Kookai store. So shiny. So skinny.

Dear Kookai,

I have two small bones and one massive, bitch-tonne of a bone to pick with you.

For years, I resisted your temptations. I have vague memories of disliking you since the first time I went through your shiny glass doors as a slightly chubby teenager.

At that time, it was because of your prices. BONE ONE. I didn’t even bother trying on your fancy stretchy clothes, because I was slowly saving up my pocket money for a ticket to see the Black Eyed Peas in concert (and yes, they were awesome). So I would just go in for the air-conditioning and loitering opportunities.

Sometime after, once I had become a successful and accomplished 20-year-old with slightly less chub and slightly more cash (and I use “slightly” very truthfully… 500 grams less, $50 more…), I wanted to buy an item of clothing with a proper label (i.e. not Kmart, as rad as they are).

I tried on the only loose-fitting dress in the store and convinced myself to buy it. It looked alright, it kind of fitted (cos it was a loose-fitting dress,) it was a nice green colour and lovely raw silk material, and it only cost half of my life savings. Do you know what, Kookai?

The strap of that dress (though I only ever wore it as a top, as it was embarrassingly short and I live by the old-fashioned motto “if you can see the crease of your ass-cheek, the hemline is too high”) broke the second time I wore it. I sewed it back on, and soon after, the other strap broke.

BONE TWO.

I was so annoyed at the time about how crappy the quality of your sewing was, that I didn’t go back into your store for SIX YEARS.

A blurb from the Kookai website. I guess I’m not a ‘Kookai Woman’ because I’m not a size 2.

Until last month. I was on the lookout for a dress for a special occasion. I tried my usual cheap stores and nothing was taking my fancy. And then I saw your St Kilda store, like a shining beacon of downlights and clean glass.

The clothes on the pencil-thin mannequins in the window were such pretty colours, summery yellows and Tiffany blues, that I forgot about my broken-green-raw-silk-dress-top, and stepped into the cool air-conditioning and smell of Windex.

Instantly, I found a dress that I liked, and went to find it in my size. The first size I came across was size 1. Baffled, considering that this is not a usual Australian size* (except maybe for an actual pencil), I continued to rifle through the rack. Size 2. Nope… still had about ten sizes until we reached me. Kept rifling… but what was this? There was only size 1 and size 2.

I asked the lovely sales assistant, who explained they were THE ONLY SIZES, and why don’t I try them on? I gathered a bunch of dress styles in size 2’s – I’m generally an optimistic person, but I could see that size 1 would be totally fucking kidding myself – and went into the fancy change room with the swishy curtain.

Kookai. I tried on the first dress, and the seam began to rip before I’d even got it past my hips. This was not just a reflection on your shithouse sewing. This was about your absolutely ridiculous sizing system.

BONE THREE, KOOKAI. BONE. FUCKING. THREE.

According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, an average Aussie woman is a size 16. At most stores, I am a size 12 – sometimes a 10, sometimes a 14, depending on how creative the store is feeling. I am well in the healthy weight range for my height. I may have a little layer of memory foam**, but I’m a fairly fit and normal woman.

And yet, I don’t fit into the BIGGEST SIZE THAT YOU STOCK. Do you know how that feels? Even for me, a fairly secure, self-assured female (and actor, which means I deal with having my flaws pointed out on a regular basis), it’s a shitty feeling.

I stood in your change room, spilling out of the second dress I tried on (which didn’t rip, but was so tight it showed the shape of the sushi I’d had for lunch), frowning at the mirror and making plans to eat only celery sticks and cotton wool for the rest of my life. For about five seconds. Then I took the stupid dress off, walked out of the store, mentally gave you the finger, and went to one of the many shops that cater to the other ninety percent of the female population.

Lucy

Having done a Google search about your sizes, it would seem that thousands of women feel the same as me. A few women claim that they are usually a size 8-10, and your size 2 dresses would not zip up over their ribcages.

Apparently, others are pissed off that circa 2005, you GOT RID of your size 3 (good sales move, dickheads… you literally narrowed your market). I even found a petition begging you to upgrade your sizes, or declare yourself to be a specialty store for small/thin women.

I want to be clear that there is nothing wrong with the women who do fit into your clothes (skinny people can get just as much sh*t as fat people, neither of which is fair or anyone’s business). I also concede that as a country, we are overweight, and 16 is not a healthy size to be the average.

However, women come in all shapes and sizes, and by not classifying yourself as a specialty store, you are promoting an unhealthy body image, which is particularly concerning for the many teenage girls with more money than I had at that age, who actually try on your stretchy clothes in your fancy change room, and end up crying at their reflection.

At the very, very least, you should be catering to the entire healthy weight range, and not making perfectly fine females like me want to stick their fingers down their throat just to wear your summery yellows and Tiffany blues.

Kookai, with your calming, cool-aired stores and beautiful, badly-sewn clothes, I’m sorry for being so angry at you.

But, unlike the Heart Foundation’s BMI calculator, you called me fat.

So screw you – I’m going to Kmart.

*As it turns out, the Australian Standard Size Coding Scheme was scrapped in 2008, which allows retailers to play fast and loose (or tight) with whatever sizing scheme they want. Cheers for that, guys. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, too.

**Memory foam – the fond term I have given to the little love handles and curvier bits of my body, that are testament to wonderful memories – Pot & Parma deals with friends at the local pub, afternoon ciders in the sun, movie nights with Maltesers, and so on. I don’t love the layer of memory foam… but I don’t have any regrets either. 

Pressure for women to be extremely thin comes from all angles including advertising, magazines and clothing stores like this. This gallery is filled with photoshop fails, all aimed at making women feel bad about themselves:

Katy Perry with two left hands

Lucy Gransbury is an actor and cabaret artist based in Melbourne. In between visits to the Nutella aisle of the supermarket, she can be found performing her original comedy cabarets, ‘Dorothy Parker’s Sweet Release of Death’ and ‘Tell Me About Yourself’. Follow her on Twitter (@LucyGransbury), read herblog here, or just meet her in the Nutella aisle.

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At Mamamia absolutely everything is up for discussion: from pop culture to politics, body image to motherhood, feminism to fashion. We unashamedly cover what everyone is talking about today: whether that’s stories which will make you laugh out loud, cover your mouth in shock, help you get informed or start you thinking about an issue in a different way and sometimes, we help you to just switch off the brain power from a few sweet minutes and kick back.

I amshit–scared of spiders. Too many legs, too many eyes, too much ability to crawl into my mouth while I’m sleeping. But no matter how scared I am, I take it upon myself to never, ever, EVER knowingly kill them or cause them pain (mainly because I fear that their families will hunt me down and all crawl into my mouth at once).

Same thing goes for sharks. Sharks are pretty scary. Heaps of teeth, realllllllly small eyes, a freaky two-note theme song. Can’t say I’d want to snuggle up to one in the ocean. However, just like I don’t believe in spider-killing, I think that this shark-culling business in Western Australia is absolute bullshit.

It is heartbreakingly sad that families havelost loved ones to shark attacks. It is an unfathomable experience, beyond my imagination. I hope it can be prevented from ever happening again.

However, I don’t think killing the sharks off one by one is the answer. Firstly, because of my spider theory – if the sharks ever gang up to get revenge, we are all fucked. We can kiss a relaxing dip in the sea goodbye.

A shiver* of sharks will await in the shallows, ready to snip the toes off any human who dares set foot in the water, settling the score for theirbrother-in-law Bob who was culled a few months back. Okay, my imagination may be running away a little. Secondly, it won’t necessarily make a difference.

Hawaii tried it in the 1960’s and 1970’s. These programs were expensive, culled 4,668 sharks and yet failed to produce measurable decreases in shark bite incidents. (Cheers, SBS. Interesting article that will give you the facts from both sides.) Thirdly, it’s just not fair. We are killing the sharks for being sharks.

Now, I would like to be a better human by beinga vegan, but I’m not. I eat meat, despite the fact I like animals. But I still don’t like the nonsensical culling. Sharks who mung on humans are just being sharks. It sucks for the humans involved, but the shark was hanging out in it’s home waters and following it’s instincts. Occasionally, dogs follow their animal instincts and hurt kids. Magpies follow their instincts and peck your fucking eyes out. Spiders follow their instincts and crawl into my mouth**.

If we kill animals for being animals, it’s going to be a pretty miserable planet. So I think this should be the rule: We can kill sharks when they start acting like shitty humans.

(Illustrations by the fabulous Philippa Spicer)

And you should probably check if he has sinister intentions first. He might just be making friends.

Though he might just want to be the big spoon.

Humans who do this deserve to be culled.

You may kill him… or just honk loudly, drive past and give him the ‘look’.

And even then, maybe just write an angry letter and then get on with your life.

Shark being a shark

I think we should just leave them the fu*k alone.

Especially you, WA Premier Colin Barnett. I’d be careful if I were you. They say theintelligence of sharks is evolving. When they figure out how to walk on land, it’s not my window they’re going to be climbing through.

Just sayin’. You better listen out for that two-tone theme song. Good fucking luck.

*How gangster is that collective noun? **This doesn’t happen as often as I am making it sound… I hope.

Lucy Gransbury is an actor and cabaret artist based in Melbourne. In between visits to the Nutella aisle of the supermarket, she can be found performing her original comedy cabarets, ‘Dorothy Parker’s Sweet Release of Death’ and ‘Tell Me About Yourself’. Follow her on Twitter (@LucyGransbury), read her blog here, or just meet her in the Nutella aisle.

If you against shark culling, then share this post on social media to educate more people about the issue and reveal how ridiculous arguments to cull sharks really are.

Lucy.

One of my favourite things about this incredibly lucky country that we live in, is that everyone is entitled to their own opinion.

So in the interest of free speech, I’d like to try and explain to you why there is absolutely no reason to be afraid of gay people and how stupid it is to want to stop them from getting married.

Here goes.

Dear Homophobic Stranger,

I need to confess something to you. When I was nineteen, I French-kissed a chubby Colombian boy in a doorway of an alleyway. It was quite funny, really. He said to me, in a heavy Hispanic accent, “in ten seconds, you weell get zee best keess of your life. One… Two… I can’t wait to keess these lips… Three… Four… Your eyes shine like zee moon on zee water”.

He finally got to ten (and I somehow managed to hold back my laughter and vomit), and we proceeded to have a fairly average and brief makeout session. Why am I telling you this horrible piece of over-information? Because you seem to think other people’s sex lives directly affect you.

When I was about twelve, I was telling my Mum about one of the many boys from my dancing school, and how I wanted him to marry one of the girls because they’d make a cute couple. Mum pointed out that she thought he’d grow up to be gay* (she was right, as mothers so often are).

I denied Mum’s predictions; mortified at the idea. I didn’t know any gay people. How was I supposed to act around him? How was I supposed to feel? How did this affect ME? It only took five minutes of the next dance class with him for me to realise the truth – it didn’t affect me. Not even slightly. His sexuality had as much impact on me as his chosen brand of toothpaste.

Toothpaste. Sexuality. What you put in your mouth is your business.

You know what you need to realise, homophobic stranger? A homosexual personwill not try to convince you to become homosexual too. Sexuality is not contagious, nor is it a conscious decision.

Let me compare your irrational, unjustified fear to my own – spiders.

I am absolutely f*cking terrified of spiders. I still have nightmares about them a few times a week, in which groups of them try to attack me. When I walk into a room and spot one (and I have my very own Spidey Sense that allows me to feel their presence before I spot them), I will often cry, scream, vomit, or faint, or do all four at once.

But here’s the thing. In all the times that they have been in the same room as me, even on the occasions they have TOUCHED me, not once has a spider ever, ever, EVER tried to talk me into becoming a spider too.

Honestly, they have never done anything to warrant my fear, except be a spider. I do believe you will find similar patterns in the subject of your own unwarranted phobia.

Continuing with comparing your fear with mine, never has a spider tried to attack me either. Is this something you’re afraid of? That a gay man might try to bite you? I have encountered a lot of gay men and I have encountered a lot of spiders, and I have only been bitten by each of these species once. On the occasion that my gay friend bit me, it was because he was instructed to by a director as part of an acting scene.

This had nothing to with his sexual preferences, and everything to do with him being an actor following directions, and even then, he was gentle, kind, and apologetic. Perhaps you should be scared of bizarre directors instead?

The time that the spider bit me was not because he was trying to attack me. Despite my lifelong struggles with arachnophobia, no spider has ever run towards me with his front legs clenched into fists, ready to bash me and then suck my blood (just like they do in my dreams). In reality, the time I got bitten was because a spider was in my bed, and I lay down on top of it. He got confused and scared, and he lashed out in protection of his own life.

On Saturday 7 December Australia’s first same sex marriages took place.

I forgave him because it was my fault for scaring him. If you were to lie down on top of a gay man in your bed, he might get confused and scared too. Homosexual people, like most decent human beings, will not attack you if you do not provoke them. The sad truth is, some gay people have had to deal with provocation their whole lives, and yet they end up attacking themselves, becausepeople like you make them feel unnecessarily ashamed.

On Saturday Dec 7 2013, the first same-sex marriages took place in Australia. Those couples, after a lifetime of waiting to be allowed to get that far, only had a few days of wedded bliss before the decision was turned over by the High Court, making the marriages as quick as Kim Kardashians’ (though a thousand times more meaningful…). I just cannot fathom WHY anyone – High Court judges, governing bodies, or the general public – is against it.

I’m happy for spiders to go and live their own happy lives, because it does NOT AFFECT ME. Two people getting married does not affect you anymore than two tipsy nineteen year-olds making out in a darkened doorway.

It does not affect your marriage (unless your partner believes in supporting same-sex marriage and it’s a point of contention between you – in which case, they are way too good for you, and you should hold on to them as best as you can). It does not affect your sex life. You are welcome to explain to me in what ways it DOES affect you, because I just do not understand it.

Is it a religious thing? If so, it is not something I am equipped to speak much about, given that I am not really a religious person. However, I would’ve thought that the Big Guy upstairs would be about as happy for you to hate a group of people for their sexual preferences as he was about Hitler not liking brunettes**. Is it because you worry about a child having two parents of the same sex? Children have been successfully raised by same-sex couples for many years, just as well as they have been raised by single parents.

Enough said.

The only people we should worry about starting a family are the ones who will encourage hatred and bullying in their own children. Teach your child to love people for their souls, not their sexual preferences.

While you’re at it, teach yourself about it too. Your child might bring home a partner of the same sex one day, and it would be a bit awkward for everyone if you were to scream, vomit, cry and faint in one go.

There is no need for you to be afraid, nor is there a need for you to hurt the people you are afraid of by not supporting their right to be happy. I don’t ever hurt spiders, even the one that bit me. I set them free and encourage them to live their happy lives, and stay out of my bed.

You should do the same for the lovely gay people you’re so afraid of. Although, I can’t imagine any lovely gay people would want to be in bed with a homophobic stranger. They generally save their love for other lovely gay people. Which they will keep on doing, whether you allow them to get married or not. That’s the truth. Men and women will continue to sleep with each other in various patterns, positions and places, as will you. How do you like to do it? Actually, never mind. I don’t want to know.

Your sex life is absolutely none of my business.

Lots of love (gay, straight, bi-sexual and otherwise),

Lucy

*This has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he took dance lessons. As a performing artist, I do meet many gay people in the industry, but there are also many straight men, just as there are gay men in every industry in the world. You can bet your bottom dollar that my boys will be doing ballet lessons from age three. If they do grow up to be gay, I’ll know it’s because I’m a lucky parent, not because they have a nice arabesque.

**Okay, no one is as bad as Hitler but my point is to be accepting and full of love. If I can do it for hairy, venomous spiders, you can do it for beautiful humans with hearts of gold and sexual preferences that are none of your business.

Lucy Gransbury is an actor and cabaret artist based in Melbourne. In between visits to the Nutella aisle of the supermarket, she can be found performing her original comedy cabarets, ‘Dorothy Parker’s Sweet Release of Death’ and ‘Tell Me About Yourself’. Follow her on Twitter (@LucyGransbury), read her blog here, or just meet her in the Nutella aisle.

Share this post on social media to show your support for equality for same sex couples and to put a stop to homophobia in our community.

Lucy.

Picture this. This morning, I was in bed (also accurate for ‘this afternoon’, ‘all day yesterday’ and ‘right now’) and felt the need to use my laptop from the comfort of my blankets.

My laptop was on the floor about a metre away.

Rather than swing my feet out from the warmth and take one step to pick it up, I slowly pulled the heater by the cord so that it scooped my laptop into my outstretched hand, while I remained fully tucked and cosy under the covers. And then I had two things – my laptop, and an immense feeling of pride.

That’s right, pride.

If you too are proud tobe lazy, blink once! I won’t ask you to do anything more strenuous, because I know you. I am you. I am lazy, and I am damn proud of it. If you are judging me for being a particularly lethargic sloth, then it is important that you read on. Because, my overly-energetic friend, this is my belief.

Lazy people deserve more credit.

Too often I will end a deliciously lazy day, where I have spent majority of the day in my trackies on my laptop, with a non-delicious aftertaste of guilt.

Why? Because I know from Facebook that other people spent their day off working out at the gym, reading Bill Bryson, curing cancer, baking thousands of treats for homeless disabled blind dogs and recycling. If you are one of the culprits who posts not-so-subtle Sunday statuses bragging about all the crap you ‘achieved’ with your productive busy-ness, then here is my response.

Firstly, I don’t necessarily believe you. I think you might be telling fibs to make yourself feel/look better. (Next to the ‘like’ button, Facebook should have an ‘I call bullshit’ button.)

Secondly, I don’t necessarily care. Nothing bores me more on Facey than a mundane boast along the lines of ‘200 squats at the gym this morning! Now to get all the Christmas shopping done in August, cook a super-healthy meal for the whole neighbourhood and then read A History Of Everything’.

Thirdly, whoop-de-fucking-doo. I could have achieved everything you did in half the time and with a quarter of the effort. Because I am a lazy person. And ‘lazy’ is just a derogatory term for ‘efficient’.

Here’s the thing – I do all the regular tasks that should be done in a day, butmy laziness has inspired me to create shortcuts so everything gets done faster and with less effort. I don’t see that as a bad thing. It gives me more time for the things I love doing, whether that is getting back into bed and working on my laptop, or going to the gym (hahahahaha, just kidding) or watching an entire season of a TV show (which I can claim as ‘studying’ because I’m an actor).

But the reason I have time to do all the fun lazy stuff (other than the obvious reason of ‘being an actor gives you a looooot of free time’) is that my laziness means I get all my tasks done extremely efficiently. Example – I make my bed every morning, BUT…. I make my bed while I’m still in it. Rather than stand up and do the traditional flick and tuck, I stay in bed and move my arms and legs like I’m making a snow angel, until all the covers have quickly shifted into place. It’s quicker and warmer and easier.

Anyone else?

I don’t know Mensa’s guidelines for letting people into their smart club, but I’m pretty sure that makes me a genius. Also, I can iron any wardrobe item with my hair straightener. Why? Because my hair straightener is permanently accessible and located in the same room as my clothes, whereas the iron is all packed up in the laundry cupboard next to Effort and Strain. And don’t even get me started on getting out the stupid ironing board. So I have become prolific at GHD-ironing, which is faster, easier, and yields the same results.

Vacuuming. I know which power point is the most central in the apartment, and I strategically reach most of the rooms from there, because unplugging and replugging is a time-wasting pain in the ass.

Don’t get me wrong, I have a great work ethic. Somehow, I often describe myself as ‘hard-working’ (particularly when applying for jobs) AND as ‘lazy’, (particularly when quitting gym memberships). I really am both hard-working and lazy. I am a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma (…covered in blankets, eating bacon). It’s just that my work ethic is more situation-dependent than a social smoker. I have to be motivated to spark up. If it is something I am passionate about, then I will work my ass off (except my ass always stays resolutely attached). And some of my passions take a lot of frigging energy – acting, dancing, kickboxing, stalking the Bondi Vet… I get home from these activities utterly exhausted (and occasionally with a restraining order) because I worked really, really hard. So my can of whoopass does get opened on a regular basis.

And yet, at the same time, I am also the Queen of Lazyville.

It’s not a title I sought out in life, but occasionally being an actor means I have a few days in a row with absolutely no commitments, absolutely no money and absolutely no reason to not stay in bed most of the day watching Community. I will get up to shower, do any social activity that involves eating, and log some stalking time if the BV is in town*. I will extremely occasionally make it to the gym (to use the spa) or partake in some cultural/educational/degustation-al activity that will improve myself as a human being. But other than that, I will probably be doing something idle. And society should be more okay with it… because we owe a lot to laziness.

Alexander Graham Bell couldn’t be assed walking to his friend’s place. So he invented the telephone

Think about it. Most inventions were invented to make life easier. Why did some smart guy invent the wheel? Because dragging shit is hard. Why did Edison invent the light bulb? Because he couldn’t be bothered lighting all those damn candles. Why did Alexander Graham Bell invite the telephone? Because he couldn’t be assed walking to his friend’s place. They say “necessity is the mother of invention”… but surely, that’s just another way of saying “I cannot be screwed doing this. I need ashortcut”. Some inventions are more openly lazy than others – the Clapper (‘screw getting up to turn the lights off, clap clap!’), power steering (‘I refuse to turn my wheel more than a quarter, dammit!’), escalators (‘I’m gonna stand right here and let the stairs climb themselves’) – but I reckon laziness played a part in most of the things we use every day. Cars. Washing machines. Remote controls. Dishwashers. I actually have cousins who are inventors, and more than anyone, they support my laziness-inspires-creativity argument. They see a task that takes effort, and they create something to take the effort way. They’ve built an empire on laziness. I fucking love them for it on a daily basis. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing fast and with little effort.

So if you’re a lazy person too, don’t feel ashamed. Don’t let society or the Seven Deadly Sins ever make you feel bad for being sloth-like. Because ironically, lazy people are the ones who make the world go round. They get shit done quickly and with little effort. They don’t create drama, because they can’t be bothered dealing with the fuss. They do things right the first time, because they don’t want to risk having to do them again. Even Bill Gates knows it. “I always choose a lazy person to do a hard job. Because a lazy person will find an easy way to do it.”** Lazy people deserve recognition and respect. So if you, like me, are inspiringly and creatively lazy, then give yourself a pat on the back.

If you can be bothered.

*In case you were taking me seriously, I don’t actually stalk the Bondi Vet. That’s what I told the court and I am sticking to it.

**Definitely not relevant to Internet Explorer, which was not designed by a lazy person, but an inefficient busy-body who likes to waste time with complicated pop-ups and bugs.

Lucy Gransbury is an actor and cabaret artist based in Melbourne. In between visits to the Nutella aisle of the supermarket, she can be found performing her original comedy cabarets, ‘Dorothy Parker’s Sweet Release of Death’ and ‘Tell Me About Yourself’. Follow her on Twitter (@LucyGransbury), read her blog here, or just meet her in the Nutella aisle.

Do you consider yourself lazy? What shortcuts have you created for yourself in life?

Lucy Gransbury.

I was driving in my non-sexual car, listening to a non-sexual radio station.

An advert between songs began.

The woman in the ad said excitedly, “I bought a Jeep”. Her excitement at her own statement grew. “I bought a JEEP”. Once again, her excitement grew, and began to take on a sexual tone. “Oh… Oh… I bought… a JEEP!”. You get the picture. She was orgasmically excited. Something about the purchase of a 4 wheel drive just reallllly pressed her button. Revved her engine. Pumped her petrol tank.

And I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

Sex sells….but give me a break. Does this actually work on anyone?

Jeeps are a good-looking car, I guess. In a Rich Soccer Mum type way (PS, I know nothing about cars – to me, they are either shiny, or not shiny). But I don’t think there was any need for this lady to be climaxing over my radio. Or is there? Maybe I didn’t grasp the selling point. Does the Jeep have vibrating seats, perhaps? Does it come with a sexual partner with all the right moves? A blow-up doll that bursts out with the airbag, maybe?  Probs not.

I think it is highly unlikely that she was actually turned on by something physically sensual. Perhaps the idea of spending a lot of money turns her on. I just paid my insurance bill. I think a need a post-coital cigarette.*

The thing is, unlike the funny or clever ads, thesexy ads just don’t make me any more interested in the product. Possibly even less so. They just make me giggle and scratch my head. For example, the Budget insurance ads with the French chick singing in the shower while her older husband shaves in the sink and corrects her pronunciation of the word “budget”…. I don’t know why she is naked, or what brought the two of them together (I like to invent a ‘rich’ back story in which he is a widowed millionaire and she was found on a Mail Order Bride website), but I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with insurance.

And then, during an ad break one cosy night in, I noticed the mismatched couple had been replaced with aliens. I thought someone had spiked my brownie. Evidently not. At least Budget was trying a new tactic to sell insurance other than a sexy dumb French chick…but I can’t say Martians were a better choice.

Speaking of insurance ads (and it’s bloody rare to see a good one…), what is with the one where the dude is talking about retirement, whilst changing into various uniforms to turn on his wife? He tries on a tradie costume and a chef costume, while she lays on the bed suggestively. Right-o. Can’t remember the number for the insurance company, but if I ever need it, I’ll just try 1800-HORNYRETIREES.

Because boobs.

There’s an ad for cat food with Eva Longoria purring along the carpet in a short dress. She’s hot, yeah. But it’s cat food. Cat. Food.Not. Sexy. And gentlemen, if you believe what you see, use Lynx. You’ll be banging supermodels in no time.

I asked around on Facebook if anyone found other ads unnecessarily sexy. The brands that my buddies associated with having random sexy ads, either occasionally or consistently, goes on and on**. AAMI, Absolut, Bonds, Calvin Klein, Carls Jr (an American burger joint), Equinox, Lynx, Soda Stream, Sprite. But did anyone actually buy the products based on the sexed-up ads?

Clever ads, happy ads and funny ads have made me jump to buy the products. Ads that move me or excite me (hellllooooo Cadbury Marvellous Creations). But I’m talking about exciting my tastebuds or my intellect… because try as they might, the 30 second slots rarely rev my engine.

Calvin Klein. Nothing beats a denim orgy.

If the whole point of ‘sex sells’ is to get people talking about the product, then I guess some advertising execs are nailing it. The ads certainly stick in my mind. And some of the time, I even remember what the product is they are selling. But even so, I prefer my ad breaks to have a little more brain, and a little less bang.

Now excuse me, I have to go and have an orgasm in my Jeep.

*Come to think of it, Jeep ads in general are pissing me off a bit lately. I guess it’s working, because the ‘I bought a Jeep’ line is coming up in conversation every now and then, so it is seeping its’ way into our brains no matter how infuriatingly it got there. The one that I hate the most is the earliest one – a lady is cleaning up the living room and tells her husband that she bought  a Jeep. “You bought a Jeep?” says Michael, incredulously. “Yes Michael… I bought a Jeep” says wifey. This goes on for some time, until Michael smirks proudly. What is this implying? That it issurprising a woman bought a good car without supervision? Is Michael shocked that wifey didn’t just buy shoes and tampons like she normally does? Maybe I’m reading into it too much, and maybe I’m just a bit of a grump… but every time I hear “I bought a Jeep”, I want to scream “SO FUCKING WHAT??”. The ads certainly don’t want to make me jump on the bandwagon.

**See links below to the most overt ones. Granted, some of these are tongue-in-cheek (mind the pun) sexuality, poking fun at the fact that they are selling an unsexy product with sex. Existentialism has never looked hotter.

Nina Agdal starring in Carl’s jr Sexy Commercial TV Ad.

Scarlett Johansson SodaStream ad.

Miranda Kerr’s Bizarre Japanese Advert for Lipton Lemon Iced Tea.

And for some not so subtle sexist advertising, we have put together some photos.

What Emma Barnett found inside her boyfriend's new pants...

Follow Lucy Gransbury on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably buying Cadbury Marvellous Creations, because she likes that ad.

 Are you over the ‘sex sells’ method used in advertising?

Oh, television. What a deity.

Some people don’t watch much TV. Which is fine, if they are nice about it.

But, more than once, I’ve had to bite the hell out of my tongue when “Oh, I don’t watch television” comes with a condescending little smile.

Or, even more shockingly, when someone says: “I don’t own a television.” As Joey fromFriends once put it: “You don’t own a television? What’s all your furniture pointed at?”

But you know what, you smug-faced, self-impressed, patronising tool? I don’t mind that you think I’m an idiot for just comparing your legal case at work to one that was once on Boston Legal because I’m going to come right out and say it.

I didn’t say it to your face at the right moment because I was busy obeying your belittling little smile and feeling exactly how you wanted me to feel – like a square-eyed, uneducated dickhead whose legal knowledge is limited to only that of Denny Cranes’ pearls of wisdom. But now is my chance to be out and proud, so here it goes.

I absolutely love television. Television has been a wonderful parent to me. Unnecessary, indeed, as I have two wonderful parents already. But nonetheless, it has guided me, educated me, entertained me, embraced me and consoled me like a rectangular parental figure.

From the small square grey box with the fishbowl screen we had when I was a kid watching Widget, to the heavy brown set with retro built-in legs and an inability to show the colour red (so the patients on Chicago Hope had a particularly awesome queasy green tinge), to our current fancy flat-screen with USB capabilities and a warm goodnight hug (just kidding. I don’t hug my television… ahem…). The television has always been the beloved fifth family member, growing and evolving with us and always demanding we spend quality time together.

Thanks to television, I am abundant in qualifications. It may not be on my résumé, but I am actually a highly qualified surgeon. I could do an emergency tracheotomy with my eyes shut, thanks to Grey’s Anatomy. Except, of course, I call it a ‘trach’, because there is no time to be using the full term when you’re in the ER. Speaking of which, ER also contributed to my medical training.

I know what a Hemopneumothorax is and how to fix it. You just stab a tube into the intercostal space and drain the pleural*. I didn’t even have to look that up – I KNOW IT WELL. And I also know that repeated myocolonic jerks can mean a blocked brain ventricle. Cheers, House. You may be a grumpy bugger, but you gave me a degree in Diagnostic Medicine.

The cast of Grey’s Anatomy.

Dr ‘McDreamy’ Shepherd, hottest brain surgeon in Seattle, has the same fearless approach to surgery as I do – “inoperable” is just a word. He and I can carve any damaged brain into a masterpiece.

Speaking of carving like a master, I am the best chef in town. Thanks toMasterchef,My Kitchen Rules, Ready Steady Cook, and a million other culinary classics that television has brought me.

I know how to make a mulit-coloured Croquembouche, and cook dinner for sixty people in three hours using only the ingredients I could grab from an industrial fridge in thirty seconds. I’m sure it will come in handy. And why do I have such faith? Because television taught it to me.

My supreme experience in finding a new angle to advertise health-damaging products. Mad Men. My ability to summarise a legal argument into a ball-busting, uplifting closing statement. Boston Legal. My skill at extracting accidental confessions of defaming truth from secretly evil interviewee subjects. The Newsroom. My recipe for cooking crystal meth**. Breaking Bad.

I can blind-date, renovate, mediate, epilate, meditate, investigate, and lose weight. Television has taught me more valuable lessons than my entire teenagehood of private school education. Okay, that’s not strictly true – school taught me a lot. But if I took the same hours I spent staring into space during Yr 11 Chemistry lessons, and replaced them with episodes of The Big Bang Theory… I’d probably be a ground-breaking scientist by now.

In Washington DC, there really are “Amendments To Be”! Just like on The Simpsons.

My favourite, most life-affirming moment of television appreciation was last year on a Contiki tour. As our tour guide talked to us about the incredible history of Washington DC, we all interjected our impressive collective knowledge of the memorials, the presidents, the Constitution, “Amendments To Be”… a solid and informed (and sometimes musical) history of America, garnered entirely from episodes of The Simpsons.

And then when we got to the Lincoln memorial, and our tour guide pointed out the Gettysburg address, I realised that I could cite the first four lines from memory, thanks to Channel Nine and their regular showing of Kindergarten Cop.

In fact, my knowledge of American history was right up there with that of the tour guides’. Thanks to The West Wing, The Simpsons, and a square-eyed childhood.

So, douchebag-who-gives-me-a-pitied-smile-for-being-able-to-quote-every-episode-of-Friends-ever-made (which means I will never have to Google “triskaidekaphobia”, the capital of Colombia, or the Mastodon from the Pliocene Epic), just because I watch a lot of TV, it doesn’t mean I don’t love reading, because I adore it. Just because I watch a lot of TV, it doesn’t mean I’m a dim-witted dunce, because I’m not.

I just absolutely love television. TV has made me laugh with Ab Fab and Cheers, made me cry with Grey’s and Toddlers & Tiaras, taught me how to be smart, how to be sexy, how to be rich, how to…

I gotta go.The Block is on.

* Relax, my medically intelligent friends, I will not do this. Not without my Attendings’ supervision and permission from the Chief – I wouldn’t want to get in trouble.

** Relax, cops, I will also not do this. Not without Jesse Pinkman.

And if you do watch television and give a spoiler to any or all of the below, you are in the same category as your non TV watching friends.

Breaking Bad

Lucy Gransbury is an actor and cabaret artist based in Melbourne. In between visits to the Nutella aisle of the supermarket, she can be found performing her original comedy cabarets, ‘Dorothy Parker’s Sweet Release of Death’ and ‘Tell Me About Yourself’. Follow her on Twitter (@LucyGransbury), read her blog here, or just meet her in the Nutella aisle.

Lucy.

I gotta say it. Tinder is bloody great fun. I can be as judgemental as I want, and no one can judge my judgementalism. And boy, am I judgemental! My trigger finger is faster than a trained secret service killer. My pointer finger swipes left before my brain catches up. It can spot a douche in a quarter of a second. It’s Tinstinct.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, Tinder is a new dating app that is taking the world by storm. Created in California, it has only existed for 18 months but it gets 850 million profile ratings worldwide every single (no pun intended) day. More than five per cent of Aussies are logged on and it’s population is growing by one per cent every day. Staggering.

As a single, it’s comforting to swipe through a bajillion other singles in your city – good to know you’ve got options out there if you just lower your standards a little bit (though not everyone on Tinder is single… some guys openly advertise they are looking for a mistress while using a fake name and no photos. You guys should be swiped left, and then castrated). It’s also funny/concerning to come across people you know, some of whom you have already dated.

This is how it works: a profile picture comes up on the screen. You can view a few more pics if they have them, as well as a few words of wit or wisdom (or neither, in many cases). Then the fun begins. Swipe your finger LEFT to say NO. Swipe your finger RIGHT to say YES. If you both say yes, Tinder will let you know that you have a ‘match’ and you are able to converse through the app, and swap more contact details if they are tickling your fancy (and in my experience, about a quarter of the guys are there only to get their fancies tickled, if you know what I mean*…. The rest are genuinely looking for their ‘Tinderella’).

I realise that I am only shooting myself in the foot by being so judgemental. My single-as-a-pringle status is not going to change if I continue to be so picky blah blah blah. Don’t care. In honesty, I have always been happy to get chatted up in bars/coffee shops/supermarkets/the-bow-of-a-doomed-passenger-liner-cruise-ship-before-I-leap-to-my-death (no wait, that wasn’t me. That was Rose in Titanic), and I am far less judgemental in person because I can be easily won over by personality and a delicious smell **.

But on Tinder, I am extremely selective. Even if I like the look of someone, my trigger finger may still end up swiping left because they have committed a cardinal Tinder sin. So this is my public service to the men of Tinder who may want to pimp their profile and stop shooting themselves in the foot.

TWELVE REASONS WHY I SWIPE LEFT.

Or: You look like more of a douche/wanker/creep than you probably are.

1. If all your pics are group shots.

Look, dickhead. I don’t have time to be working out which one is you. You are already playing games with me and my trigger finger is itching. No solo picture = No confidence. Also, I’ve already developed a crush on your friend with the good tan. Crop him out of your pic and focus on yourself.

2. If you are giving me the finger.

Really, I’m grooming you as a potential husband. You have a picture of you, drunk, sticking your finger up at the photographer. You already seem like you are going to offend my grandmother.

3. If you are showing me your pussy (…cat).

I’m a cat person. I like cats. But weird pictures of you and your feline are quite offputting. One cute photo is okay. Five photos of you wearing your cat as a scarf is not.

4. Put your body away.

As a woman, I can tell that you have a good body when you are wearing a t-shirt. I don’t need to see photos of your rig. It makes me assume that you are a) obsessed, b) a douche, and c) not going to nestle on the couch with me and my pizza.

I’d prefer an actual six pack.

5. Blurry, dodgy photos.

A few grainy photos that make it hard to tell if you are a normal guy or a Most Wanted Criminal leaves me wondering if that is, indeed, what you are.

6. Lions and Tigers and Snakes… Oh My.

It seems like most guys on Tinder have had an encounter with a snake, or a tiger, or some other dangerous animal that has been tamed and put in a zoo so people can pose with it. That’s cool… but only if it’s a good photo of YOU. The photo itself doesn’t make you look dangerous. It makes you look like you paid $5 for a photo with a limp python. Don’t get upstaged by the unimpressive python.

Poor Tinder tiger must be getting tired.

7. Inspirational wisdom crap.

Any form of “YOLO” that is used as a tagline, such as “Gotta grab life with two hands”, “Just live life to the max”, “I’m here for a good time, not a long time” makes me think that you are either a bit of a wanker, or only here for a quickie. “Life is for living”. No shit, Sherlock. Write something funny, or about yourself. Don’t spout slogans like an ad for Life Insurance.

Wow… you have really beautiful… filters.

8. Hipster poser photos.

I get that there is an increasing amount of hipsters out there (and the closer I am to Brunswick, the more hipsters in my Tinder radius). But filtered photos of your silhouette against a sunset, or you smiling at the ground with a guitar resting against a turntable in the background don’t actually show me what you look like. Look up and smile. Click. Done.

9. Photos of hot chicks.

Unless you have specified in your tagline that the girl in the pic is your sister, I’m going to assume it is your current or ex-girlfriend, or some chick you were hitting on in a bar. Either way, I don’t want to know about her. And if you are putting her there to show me the standard of women you normally get… dream on, man.

10. Is that your baby?

Or puppy? Or kitten? Am I actually going to be able to play (or have to become stepmother to) that cute thing in your picture? Or are you just trying to manipulate me into liking you by posing with adorable creatures?

11. Selfies.

I like to think that you, my future boyfriend, does not take selfies. At the very least, you do not post your selfies in a public forum. If you have a gym/bathroom/car selfie, I’ve already swiped past you before I’ve even examined your duck face.

12. If I don’t particularly like the friend we have in common. (Not your fault…)

Who knows? Could be the start of something special.He might be my Tinder surprise.(PS. I’m only wearing sunnies in one of my six pictures. I deem that acceptable. And I have no tigers.)

Tinder tells me if we have any mutual friends on Facebook. If I find that mutual friend kind of annoying (but I keep them on Facebook for false pretenses), I will swipe you away to avoid having to have a double date with them in the future. Or, if you are a person I know, I may swipe left or right, depending on my mood. I’m not here to meet people I’ve already met (or made out with) but it’s sometimes good to have a chortle at the fact we are both in TinderLand.

Also: Take your sunnies off. Smile. Just show me who you are. I know that all of the above makes me sound as shallow as a puddle, but I don’t care. Tinder is brilliant. I’ve met some creeps but I’ve also met some genuinely lovely guys. I just reckon that I would swipe right more often if a few more guys preened their profile. It’s a shallow, fast-paced world out there, Tinderers. You have a quarter of a second to look good. Get your photo right and I’ll swipe it right. And if you don’t reciprocate, no worries.

Plenty more fish on Tinder.

*I’ve swiped YES to a couple of guys and then quickly blocked them after they make their intentions plain. Some guys ask if you are DTF (Down to F***). Others are more eloquent. One guy asked “How many romantic dinner dates or drinks would it take for you to turn into my personal bedroom acrobat?”. I said “I have an impressive split, watch this…” and then blocked him really fast. A friend of mine had a man ask if she had pet insurance. She asked him “why?”. “Because I am going to destroy your p***y”…. Points for originality. Blocks for vulgarity.

**That sounded creepy. I am referring to pheromones. Some scientists reckon we are attracted to our ideal partner’s smell (I hope my future husband smells like cookies…). My dad expressed concern over the whole Tinder business because the whole science of pheromones is missing. I told him that I would be sure to give them a good whiff as soon as I met them… though it may harm my chances of getting a second date.

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably sitting on the couch, swiping.

Have you tried Tinder? What’s your deal-breaker?

Nothing good comes from thinking too hard.

If I thought hard enough, my brain might occasionally speak up with things like, “Actually, Lucy, considering the size of a human stomach, the smaller size burrito would have been sufficient” and “If you check in on Facebook, your boss will know you lied”… both of which actually would have been useful thoughts from time to time.

But some things should just not be over considered and your favourite childhood movies are ten of them. Thinking too hard got me to realise something horrible – that ten of my fav VHS’s are actually spouting morals/messages/plots that, when I think about them, are probably not okay. Prepare yourselves, nineties kids.

Ten Movies That Seemed Alright At The Time…. But Now I’m Not So Sure*

Tell me about it….. Skank. I mean, stud.

Slut up and you will get the man of your dreams. On ya, Sandy. Innocent and pure, with a golden bob and Colgate-white shoes. Enter Danny – cute, but treats Sandy like shit in front of his super-cool leather-jacket wearing friends. Andthen the morals get a bit sketchy. If a boy treats you like shit, should you:

a) Use a dumb jock to get his attention.

b) Get ditched at the high school dance as he dances with his ex-gf on national TV.

c) Get sexually harassed at the drive-in (think about that boob-grab scene… not cool, Zuko).

d) Secretly cheer him on as he wins a drag race (the number of times I got challenged to a drag race in Year 12 by the opposing gang, by golly…)

e) Overhaul your image to include skin-tight everything, leather, hooker heels and a dart.

f) All of the above.

Sandy’s answer is f). F for……frigid-free. Also, Rizzo had a pregnancy scare, and we were all rooting (NPI) for her when she got through it OK. Really, we should have been contacting her parents.

She got cleavage. She got a boyfriend.

I love this movie. Freddie Prinze Jr can be the Prinze of my kingdom any day. But really, what is the moral in this movie –change everything that you are and a boy might realise you’re worth something. Okay, I know it turns out nicely and blah blah, but really. The number of times I was hoping to get made over by popular chicks because of the movies I love is sad…. mostly because, I’m still waiting. Anyone??

What could POSSIBLY go wrong here?

KIDS AROUND THE WORLD –DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME. Okay, that’s a weight off my shoulders. Little Kevin may have gotten lucky that the two stupidest thieves in the world were trying to pillage his home but I will advise my future kids – screw our possessions. Run like the wind out the back door.

Ever heard of Stockholm syndrome? Where the victim falls in love with their captor? Exhibit A.

That cat is probably not wearing a prosthetic nose. He is acting. No wait, he is just being attacked by a crab.

No plot problems with this amazing movie… but I can’t watch it anymore. Ever. Again. Why? Because I was told that about a semi-trailer worth of puppies and kittens were obviously harmed/mauled in the making of that film. I watched it through the slits of my fingers after finding that out recently. And it’s true. When Milo gets in a fight with a crab… No cat can act THAT well… RIP Milos and Otises.

A learning curve.

I still really like this movie but… Ben Stiller’s character hires a PI to track down the hot chick from school so he can stalk her and ‘bump into’ her… The PI probably wouldn’t be necessary these days thanks to Facebook making everyone so conveniently stalkable, but still… The best love stories should not begin with “So I decided to stalk her….”

WAS ANYONEEVER WATCHING THESE KIDS??? WHY THE F*** NOT??

I used to HATE it when this happened to me at high school.

This movie is actually disturbing. Entertaining but disturbing. The popular girls accidentally murder their friend. Rather than telling the cops, they have sex in her bed and set up Marilyn Manson (well, he’s the actor) and lie to the investigators.  Oh, and also do a makeover.

I’m a 26-year-old babysitter… get off my turf, kids.

I loooooooved the books as a kid. And the movie. And then I reached thirteen and was still getting babysitters, rather than running my own babysitter’s club. Madness?! No, logic. Thirteen-year-olds should only be responsible for growing pimples and managing their hormones, not looking after handful of toddlers and babies late at night. The youngest sitters were 11 (Mallory and Jesse, for those of you playing at home) and the police were involved in an alarming number of incidents. Vis a vis,don’t leave your kids in the care of kids, no matter how developed their chests are. (Except the BSC would have been better child-minders than the bloody parents of the Rugrats…)

It’s not the makeover that concerns me. It’s not the falling in love with her stepbrother that concerns me (well, maybe some). It’s the 15-year-olds casually discussing their sex lives that concerns me. And the fact that I STILL don’t own the computer thatCher uses to pick out her outfits from her spinning wardrobe….

So, there you go. Makeovers fix everything and kids don’t need supervision to take on bad criminals and dinosaurs (Reptarrrrrrr!). Hollywood morals for the win.

*Please let it be known that, despite my questions, I still love every one of these movies and highly recommend them to kids growing up. Especially the ugly ones who should straighten their hair so their dreams come true**

**I am not making any promises. Now excuse me, my GHD is heating up…

Here’s a few more movies that seemed a-okay back in the day but may not any more… 

Grease

Do you have any movies to add to the list?

Follow Lucy on Twitter right here:@LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably trying to get a popular girl makeover.

Jesse, Woody and Buzz Lightyear. Photo source: ©Disney Pixar

Magic – you have tosee it to believe it, and you have to believe it to see it.

Unless you’re a child, and then you see it constantly. At the bottom of the garden, in the twinkle of the stars, and ESPECIALLY at Disney On Ice.

I still remember my first Disney On Ice experience as a six-year-old, and I get tingles of delight as I remember Belle twirling through the air, looking so perfectly magical that I can still picture her two decades on, clear as a Bell. And now, the magic is here again, as Disney On Ice presents Treasure Trove throughout Australia and New Zealand.

Of course, it takes magic to make magic, and the Disney On Ice cast have it radiating from their skates.

Just as an FYI, you should know that this post is sponsored by FELD Entertainment. But all opinions expressed by the author are 100 per cent authentic and written in their own words.

Elegantly spinning and flying across the ice, the cast bring favourite characters spanning five decades to life in Treasure Trove – Rapunzel and Flynn, Woody and Buzz Lightyear, Timon and Pumba, and of course, the Disney princesses.

My childhood hero Belle is there, along with Ariel, Cinderella, Snow White, and the beautiful, sassy, soaring Princess Jasmine, portrayed by principle skater Midori Sano. Skating as her own favourite childhood character, Midori says that when she is out on the ice, she feels as though her, “dreams come true. Aladdin was always one of my favourite movies growing up, and strong and independent Jasmine was my princess!”

For the cast, nothing feels more magical than seeing the reactions of the audience, full of joy and happiness, with the kids’ calling out to their favourite characters and getting caught up in the magic.

Ensemble skater Yolande Lombaard even watched an excited child tossing some popcorn from the audience to ‘feed the animals’ during The Lion King’s ‘Circle of Life’ segment.

“To see the kids’ faces light up as the characters come on the ice… every day there are more and more magical moments”, says Yolande.

“I could not ask for a better life right now.”

And for Yolande, the fairytale isn’t only on the ice – just ask her fellow cast member and fiancée, principle skater Konrad Giering.

For the cast, nothing feels more magical than seeing the reactions of the audience. Photo source: ©Disney Pixar

“This is a dream job, but when you do it with the one you love, it just puts the cherry on top… it’s magic,” says Yolande.

Of course, the cast all have to be believers in magic themselves to be enchanting the audience every show.

I asked Konrad which magical power he would choose for himself (other than his breathtaking skating skills, of course).

“To go back in time so I can do it all over again,” was the humble answer. When you are lighting up kids’ faces for a living, what other power could you possibly desire?

The magnificent wardrobe is one of the many spell-binding elements, bewitching the audience with hundreds ofspectacular costumes. Head of Wardrobe Katrina Cahalan can even feel the magic off the ice.

“I was on the concourse lever after a show, when I felt a tug on my work pants. I looked down and there was a little girl in a princess costume. I squatted down to hear her question, and she said “do you know Cinderella?” I said I did.

She asked me to relay a message if I could. “Can you tell Cinderella, thank you for visiting on my birthday and I thought the show was really good?” I said of course, and she ran to her mum grinning ear to ear. That made me love my job so much.”

With their enchanted skates and theirhearts full of happiness, the Disney On Ice: Treasure Trove team are a trove of treasures themselves, bringing magic to life for children and adults alike.

But don’t just take my word that Disney On Ice is magic. See it and believe.

Here’s a sneak peak at some of the magic:

Alice in Wonderland. Photo source: ©Disney Pixar

What are your best childhood memories?

Come along on a journey to discover endless treasures withDisney On Ice presents Treasure Trove! Enter the worlds of your favourite Disney characters spanning 50 years of animated film. Get Lost with Rapunzel and Flynn and join Buzz Lightyear, Woody and Jessie from ‘Toy Story’, Alice in Wonderland, Peter Pan, The Lion King  as well as some of our beloved Disney princesses – Cinderella, Jasmine, Ariel, Sleeping Beauty, Belle and the one who started it all, Snow White. Be sure to see this show full of memories guaranteed to last a lifetime. A gem for every generation!

Lucy Gransbury.

I was dating a guy for a while, and it seemed to be clicking along nicely. He talked about long-term stuff, he told his friends about me, he even introduced me to his sister.

And then he got abducted by aliens. Or fell off a cliff. Or died in frozen aisle of the supermarket. I’m not sure what happened, but he completely disappeared. As I like to call it, he did a Ghosty.

One minute he was inviting me over for the weekend,the next minute, poof! He’d turned into a ghost. No more calls, no more messages. No responses to the voice mails I left (just to be clear, I was extremely far from stalker territory. I was very restrained, considering I wanted to beat his door down just to kick him in the shin and run away). Our plans for the weekend were left hanging in mid-air. I still don’t know if he actually died. We weren’t connected on any social media, so I was left typing his name into Google to see if any obituaries came up.

For an extremely mild-headed girl, I was absolutely livid. Any excuse under the sun would have made me a lot happier than a Ghosty. So, to all the dudes who have/will pull a Ghosty and disappear just as I had cleared you from the ‘potential asshole’ list, here’s what I want you to do.

Man up and lie to me.

I’d prefer tohear a bullshit excuse then nothing at all. I’d even find the bullshit excuse enjoyable – at least I can laugh at your tenacity, admire your creativity or roll my eyes and call you an asshole. It sure as hell beats silence. When it comes to getting dumped, silence is not golden. Silence is fucking infuritating. Silence makes me question everything I ever did/said/ate/messaged/cuddled/wore/watched/joked about with you. One tiny message would remind me that your disappearance is largely because of your own issues, and not because of something that I did (unless it IS something that I did, in which case sorry for eating all of your chips or whatever the problem was).

Like real poltergeist, Ghosties come in all shapes and sizes. There are Ghosties that pop up so fast, you’re not sure they were ever a real person in the first place. Maybe after just one date or one night. One time, a guy even turned into a ghost halfway through our disco dance-floor pash. One second he was there, the next I was kissing a cloud of mist as he floated on to the next life (or chick).  Some guys don’t even realise they are doing a Ghosty. They are just slowly fading away, like Victoria Beckham. Others are likeghosts from movies*:

The guy who pulls the ‘friendly ghost’ likes to act like he’s a good guy who might be a real boy one day (and hopefully dreamy  like 12-year-old Devon Sawa). He constantly texts hat you will ‘catch up soon’, but really, he’s totally vapour.

This guy has yet to realise he is a ghost. He keeps up appearances in your life that imply he is a real-life boyfriend, but he’s emotionally hazy and not quite all-there. Soon enough… you both see right through him.

He is sexy.He wants to touch you, and he doesn’t like other guys being near you. But ask him to stay, and he disappears for good.

These guys are just here to mess with you. Who you gonna call? Not them. Don’t waste your time.

The thing is, I get it. After a short fling, it’s way easier to just fade away than be brave enough to end it. But it’s better for everyone if the band-aid just gets ripped right off. You could go with an old classic, “I need to focus on myself right now” or “I’m not ready for a relationship” blah blah blah. OR, you could rip that band-aid off with a little pizzazz. To help you lame fellas out so that you don’t have to pull any more Ghosties, I have come up with a bunch of band-aid rippers. Here is some texts I would rather receive than silence.

Sweet lies.

Obscure lies.

Harsh lies (or truths, potentially).

Film-inspired lies.

Freddie Mercury-inspired lies.

The lie that all girls tell their friends about what the Ghosty was probs feeling about you, babes.**

Possible relevant truths that still aren’t addressing the actual reason for the Ghostie.

OR….

The most likely actual truth.

The truth hurts, but silence hurts more. Man up and lie to me. At the very least, it will stop me from bothering all the funeral homes, asking if they’ve seen the guy I was dating.

*Nothing against the ghosts in these movies, none of them wanted to die or be vaporous assholes. Except the ghosts from Ghostbusters, they were pricks.

**Girls are as good at justifying a boy’s shitty actions as we are at justifying blocks of chocolate. It’s a skill.

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably on the phone to the Ghostbusters, asking for help.

Have you ever had someone pull a ‘ghosty’ on you?

Prince Harry

DearPrince Harry (or, as you shall soon be known, hubby),

In just a couple of months, you’re turning thirty. It’s time, babe. You’ve had your fun messing around with girls like Chelsy and Cressida, but it’s time for you to find some princess-wife material. And it just so happens, I am of such quality princess-wife material, that I’m practically vicuña wool*.

For starters, dear Hubbykins, I’m up to date on my research. You’re an Apache pilot (I’m pretty sure Apache is a type of helicopter, or a French baked good), and given that you need a wife with an understanding of your passionate career, I have watched and re-watched a documentary on Apache pilots.

Okay, it is an interview with you talking about being an Apache pilot. Okay, I watched some of it and then found a bit where you accidentally lifted your shirt and showed a bit of midriff then ran off to be a hero, so then I just focused on watching that bit over and over again. But still, I’m up to date on my research. Of your abs:

Obviously, you have been looking at the wrong girls. If you want a good wife, you have to look at the obvious traits.Kate Middleton. Mary Donaldson. Jasmine. Belle. What do they have in common? Brown hair. I’m not being a hairist, I’m just sayin’. Harry, you need a girl with luscious brunette locks. Me. (Obviously, some princesses have blonde hair, likePrincess Di andGrace Kelly and Cinderella. But only one of those ended well….)

Speaking ofPrincess Mary, us Aussie lasses make good princesses. It’s because we are made of good stuff – strong moral fibre, salt water, gumnuts and wine. That may not sound like a winning combination, but trust me, it works. An Aussie chick will keep you grounded by calling you a whinging pom when you get a bit stuffy. You are probably surrounded by people who tell you what you want to hear – but what you need is a woman who will call you a dickhead when you’re being… well, a dickhead. I will proudly call you a dickhead, darling.

Lucy – on the right, is also a brunette.

What else does a prince need in a missus? Someone who is good with direction. Why? Buckingham Palace is frigging huge. I may be missing the needle on my internal compass, but I am ready to live in a castle. Siri will help me out. I bet she knows her way to the ballroom from the stables.

It must be hard being a prince and trying to weed out the girls with the wrong intentions. Rest assured, dear Hubba Bubba, I am not after your fortune. Although, I did read today that you’re getting $18million on your thirtieth birthday in two months. I am turning 27 in September (we can have joint birthday parties when we are married), and I will probably get $20 in a floral card from my grandma. So I fully understand wanting to protect your assets. But don’t worry, I will be very good when we combine our bank accounts. Yesterday I bought boots that were on sale from $250 to $120, so technically I made $130.

Siri knows all.

Unlike the ridiculous contestants, I never for a second believed that you were the prince in that stupid TV show,I Want To Marry Harry**. I know you. I’ve always been on your side, Future Hubby Harry. I’ve always argued that you were the hotter brother. More hair, more tan, more muscles. And you’re just a little bit wicked. A bit cheeky, a bit of a larrikin. Like the time you dressed as a Nazi for Halloween. Not the sharpest pencil in the box that day, but I sympathised – one time, when I was ten, I dressed as Cruella DeVil, and everyone accused me of identifying with puppy-killers. Well… they didn’t… but I’m sure if I was famous someone would’ve made a fuss.

Those girls that you have dated with long double-barrelled names and posh upbringings look kind of boring. I can flip two beers coasters at once and catch them on the first flip. I can whistle with my fingers and I have a lethal right cross. I can swear in Romanian, Spanish, Italian, French, and very colourfully in English, and I love potatoes more than an Irishman. I’m learning to juggle, because it would make for much more interesting footage of royal occasions if one of the princesses were juggling. I’ve thought this through.

Harry. Haz. HRH. Hubby-to-be. You need me. You can stop looking, I’m right here. Who knows how to be your perfect wife? I do.Henry Albert Charles David Windsor… I do.

With love and limited patience,

Lucy G. (HRH2B)

*Vicuña wool comes from the vicuña, which is like a fancy-looking llama with wool so damn fine (literally), it’s the most expensive material in the world. I assume that I will have slippers and car seat covers made of it when I’m Harry’s princess.

**Seriously, did those chicks actually believe that a Prince of England would go on a reality show in a foreign country to find a wife to share the Windsor fortune with? Did someone spike their coconut waters with stupid pills?!

Prince Harry

Follow Lucy Gransbury on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably outside Buckingham Palace, with a pair of binoculars and a wedding dress.

Lucy Gransbury.

By LUCY GRANSBURY

This morning, like so many mornings, I woke up when my alarm went off, got out of bed, planned my morning jog in my head,pulled on my gym clothes… and then climbed right back into bed. Sports bra and all. The motivation that I lack could fill oceans. If you have ever felt that you are a bit lazy, here are some things that I have done that will make you feel better.

As you can see, I’m not really future-personal-trainer material, and I largely (NPI) couldn’t care less. But every now and then, I get a big kick of motivation to get all healthy and shiny and protein-y. It usually lasts between five minutes and two hours. So I spend it wisely. Let me share with you eight simple tricks I have mastered – the things we can all do whenfeeling motivated to get fit… sort of.

(Not endorsed by any fitness institution, personal trainers, or really by Lucy herself.)

When I’m feeling like I’ve got a bit too much memory foam, a quick trip to LuLu Lemon or Adidas (oh alright… the gym clothes section of Kmart) to drop a bit of pocket money on some lightweight lycra spandex three-quarter length shelf-bra racerback running clothes. Matching, preferably. A stripe down the side of my leg, a fluro Michelle Bridges-esque top and a new sports bra that costs more than my rent, and I’m READY. To go home, put on my new workout clothes…. And then clean the kitchen.

Obviously, the reason I haven’t been working out is because my gym membership isn’t expensive enough! That’s why I lay on the couch too much! I’m not SPENDING enough on workouts! Easily fixed. Cancel the cheap ol’ YMCA membership, find the flashiest gym possible with GHD straighteners in the bathroom and TV screens in the treadmill, sign up for twelve easy payments of my annual salary, and BOOM. I’m fitter already. Virgin Active (one of my favourite oxymorons) and I got along really well for two years, until the only thing looking thinner was my bank account. My fault, not theirs. I got caught up in the flashiness of a gym with a rock-climbing wall and enough treadmills for a small country…. And then limited my workouts to the sauna, spa and nap zone.

I don’t buy anything because I largely think vitamins are pharmaceutical company bullshit, but it’s fun to read the labels and see what I could shop for. Do I want“Healthy Hair and Nails” or “Brain Power”? “Glowing Skin” or “Rejuvenated Joints”? If there was a vitamin that said “Motivation To Choose Running On A Treadmill Over Sitting On The Couch Eating Nutella While Watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S” then I might consider it… or not.

Type ‘fitness’ into the Apple Store, browse through the top ten, choose the cheapest one, download it and play with it for five minutes, and you’ll feel fitter already. No need to ever use the App again.* That’ll do, Piggy.

Be careful not to choose one who will actually force you to work out. I like to select my fitness buddies while we are both sitting on the couch eating dessert together. We’ll make plans to meet three times a week and ‘train’ each other and bounce through the parklands and run the ‘tan’**, whilst fighting over the last piece of Lindt and knowing it will never happen.

I do this approximately once every year and a half. Someone talks me into re-experiencing the benefits of doing backbends in Saudi-Arabian-style heat, but I always end up a) gagging from the smell of a room full of evaporated sweat or b) fainting, and then taking eighteen months to forget the horror.

Depending on your bank account, this can be elaborate or modest, from Nautilus pulley-weight-ab-swing-skywalker fancies to little hand weights or stretching bands. I once bought a secondhand treadmill that became an excellent towel rack.

So there you go, eight steps to becoming a fitter you. Unless you want to… you know… actually go to the gym and work out or something crazy. Hey, that’s your call. If you do, you might even see me there. I’m the one in the corner in brand new workout gear, sleeping on the yoga mat.

*My favourite of the Apps I have downloaded during fitness spurts is a sleep hypnosis App, with an Irish lady encouraging me in soothing tones to crave capsicum instead of chocolate and things like that. It has never really worked, because I get too distracted by her crazy talk to fall asleep, but I’ll keep trying because I reallllly like the idea of getting fitter while I nap.

**For those not from Melbourne, “running the ‘tan” means using the running track that stretches around the BoTANical Gardens. It’s the fit and trendy thing to do for fit and trendy people. I don’t like it because the track is dusty gravel, and it makes my black sneakers really dirty. I wouldn’t buy Nike Running Shoes to ruin them with a silly thing like running now, would I?!

This post was originally published onLucy Gransbury’s blog, and is republished here with full permission. 

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably eating some inactive almonds… those lazy bastards.

How many times do you plan to exercise every week? And how many time do you actually exercise? 

Lucy.

By LUCY GRANSBURY

There is a model who keeps popping up in my News Feed.

An insanely beautiful, ridiculously hot model. You know how they say ‘she has legs for days’? Her legs reach until about August 2017.

You know how they say ‘glowing skin’? Her skin is the surface of the sun. She’s so smoking hot she makes me leer, wishfully, wistfully, blissfully, kissfully… and I’m a heterosexual female.

But the thing is, I will never, ever buy the clothes that she is modelling, because I’m fully aware that I will try that blue lace skirt with her six-foot brown pins in mind, and then be bitterly disappointed with the reality.

Before you bang on about me fishing for compliments, I’m not getting out the hook’n’reel. This skin suits me just fine, I’m quite happy in it. It’s just a little problem I have with models, especially the online-fashion variety.

They are all so damn good-looking that I don’t trust that the clothes are actually flattering.

(Images viaHello Molly fashion)

This is girl I’ve been weirdly perving on, and some outfits I will never buy lest she be wearing them at the same time.

Stop it.

Anyone who works as a model deserves respect, and their flawless skin must be thick as hell with all the criticism they’d have to put up with. The top models demonstrate what clothing brands look like at their absolute maximum, and that’s important for consumerism and marketing and all kinds of things.

But I’d like to request a new, sub-brand of modelling. Mediocre Modelling. Someone with no experience, with a less-than-perfect face and a body that’s seen better days, tochuck on the clothes that I’m thinking of ordering and take a shit mirror selfie. Then I’ll be provided with some information I can actually use – I can see how the clothes would look at their maximum potential on a super hot model, and I can see how they’d look on an Average Josephine. Because if the dress STILL looks alright, still covers her cellulite and doesn’t give her a muffin top or bring out the grey bags under her eyes, then I’ll buy it. I’ll buy it with confidence, knowing that I might even look better than the Mediocre Model. It’ll be like admiring the outfit on Marcia Brady, and then seeing how it looks on ol’ Jan. If Jan looks hot too, you’re safe.

Classic case of misleading modelling (and poor needlework…).

I could start an agency and get specific.

Someone can email me saying “I want to see how this dress looks on someone with short legs, or wide hips, or with reallllly pale skin”, and BOOM*. I will call one of my many mediocre models and toss them into the questionable outfit, revealing to the client the real potential of the clothing, underwhelming as it may be. I myself would’ve been saved $60 on a green silk wrap dress that looked phenomenal on the slim, olive-brown Italian goddess ASOS model, but makes me look malnourished in complexion, yet overfed in silhouette.

I don’t want to put models out of business. AndI appreciate that ‘plus-size’ (there’s that stupid word again) models are getting more utilized. I just think it’d be a smart move if they chucked in someone a bit average to make more women (and by ‘more women’… I mean ME) feel confident that they could also wear those clothes.

Sometimes my Mum says “She’s so pretty, she’d look good in a brown paper bag”. (I’d actually quite enjoy testing that theory… ) My idea for Mediocre Modelling is sort of the opposite. “That brown paper bag is so pretty, it’d make anyone look good.”

So, Hello Molly, Victoria’s Secret and other brands, keep up the great work with the stunning models, they deserve their careers. But if you want me or anyone from my potential agency to come and do some mediocre, Jan Brady-inspired, tan-free and cellulite-full modelling, you might get more customers buying clothes, and less customers just stopping to stare at the models’ legs.

…And if you see that Hello Molly babe of a model, give her my number. No one will love her like I do.

*Please note that I am NOT saying that anyone with short legs, wide hips or realllly pale skin is, in any way, mediocre. My warm and friendly modelling company** is more about representing a cross-section of women (perhaps I should call it ‘Median Modelling’ instead?) than distinguishing between what is/isn’t attractive. Hugs for all.

**I do not have a modelling company, and probably never will. I’m far too lazy to actually implement this momentous idea. But if anyone is interested, feel free to use this idea and send me a Mars Bar and a size 12 blue lace skirt as payment.

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably staring at some legs.

Osher and hair.

Osher. Oshy. Osh Kosh B’Gosh.

What a legend.

The Bachelor 2014 is only a couple of roses away from wrapping up. If you haven’t readRosie’s recaps, then you haven’t lived.

Just ask Osher.

We put some questions to our favourite host-with-the-most (hair dye). We grilled him. Gave him a bit of a nudge-nudge. And he floored us with his humour, honesty, and the truth about that shiny helmet of hair.

Mamamia: What goes on in the Bachelor house that we are NOT seeing on air?

Osher: ​As the ladies don’t have access to phones or laptops – from what they tell me, there’s a lot of working out, baking, reading, chatting, eating of the now freshly-baked goods, which is then followed by more working out to work off said baked goods. ​

MM: Have you ever found love or stolen any hearts in the Bachelor house?

Osher: ​Oh goodness no. I’m a professional and would never cross that line. Never ever? Never ever.​

MM: Would you want to meet someone this way?

Osher: ​Nope. I like my job and my career, and it’s worth more to me than a few hours of sex.

​(WELL SAID, OSHER. Point: 1)

MM: Did the rose ceremonies ever get awkward?

Osher: ​Oh goodness yes. So awkward. With this kind of TV, there’s only one chance to capture everyone’s reaction the first time – so often there’s achingly long pauses between when I drop some news, and when I keep talking so that we can cover all of the ladies’ reactions. You see a few quick cuts, but in the room it’s sometimes a minute or two. Because three cameras have to capture up to twenty reactions.

It’s pretty sombre in there. ​

(GREAT INSIGHT, OSHER. Point: 2)

More Osher. More hair.

MM: Which of the girls would be the most fun to invite over for a BBQ?

Osher: ​Rochelle from Season One. The things that she’d say that we couldn’t put to air were priceless. Let’s just say she’s a story to tell about almost everything that will bring you to either tears of joy or tears of pain. ​

MM: If you could pick any of the girls to have a Bachelorette season, who would it be?

​Osher: I’d say Ali from Season One. I think Australia would love to see her find the right man. ​

MM: Which celebrity male would you nominate to be the next Bachelor?

​Osher: Paul Verehoven. He’s ever so clever and fun. ​Plus he could live-tweet his own journey.

MM: Do you get to hang out with the girls much?

​Osher: The nature of the show and the production is such that the only man that they spend time with is Blake. I just whisk in and out, either delivering some news, facilitating at a group date, or doing complex rose-related maths. ​

(GOOD JOKE, OSHER. Point: 3)

MM: We’ve really loved watching you as host. How does the experience compare to Australian Idol?

​Osher: Why thank you – I love the job. The Bachelor and Idol are two completely different shows​. Idol was a huge, live, exciting roller coaster that was on at 7:30 and off at 8:35 and then we all sat around catching our breath for a week. The nature of The Bachelor is that it’s shot very differently, but again – you only get one chance to capture the emotional reaction – so the pressure to deliver on the first take is just like as if you were live. It’s a great show to work on.

MM: Which contestants had more to fight over?

​Osher: Both shows promise that there’s a different, bigger version of your life to live if you make it to the end. Who wouldn’t want to fight for that?​

(YES. SO MUCH PASSION, OSHER. Point:4)

Oh My Osh.

MM: You know that us Mamamia girls are obsessed with your glorious hair. What is your secret, Osher??

​Osher: My secret is my brilliant Hair and Make up artist Carla Mico. It’s all her. I’m in Amsterdam at the moment and I just cut most of my hair off in fact, because without Carla in my life it’s a bit unmanageable. But I am forty and I have all my own hair so I’m incredibly grateful.

MM: How long does it take for each show?

​Osher: I’m sorry to tell you, not that long. Carla is a total pro and whisks me in and out of the chair with a younger man’s face and smashing hair in about twenty five minutes flat. ​

MM: Do you read Rosie’s recaps on the Bach? How do you feel about them?

​Osher: Of course I read Rosie’s recaps. To set the record straight – unlike many other men my age, I don’t dye my hair at all. Haven’t put a drop of colour in there since Idol ’09. I’ll even allow a UN inspection team to visit me to verify this claim, and witness the rapid greying of the temples, and the shock of grey above my right eyebrow. I’m going to look like a cranky newspaper editor in a 60’s Marvel comic soon. ​

(SOUNDS KIND OF HOT, OSHER. Point: 5)

And finally…

MM:Will you come and hang out with us in the Mamamia office? Will you bring us roses?

​Osher: I’d love to hang at the MM offices, and of course I’ll bring you roses. But will you accept them?

Yes we will, Osher. Yes. We. Will.

Blake and Osher: Battle of the hair (clear winner).

 Take a look at Osher’s series of podcastshere.

This is Rosie’s first impressions of this year’s contestants:

The 2014 Bachelor - Blake. Muscles with a head.

By LUCY GRANSBURY

I often have to consult the cool kids.

‘Hey popular people, which milk is in fashion for my latte these days? Almond? Coconut? Breast?’

‘Which jeans am I supposed to be wearing again? Ripped? Skinny? Boyfriend? Skinny-with-slight-beer-gut boyfriend?’

But there is one commandment that I continue to come across from ‘Those Kids Cooler Than Me’ (i.e. Everyone) that I’m just not sure about.

Thou Shalt Despise Nickelback.

WANKERS! Ok, am I cool yet?

Some dude in London has started a kick-starter campaign asking people to donate to the cause: NEVER LETTING NICKELBACK PERFORM IN LONDON AGAIN.

Depending on the donation, he will do anything from send an email in the donator’s name with a kind request to the band to stay away, to sending Nickelback’s music back to Nickelback.

I want to say to this young whippersnapper:

a) calm down and

b) get a life.

They are just a band. Surely, the much less strenuous solution is this: If you don’t like them… Don’t listen to them. I don’t really like listening to the bagpipes, so I don’t buy Greatest Bagpipin’ Hits. I don’t particularly like Avicii, so I don’t buy his albums*.

I did some research (it’s rare, I had to lie down afterwards) and came across some reasons why more people hate Nickelback than drinking orange juice after brushing their teeth.

1. WE HATE NICKELBACK BECAUSE…. Their songs are kind of offensive.

But… so is Eddie McGuire. Okay, that Nickelback song that starts with “I like your pants around your feet”  has some pretty naughty connotations. But so does “The Thong Song”. And Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines”. And Spice Girls “2 Become 1″.

Still, they’re catchy.

2. WE HATE NICKELBACK BECAUSE…. Their lyrics are lame.

But in Katy Perry’s new song, she sings “this is how we do” 29 times. I counted. And she’s one of the biggest selling artists of all time. “My hump, my hump, my hump (ha), my lovely lady lumps (Check it out)” doesn’t stop The Black Eyed Peas from being a-grade dance floor material.  “And I don’t, and I don’t, and I don’t, and I don’t/No I don’t, it’s true/I don’t, no, I don’t, no, I don’t, no, I don’t/Want anybody else but you” doesn’t stop me loving that Coldplay ‘Magic’ song.

3. WE HATE NICKELBACK BECAUSE…. Chad Kroeger’s growly, whiny voice is really annoying.

But so is Macy Gray’s. And Cindi Lauper’s. And Avril Lavigne’s**. And the Schni Schna Schnappi kid. And Frank Walker from National Tiles.

Just change the station, no?

4. WE HATE NICKELBACK BECAUSE…. Really analytical reasons to do with rock and changing music tastes. 

So in some of my research (again, by ‘research’ I mean ‘skim-reading while watching re-runs of Friends’) , I came across lengthy discussions comparing the glory days of Nickelback (circa 2005-2008) to their lame-ass current status, and how they just didn’t adapt to the changing times of rock or grunge rock or pet rock or whatever. Fair enough. And at least those lengthy discussions were more in-depth than “I hate Nickelback cos they, like, SUCK”.

But if they didn’t adapt, leave them be. Let them grow old and irrelevant in a little retirement village of sad, expired musos and their unfashionable old guitars, those who used to be cool and now have everyone hate them. They’ll probably see Bono there.

5. WE HATE NICKELBACK BECAUSE…. Everyone else does.

I reckon that 90% of the Nickelback-haters just stumbled across a bandwagon. There was one dude (probably with a goatee beard or whatever hipster facial hair was in fashion) standing on the bandwagon, blocking his ears and ripping up a Nickelback poster. So all the hipsters jumped on, starting up forums and chat rooms and petitions and grumpy-teenage-sulk-and-whinge-sessions so that everyone had a place to bitch about the Nick.

But there’s one thing you might not know about Nickleback haters.

They get home to their hipster houses each night, hide in their trendy minimalist burrows, plug in their headphones and crank up Chad Kroeger, secretly rocking out and growling:

Look at this photograph Every time I do it makes me laugh How did our eyes get so red? And what the hell is on Joey’s head?

Because really, when it comes down to it, what is so bad about Nickelback?

*I actually thought Avicii was an Italian restaurant for an embarrassingly long time. And then he had a concert here, and everyone kept telling me they were going to Avicii on the weekend and I thought ‘Gee, those pasta chefs are going to be busy’. I asked someone if they’d made a table reservation, and the truth was revealed.

**Incidentally, equally-as-annoying-voiced Avril Lavigne is married to Nickelback’s lead singer Chad Kroeger, but rumour has it they are getting divorced. Anyone who is president of an “I hate Nickelback” club… you may expect a member request from Avril any day now.

AMAZING.

All our favourite TV faces including Samantha Armytage, Peter Overton, Richard Wilkins, Lee Lin Chin, Simon Reeve, Jessica Rowe, Carrie Bickmore and Angela Bishop are pitching in for a good cause.

This music video for ABC’sFriday Night Crack Up has them all singing “Stuck in the Middle” in colourful windows that puts the Brady Bunch to shame.

It’s a promo for an event hosted by Eddie Perfect this Friday. A two-hour variety show will be filmed live in front of studio audience in Sydney, with hit musical numbers, sketches, improv games and a whole lot of fun from some of Oz’s best known comedians and hosts, all to support mental health research.

Eddie Perfect says “I can’t lie. I have no idea how a live television variety show in support of Mental Health Week is going to work because none of us have done this before. What I do know is that we have an unprecedented line-up of singers, actors, musicians, comedians and writers joining together despite their conflicting network affiliations, throwing caution to the wind and bringing their considerable gifts to the table in support of mental health.

“It’s precisely my anarchic idea of a good time, actually. It’s time to talk about mental health; an issue which eventually touches every single one of us. Might as well enjoy ourselves while we’re at it.”

Tune in on Friday at 7.30 on the ABC. A crack up for a good cause.

Well, that was a disturbing, yet entertaining, journey.

I came across an ad for an online dating service that helps people discreetly cheat on their partners.

THAT IS THE DISTURBING PART.

You might have already heard of them – the service is called ‘Ashley Madison’, and this ad makes me want to chew off my arm so I have something to throw at them:

In my young and single opinion, that is Geoff Edelsten levels of gross. But no judgement (pfft, so much judgement… Okay, okay I’m trying), because everything on the site is putting the sensual in consensual. It’s the wives and husbands at home that probably haven’t given permission, and that’s who I was chewing my arm off for.

Anyway, I thought I had better have a quick look, because… actually, I had no good reason except I was more curious than the proverbial cat.

So I went to sign up. The process told me it would take 30 seconds. But here’s the disturbing/funny part: It took me so long to find an available username that I had to name three random items on my desk and cram it into a word. You have to laugh, right? If only to stop from crying ‘this is what the world has come to’ tears? Let me show you:

To start with, I was thinking of what someone in this situation might write.

But clearly, that name was taken. So I tried some other saddish names.

But still no luck. Too many sad people on Ashley Madison, evidently.

Are you serious? Keep trying.

So I tried the longest word I know. Surely, that would work.

I was getting frustrated.

I’d kind of like to meet that guy.

That was an interesting response. No dirty names. Also surprising that I hadn’t tried one up until then. Maybe I’ll try a pseudonym.

Oh no! Not you, George! Don’t tell Amal. Or Prince Phillip:

GRAN! NOT YOU TOO! I was defeated.

So I named three random items on my desk. And finally, I had a username.

ApplePenRemoteControl is looking for a lover.

Turns out, the term ‘user’name is quite fitting, really. Everyone was looking to use each other. I was asked to fill in some preferences (e.g. Attached Male Seeking Females, etc), some specifics about my appearance (did you know that ‘zaftig’ means curvy? Huh.) and some other details, though I was told everything would be ‘discreet’.

Surprisingly, a lot of people have profile pictures showing their faces. Not surprisingly, a lot of them have profile pictures showing their genitals. Your profile can include all kinds of details and blurbs, and most of them are either saucy or sad. From there, you can private message other clients, or ‘send them a gift’… Call me prudish, but I wasn’t willing to find out what that meant.

Despite the giggles I had when trying to find a name, the whole thing is more than a little bit depressing. For every JabbaTheHut and ILoveMyWife online, there might be a happy wife or husband at home with no idea that their partner is being unfaithful. Shame on you, Ashley Madison.

Ladies, I don’t want you to suddenly feel paranoid that your husband is online, looking to cheat on you. But if he starts referring to himself in bed as ‘antidisestablismentarianism146’… then maybe ask a question or two.

Love,

ApplePenRemoteControl

Em Rusciano

Asher Keddie, Rodger Corser and Em Rusciano in one room sounds like a bit of a fantasy to me (in a strictly non-sexual sense. Well… maybe a little bit). And tonight, we get to see all three brilliant talents in one fist-pumping episode of Party Tricks.

I spoke to Em Rusciano, mainly because I wanted to know what Rodger Corser smells like in real life. She didn’t disappoint. In fact, I didn’t even have to ask…

And as usual, she made me laugh so much I had to cross my legs.

Lucy: Em. Your episode of Party Tricks is on air tonight. How are you feeling?

Em: It’s pretty much the peak of my life. When I was about 7 years old I was introduced to the great man John Farnham by going to a Whispering Jack concert with my hair cut into a mullet like his. My whole life has been building to singing “That’s Freedom” on a national TV show that he may watch.

Lucy: What will you do if he does watch it and contacts you to tell you how much he loved it?

Em: I just… I don’t know. I don’t think I can’t even compute that, my brain will shut down. I’ll be able to retire. I’ll be like ‘That’s it, bitches’. I’m really hoping it’ll lead to some kind of duet. I know he’s doing one with Livvy [Olivia Newton-John], but why wouldn’t he want to do a tour with a person who came ninth on Australian Idol in 2004?

Lucy: How was the Party Tricks experience? Good vibe on set?

Em: Awesome, it was great. I got to touch and smell Rodger Corser.

Lucy: THAT WAS MY NEXT QUESTION!

Em: And I really smelled him. Like, hard. He smells amazing, like essence of man but a hint of charming. It’s just his natural musk. Rodger Corser is a lovely human, he’s a muso too. He used to play in a Bon Jovi tribute band… He totally sings and plays guitar. So handsome. And my best friend Michael Lucas created the show, so it was good to see Michael at work. Walking around, writing things… I was so grateful. There was a sweeping crane shot like in a Wilson Phillips video clip, and I do a dramatic fist bump. There’s like two and a half minutes of me singing live, and it’s because of Michael. And my dad does all my guitaring so he’s on the show too tonight, credits and everything. It’s pretty exciting.

Rodger that.

Lucy: Were you on set with Asher Keddie? Is she a goddess?

Em: I wasn’t on set with her because it was a ‘Liberal party launch’ that I was performing at (they had to airbrush all my tattoos out, I had to be ‘liberal partied’ up – so I was in a very sensible black dress, I had my hair combed in an up-style, tasteful jewellery… it’s another side of me) but Asher is divine, I know her quite well. I’ve seen all the upcoming episodes of Party Tricks and she just gets more and more kickass and hard. Nina Proudman is dead now. Kate Ballard [Asher's character on Party Tricks] kind of says everything I wanted Nina to say in Offspring. She stands up for herself, she doesn’t stumble over her words, I feel vindicated for Nina watching Kate go hard.

Lucy: Do you feel sad for Nina though? Too soon?

Em: NOPE.

Lucy: But… but..

Em: That woman went through enough! She found a nice man, the baby’s good, what more does Australia want her to go through?! It’s done. Let the woman live a happy ever after. Maybe I’ll stand a movie or a double episode where her and old mate get married, but it’s done.

Lucy: And you could sing at the wedding, obviously.

Em: Obviously. Like some kind of ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ or something. But other than that, let Nina rest in peace. This role is amazing for Asher. You’ve never seen her like this before. She loses her mind in the most spectacular fashion, it’s amazing.

Lucy: Let’s talk politics. Victorian Election in a couple of weeks. Thoughts?

Em: You know what my thoughts are? I don’t know anything about either of the people. I think a lot of Victorians feel the same way. I know that Ted Baillieu pissed off the firemen and he’s not doing great for education. I can’t even name the Labor party candidate. Isn’t that terrible? But I think that’s the problem. They don’t really have a presence. I’m someone who has a genuine interest in politics, so it’s a concern that I don’t know anything about it.

I think politics has become about who can keep their head down and not do the stupidest thing, and then totally Steven Bradbury the win. Party Tricks is great timing. Michael certainly borrowed heavily from things going on in State and Federal politics. Michael’s dream is for Julia Gillard to tweet that she’s watching it. That would be huge.

Lucy: Do you think we’d care more if we found out that a party member slept with the opposition?

Em: (laughs) Who knows? Remember when it came out that Kevin had gone to the strippers and everyone thought that was a good thing? You just never know with the public. I think anything that would give them some personality would be good. I mean ANYTHING. They’re so boring. I don’t want to vote for them because I don’t care about them.

Lucy: Maybe YOU should run for Premier?!

Em: Oh, shit no. Can you imagine? No, that would be the worst. All the money would go to education and nurses. There’d be nothing left for business development, I’d just be looking after all the people that I like!

Lucy: So hypothetically, who would you vote for in the show? Kate Ballard or David McLeod?

Em: (reluctantly) Kate. I could never vote for the Liberal party. My mother still stands up anytime someone says Gough Whitlam’s name. I was wrapped in a Gough Whitlam t shirt when I was born. The Labor party runs deep within my family. But I do enjoy Malcolm Turnbull in a leather jacket so I could be persuaded.

Lucy: So what’s next, Em?

Em: I’ve got shows coming up in Sydney and Melbourne, but this time of year is largely about preparing for the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. I’m just finishing off my new show, which is called ‘Motherload’. I thought it was time I tackled motherhood in a comedy and musical fashion. I’ve just finished writing a song about how to explain pornography to children, set to ‘Do Re Mi’ from The Sound of Music. I explain rimming in a child-friendly way. It’s going to be fun.

I’m also playing at the kids’ version of Big Day Out – it’s calledPlayfestin Melbourne in November, there’s all kinds of artists and kids’ stories and a nap tent, it’s going to be awesome. I’ve written some kid-friendly stuff with Dad, I’m SO excited. My blog is going off too, so that’s great and keeping me busy. I’m trying to put together a bit of a book situation as well, so that’s exciting.

Keep an eye out for Em tonight in Party Tricks. And if anyone knows John Farnham, tell him to tune in.

Seven-year-old mullet-head Em will love you forever.

Party Tricks on Channel Ten at 8:30 tonight. Also, check out this hilariousfake Twitter account following the election.

Party Tricks

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By LUCY GRANSBURY

Alright, movie-goers. It’s time. Some of you have been pissing me off for years.

It’s time we talk about cinema etiquette. I pay half my wages every week to go the cinema (both indicative of my low income and the high ticket prices), and I’m sick of the carry-on. It’s not all of you. But there’s definitely a few offenders, who sit in the cloaked darkness of the cinema, just waiting to scrunch up a chip packet at the most conspicuous moment. I’m looking at YOU.

Let’s lay down some basic rules. I would’ve thought they’d be obvious, but apparently not.

Because someone fucks it up. Every. Single. Time.

Pay attention, offender.

1. SHUT YOUR PACKETS UP.

Tell your food to use it’s indoor voice. If you have a rustl-y packet, like Red Rock Deli chips or something deplorable, open it BEFORE the movie starts, and insert hands ONLY during noisy bits of the film.And close your mouth. I don’t need to hear your salted vinegar.

That had better be a quiet scream.

2. DON’T GIVE ME A RUNNING COMMENTARY.

You are not Margaret or David. I don’t want your opinion. You may whisper quietly to your friend if absolutely necessary, but please refrain from making loud announcements to the audience about the cinematography or mise-en-scene. Unless you actually directed the film, in which case, good work. Now shhh.

3. TURN YOUR BLOODY PHONE OFF.

You are committed to at least 90 minutes of cinematic entertainment. You don’t need to check the time, or your Facebook Newsfeed. If you absolutely must be on it, turn the screen brightness down so you don’t light up next to me like a pinball machine. And if your phone should ring in the middle of a sad scene… so help me God.

4. DON’T ACCIDENTALLY PROD MY ELBOW WITH YOUR DIRTY FOOT.

Feet on floor. Elbows on armrest. Or growl in face.

5. DON’T DISTRACT ME WITH YOUR DELICIOUS OR FOUL SMELLING FOOD.

If you bring Maccas into the cinema, I am officially not able to concentrate. I will only be considering stealing a chip. On the other end of the scale, a guy once sat next to me with a tin of tuna and a fork. I told him to keep walking.

Looks delicious. EAT IT AT HOME.

6. IF THE CINEMA IS FULL, SIT IN YOUR ALLOCATED SEAT.

It avoids awkward confusion, and me having to call security to remove you immediately.

7. IF THE CINEMA IS NOT, DON’T SIT RIGHT NEXT TO ME WHEN THERE ARE A BILLION OTHER OPTIONS.

Again, will call security.

8. BACKSEAT BANDITS CAN BITE ME.

Teenagers who are pashing and/or mucking around in the back row, prepare to incur my wrath. Have some respect. Not for me, for the celestial silver screen.

I paid to watch them kiss. I did not pay to watch you.

9. KEEP YOUR TONGUES TO YOURSELF.

A sweet little date-night cinema smooch is acceptable. A heavy-handed sex show is NOT.

10. DON’T CLAP AT THE END OF THE FILM.

The director can not hear you. That goes for questions, feedback, and congratulatory messages. Send him a letter. Tweet him. Throw him a carrier pigeon about how much you liked it. But in the cinema… The director. Can not. Hear you. But I can.

So, offenders. Have you got it? Good. Apologies for being so forceful. I probably won’t actually call security or be nearly as threatening as above. But I promise you, if you ever break one of these rules in the dark silence of a cinema, you may feel a piece of popcorn hit you square in the back of the head. That was me.

I know that’s not very etiquettable, but I don’t care.

You started it.

Guys.

I’ve worked out what Heaven is.

Well… my own non-religious-but-still-hedging-my-bets version, anyway.

Everyone has a theory about Heaven. Fluffy white clouds, lots of soft floaty things and flowers (unless you have hay fever, in which case Hell), etc. I always picture this scene in the awful Adam Sandler movie Little Nicky that shows Heaven exactly as it should be. With feather-covered chairs and Reese Witherspoon angels.

Here’s the scene from Little Nicky. It’s in Spanish, because I’m bilingual in Heaven (and couldn’t find it English on YouTube):

Anyway, in my Heaven, there’ll be non-cancerous sunshine. There’ll be endless supplies of calorie-free Nutella. There’ll beJake Gyllenhaal topless and interested. There’ll be pretty things with wings and endless reruns of Friends.

But most importantly, there’ll be answers.

Curiosity killed the cat. I’m the cat.

ANSWERS, DAMMIT.

You know how they say ‘curiosity killed the cat’? I’m the cat. I’m probably even the curious person who killed the curious cat just to see if the nine lives thing was actually true.

And as a curious person, I have a LOT of questions. Questions that have been festering inside my curious mind, like a worm inside an apple (HOW DID IT GET THERE? Curious…).

I like to think, that when I land myself in Heaven (provided that a) it exists and b) I make the cut*), an angel or God-dude or Reese Witherspoon or someone will hand me a giant book, full of the answers to:

ALL THE LIFE QUESTIONS I WANT ANSWERED WHEN I DIE. 

What are the eleven secret herbs and spices?

Did my neighbours accidentally run over my cat Cuddles and pretend they didn’t?

What did the tenth nutritionist recommend instead of Weetbix?

What really happened to the Malaysia Airlines planes (BOTH)?

Was the moon landing real or a conspiracy?

Who farted in the car and didn’t own up when I was eleven?

Where are the Beaumont children?

Where are the Beaumont children?

How is it possible that I read aloud in my head?

Did Helen Keller see and hear things inside her head?

What actually happened to Azaria Chamberlain?

Who was the first person who cut mangoes in the criss-cross fancy way?

What did you do with Harold Holt?

What are hiccups and why do the exist?

Where did I leave my brand new blue and white Canterbury jumper when I was 17?

What was the name of that blond boy I kissed at that pub at the end of high school?

Did he kill my Cuddles?

So those are the most pressing of my questions. It may be morbid, but I’m looking forward to a death full of answers. If you can answer any of them before then, I will consider you God.

Or the person that killed my cat.

What questions are you hoping to have answered in the Afterlife (regardless of what it looks like…)?

Did you know that Mamamia has a podcast? 

We do. And if we say so ourselves, it’s kinda great. EPISODE 3 just went live and we’d love you to listen and hit subscribe. 

This week, host Kate Leaver sits down with Jamila Rizvi and Sophie McNeill to talk about egg-freezing, the return of Monica Lewinsky, and the etiquette of “ghosting”. 

Or.