Friday, January 12, 2007

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.