin' postmodern society bullshit. Maybe I should just buddy-up with the shirtless Pakistani dentist next door as he works on his client's dentures in the garage.

MELLIPOP THE POET

Ok, so I’m planting the seed of a new project and was just now playing around with Thesaurus.com and Dictionary.com.

After entering various related-to-the-project search terminology, as the result of my tangential curiosity I also thought to type the word ”bogan” into both search engines, as you do when you're a dumb bogan seeking external validation for your essence of being. Thesaurus.com was utterly bewildered by my particular keyword, and offered me a comprehensive list of words that I must have otherwise intended to consult it about. I stumped the bugger, and he wasn’t happy about it. Fuck him. Bogans live!

On the other hand, Dictionary.com offered me one solitary entry for “Louise Bogan (1897 – 1970): American Poet”. Being unable to avoid the temptation, I googled Ms Bogan’s particulars for further information and was rewarded with a list of her poems.

The first poem I chose to click on was titled “Solitary Observation Brought Back from a Sojourn in Hell”, thinking that maybe Ms Bogan had made a pilgrimage to her spiritual namesake here in Blacktown before her untimely demise, and saw fit to render it in enigmatic prose for all of posterity.

“Solitary Observation Brought Back from a Sojourn in Hell”

At midnight tears
Run in your ears.

That’s it! That’s her fucking poem!!! I’ve read more elegant prose on the instruction sheet enclosed in tampon packets, and gleaned far more insight into the human condition from the squat-thrust vaginal diagrams herewith.

Alright then, how’s this for poetry.

“Solitary Observation Brought Back from a Sojourn in Hell”

At lunchtime tears
I’m all out of beers.

There - I’m a fucking poet now.

That last line wasn’t part of my poem, by the way. It was a resounding statement of intent. While I’m at it, here’s one for Carefree. Two poems down now, and a slim volume of prose with my name on it must surely be forthcoming.

“Sonnet for Sanitary Products”

Stick white, cottony bungers
Up the canal at the back
Do not insert with dirty fingers
Do not insert in the urinary tract

Mellipop (1976 - ? ) Poet, bogan, raconteur.

It’s a gift, really….That last one came to me scarily easy. No more poems on Mellipop. Promise. You'll have to purchase the book. Genius ain't free.

MELLIPOP GOES TO THE HAIRDRESSERS

Ok, so why are hairdressers so agonisingly stereotypical? Is it the daily exposure to a terrifying panopoly of mind-warping toxic chemicals; the uneven power-relationship symbolised by their control of sharp implements, flesh-searing chemical cocktails and their knowingly smug ability to ruin your life with a deliberately disastrous hairstyle; or the constant stream of inane chatter from clients so desperate for company that they are willing to pay for the pleasure of inane conversation littered with endless sentences that begin “My boyfriend’s friend’s cousin said…”, “My boyfriend’s annoying habit number 354….” or “My boyfriend’s abnormally over-sized right testicle…” etc etc etc. And etc.

If you hadn’t already guessed by now, I got my hair cut today.

It was a right treat. I got the entire spectrum of hairdresser stereotypes working on my tresses today (minus the “gay” stylist – I live in the western suburbs of Sydney). The 20 year old fat hairdresser. The mid-20’s fat hairdresser. The post-30’s fat, single and desperate hairdresser. All female.

THE 20 YEAR OLD FAT HAIRDRESSER

The 20 year old fat hairdresser was full of stories about her impending 21st birthday party. Did I ask? That’s not the point. I now know that she is going to have her hair done (odd, that), start drinking at 4pm on the Saturday afternoon, possibly fall up and down stairs whilst drunk, and that she has to give a speech at the bequest of her undoubtedly proud parents. Not an Academy Award-style “Here is a speech I’ve prepared earlier” kind of speech. She was planning more of the tried-and-tested drunken tirade exercise in public speaking. She also told me that her “ex-boyfriend’s friend’s cousin” was going to bring along his Solomon Islands dance troupe for the evening’s entertainment, the downside being that she previously dated one of them.

20 year olds are fucking idiots.

And just when you think the tirade of exhausting detail must certainly end for lack of oxygen or further mundane anecdotes to report, I got a youthfully arrogant “Guess what happened to me yesterday? I got asked out by THREE SEPARATE GUYS!”. And because I was dying to know (or just dying of boredom by that point) I asked her if she had accepted any of these unexpected courtship offers. To the undoubted dismay of all three potential suitors, she declined because a) she wanted to be “free” on the night of her 21st birthday binge-fest and b) she had only just broken up with her boyfriend a week and half ago.

I was the unwelcome recipient of this tidal-glut of random infobabble whilst imprisoned at the sink as she washed out and slathered on various chemical compounds in turn. I felt like my head was caught in a fucking vice that kept squeezing tighter and tighter and fucking tighter with every vapid word that tumbled out of her hyperspeed Ritalin Generation motor-mouth.

Just to further clarify. 20 year olds are fucking idiots.

THE MID-20’S FAT HAIRDRESSER

The mid-20’s fat hairdresser was fantastic. She talked to me about what I wanted done with my hair. And then she shut the fuck up and fucking did it. Heaven.

THE POST-30’S FAT, SINGLE AND DESPERATE HAIRDRESSER

The post-30’s fat hairdresser was a walking, talking census form. Hence I was already apprised of her age, living arrangements and relationship status before my denim-clad ass had even hit the seat. 32 years old, single and lives with two male friends who are teaching her how to pick up men with tutorials on the arts of belching, sculling beer and watching motor-sports. With skills like that she’ll no doubt be destined to remain single for some time yet. I got to hear about previous dates in which she was uncomfortable with men touching her hair extensions – and can you believe that the men didn’t even realise she had them on?!? Maybe it’s just me but I thought that was the whole point of extensions. In between touch-ups I also got to hear some timeless wisdom as it relates to the ideological divide between the genders, including particularly articulate and insightful gems like “men are clueless”, "men like looking up women's skirts" and “men would rather look at a woman’s tits than her shoes”. Gobsmacking stuff.

I do like my hair though, despite having to endure the aforementioned morass of conversational banality. This kind of thing happens to me every time I go for a style, and the universal nature of their prattle is so systematic I’m sure that “Hairdressing Stereo-Archetypes 101” is a mandatory part of their apprenticeship training. No doubt the syllabus includes the following pre-requisite module on “Aids to Client Conversation: How to Force Them to Talk to You When They Really Want You To Shut the Fuck Up and Cut Their Hair”

And so we must endure the following:

Q: “So, what are you doing tonight?” see also “So, are you going out tonight?”

A: I will be cooking dinner, watching Big Brother and sobbing in dismay before the bathroom mirror, trying to ascertain whether a few artfully applied gobs of styling wax will render my new hairstyle fit for public display.

Q: “So, what are you doing this weekend?”

A: The answer to your previous question is crucial here. If it is determined that my new hairstyle is not fit for public display, I will be spending this - and the next 11 - weekends hidden under the doona at home. Weeping. And plotting revenge.

Q: “So, where do you work?”

A: I work in a butcher shop (it is optional to insert a few mumbled, lame, comments about also being a freelance writer: all depending on my willingness to risk volunteering any further cues to conversation and the supercilious extent of the question). Yes, that is why I’m in here on a Tuesday morning. I have a worse, and more lowly-paid job than you do. Happy now?

Q: “Do you have a boyfriend?”

A: What you are really asking me to answer is the hairdresser’s equivalent of the eternally fraught existential question of “beingness”. To wit, am I a “normal” human being or a lonely, perverted mutant doomed to an eternity surfing internet dating websites and attending speed dating events? Insert “yes”, “no” or “I’m a lesbian, actually” as appropriate.

Q: “Are you married?”

A: Unfortunately I seem to get the “married” version of the hair-existential question more than the “boyfriend” one these days. So I must look old. Sure, to a 20 year old hairdresser in the burgeoning throes of her “binge-drinking and promiscuous sex years”, I’m certain that I must look well and truly fossilised. No, I’m engaged, actually.

Q: “When are you getting married?”

A: How the fuck should I know? Regardless of whether I know the actual date or not, I’m sure as hell not telling you. That would be needlessly damning myself to an agonising series of inane questions about my looming nuptials for the next two and a half hours.

Q: “So, do you like it?”

A: The only answer you can possibly make to spare you any further pain, is “Yes, I love it”. Alternately, a snarky “You’ll be hearing from my solicitor” is your only other option.

Sigh…Only eight short weeks to my next appointment….

MELLIPOP AND THE CAKE

Ok, so I baked a cake today. No biggie, right?

Here is the finished result.

This is a cake. I swear on my mother’s life that it is. At least, that is what the good folks at Green’s meant it to be…(Please, no lawsuits: I, Mellipop, assume full responsibility for this inexcusable travesty of the culinary arts, which had nothing at all to do with my wholesale abuse of your marvellous modern-lifestyle convenience product)

A FUCKING PACKET CAKE.

Add a couple of eggs, a bit of milk, some butter and bake for 40 minutes. I took the fucker out at 41 minutes, having been absorbed in the onerous task of cleaning out all my kitchen cupboards, whilst grooving out with my new iPod shuffle. (Please no lawsuits: I, Mellipop, assume full responsibility for this inexcusable travesty of the culinary arts, which had nothing at all to do with my absentminded distraction due to your marvellous portable music product)

I fucked it up. The bottom and the sides were all burnt. So I had to cut all the sides and the bottom of the cake off, and subsequently iced what was supposed to be the bottom of the cake – though the bottom of the cake had now been sliced off due to the unanticipated burning of the cake. Comprende? Hence the “interesting” texture on what is now the “top”of the cake…. So it looks like one of those greasy lumps of plastic that doctors show you to illustrate what a kilogram of fat actually looks like. Tasty.

People scoff with incredulity when I tell them what a bad cook I am. Like I’m trying on a bit of false modesty for size and am really a whizz in the kitchen, effortlessly whipping up a wanky French three-course something-or-other whilst also juggling the stern demands of making my own puff pastry from scratch for a tasty dessert. Homemade crossaints, anyone?

Au contraire, mon cheri.

Baked beans on toast I can do. Eggs on toast I cannot. OK, so I can do a mean scrambled egg, (something even I can’t fuck up) but forget about the fried or the poached variety. What almost-30 year old can’t even successfully fry a freakin’ egg for godssakes?

Mellipop.

I’m trying, I really am. I just don’t have “the knack”. Nor do I enjoy cooking at all. If I have a couple of glasses of wine, some groovy tunes playing and a half full pack of fags I can at least endure the process, but without guaranteeing the end result, which is inevitably not worth the time or ingredients massacred during the process.

Here I am blogging while I should be cooking. Tonight’s delectable dish is going to be a satay chicken stir-fry, thanks to a half full bottle of Masterfood’s Satay Sauce and some hokkien noodles. Plus, I have a brown onion, a red capsicum and some frozen beans to throw into the mix. I’m already anticipating the disaster that lies ahead. Sure, I have a whole pantry full of abitrary ingredients like soy sauce, cornflour, coconut milk, peanut butter and baked beans, for example, but I don’t have the werewithal to actually combine said ingredients to create a palatable meal. Anton can do this effortlessly. I think I can honestly say that I hate him for that,

Fuck him. He has to eat my food tonight…

POSTSCRIPT:

Ok, so having returned from walking the dogs, Anton has just come into my room with a barely concealed look of bewilderment and hilarity on his face. The bugger has the hide to ask me what happened to the cake and asked me why it looks like a "crater". Ungracious bastard.... I stay home and slave over a hot stove for him today and this is the thanks I get???

Ha ha, bring on the stir-fry motherfuckers!