Let's Talk About Sex, Baby.

“STOP IT! YOU’LL SCAR THE CHILDREN!” is a sentence very rarely heard before the child version of yourself is mentally scarred. When your parents want to tell you about sex for example – no one is ever there to stop them. When someone sits on your guinea pig and it dies slowly in your arms while yellow stuff dribbles from its mouth – no one is there to shield your eyes. In my experience, the only time anyone actually intervenes on your childly behalf is when they want to stop you doing something fun. Like watching R rated films, using a homemade slingshot or eating an entire tin of sweeten condensed milk - all of which I was personally denied as a child. And, of course, the one time I really could have done with an adult running in screeching their head off and covering my ears with their hands, not a soul arrived to stop the mental scarring which is still evident on my psyche today…

This may come as a shock to you, but I was in a “gifted” year six class. We were treated like little savants; given algebraic maths problems and acting out our own mock versions of parliament, debating the pros and cons of genetically modified food. We were such little geniuses in fact; that I think our teacher would often forget that most of us still had majority baby teeth. This was never more apparent than during our daily “Reading Time”.

I’m sure most children’s experience around “Reading Time” is immensely pleasurable. Sitting calmly on the floor, tummies full of lunch, as the teacher enthrals you with tales of Charlie and his Chocolate Factory, Charlotte and her web or perhaps even Harry Potter and his Philosopher’s Stone (or “sorcerer’s” stone if you’re a stupid American). This is pretty much the exact opposite of what reading time was like for my class. Cue the horror.

The first book we were read for the year was called Pink Balloons. It was about a charming little five-year-old girl. She was kind and sweet and beautiful. Oh, and she was dying of AIDS. A true story, the book chronicled her slow death. The sentiment “don’t judge a book by its cover” has never rung more true – book cover: shiny pink balloons. Subject matter: agonising death of a child.

Pink Balloons however, paled in comparison to what has to be the most age inappropriate book I have ever been read - Night John. Night John made Pink Balloons look like a romp in a field with some fucking gerberas. Our teacher obviously felt that 11 was definitely the age that we finally learnt about the Jim Crow south. Night John followed John, a slave in the Deep South during the 1800s, as he attempted to educate himself under the cover of darkness. Throughout the novel I learnt the following things:

• Racism is a thing
• Sometimes slave owners raped their female slaves to produce baby slaves. This was done with the aid of a clever raping contraption – a board with shackles nailed to it for holding lady slaves in place 
• Lynching is the practice by which black people were dragged through the town naked, beaten and then killed – then, quite often, hung from trees. All to the glee of the white town folk
• Scary shit as per the above makes baby Maz feel not very good inside

So that’s the story of the time I learnt what rape was. Comment below and let me know about your own induction into the world of sexual assault :)

The Things Nick Says To Me: Part 5

On his confusion at the "selfie" craze.

Nick: The only time I take a photo of myself is when I'm checking to see if I have boogers.

Maz Reviews Bruce Springsteen's Ass

There is nothing lazier than people who speak in clichés.  Katy Perry’s Roar for example is entirely made up of clichés (I’ve got the eye of the tiger, already brushing off the dust, Cos I am a champion gah!). Instead of inspiring me, Roar makes me want to punch Katy right in her ass. Same goes for motivational quotes on facebook. I don’t feel inspired by a picture of a wishing well captioned with some inane shit like “Dream it. Believe it. Achieve it”. Because really, when you’re reeling off the clichés you’re just saying a bunch of stuff that’s been said so many times it’s become, well, clichéd.

I do however, have to vouch for a motivational image I saw the other day of a little fellow reaching towards the stars. It was captioned, logically, “reach for the stars”. Yes it’s your everyday sub-par vom inducing meme, but I actually did reach for the stars recently and it felt pretty damn delightful.

As you may or may not know, I have a very slight obsession with Bruce Springsteen. My car is called Bruce, I listen to his music every day, a whopping 20% of my instagram posts are about him and most importantly, he is my number one celebrity crush, my religion and my muse. When he announced his latest tour I spent $1000 dollars on tickets for my family, who all get equally as excited about our lord and saviour, Bruce. I made my parents go and queue in the rain hours ahead of time in order to ensure we would be right at the front of the stage so that, just maybe, I could touch that beautiful hunk ‘o’ man. And touch him I did!

Figure 1: My Dad's enthusiastic response to the news I had acquired sold-out Bruce Springsteen tickets for both he and my Mum

Springsteen is the most enthusiastic performer you will ever see. He does three hour-long concerts with more energy than a hessian sack full of toddlers, and during these performances, he likes to crowd surf. Enter the ultimate “it would only happen to Maz” moment. During a particularly badass rendition of Spirit in the Night Bruce launched himself into the crowd. Falling backwards onto the welcoming sea of hands like Janice does after slamming Regina George at the end of Mean Girls, he continued to sing as the audience slowly delivered him to the stage at the front of the arena. As The Boss approached, I craned my neck to see whether or not he was going to pass over my head, and could vaguely make out a figure up and to the left of me. Using my finely honed basketball attack skills, I dropped my shoulder and charged left until I was right in the path of the almighty Bruce.

Time stopped. My heart rate hastened. My mouth dried. I saw his leather lace-up boots, and then his ankles and suddenly the moment was upon me. Bruce Springsteen’s tight little bottom was directly above me. I reached up and with my full, open hand, grabbed his right bum cheek and squeezed. Oh, the ecstasy. For that one beautiful second, I was molesting the man of my dreams. It was a little sweaty but let me tell you, it was firm and pert and round - everything a good ass should be. Before I knew it, he had been placed gently on the stage and, overwhelmed, I burst into tears. I cried on Nick and then turned to my dad and cried on him too. There is very little I will be able to achieve now that will trump the time I grabbed Bruce Springsteen's behind.

And that is the story of the time that I groped the 64-year-old man I am in love with and then cried snot onto both my 61-year-old dad and my husband in celebration. So follow your dreams kids, it’s like the saying goes: reach for the stars, even if you miss, your hand will touch his moon. I know that was feeble, but you get what I was trying to do there.

Truth From Strangers Is Fiction

The other day I drove through Yamba and they had this sign that said “Yamba – Australia’s Number One Town”¹. One of my biggest peeves with today’s society is that people often say things that aren’t true and no one pulls them up on it. It seems to be that if you’ve said something loudly and authoritatively enough (or in this case – written it on a billboard) it is then indisputably true. Other examples of this include Lindsay Lohan talking about her sobriety, anyone who ever tells you that daddy long legs are the most poisonous spiders and people who constantly refer to each other as “husband” and “wife” when they are not married then are offended if you tell them they are not married². Unfortunately these people are rarely pulled up on this crime against humanity (by humanity, I mean me).

The weirdest example of this happened to me about a year ago. I had been invited to my friends’ house for dinner. One of my friends, for the sake of this story her name will be Cindy, had also invited her boyfriend whom I had never met. Polite small talk was made, drinks were drunk, food was eaten bla bla bla, dinner. And then something odd happened that I have been stewing over ever since. My friend’s boyfriend, let’s call him Trevor, who had not spoken to me all night approached me with a question.

“Marion” he enquired, “did you tell Cindy that moths fly towards light, because lights are warm?”

Firstly, let it be known that I have grown to hate the word random. Not as much as “epic” or “fail” but almost. However, in this circumstance it is the most correct word to describe this question, so I will have to use it. Trevor’s question was entirely RANDOM. You have as much back-story on this incident as I do, I literally have no recollection whatsoever of telling Cindy this, but sure, it sounded like something I would say. I relayed this to Trevor.

“I guess that sounds about right” I told him “moths are ectotherms, so they need an external heat source to warm their bodies, plus they’re nocturnal and don’t see the sun often, so I assume that’s why they love the light.”

There. That sounded good, finally my science degree was being put to use!

“Actually” Trevor sneered, “that’s wrong. Moths think the light is the moon, so they fly to it.”

He sat there with a triumphant look on his face and I shut up, Trevor was obviously not one to be messed with. Not because he was right, but because at some weird point in time he came across a little bit of hearsay that I may or may not have actually said, waited until he met me and then brought it up, hoping to entrap and then slam me. Like the proverbial moth to the flame. Touché, strange dinner guest.

I went home and googled it. According to live science, this moon theory holds no water. Alternate ideas as to why moths fly to lights include that males confuse lights with female moths and that the wavelengths of light assist in moth navigation. Wikipedia on the other hand does suggest that moths use radiation from light to warm themselves.

In the end though, I’m pretty sure that no one really knows why moths like lights because no one really gives that much of a shit about moths. And to be honest, my interest in moths only really extends to those of the Bogong variety (it sounds like bogan hehe). But I just wanted the world to know that Trevor was wrong. And is a dick.

¹Yamba actually did win best town in Australia. In 2009. Stop living in the past Yamba!

²Those who, due to the ridiculous laws of this country, are not allowed to enter into said holy matrimony are not included in this pet peeve. But if you are legally allowed to get married and want to use these titles, then just get married and then use them because you are confusing me.

The Things Nick Says To Me: Part 4

On being a rebellious young teen and defacing his school gear with the names of his favourite music artists.

Nick: People wrote all over their pencil cases, it was the thing to do. Once you'd put your name in the little plastic slot, you'd write your favourite bands all over your pencil case. I wrote Brad Collins on mine.

Twenty Thirpeen: The Year of the Dickhead

I was in Peru once. I was on the bus, heading to the start of the Inca trail on my first international adventure as a young adult. I was like, so antipodean. In complete awe of my surrounding, hurtling through the Andes, I caught glimpses of what it would be like to live in these small remote communities. I spied a woman tending to her caged guinea pigs. I watched children playing happily in dusty front yards. And then I saw the most picture perfect man, a bundle of firewood hoisted onto his muscular back, the quintessential Andean beanie perched on his head. He looked up and our eyes met. I put my hand up to wave, wanting just one fleeting moment of contact. He stared at me, and then his expression twisted to one of pure hatred and simultaneously he gave me the finger and poked out his tongue at me.

What. A. Dickhead.

As a naïve nineteen year old, I assumed this was an isolated incident, that dickheads of this calibre were confined to the remote wilds, thousands of kilometres from where I live. Seven years later this is not the case. 2013 was undoubtedly The Year of the Dickhead. Read on for the crème de la peen; my list of the top five dickheads of the year.

5. Tailgaters.

Tailgating to me is an entirely confusing pursuit. In one hand you don’t trust the person-in-front-of-you’s judgment of what is an appropriate speed. Conversely, you put all your trust in them – assuming they won’t suddenly slam on their brakes and cause you a whole bunch of damage, all of which is entirely your fault. Also, to all of those who don’t wave when I have slowed down to let you in: you stink more than a bag full of assholes and I there is a special place in hell for you.

4. Social media superstars.

In order of dickheadedness.

Selfies. Especially if your mouth is a little bit open.

Statuses that begin with “To the guy on the bus/girl in the gym/my aching hand” or “that awkward moment when”.

Engagement announcements that reference Beyonce’s Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It), contain some sort of poorly cobbled together collage or a use a variation of the sentence “she said yes!!!” Just ONCE I would love to see an engagement announcement that alludes to the Japanese horror film The Ring or references Johnny Cash’s Burning Ring of Fire. Alternately, I'd be intrigued to see a “she said no” announcement.

Those of you who will happily write terrible things on the wall of a company you feel has wronged you but would NEVER actually say anything remotely similar in person. All I can imagine when you do this is Ali G giving the police the finger from behind the car door. You truly are a badass mofo.

Posts which alternate between dizzying highs and horrifying lows. In an age when everything on our social media profiles is so carefully vetted that who we are on Facebook and Instagram has become basically an avatar instead of a reflection of reality, I’ve noticed a disturbing amount of people who can’t decide whether their life is aaaaamazing and enviable or if they are a complete victim. Is your life shit? Is it not? Pick one, stick to it and don’t post both a status about how you want to die and have already purchased the garden hose and started your car’s engine in the tightly shut up garage and then instagram an image of the delicious chocolate pie you had during your mid-week day off.

3. Latecomers.

Back in the day I would meet my friends at the water clock in Hornsby. You would ring them on the house phone and arrange a time. And by gum, you would be there at that time, because you had no alternative. There was no iMessage with which to bail last minute, there wasn’t even a mobile phone number to ring and verbally inform you of your friend’s impending lateness. You couldn’t insty or snapchat or keek them to warn of your impending lateness, you were just THERE ON TIME - a foreign concept to many of you. I still have this delightful little penis badge that my girlfriends made me wear at my hen’s night, from now on if you are late to meet me I am going to make you wear it for the duration of our time together as a signifier that you, my friend, are a dickhead.

2. People with problems.

Actually, people with problem. The funnest friends ever are those who have the same problem every day of the year. It can be a boy. Or a job. Or you are sad at the declining usage of fax machines. But if you go on about it every time I see you, I will not want to see you any more. Same goes for people who label themselves survivors when all you have “survived” is an upper-middle class upbringing and someone dumping you once. Poor you L Top honours in this category goes to a friend of mine who called me on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Years’ Eve last year so I could talk her down off the ledge about the same thing for an hour or so each day. She recently chided me for not having checked up on how her life was lately. She also laughingly told me she’d never read my blog. Hehehe. It is funny when my friend doesn’t care what happens in my life but needs me to be intensely invested in hers. Hehehe.

1. Jennifer Lawrence

JLaw is a cunt.

There you have it, the top five Vas Deferns Faces of the year. And I look forward to the annoying, inane and selfish shit you will all undoubtedly do in 2014.

Scents and Sensibilities

I often think about how naïve and young I was when I left home. I would go for days without eating anything other than mushroom cup-a-soups (which I kept on my bedside table with a kettle beside my bed to make without having to get up). I can’t think of a single time I washed my sheets, only having had a dryer and no washing machine. And I’m pretty sure that once I left macaroni cheese in the sink for about three months.

 

There is one incident however, that I think truly illustrates how NOT ready I was to have moved out of home. My street smarts were obviously lacking, which became alarmingly apparent one mid-summer’s afternoon.

I lived with a friend of mine – a boy – who was the same age, although he had lived overseas and out of home for a long time, so was much worldlier than I was. One day, I was brushing my teeth when I noticed this smooth, shiny crystal lying on the bathroom sink. I spat out my toothpaste and picked up the short, stubby stone. It was heavy and cool but I couldn’t figure out what it was, so I lifted it to my face and smelt it. It had no odour; still I was perplexed as to what it was. Having run through all the senses I had at my disposal; it smelt of nothing, looked and felt like nothing in particular and sure as hell didn’t SOUND like anything, I figured the only logical course of action was to lick it. Seven years later, I still consider this one of the least sensible decisions I’ve ever made – It was tingly on my tongue and slightly acrid.

 

Cue my roommate coming in and asking me what I was doing licking his crystal deodorant. (This is actually a thing, in case you don’t believe me see proof here)

 

Apparently that’s a thing. I’ve kept my tongue to myself ever since. Practically licking your friend’s armpit will have that effect on you.