I just watched the latest episode of Ja’mie by Chris Lilley.

OMG, I can.not.believe.him.

After about three minutes you’ve completely forgotten that this horrid, new millennium version of a character from The Naughtiest Girl in the School, is not real, forgotten that this is not a doco.  Or Big Brother.  And that she is a bloke.  I don’t find the show funny at all, it is more cringe-worthy than anything, and a even bit embarrassing, as I wonder how much of Ja’mie was me at school.  Yet I can’t look away.  Even though I want to.  Would prefer it, even.

Perhaps the show is so startling because even though Ja’mie herself is OTT, the way Lilley portrays her is not extravagant or elaborate or even drag-queenish at all.  The show is not that kind of entertainment, where we, the audience get a wink and a nod that lets us in on the joke.  It is serious, or at least that is how I take it.  Chris Lilley just happens to be portraying a girl, and I find it interesting and strange that he does it so convincingly.

I find the whole thing very uncomfortable, and I wonder how much of it is the gender issue, and how much is the disgust with the characters of Ja’mie and her girlfriends.  I’d love to be able to separate the two.  To be able to figure out what it is that I don’t like, or is it because it’s all manner of my biases and prejudices rolled into one?  There is a lot of ugliness by the teens, with no redemption or resolution, as the adults appear oblivious to, and even enable, what is going on.  And that ugliness is hard to see. Or unsee.

It’s a fascinating half hour.  I love it when an actor is able to draw me into their world so convincingly, without my consent, and in this instance, wincing all the way.  I don’t like the sensation.  It makes my skin crawl and I feel like a cleansing shower afterwards, and yet I know I’ll be back for as long as Lilley makes me.

This is not the first time Chris Lilley has done this to me, and hopefully it won’t be the last.

Have you seen the show?

I’d love to know what you think.

Tuesdays are pretty “Meh” around here.  Monday is a big work day, and frankly, I’m physically tired after working my fingers down to the proximal interphalangeal joints stumps until 8pm, and beyond. The desire some of my gorgeous people have for optimum performance is relentless.  And invigorating.

However, as I have revealed previously, I am, by nature, a sloth.  I live in my head, and in my house, preferably without leaving either one too often.  Case in point: I once went eight days and nights without leaving “the compound”.  Working from home, and shopping online allows hermits like me to seem almost normal.  Almost.  Before you freak out and think Nath has me locked up under the stairs (cos Lord knows I do require reining in from time to time, as Mr Boags well knows), the compound does include going out the back gate and over to the beach.  It’s part of my property after all.  My beach.  My sand.  My lifeguard (oh yessiree Bob).

So Tuesday.  Meh.  Housework.  Jobs.  Reading groups at school.  Thinking about how not to exercise, or feeling guilty about not doing it.  You know, all the things that have to happen every week, no matter how well you did them last week, and will still need to be done again next week, not matter how well you did them this week.  And the week after.  Sometimes the banal rituals of life just get to me.

I try to remind myself to be grateful.  To remember how lucky I am to live here.  To have this beach at my doorstep.  To have this view.  To have this wide open sky.  To have the warmth of the sun on my back.  To be alive and healthy and happy and loved.  But Tuesdays.

Today gorgeous Lani invited me to have coffee with her, and she chose Bistro C .  I love Bistro C.  I love the noise and the view and the fun, fast and cheeky service.  I love the food that never skips a beat, and the music that lifts my mood, and the view.  I may have mentioned that view.

Laguna Bay. Easy on the eye, she is.

Still, I was Tuesday grumpy about Hastings Street today.  The Tri is on this weekend, and that bloody Seahaven reno is still going on, and so I knew parking would be scarce and tossers would be everywhere. I muttered and mumbled myself into a parking space right out front, and then grumbled and griped right up to the front door.

And then it happened.  Noosa magic.

The blue-eyed guy greeted me with a grin and said, “Sure, sit wherever you like”.  Then coffee came with smiles and speed.  Water came often, and without fuss.  The sun warmed my skin.  The breeze fluttered along my forearms and tickled my nape, and those Tuesday Bluesdays just flittered off.  I looked out at that big blue bay and remembered all the times I’ve sat here, in this spot, and marvelled at the luck and cunning that landed me here on this squeaky white sand.  Once a tourist, and now here planted.

Coffee and muffins and Lani arrived and we sat and we talked and laughed and solved the problems of the world, or at least of our own minds, and together Laguna Bay and that Bistro Sea just acted like a salve to my fragmented soul.  Sure, I still have the boring to do.  And the things that ail my mind are still there, worrying away and burying deep, but seeing this place through the eyes of a tourist lightened me.

Bistro See.

Opens your eyes it does.

So now I’m another bloody food blogger…

Do you have a Bistro C?

What day is your Bluesday? 

**This is not a sponsored post.  I paid for my own damn coffee and muffin. 7 bucks. Get onto it.

Usually I pride myself on being a know-all, and basically just acting smart-arsey as I swan about in my own little world.  I know as much as I need to, about the things that I’m interested in, and for everything else there’s google.  Or if I’m feeling all old-school and retro; my textbooks.

These days you don’t even have to know the name of the song, or even very much of the song that’s dancing around in your head, to decode it.  You can type in a few of the lyrics, or hum or sing a bit of it to an app, and voila: there it is ready for purchase.  Gone are the days of going into Brashs and quietly singing, out of tune and warbling, to the cute guy with the earring, the first verse of the latest Duran Duran.  (Who really knows what The Reflex are anyway?)

Once I was watching Spicks and Specks and I’d missed the intro, so I was wondering who the funny guy with the big teeth was. Just idly wondering mind, I didn’t really need to know, but I typed in “Who is the guy with the big teeth on Spic…” and the answer was there.  I didn’t even complete the question.  I felt like Tony Barber must have, on the fast-money part of Sale.

So with all this at my behest, most days I get around thinking I’m pretty smart.  According to me.

So you can imagine my surprise last night, when I got a riddle incorrect.  Because, shock of shocks, I used only my brain.

Curses to you, brain.

Immediately after I sent the answer to my FB friend, I googled the answer, feeling all puffed up and superior, only to find, “Computer says NO”.  Of course, every part of my being wanted to avoid the public ridicule, and see if I could change my answer, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  The only thing I abhor more than being a dummy, is being a public dummy, and the only thing I hate more than that, is being a cheat.  Ever since I cheated on the Rubik’s Cube in 1981, and my Dad just quietly said “That’s disappointing”, I haven’t had the heart for it.

So here I am.

Grumpy and cross and all giraffe-y.

For two more days.

Grrr….

….Fricken Facebook… Mumble mumble…

Have you done the stupid FB riddle?  Are you a giraffe?

Now with added shame

This week Unit One called Unit Two a penis.  Unit Two cried.  Unit One now has the power, and he is wielding it well.

This week both Units went to school with Nanny for Grandparent’s Day.  Without my supervision.  I wasn’t concerned.

They had a conversation in the back of her very fancy car about various things, which resulted in one calling the other an “effing idiot”.  Exactly that.  They didn’t say “Fucking idiot” and I’m editing here, lest your bottom prickles when you read a swear, they actually said “effing”.  Nanny said she didn’t think that was appropriate (of course she did- this is the woman who says “sugar” instead of shit, and has never, to my knowledge said “bum”, or even farted out loud)  but my feral children assured her they were allowed to say “effing” as long as they didn’t say the real word.

They are not allowed.

But I got in trouble from my Mother nonetheless.  Little shits.

And here they are today:

Playing in the dunes together, like the best penis and vagina friends they are.

And flying kites.

Butter wouldn’t melt in their effing mouths.

Do your kids get you in trouble with your Mum too?

The Hits:

1.  Having My Friend John and Olive here for the weekend.  Even if Friend did fall asleep after nowhere near enough beers, whilst putting Olive to bed… Still, so good to hear those kids laughing and giggling and smiling together.   Then as an added bonus, we got to have lunch with some of Hayls and John’s friends on Sunday.  Some we knew, and some we didn’t.  Lovely, yet bittersweet.  I just missed her so bloody much.  And of course wanted to get her ‘run down’ on who was who, and how they fitted in.     Sigh.

2.  The sound of the green frog (please, please, please be a frog and not a cane toad) in my down-pipe, or spouting, or wherever he is. Funny little thing must be thirsty- he’s been singing for days.  We’ve had precisely 17 drops of rain.  Yet still he sings.

3.  Grandparents day at school today.  The youngest was very excited for Nanny to take them to school, jumping up and down like popcorn.  The oldest was more reserved, and pretended he didn’t care (that’s 9 for you), but loved Nanny being there to see his classroom, and check out whatever crazy things he’s been up to.  Such precious times.

4.  Pimms and lemonade.  Need I say more?   My new fave drink for a long, hot Queensland Summer.  Lucky I have a good supply of mint.  Thank you Mr.Pimms.

5.  Today Coco came upstairs crying because Liam had called her “a penis”.  I have no idea why, but I found this immensely entertaining.  Coco was beside herself, because “it’s mean”.  Once we were able to discern that, in fact, she wasn’t a penis, I was able to get her to see the funny/ridiculous side.  I’m now waiting for Mr.Vagina to come upstairs crying….

The Shits:

1.  Another casualty in the Asher Apple Orchard.  This time Liam’s iPod.  The bloody thing literally jumped out of my handbag and onto the concrete when I was getting out my purse.  Damn you Apple and your seductive, irresistible and fragile technology.

2.  This wind. Beat it wind.  You are no friend of mine.

3.  No daylight savings.  Come ON Queensland, this bird and bright light bullshit at 4.30am is doing my head in.  It must be the menopause, but I can no longer sleep through all the rays and ruckus.  Please Clive Palmer, I implore you: save me.

4.  My sore toe.  Three weeks and still not healed.  Toe, you sir, are being ridiculous, and are impairing my shoe wearing capabilities.

I may have to be hospitalised..

(If you can’t tell, it’s my little toe.)

5.   Nonsense click-bait blog posts from women who know better.  Yes Mia, I’m looking at you.

Have a great weekend everyone.  Hope you rack up the hits and don’t get the shits..

Any plans?

I wrote a post last night that may did include a comment about a person on tv that was a little bit ascorbic quite mean.

At the time of writing (11.30pm), I thought it was amusing.  To me.  Alone in my little bedroom and without anyone else reading it.  So I hit publish.  Keyboard warrior, me.

I didn’t write the post TO the person.  I didn’t provide any links to him personally.  And unless the post was to go viral, like my posts usually do (see that sarcasm again there?) he would never even know.  But that isn’t really the point is it?

In the shower this morning, I had a moment.

I thought about the target person, and then all the people who are out there, in the media in all it’s various forms, and how easy it is for some lonely, solitary dude with a keyboard and an internet connection to write mean things, even if they are a little bit funny, or a bit rude or they get that sad, unhappy dude a crumb of attention.

I wouldn’t say what I typed, in the safety of my bedroom, to that tv host IRL.  If he was a mate, I might tease him about it, but as a random stranger, no.  Not because I’m afraid of voicing my unpopular opinions, but because some things should just stay in my own head.  I’ve taken the post down, so if you weren’t fast enough this morning, you’ve missed it.  Suffice it to say, it was HILARIOUS, INSIGHTFUL and probably the post that would have seen me featured in HuffPost, and seen me ensconced as the winner of the internet for today.

If you did see it, shut up.

It is like my Mum said, “Say nice things.”

So now, instead of teasing famous people, I’m going to tease my own progeny, because that IS allowed (she says, as she ignores her Mum’s best advice).  This is what the ex-Third Smartest Kid said this morning:

Nanny: Your reading is getting really good Coco

Coco: Yes I know, I’m the second smartest kid in my grade.

Nanny:  Cool, who is the smartest?

Coco: Number one is Stella and Ben, Number two is Me and Shaylah.

Nanny: (knowing that Coco previously held the title of Third Smartest) Who is the third smartest?

Coco: All the other kids.

So, there you have it folks, NAILED IT, again.

I think the Ashers win the internet today.

Have you ever been mean on the internet?  Or is it just me? (Hold me, Love me)