Today’s topic: My new guitar.

Just before I moved to London 5.5 years ago… I committed a hideous crime against myself. I was obsessed with saving cash and would do anything I could to make an extra buck. (Don’t worry, this story isn’t going down the prostitution path)

Wearing my oversized rave jeans, one sunny afternoon I trotted/shuffled down to the local pawn-shop and sold ALL my INSTRUMENTS. My electric, acoustic, bass and amp. I’m pretty sure I asked for a price on my soul that day too as CLEARLY I was committing an act of pure evil.

With the 37 dollars I made from the transaction (yes I’m exaggerating) I wisely invested in an ipod mini which later shit itself about 6 months into my England journey. It was a sad day and ever since I’ve regretted the choice to abandon my stringed friends.

It’s with ecstatic joy that I can happily declare my love and dedication to a new instrument of love (wow- that really sounds like I’m talking about a vibrator?!) YES- I have made a new purchase and NO it’s not of the sexual variety. It’s a new guitar… And it looks like this:

She’s a fine lass to finger… almost as satisfying as my first ever. Believe it or not I actually popped my first ever guitar cherry with this:

That’s right it’s a badminton racquet. Before ‘Bartholomew’ (my electric guitar when I was 13) came into my life, I would head-bang in my room for hours to Silverchair wielding my awesome axe/badminton racquet. Laugh all you want… I saved heaps on broken strings. There’s been many times I’ve wanted to resurrect the badminton racquet in various ensembles I’ve played with, but I’ve always been refuted. Mr Pohlenz my year 10 orchestra conductor in particular thought I was a fucking idiot. He was probably not wrong.

So anyway- I’m playing again and it’s fantastic-oso. Any requests? Mail them my way…

Okay… so I’m writing this with the possibility that I won’t actually blog it. Here’s the situation: next Friday I have 2 job interviews in Sydney. If I get either of the jobs- I’ll be moving to Sydney within a month. And if that happens- I plan to write and blog about it. I guess you could consider this piece of prose (if it’s actually published!) to be the prelude…

IF… one of the channels wants to keep me- it will be the second major geographical move I’ve made within 12 months. When I first got back to Australia the thought of moving to Sydney freaked me out big time. Simply put- I didn’t want to ‘have’ to move to Sydney. Yet 11 months on… I feel very differently. Maybe it’s because I feel like I have a choice in the matter. I’m not sure what my initials reservations were about Sydney. Possibly… I just didn’t think I had it in me. I had such a difficult time readjusting to life back in Melbourne and I guess that I was scared Sydney would be even worse- especially without the support of family and old friends.

Leaving London was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I left behind a lot of special people and for 6 months I really suffered that grief. It wasn’t until I went back over Summer that I realized those people will always be there… and that friendships will continue even though geography separates us. It was an important lesson to learn and it’s proving so valuable right now. I’m not afraid to leave Melbourne- because I know the people who’ve made it so special once again- will always be in my life.

I’ve always had a theory about when the best time to leave a party is… and it’s when you’re still having fun. Leave before you get bored, or disgustingly drunk, or before fights break-out and the police bust your fun up! In hindsight- I left London at exactly the right time. In December 09 life was a party and I was in such a happy, loving and exciting place. Those feelings of warmth are what made it so hard to leave. Had I possessed the ability to see into the future and recognize how much more great stuff the universe had in store for me- I probably wouldn’t have howled like a baby on that teary flight out of Heathrow. Hindsight is a beautiful thing…

So right now- life in Melbourne is a party. In fact it’s the best party life has thrown thus far…. But at some point due to the lack of work for Promo Producers here- the music will stop and the lights will come on. Right now- this very moment- is the perfect time to leave. And when I take the road trip from Melbourne to Sydney with my very few belongings in tow- it won’t be tears- it will be big smiles and a gargantuan appetite for all the new amazing experiences and people Sydney will deliver.

That is of course… if I get the job. And as this is yet unpublished I’m going to be honest and say I’m quietly confident. Watch this space.  Xxx

Step 1- Ugly yourself up. Hair is not to be brushed (or washed) – and instead tied up in some ridiculous bun on top of your head. If you can messily angle the bun to one side- extra style points. Refrain from using any cosmetics- though bright red lipstick is permitted when smeared messily around your pale too-hip-for-fudging-school face.

Step 2- Dress like you’re 76 years old. Wool cardigans, over sized floral dresses, unmatched colours and cheap crap jewellery you either picked up from Savers or your dead Nan’s trinket box.

Step 3- The most IMPORTANT part to pulling this look off is having the glasses. You know the ones. Big black-rimmed hunks of ugly perched on pretty girl’s noses. I think what bothers me most about them- is in most cases the lenses are actually glass…or plastic. The Nana Mouskouri look never was- and never will be hot in my books.

So there you have it- ‘Ugly Grandma Geek’. This morning on the tram I had to sit opposite one and to make matters worse she was knitting! I don’t have a problem with knitting (Hi Sue!)- But it was just a bit much on public transport at 8:35am. Maybe it’s the Ugly Grandma Geeks way to accessorize? All I know… is that the girl was about 23 years old and looked like a complete knob-head.

Rant. Over.

No I’m completely serious. For those of you who don’t know the face it’s Karen Gillan- the Doctor’s new assistant. Single-handedly the very reason I’ve become a total Dr Who convert in the past month. I’ve realized that I’ve actually got quite a thing for ginger girls… 

First there was Lauren Lee Smith from The L Word. AKA: Lara the ‘Hot Sous Chef’ from season 1. In my opinion easily the most likeable and relatable character from the entire show (aside from Average Alice)

Then there was Olivia Hallinan from Sugar Rush who I had the pleasure of harassing at V Festival last year. Quite cleverly on my part I was ‘harassing on behalf of someone else’… Jules- I took advantage of your Kim crush and reaked the rewards!

And of course let’s not forget the time I flirted with life as a ginger myself. How could we forget that? Walking into a salon with black hair… spending 260 quid (550 bucks!) and over 5 hours of my life in the hope I might walk out blonde… to instead walk out like this:

Safe to say I prefer myself blonde. But as mentioned- I certainly am partial to and appreciate a fiery red head. And right now it’s total Karen Gillan fever. I actually cut short a phone conversation with one of my best friends in England the other night just because Doctor Who was on telly. So the plan of action? To get in touch with my BBC contacts and see what strings I can pull. Calling Hannah Rodger? Can we invite Miss Gillan around for dinner one night when I stay?

Sweeeeet.

I’m someone who can always ‘just make do’. Allow me to illustrate with an example. Say for instance the toaster broke- I would ‘just make do’ with using the grill instead of buying a new one. This is not a reflection of tight purse strings- just plain laziness. For the past 1.5 years I’ve been ‘just making do’ with an ipod shuffle. At least once a month throughout that period of time I would think to myself- “Geez…I’ve really got to get a proper ipod so I can enjoy my gargantuan precious music collection properly”. So hallelujah last week I finally took the time to purchase myself a brand spanking new nano after work one night. On the train ride home I fantasized about how wonderful our life together was going to be. Bette Midler on Bourke Street. Sneaky Sound System on Smith St. Friendly Fires and Florence and the Machine on Fyffe. I was going to enjoy Melbourne with my entire life soundtrack always cued up and ready to go. Awesome.

Then I got home… and disaster struck. Somewhere in between re-installing some mac software updates and **cough** paying for and downloading more new music… My entire I-TUNES library shit itself. All the music… gone. I have no idea what happened. A virus? Karmic payback for stealing music? All I know is I had 4 years worth of burned, ripped, unzipped and downloaded tunes on there. And just before anyone chips in with “my oh my didn’t you have it backed up?”- NO I DIDN’T FUCKING HAVE IT BACKED UP! So I sat in tears on the couch yelling expletives at the screen and holding my now totally useless new ipod nano in hand. It was a dark moment.

I’ve had a few dark moments with Apple. The e-mac (remember them?), the i-pod mini (discontinued due to design faults), the macbook…. Every piece of wonderful technology I’ve owned from Apple has been plagued with issues. I wonder if other people have experienced such intense highs and lows with the brand?

My recent life experiences have pointed me in the direction of believing something good can come out of everything that happens. No matter how bad things seem. So I’ve been whoring my USB stick around like it’s the town-bike collecting music off everyone I know. Old stuff, new stuff- whatever I can get really. And the great thing is that I’m discovering some totally RAD new artists/bands/songs. It’s like being a foreign traveller in a new country… and I’m having so many of those awesome moments where you hear a song for the first time and fall in love with it. New experiences.

So the good to come out of losing the soundtrack to my life… is that a new one is being lived and written. New month… New music… New motto: “Apple: I hate to love you, and I love to hate you”.

The first highlight for me had to be Liza Minnelli covering Beyonce’s Single Ladies at a gay wedding. She does the full dance and act- which had me falling off my chair in fits of hysterics. The ‘big gay wedding’ was one of the first scenes and really set the mood for the remainder: glitzy, camp, over-the-top fun not to be taken too seriously. When I give consideration to that description- I think its how I’d like to live the rest of my life… And when I get married there will certainly be swans and sparkle.

The second highlight was the introduction of a new character- Charlotte’s Irish Nanny. Whenever she featured in scene- cheerful Irish music would accompany as she bounded around playfully without a bra on. The joke being: that a currently menopausal Samantha watched on in horrific jealousy. I myself didn’t find it a particularly funny joke… just plain pleasant to watch. Where’s that rewind button when you need it?

The third highlight was actually just one single line of dialogue. It came from Samantha at a film premiere in response to one of the girl’s questions about her date- “If the films any good I might throw him a f**k”. I’ve never thought about throwing someone a f**k before. I’m not sure exactly what it would entail… ? Regardless- it sounds charitable doesn’t it? Like throwing a drug addict some loose change.

What I didn’t like about the film? How disgustingly degrading it was to Arab culture. Only the Americans would be stupid enough to think the following scene is acceptable: Samantha standing half naked in a Souk surrounded by Arab men as she spills condoms in front of them, thrusts her vagina towards them screaming “So what I like to fuck men!”, giving the finger and screaming “Abu Dhabi the new Middle East my fucking arse!” . Other people in the cinema were laughing- I was plain horrified. My guess? There will be a lot of discussion over this as more and more people go to see the film.

In conclusion: the film for me was a bit like a happy-hour cocktail. Colourful, entertaining and fun- but something I’m glad I didn’t pay full (or any) price for. Beneath all the glitz and glamour… Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda were essentially 4 women we could all relate to in some small way. Unfortunately… they’ve now become total caricatures of the women they once were. My advice? For the best of these gals- stick to your DVD box sets at home.

“I am contemplating getting a potty for my new house as the toilet is on the ground floor and my bedroom is up 2 flights on stairs! How old is too old for a potty? And when is acceptable to piss in a bucket on the landing and empty in the mornings? Im thinking probably never. Signed: Urine Bin User”

In my opinion this was a blatant cry for the knowledge, wisdom and great advice I am gifted with. Here is my reply:

Dear Urine Bin User,

Thanks for getting in touch with your toilet enquiry. There’s a few points we must consider before making the decision as to whether or not a ‘urine bin’ is acceptable in your new house-share.

The first is your desired model and make of potty…

Potty construction is something to give serious thought to. You can never have enough well engineered portable toilets in your house. If using cheap bin liners from Tesco- always ensure you double bag and have a mop and bucket handy. My personal advice is to pay that little extra for well-sealed recyclable bin bags. Colour is optional- though quite handy to determine ones level of dehydration, if choosing the clear variety.

The second point to consider is the house lay-out itself…

Being high up on what I assume is the 3rd floor- you run the risk of potential spillage over lower levels. It may be wise to secure your potty to the banisters with several pieces of string. Should you be running low on string- I recommend tearing up newspapers and using cello-tape to fashion yourself an alternative piece of rope. The benefits however of being on the 3rd floor is that emptying your potty will be quick and easy- just throw it out your window.

The final factor that will determine whether or not potty-use is acceptable in your new abode- is your housemates.

Do a little gentle probing (pardon the pun) into your housemates own bathroom habits. You may be surprised to hear they’re just as open minded as you when it comes to the business of doing business. I once heard of a girl that wiped her bottom with a sock- so you see there’s an extensive variety of alternative toilet practices being explored by the wider community.

I hope my advice has helped you in your search of an answer. And always remember- makeshift toilets DO have an 8 hour expiry date on them. Go fourth and wee my child.

Yours sincerely Emma G

This morning on route to work- myself and my fellow commuters were treated to one of those fantastic and entertaining public transport experiences. Her name was “Angry Bag Lady”. We were on the 112 tram cruising down Brunswick Street- stopped just outside the grotty commissioning block of flats everyone speeds up to get past. AKA- Junkie central.

Angry Bag Lady was running towards the tram doors in a manic frenzy to get on board. Clearly our tram driver had woken up a miserable fuck as he closed the doors abruptly when she tried to board. She stood outside banging, swearing, frothing at the mouth– her collection of plastic bags flying off in every direction. The tram full of people observed her display of rage with mixed emotions. Some people shook their heads judgementally. Others looked scared.

Me? I did my best not to giggle- and instead was forced to pull that strange ‘I’m trying not to laugh’ face. You know the one. The kind of face people would pull if they were giving birth to a pineapple. The thing about that ‘I’m pregnant with a prickly over-sized piece of fruit face’ is that it’s completely contagious. One person saw me smiling, and let out a little chuckle. Which in turn set-off the skinny bald guy next to me. Within seconds the whole second half of the carriage was laughing at Angry Bag Lady as she swore some more- and scurried around retrieving her bags in between the honking traffic.

Angry Bag Lady gave us all a beautiful gift this morning. The gift of laughter and human connection. For a brief minute or so… we were no longer strangers commuting towards our daily bump & grinds. We were people- united in joy and entertainment by Angry Bag Lady.

Like I said- it really is the simple things in life.

5 Career paths I’m thankful I never continued….

1. Chicken Shop Lady

When I was 15- I took on the standard after school job in a greasy fast food joint. The lucky establishment? KFC. As a fresh-faced teenager with a healthy appetite- I really put the ‘Kentucky Fat C*nt’ into that place. If my success as a teenage employee could be measured by the amount of pounds I stacked on throughout my time there… it was a hefty effort of super-sized proportions. Imagine if I’d stayed there? I’d probably be so morbidly obese my sweat would be pure chicken fat. I’d still be in Warrnambool- or Hamilton if I’d been brave enough to venture out. I’d drive a mid 90′s holden commodore and when my friends came through drive-thru- I’d think I was fucking awesome for giving them extra chips. I’m glad I’m not a Chicken Shop Lady.

2. Police Officer

My first flirtation with University was a Bachelor of Arts majoring in Police Studies. What kind of degree is that I hear you all cry? I’m still not really sure… as I didn’t actually even finish the first semester. All I know is that I’m paying for the HECS detbt now goddamnit! Okay so seriously… let’s think about this… Emma as Policewoman (Joan aint got nothin on me). What a fucking laugh! I don’t know why I seriously considered it as a possibilitiy? Maybe because all my family are officers of the law? As I’ve matured like a fine wine with age- I’ve discovered I’m much better at breaking the law rather than upholding it. It’s not even a matter of ability- I just enjoy it. I think about what life would have been like as a cop. There would have been no wicker chairs. No kite making. No parties where people get naked and paint each other with stolen house-paint. I’m glad I’m not a Police Officer.

3. Musician (AKA unemployed)

After getting all serious with a pissy Bachelor of Arts course- I decided what I needed was to just take some time out and study something I love- music. So I got my backside down to the local TAFE and enrolled in a year long course. I can categorically tell you I learnt nothing about music that year. Lunch-breaks were usually spent spliffing up at someone’s house only to realize we’d forgotten the location of the TAFE building… and therefore would not be able to make it back for the afternoon. Strangely enough we always remembered where the Milk Bar was though… we could never have enough doritos in those days. So that year- I was an ‘artist’. I forced my pallette to adapt and like coffee, red wine and tofu. I burnt incence sticks though I hated the smell. And I picked up the guitar maybe once or twice… usually just to move it so I could sit-down or pass-out. Imagine if that was still my life? I probably wouldn’t even be able to afford a computer to blog on … dole cheques don’t stretch very far these days. I’m glad I’m not a Musician.

4. Harrods Shop Girl

Everyone does a stint in retail at some point right? Whilst studying screenwriting… I made my dollars on the side at Rebel Sport. I was what you called a running shoe expert- which made it easy for me to slip into the Harrods Technical Sports Department when I moved to London. My two months there… were like some strange alternative alien life. First of all I wore a business suit. Those of you who know me… can picture the ridicularity of such a sight. I don’t know how people can wear them? Everytime I put it on I strangely felt an immediate sense of constipation- which worked in my favour as we were encouraged to behave as anally retentive as possible when dealing with customers. When entering and leaving the building itself- employees were forced to carry their belongings in CLEAR SEE-THROUGH PLASTIC BAGS! The reason for this- was that our conspiracy crazed mega-boss Mr Al Fayed, was most certain that every single person working for him was either A) stealing B) plotting a bomb attack C) a spy from Harvey Nicks. Harrods- is a very very scary place to work. I’m glad I’m not a Harrods Shop Girl.

5. Waitress

I’ve done many waitressing gigs over the years… and I’ve sucked in all of them. My problem as a waitress- is that I resent the people I’m having to serve. It’s like a violent jealousy thing… I should be sitting in their seat and they should be serving me. I guess it’s because I like/love/live for food. Also- I HATE rude people. I’m not very good at dealing with them. Sometimes Rude=Rude. It’s inavoidable. I often found myself in situations where I day-dreamed about cracking tea saucers over the heads of customers giving me attitude… That’s pretty negative really isn’t it? Waitressing filled me with rage. I was the kind of waitress I’d hate to have myself. I’m glad I’m not a Waitress.

Looking back over the years of random experience- I’m pretty damn happy where I am now. It’s not where I want to stay in terms of long-term career… but it’s challenging, fufilling and rewarding for the moment. The dream? To get paid to write.  People who get paid to do what they love- must lead fantastically happy lives. So here I am- writing… telling stories… and hopefully entertaining. It’s what I love to do.

So I ditched the double-shot skinny-latte on route to work this morning and instead drank water. 600 millilitres if we’re to be specific. With an empty bottle I sauntered into my office merrily. (Note: ‘saunter’ is the new way to walk if you’re truly hip). I dropped my bags off and headed straight towards the kitchen in search of more clear wet stuff. As I reached out to stroke the tap into action- I was abruptly stopped by the company security guard who kindly explained ‘no water running no use today’. For those of you who don’t speak Neanderthal that roughly translates to: “There is no water anywhere in the building”.

My initial reaction was of slight annoyance. I was going to have to purchase a large bottle of EVIAN (which is ‘naïve’ spelt backwards) from the supermarket. Then it occurred to me that if I were to consume alot of liquid… I’d need to use the bathroom (that’s how lady-like people say toilet). As if on cue- whilst deliberating over these points- I experienced an intense and terrifyingly urgent need to use the toilet.

With no facilities anywhere in the near vicinity…I was fondly taken back to the days of Bestival 09- where a friend and I constructed our own make-shift toilet. Truth be told: it was actually just a big recyclable plastic bag. Was now the time to bring ‘urine bin’ back to life I wondered? I looked around my edit suite evaluating all the potential materials… And decided no. Weeing at work is never really going to be a good option.

So instead I trekked the half kilometre to our alternative ‘dumping site’. The company had negotiated with a car-park to let us use their staff toilets. All we had to do was join the line of cars approaching the toll booth- and wait our turn to meet the attendant at the window and ask for the key. There’s no real gracious way to ask such a thing when you’re stuck in between motor-vehicles having to yell at the top of your lungs to be heard.

“Excuse me I really need a crap can I please have they keys?”

“It wasn’t me that left that wet patch- it was petrol leaking from the car before”

“May I please have the keys to the toilet, my bladder is about to explode and there’s a great chance we might all die”

Anyway- long story short- the situation was relieved. It is now 4pm and I’ve got a severe thumping headache and feel as if I might pass out on the train home due to total dehydration. Maybe I should have just made my own potty afterall…