How To Punish A Child Who Squeezes Your Cat So Hard It Farts

Mamamia recently published an article entitled “Things your family does that you didn’t realise were weird” cataloguing the things that the author, Lucy Gransbury, thought were normal but upon leaving home discovered they were actually super weird. I’m calling bullshit a bit on this article because it lists things like Dad Tax and Wish Chips, which also existed in my household, and undoubtedly thousands of others. Compare this to, say, when I was little and every morning without fail my dad would tell me that while I was asleep he and my mum put me on the road, put yoghurt on my face and a truck ran over me and then I think we can discuss what constitutes weird family shit. Yogurt Truck would stress me out to no end. My parents loved my adverse reaction to their story and no explanation for the yogurt part was ever given. So, sorry Lucy, but you can take your frozen cheese and shove it, because I have a list of things that my family did that were actually weird.

• At 5 years of age I squeezed my cat George so hard that he did a terrible fart. As punishment my parents made me ring the vet and apologise, the vet sounded confused and just told me not to do it again.
• My dad used to take out his two false teeth and chase me around the house yelling “I am Gunkafore, you are Labrador” it used to horrify me and I still don’t know what it means.
• On long road trips my parents would buy us cheap little items to keep us entertained. To prolong the excitement and to keep us quiet for as long as possible they would give us these items piece by piece. For example, one year on a road trip to Uluru we were bought walkmans. At 5am we were given the Walkman. At 7am we were given the batteries. At 9am we were given the tape. And at 11am we were finally given the headphones – the puzzle was complete and we were over the moon! I’m still amazed that these little bits and pieces, which did fuck all until all put together, sustained our excitement for six or seven hours. Ah, times before the internet…
• My mum used to make crosswords for us to do at our birthday parties as they offer some “quiet time”.
• My dad wore a night gown instead of pyjamas.
• Until I was 20 I thought yellow was pronounced “yallow”.
• My dad used to pretend to be the ten year old version of himself and tell us all about his life in his hometown of Guilford. This was done at night, in a high pitched voice while walking around on his knees (in his nightie).
• My dad also used to do this character called “Marty Mosquito” (basically his hand scrunched into the shape of a “mosquito”) who would wake us up in the morning. Marty was friendly, but if his friend Boris showed up instead of Marty, you were liable to get pinched incessantly. Like, really pinched HARD.
• My dad thought it was HILARIOUS to make incest jokes. Nothing too rough, but still pretty blue. Eg. When I was asked by a girl in the grade below me why I had been performing, alone, alongside a teacher (my dad, who taught at my school) at the end of year concert, my dad felt strongly that I should have responded “because he’s my boyfriend” and walked off. Just to freak them out.
• I think this may be something that lots of peoples’ families did, but my family used to speak the internal monologue for our cat Jeffrey. If he was hungry or in a mood, we would voice his opinions or disdain or even just his general thoughts on the weather (he hated the wind). For a really stupid cat, I was always amazed at how articulate he was.
• Speaking of Jeffrey, we used to have a theme song we’d sing for him when he came into the room, along the lines of “Jeffrey the cat, the wonderful, wonderful cat”. Not lyrically superior, but effective enough.
• My brother and I used to have a song that we sang AT each other when it was the other person’s turn to wash up, a sort of musical bullying. It went “Guess who’s turn it is to wash up? You-rs. Yeah yeah. Woo.” It drove my mum insane and was eventually banned in our house under threat of being made to do the washing up when it wasn’t your turn.

Who knows what repercussions these oddities have had on my life, but I’d be intrigued to meet the Maz who had never experienced any of them. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be writing this blog though. Or gently feeling Nick’s eyeball through his eyelid whenever she got a chance.

Maz Tries To Escape From The Dwell Well

I’ve never even seen Frozen, but the song “Let it go” has been stuck in my head for days. In a strange way though, it’s kind of become my 2015 mantra. Every time I find myself dwelling on something, I hear that little blonde wizard in my head telling me to let it go. It’s actually been quite cathartic. I’m not sure what issues and niggling memories other people hold onto, but mine are all super trivial and incredibly old. I feel it necessary to get these down onto virtual paper in order to leave them there and move on with my life once and for all. So here it goes, my most painful memories.

My First Rejection

When I was eight my parents enrolled me in netball, because I was an Australian girl who was eight. And that’s what eight-year-old Australian girls do. They go to a really cold dewy field early in the morning in winter, in skirts, and throw balls at each other, then buy killer pythons. But before I had even made it to the dewy field I went to my first ever netball training. I knew no one, but as a precocious and tiny human I had no fear. Until we were paired up to do drills, that is. As the coach designated each of us a partner and the group started to dwindle I felt, for the first time, that fear of possibly being the odd one out. Sure enough, I was the last to be picked and was paired up with a girl named Rebecca (name not changed for shaming reasons.)

“Marion,” Netball Coach had said “you’ll be practicing chest passes with Rebecca”

Rebecca’s response to having me as a partner came so quickly and emphatically it made my head spin.

“Oh, poo!”

What. A. Bitch. What a little 8 year old bitch. How could the sight of tiny little 8-year-old, scruffily charming me, conjure up thoughts of defecation? What was so good about her anyway? She was freckly, plain and wore glasses. I was scabbed from adventure and endowed with knowledge of monotremes. She eventually went cross-eyed. And you better believe I don’t feel even the tiniest bit sorry for her. Because while all that happened to her in the subsequent years was the onset of severely impaired vision, I’ve had to harbour the sting of that cruelly delivered “poo” ever since.

My First Public Shaming

When I was 13 my dad bought me a bike. Being my dad he didn’t buy it in the way that dads usually buy bikes. I assume generally, that this would involve a trip to the bike shop, followed by the brand new bicycle being secreted away in a cupboard or shed until birthday morn when said shiny bike is wheeled out with a curly ribbon tied to it. My dad is not an ordinary dad, so he didn’t buy me a bike in an ordinary way. Dad chose me the best bike Kmart had on their racks (despite my protestations that I really did not want a bike), paid a deposit and then made me go into Kmart for MONTHS to pay it off in installments – literally $8 and $14 installments. I hated the bike before I even got it, so you can imagine how depressing it was to have this as my sole birthday present for my 13th birthday. But, lucky me, my dad had made sure I had one surprise waiting for me. He’d secretly bought me a helmet. A bananas in pajamas helmet. For my 13th birthday.

And of course, no bike-receiving birthday is complete without a bike ride to top it off, so my dad made me ride with him into Hornsby to test out my new wheels. I donned my B in Ps helmet and hit the road. I was actually starting to like it as we cruised along, the wind in my handlebars, until we hit George Street, one of the main roads that lead into Hornsby proper. And by “we hit George Street”; I mean I hit the gutter and face-planted onto the footpath in front of about a million motorists stopped at the lights. In my children’s character helmet. On my birthday.

The First Time Photoshop Made Me Feel Bad About Myself – And Not In The Way You’d Expect

I went to a Photoshop course for work to upskill my skills and have some time out of the office to dick around. It was a pretty basic course full of mums who, well into day two, were asking, “Wait, what’s the shortcut for copy again?” It was great, until the instructor got around to teaching us airbrushing. In order to demonstrate what sort of things need airbrushing in an image, instead of having an un-retouched image prepared in advance like a good, professional non-psychopathic instructor would, he singled me out and proceeded to let the class know all the things he would airbrush ON ME. Including, but not limited to:

• My flyways
• The little wrinkles around my eyes (or “crow’s feet” as he called them)
• A few small pimples on my face
• This weird hard little lump I have in my hairline
• Some dark bags under my eyes
• My skin tone

It was really a fabulous moment in my life, and I left there able to mask an image, with a thorough knowledge of copy and paste short cuts and some severely damaged self-esteem. 

I know I started this post preaching about letting shit go, but having written all these memories down it’s just served to reinvigorate my fury at all these people and events. So let’s just revise 2015’s new anthem to CeeLo Green’s Fuck You and call it even.

Shame-ish and Maz's Modus Operandi

I had my two year workiversary recently. I didn’t realise it was such a big deal until THREE people liked it on Linkedin. I may not know much about social media, but I know that if you get Linkedin likes from people in your professional network, that’s pretty fancy and you are for sure a big wig now. Once I got over the thrill of new Linkedin notifications, I began thinking about the last two years and what they had given me; patience, knowledge of, and a cause to use, the word “garnered”, impeccable email etiquette, and of course getting to hear the question “what famous people have you met?” one thousand times.

 

This is by far the most common question I get asked about working in television. And the answer to it is that if you don’t work in production or publicity, you’re really not going to meet any famous people. While television marketing sounds like it’s all cocktail parties and schmoozing with celebs it very rarely involves hanging out with anyone vaguely famous. Although, that being said, my first week in television definitely didn’t prepare me for this reality.

 

Sitting at my desk, brand new and with no idea what I was doing, I was still at that moment in a new job where you reeeeeeeeeeally take your time doing things and stare intently at your screen to appear super focussed and busy when, in fact, you have no idea what you’re doing yet. I was doing this dance of incompetence when Hamish and Andy walked into my office and right past my desk. Andy looked me straight in the eye and, as my first instinct is always to act like a huge weirdy, I threw my head back in an upwards, gangsta-reminiscent nod and addressed him,

 

“’Sup?”

 

Cool points + one million. 

"Uh, hi" he responded, and walked straight past. I had just enough time to text Nick and tell him that I’d had my first celebrity sighting, when the dynamic duo emerged from their very brief meeting and left the office. 

“Interesting, ” I thought “Andy was not as dreamy as he seems on the tele.” I turned to the person next to me and articulated this thought loudly,

 

“Andy really isn't that good looking in life. He’s punching way above his weight with Megan Gale. I would definitely NOT sleep with him, ew!"

 

Then we went back to work. A minute or so later, thirsty, I got up from my chair and walked the three meters to the tiny kitchenette that was just outside the doorway through which Hamish and Andy had just left. And of course, Hamish and Andy were standing in the kitchenette having a hushed conversation. I looked startled, turned red, pivoted on the spot and returned to my desk. They were, without a doubt, within hearing distance of what I had just said. Mortified, I sat at my desk with my head down, unable to muster the energy to lift my eyes and continue to pretend to work. Eventually nature called again and I had to venture out of the office to the bathroom, passing the kitchen on my way. I glanced in and they were gone. Relieved, I continued to the toilet and shut the door behind me. The prolonged shame session at my desk had left me in relatively desperate need of a pee, and this bathroom was one of those echoey kinds that lets everyone outside hear any little noise you make, but I figured I may explode if I did anything other than open the floodgates, so I just let go and let God. It was at this point, of loud volume and no stemming the flow, that I heard people congregating outside the door in the hallway. Knowing full well that they were all hearing me pee louder than I had ever peed before I tried to quiet it down, but to no avail, I had waited far too long and just had to let things noisily run their course.

 

I washed my hands and left the bathroom. And, of course, upon opening the door, came face to face with Hamish and Andy again. I had to push through them to walk back up the hallway and return to my desk, where I could spend the rest of the afternoon pondering the fact that in the space of half an hour Andy Lee had heard me claim cockily that I'd never sleep with him and then had listened to the loudest wee I'd ever done.

Deunited And It Feels So Good

I got unfriended recently. I was facebook unfriended, instagram unfriended, unfriended by friends of the original unfriender. I’m sure I would have been untumbled, detweeted, pinned-off and exmyspaced if I had any of those things. I was seriously, hardcore unfriended. I bet she even removed me from her phone. Or at the very least changed my name in her contacts to DO NOT ANSWER THIS CALL like she was in the film Confessions of a Shopaholic and was trying to avoid her creditors.

“But what would warrant such callous removal from all social media channels?” I hear you gasping in horror.  I know, I was shocked too. I mean, the first rule of not liking someone is that you keep as many windows into their life open as you possibly can. How else can you judge everything they do from a distance and truly know that you’re better than them?

This particular friend was one of those flaky friends. Never able to come to anything, always crying poor, too busy, too tired, too far, not enough advance noticed, scared of sushi, cats etc. But strangely enough, she was constantly posting photos online of her ‘making it rain’ with her other friends; buying herself treats, hanging out nearby, spending up big and posting her haul on instagram moments after she’d told me payday wasn’t for another two days and she couldn’t afford dinner – basically countering all her excuses in a public forum where I could screengrab her lies.  Now, I fully acknowledge that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I understand that people may get to know me that little bit better and realize that they don’t actually like me that much after all. But when I tried to tell her it was ok if she was a little over my constant Mazness she’d only come back with renewed fervor that we must set a date to have dinner, to see each other, to have a girlz night. And then would, of course, bail on these plans.

[Insert confrontation, presentation of evidence of aforementioned poor friend behavior and a few uncomfortable questions here]

After said confrontation, I received what can only be described as a Dear John letter stating she would no longer be my friend and that “i [sic] can honestly say with 100% conviction that I tried [to be my friend]”. Obviously not a major loss as she wasn’t a particularly good friend, but the thing that has stuck with me is that she chose to end our friendship with an untruth. Upon much reflection, a look in the dictionary and after consulting my own personal annals of friendship I’ve decided that she had not, in fact, “tried”. I did find numerous definitions of this little three letter word and unfortunately, she satisfied none of them. I was however, delighted to discover a myriad of examples of other friends and I trying hard in our respective friendships.

Try /trʌɪ/

Verb. make an attempt or effort to do something, exert oneself.

Example: One sunny Saturday my buddy Nicole and I thought we would be adventurous and go kayaking. This particular day we decided to head up and around a little island, near where we had procured our kayaks in Brooklyn. Paddling with the tide around the little land mass was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. We stopped to pee swim amongst a grove of mangroves, basked in the sun and sparkly water, swished past bridges and boats and rounded a corner – only to find that the island was not actually an island at all, but was connected to the mainland by a very thin strip of land covered in railway tracks. While we could see our start point, tantalizingly close, it was physically impossible for us to kayak to it. The thing is, I love the outdoors, I love the water and I love some exercise. But I get tired super quick and don’t want it to go on forever. The notion of kayaking back kilometres around the island, working against the tide, did not appeal. I don’t know who saw the “simple solution” first, Nicole or myself, but minutes later we were dragging our kayaks (full of water and weighing probably about 60kg each) past a large family of bemused Chinese tourists, across a road, onto the station platform, up a massive flight of stairs, over a bridge, down a massive flight of stairs, onto an abandoned and dilapidated wharf, casting them into the water six feet below and then sliding down a bank covered in rusted metal and broken bottles to leap across slimy and rubbish strewn water back into our vessels. While we achieved our original goal of circumnavigating the island, the incredibly lazy slob within me is still haunted by the question of whether or not it would have been less effort just to kayak back.

Try /trʌɪ/

Verb. subject someone to trial

Example: When I was in year six we went on an overnight excursion to… the snow? Bathurst? I don’t know, some place. Anyway, like any excursion we were buddied up on the bus with our best friends. Lucy, always ahead of her time, had bought a Dolly magazine to keep us occupied on the hours long journey. Amid the usual features on How To Kiss With Tongue (practice in the mirror first!), How To Tell If A Boy Likes You (his feet point in your direction when he talks to you – this sage piece of advice kept my self esteem pretty high for a large chunk of teenage life - turns out it’s actually a lie) and late nineties fashion tips, were some free postcards. I am still unsure as to who you would send these postcards to as they featured hunky guys, muscles shining and bulges, uh, bulging in their tightie whities. Lucy and I gazed at them prepubescent and horrified, only to have our terrifying, red-headed, banshee of a teacher come across us at this exact moment and snatch the cards out of our hands. We were reprimanded and told that, upon returning to school, we would most likely be suspended for having pornography. Nothing ever came of it, but I spent two sleepless nights at the Goldpanner Inn wondering what I would say to my parents.

Try /trʌɪ/

Verb. an effort to accomplish something; an attempt.

Example: Once, as a surly teenager, I skipped class with my friend to go and hang out in Hornsby. Now, I’m not saying we smoked some weed, but I’m not saying we didn’t smoke weed either. After coming out the other end of a particularly long bout of laughter over Video Ezy’s latest promotional campaign (they were giving away Video Ezy temporary tattoos when you rented Indiana Jones, so basically your incentive to borrow a really old video was to have “Video Ezy” temporarily branded on your arm. Read: I’m a bigger idiot than anyone you’ve ever met) I realized that the next class on my timetable, which I had fully intended upon skipping, was the class that MY DAD TAUGHT. AND IT BEGAN IN TWO MINUTES. Horrified, we legged it back to school and the biology lab, traveling faster than any stoned teenager has ever moved in the history of time. You’ll be glad to know we made it.

So I guess what I’m trying to say, in a roundabout way, is that while I definitely acknowledged earlier that not everyone has to like me, it sucks for you if you don’t want to try to be my friend. Because being my friend is sick dogs, especially if you love boats, porn and temporary tattoos.

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? Oh Wait, I Am.

Unfortunately, we now live in a world where people want to constantly tell you how perfect they are. From instagrammed pictures of dream jobs to smug assertions of infallible relationships on facebook, it seems all people want to convey about themselves is how invincible and unafraid of life they are. It’s a shame really, when everyone is so brave and eternally successful you’re never going to hear amazing stories of phenomenal swears said in front of children or messy break ups which end with a former lover begging to be taken back on a crowded train. Well, you’ll be glad to know that I am not one of these people. I fail at heaps of stuff and am scared of a whole bunch of shit and love to tell everyone all about it. So in my attempt to buck the trend of being brave and perfect please read on for my catalogue of cowardice.

Ghosts and monsters. This is just as ridiculous as it sounds, but I am more scared of ghosts and monsters than I am of rapists. Recently I couldn’t sleep and snuck downstairs to watch Candyman. Usually after watching horror movies I do my best to avoid looking out windows for fear of seeing someone looking back in at me/the reflection of something behind me/my reflection having morphed into that of a gruesome dead version of me. The thing is though, usually when you do look out the window there is nothing there and you are reassured that monsters aren’t real and you’re just being silly. On this particular night however, I walked over to the floor to ceiling sliding glass doors to reassure myself there were no monsters hanging around outside and a fucking BAT flew at the window. My knees gave out and I went flailing to the ground. That’s a fun characteristic I have, my knees give way when I’m frightened. I would literally be dead if I lived in the wild.

Greetings. Here’s one for you. Before every social event that will include people I do not know (and some I do) I stress to no end about how to greet them. The way I see it there are four options:

i) Shake their hand

ii) Kiss them on the cheek

iii) Hug them

iv) Wave from a distance

More often than not these four alternatives morph into one socially awkward hug/high five/half mouth kiss. I’ve made peace with the fact that this is one situation I’m never going to figure out, but am bolstered by something I saw last year. On set of a promo shoot for The Voice I watched as will.i.am made his way through the crowd taking selfies and fist bumping his adoring fans, when one woman gleefully stretched out her arm and shook his fist. I knew then that I am not alone in the world.

Bird of Paradise flowers. I’m telling you this from a place of vulnerability, so DO NOT USE THIS AGAINST ME. I am terrified of Bird of Paradise flowers, they freak me out more than you would believe and I have been known to cry in their presence. It may seem hilarious to be scared of a flower, but the definition of a phobia is an “irrational fear” and this is mine, so if you’re judging me right now, you’re being a dick. And if you approach me with one I will think very poorly of you.

Getting people’s names wrong. Maybe this is due to the fact that people constantly get my name wrong. When I was eight years old and started learning clarinet (the king of the instruments) my next-door neighbor was my clarinet teacher. For whatever reason, she thought my name was Miriam instead of Marion. She was my teacher for four years and I never had the courage to correct her. Consequently, I don’t have any qualifications in clarinet, but Miriam Reed has a fourth grade AMEB certification. It makes sense in light of this that I don’t want to inflict the same name shame on another person, so I FREAK out about getting people’s names right. Sometimes if I have a meeting with someone at work (despite having met them two or three times) I’m so scared that I will get their name wrong I will literally google them as they’re walking towards me, frantically trying to find a linkedin or facebook profile that will confirm how I should address them. Sometimes, even despite my extensive research I'll still be so concerned I’m about to get it wrong that I bail last minute and end up calling them by a strange muffled whooshing sound.

So there you have it, now you know how to terrify me to my very core. You just have to be a monster who greets me with the wrong name and then offers me a bunch of flowers. I'm shuddering at the thought.

Maz Reviews Being Hypnotized

It took me an inordinate amount of time to stop believing in magic. Unlike most children who find out that Santa and the Easter Bunny are not real and come over to the side of rationality and logic, I loitered on the side of the mystical for an extended period of time. And by “extended period of time” I mean that I was doing magic spells well into my 20s. I would collect rose petals and write incantations on blue lined paper and place them in envelopes in graveyards. I would stand in the dark in my bedroom on the Friday night of a full moon and glance over my shoulder hoping to see the reflection of my future husband standing behind me. I watched The Craft at least three times. I even spelt magick with a ‘k’ at the end. I was a total, full-blown witch guys! I even did a spell on Nick to make him like me when he didn’t seem that interested and would just sit and watch the cricket when we started going out. We’ve been married two years though, so no one can say for sure that that one was a bust.

I know this seems like an odd confession and recounting it makes it sound even more ridiculous than it was, but perhaps it goes some way to explaining why I consented to be hypnotized at work one morning. (I mean, it was probably 30% my search for the fantastical and 70% the possibility of a completely legitimate reason to take the morning off work.) Working at a television network means I receive strange all-staff emails most days of the week. These emails often include requests like “Does anyone have a bale of hay that we could use in a story?” “Is anyone allergic to bees and wanting to talk about it on the 6’o’clock news?” So it wasn’t that strange when the email went around asking “Is anyone interested in being hypnotized live on air today?” Of course I responded immediately with a hearty “Yes PLEASE!”

Five minutes later and I was in a conference room with six other diligent employees waiting to meet the famed Peter Powers (surely this isn’t his original name, but a thorough google refused to reveal anything other than this weird fansite). I had to admit I was a little nervous. I’d always wanted to know what it was like to be hypnotized. If it was really a thing, why weren’t hypnotists the rulers of the entire world? Why instead, did they mostly perform this wondrous feat on cruise ships and at RSLs in Rooty Hill to drunken 70 year olds for $15 a pop? Mr. Powers finally arrived and I knew, by the end of the morning, I would have the answers to all these questions.

First things first, he made sure that we were hypnotizable. Apparently, not everyone is prone to being hypnotized. Lucky for me I am incredibly gullible and willing to be hypnotized which are the only qualities you need to succumb to the old “you are getting very sleeeepy”. After the first test (imagining our hands were held together by glue and then trying to separate them) I was top of the class with the stickiest of hands that refused to part. I also breezed through the next test (imagining one arm was tied to a bucket of sand and the other to a balloon) and made it into the group who would be making their television debut shortly.

Peter kept us in the room for the next 45 minutes taking us deeper and deeper into a hypnotic state with his dulcet tones and lots of finger snapping. He never stopped speaking the entire time he was with us. He told us to imagine we were melting into the carpet, then to point out any flaws in his appearance. I told him his teeth were crooked and that he had quite a nose on him and then laughed hysterically. There was lots of tapping on the head and being told to “sleep!” Eventually it was time to wander in an orderly line over to the studio. Now this is the part where I find hypnosis to be the most legit – I’m pretty sure that I would usually be nervous going on live television on a day when I hadn’t washed my hair. This particular morning however, I was completely cool with it. Although, it also helped that for the duration of the time that we were waiting to go on set we got to nap on a couch.

Finally we were led on stage, sat in stools and then tasked with doing a bunch of crap; acting like we were petulant children, protecting the Prime Minister from an assassination attempt, you know, the usual. You can watch every moment of my phantasmagorical experience here (note the 4 minute mark where I nail David Campbell with a cushion.)

It was an enjoyable experience where I felt totally relaxed and had no qualms about doing whatever I was told. The question remains though, does hypnosis really work and was I really hypnotized? And here’s the upshot of it; I’m not so sure it’s a real thing as much as it’s an excuse to act like a dick. It’s the sober version of “sorry I peed on your front lawn, I was drunk.” People always ask me if I was aware of what was happening and the answer is yes, I was. I had a complete grasp of everything that was going on around me. I remember every second of it and did nothing against my will. The only difference between being in a trance and normal life was that I didn’t care if I looked like an idiot. I just felt a sort of happy obligation to do whatever Peter told me to do. But to this day I’m unsure whether or not this was because I didn’t want to make him look like a fool on the tele or if I just love an excuse to be a trick monkey. I guess we’ll never know. I never felt any after effects of the hypnosis, Peter de-hypnotized us after the segment ended and sent us on our way. I went back to the office and acted sluggish all day and everyone was fine with it because I’d just come out of a trance. As an experience I give it an 8/10.

And don’t forget, if any of you wants help with some incantations or magick spells; feel free to hit me up. Please be aware that I will charge you and results are definitely not guaranteed. Also, you’ll have to bring your own map of the world, black candle and strange personal item pilfered from the person you’re interested in bewitching.  

The Day Taylor Hanson Finally Got To Meet Me

Taylor Hanson was the first person I ever imagined having sex with. Before Taylor, my fantasies about boys (captain planet and the red power ranger in particular) encompassed them being injured in some way and me taking care of them. In my weird little daydreams I would make them soup and serve it to them in the single bed where they lay in the spare room of my house. But the ultra-effeminate Taylor Hanson changed all that. He was the perfect pre-teen crush. His girliness was non-threatening and it didn’t hurt at all that he sang stirring songs about girls whose names sounded similar to mine (hello Madeleine!). You could close your eyes when listening to that breathy voice of his and imagine those songs were about you. And I never quite got over him.

So you can imagine my excitement when a month ago I was awakened by a text from my parents that read:

Hi Marion. Dad says “down with Bruce, Hanson forever”.

It turns out, Hanson were going to be playing live in the studio AT MY PLACE OF WORK. Bless my mum and dad, they know how excited I get about Hanson and thoroughly encourage me. I think I actually heard tears in my mum’s voice when I called her to tell her about the Hanson experience which ensued.

When I arrived at work the following week, I had a skip in my step. Other people were excited that Hanson were going to be in the studio, but they were excited about seeing a band they perceived to be one hit wonders from 1997. I was Maz seeing the first boy she ever loved excited. I was frothing with excitement. I was over the moon. I ripped my closet apart. I washed my hair and agonized over the flyaways that wouldn’t lie flat. I couldn’t eat my dinner. I felt weepy. I woke up at five and lay in the dark, rehearsing what I was going to say. I wanted them to know that I was a long time fan, but not a weird obsessed fan. I had devised a series of witty, yet endearing stories, which would demonstrate both my charm and sense of humour. Stories that would resonate with them to the point where they would undoubtedly ask me about where they should go out tonight and would I care to join them. Taylor would realize that we actually belonged together and beg me to leave Nick for him. I would decline but not before we shared a lingering kiss.

To be honest the only story I had come up with was that someone stole one of my Hanson CDs from my car once. But I was sure I could spin it somehow.

Finally the moment arrived, and at 7.30am on a Friday morning I went down the rabbit hole – also known as the little side door of studio 22. And there he stood. Shrouded in a halo of light, his perfectly quaffed hair framing that divine face, just as I’d seen in so many adolescent daydreams. There were other people around, but all I could see was him and me, forever and forever. By the time the first notes of Mmmbop washed over me, I was in a state of what can only be described as mild hysteria. My chin was quivering as I sang along and did my best not to cry. And when the song drew to a close and the show cut to an ad break, it became apparent that this could well be the moment I had waited for all these years. It was zero hour. Taylor time.

After a few awkward, shuffling moments of lurking and loitering at an uncomfortably close distance he turned in my direction. I requested a photo. He introduced himself and I ignored him, forgetting to tell him my name. All intriguing and titillating stories left me and I was a simpering mess.

“I’m coming to see you tonight” I said twice. And then oh god oh GOD, he had his arm around me as we took a picture.

“I’ll see you tonight then” he told me, and strode off.

Taylor Hanson touching me

And that was it for me. I dissolved. I had to leave the studio post haste to cry in the car park. Wracked with sobs I ran into one of the children from the Voice Kids. For some reason he thought I was super excited to see him and wrapped his pudgy little arms around me. I brushed him off; horrified that someone could ruin the fact that the last person with his arms around me was Taylor Hanson.  But I had to suck it up, because they were playing another song in two minutes, and I’d be damned if I was going to miss an opportunity to stand in the front row of my own private Hanson concert and pretend Taylor was singing and banging that tambourine just for me. I scuttled back into the dark, wiping the joyous tears from my eyes.

After a stirring rendition of Get The Girl Back (I was the only person in the studio who knew all the words, other than my boy Tay) more photo opportunities arose. So again, I approached the holy trinity. This time Isaac introduced himself to me and shook my hand. And again, I forgot what my name was because his hands were SO SOFT! However, I did have my wits about me enough to tell him

“You are my husband’s favourite Hanson brother. Whenever your parts come on in the car, he always says ‘sing it Isaac’ hehe”

Isaac looked at me, nodded and responded “ok”. We took a photo and I walked away satisfied, knowing I had to leave the studio before I ruined this perfect moment. I didn’t quite pull off the mystique I had been aiming for, but fuck it, Taylor had put his arm around me and he’d smelt even better than I’d always imagined.

A very flattering photo of me in a Hanson sandwich

The rest of the day people were laughing about the queue of girls who had lined up outside the studio hoping to get a glimpse of Hanson.

“As if we’d let those crazy obsessed girls in!” someone proclaimed.

Little did they know, one had slipped through the net.