“C’MON GEELONG!!!”

We are with Badger’s family, watching the grand final.

“Why are you supporting Geelong?” his mother asks. I explain that I am a firm believer in winning, so I always support the team with the better odds.

His family is surprised. Apparently, it is family tradition to go for the underdog. This leaves me in a bit of a bind. On the one hand, I want to be part of the family. On the other though, I do like being a champion.

Ooh, this is a tough one. I weigh my priorities. As important as winning is to me, this might be a Badger clan test. I need to step carefully here.

As if a sign from The Powers That Be, Mooney boots one through the posts.

“GO THE CATS!” I scream.

Buggery poo.

Oh well, in for a penny. I cheer enthusiastically for Geelong, determined to stick up for my winning team in the face of so much opposition.

Into the second quarter, my smugness starts to crumble. The Saints have somehow stolen the lead. Disaster!

Badger’s mum teases me, asking if I would like to swap teams. I waver… What’s the point of supporting a not-winning-anymore team? Only heartbreak and humiliation lie ahead.

But I hold true to loyalty, stubbornness, and pride! These are the secret ingredients in the Aussie sausage roll; what masks the taste of offal and makes this the nation’s staple snack. I stay strong in my support for Geelong. Sally forth, my beauties! This is just a momentary setback. I will come out of this with glory yet!

My steadfast support must be an inspiration to the Cats. Even though the teams are evenly matched, Geelong fights back and narrows the margin. Slowly but surely, they inch ahead. I silently gloat, already mentally rehearsing my Who’s the Champion! dance.

With minutes to spare and Geelong in front, Badger makes a cheeky offer, “I’ll buy you a KFC meal if St. Kilda wins.”

“LET’S GO, ST. KILDA!!!”

But it was too late. Rousing as my wave of sudden support would’ve been, there just wasn’t enough time for it to travel all the way east to Melbourne and work its magic on the Saints.

Bloody Geelong.

Blender Day!

I wake up with a huge smile and fling the covers off. Badger tries to hang on to what’s left on his side but I manage to rip the duvet away from his slackarse fingers. There will be no sleeping in today, mister, not on Blender Day!

I bundle Badger into the shower and into fresh clothes. Still half-awake, he tries to keep up as I race to the car.

Blender, here we come!

I can barely keep my excitement in check as the glass doors whoosh open. I want to sing out our arrival, Good morning, David Jones! The merchandise can sense my exuberance. They sparkle and glow in reply. Each item calls back to me, Buy me!

But no, I resist. After all, it is not Dustbuster Day. Neither is it Juicer Day or even Super Cool Salt ‘n Pepper Shakers Day. Those days will come soon enough but today does not belong to them. Today, Badger and I are on a mission for a very specific item.

“Can I help you?”

Yes! I happily follow the salesperson to the blender section while Badger trudges along behind us. What a wet blanket! It’s as if he hasn’t heard my countless descriptions of the soups and smoothies and dips that a blender can make! Sometimes, I find that man hard to understand.

Difficult as it is, I make my choice. The salesperson rings it up on the till and I am finally the proud owner of a blender! Peanut Butter ‘n Banana smoothies galore! My happiness must be infectious (despite Badger’s apparent imperviousness) because the salesperson grins with me.

“Wow,” he chuckles. “You must really like your gadgets. What’s next?”

I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll go crazy next weekend and buy a waffle iron! But until then…

Happy Blender Day, internet!

Mum: I’ll take you out for a birthday treat on Saturday. Anything you want to do! What do you think?

12 y/o baby sis: I want to get my I/C* done.

*Malaysian identity card.

(Continued from here)

My white-knuckled grip must be sufficient warning because I am left alone.

As soon as the train doors swish open, I dart in, making sure that I am in a separate carriage. I should be relieved now that I have people around me but I’m still on edge. Maybe this is a good state to be in because in the absence of transit officers, a fight could break out anytime.

I stumble over a pair of crutches poking out into the aisle. I recover my balance and glare ferociously at the owner. Thinking of tripping me so you can mug me with a knife hidden in your sock? Think again, buddy! I find a seat where I can keep an eye on my one-legged would-be assailant, silently daring him to come at me. Just a twitch in my direction and I’ll crack him over the head with his own crutches. In fact, I’ll crack ANYONE over the head if they make the wrong move. Yes, I’m looking at you, gran in the wheelchair!

The waves of pent-up aggression keep me safe because I get to my stop without incident. But the night is far from over. To get to my friend’s house, I have to walk down a long, unlit road. The sort where I would choose to ambush a girl travelling alone in the dark were I a serial killer, serial rapist, serial anything.

I steel myself and start walking.

There is an empty lot ahead of me. Overgrown grass surrounded by brick wall crumbling down in places. It is where I imagine illicit encounters would encount. Maybe a murder or two as well, with the bonus of on-site dumping. As I walk past, I cannot resist taking a peek through a gap in the broken wall.

Two men in the far corner staring suspiciously at me!

It is a drug deal! I freeze and break out in a cold sweat. Do they think I’m a witness? It’s too dark for me to make their faces out but will they care? Oh god, curiosity does kill the cat!

No, remember what happened earlier! Aggression protects me! I put on my fiercest expression and think snarly thoughts as I slowly back away. It is working! I can feel my fear receding and red hot aggression filling its place. I have keys in my clenched fist so that they protrude through my fingers. I also note where there are loose bricks on the ground. If the men come at me, I’ll take them to hospital with me!

The tension is interrupted by the rattle and hiss of a spray can behind the wall. They have henchmen! I squeak in alarm and alerted, a face appears in the gap.

I flee like a frightened rabbit.

I arrive at the station just in time to watch my train pulling away.

Fifteen minutes ’til the next one. Not too long to wait under normal circumstances. But it’s dark out and the station is deserted. So that’s fifteen long minutes of contemplation about recent assaults on Perth’s rail lines.

I pull a detective novel out of my bag  and try to take my mind off my anxiety. Two pages in, I hear skateboards approaching. A group of teenagers grind noisily to a halt beside me.

I tense up. Half a dozen empty benches and they pick mine to cluster around.

I pretend to be oblivious, burying my nose in my book. It is not easy. One boy is loudly rapping about genitals on his chin while his mates bang their skateboards on the ground in a messy beat. Short of exploded eardrums, anyone would be hard-pressed to ignore the cacophony. I want to walk away but doing so will probably invite trouble.

Finally, our bard judges that he has exhaustively described his begenitaled chin. He suddenly drops to the ground, propping his feet on the bench, and proceeds to do push-ups. He must be the trend-setter in the group because the rest immediately follow suit, trash talking each other as they do so. I am now in the midst of a push-up competition.

This is bizarre. But all is explained when methamphetamines are mentioned. Goody gumdrops, I am in danger of being thrown onto the tracks by pimply junkies. My kung fu classes didn’t cover this.

Two minutes to go. I just have to make it ’til the train arrives.

I clutch my paperback, ready to papercut-slash the throat of anyone who so much as breathes on me.

(Continued here)

Badger walks out the door.

I watch him go, managing to hold my emotion in until he is past the gate. And then I really start to bawl. I’m crying so much I should probably save my tears for flushing the toilet.

“Sweetie,” he said earlier today. “Mushroom, I’ll only be away for 8 days. I’ll be back before you know it. Now, do you have the emergency numbers?”

Emergency numbers! He’s the one who will need emergency numbers when he gets home to find me on the floor. DEAD! From loneliness!

“You went away for 6 weeks last year, remember? It’s not so bad.”

Maybe for someone with a cold, robot heart. I, on the other hand, am a sensitive soul. I cried when Justine was eliminated from Masterchef. How did he think I would react to the prospect of over a week in an empty, freezing bed?

I try to pull myself together. There’s not much point in crying hard when Badger’s not around to fuss over me. I should save my tears for the tv. I try to recall what I used to do in the days before Badger. That’s it! I should use the next 8 days to relive my singlehood!

Minus the hot boys.

Well, maybe not entirely minus the boys. Does flirting count?

I cheer up a bit. It’s Tuesday so that’s pizza at Il Padrino in the city. And tomorrow’s half-priced cocktails at Carnegie’s. I’m pretty sure that they do cheap cocktails at Llama Bar on Thursdays too. And Friday, well, anything can happen then. That’s me sorted ’til the end of the week. What a great way to catch up with friends!

I start making calls. And am promptly let down. No one is free ’til the weekend. Somehow in the last 1½ years, everyone graduated and started working full-time jobs. Thanks a lot, people!

I change into my pyjamas for a misery fest in front of the tv.

Entering a restaurant

Badger: Whoa, this place is surprisingly huge!

Waitress: *Turns to check* I think you might be looking at the mirror.

Excited about the weather on the way to work

Me: We’re driving in a cloud!

Badger: Yes, it’s quite foggy, isn’t it?

Me: Eh?

Badger: Cloud and fog are the same thing – condensation. You know that, right?

Me: Fog sounds so…boring.

Badger: Well, what did you want?! Fuzzy god fur?!

I sign up to walk dogs at the pound.

Not to brag of course, but I have to say that I get on extremely well with dogs. A talent, if you will, for handling our canine friends. So what better way to combine my gift and generosity of spirit than this?

But at the pound, I begin to regret my burst of charity. The day starts out pleasantly enough but by lunchtime, I find the fully grown teeth of a fully grown dog clamped down on my forearm. I can feel my delicate flesh bruising badly as he tugs at me, not so much in invitation but demand, to play. Some of the other volunteers smirk as if to indicate that they would be handling the situation better. I try to look nonchalant, like having my arm mangled is of little consequence to a talented doggie person like myself.

“Come on, you bastard,” I mutter under my breath, trying to jerk my arm back before further damage is done. The dog is delighted. We are playing after all. He excitedly tugs back even harder, intent on winning this painful game of tug-of-war.

“No no no,” the trainer calls out. “You’re rewarding him with your attention. You need to ignore him.”

Righto. I fake sudden fascination with the clouds above and let my arm go limp, hoping that the dog will take the hint. If anything, the vice-like grip tightens and the tugging becomes more violent. Abandoning the game too quickly has evidently displeased my captor.

I turn back to the trainer, agonised expression desperately pleading with him to rescue me. Perhaps he suddenly remembers that I am being dragged around by an animal that weighs as much as I do. Maybe he is worried that the dog will eat me soon, an incident which will undoubtedly result in much paperwork. Whatever the reason, he takes pity on me.

He calls to the dog and holds up a biscuit. Immediately, the dog releases me and bounds away  to claim his treat.

I sigh in relief and gingerly examine my forearm. It is slimy with slobber and covered in welts but the skin does not appear to be broken anywhere.

A warning shout alerts me. I look up to see the dog charging back to me. It is a gut-sinking sight. I have time only to squawk in alarm before he pounces on me and seizes my arm again.

The trainer distracts him with another treat. The dog races off, gobbles it up, then runs back to me again (still stupidly standing in the same spot). This time, he watches the trainer as he grabs me. Brilliant. He thinks that he is being rewarded for mauling me.

The trainer agrees with me. He walks over to snap a leash onto the dog and pulls him off me. He looks at me for a moment, hesitating before speaking.

“We’ll start you on an easier dog.”

I crack open a pistachio.

Mmm, a salty-sweet explosion on my tongue. Crunch, crunch, crunch. I love pistachios. Especially stolen ones from Badger’s stash.

He thought that he could hide them from me by storing them on a high shelf. But he forgot that chairs were invented for that very reason.

Badger does not usually hide things away from my sticky fingers but he got annoyed after I polished off his pistachios one too many times. It is not my fault. I am addicted to the little green suckers. My addiction is an illness, for which I cannot be blamed. I saw it on South Park so it must be true.

I gorge on my loot. I get to the end and am left with four stubborn pistachios. They refuse to yield their treasure, resisting my every attempt to pry them out. Do they not realise that they are denying the very reason for their existence? For what use is a pistachio, if not to be consumed?

I will not be beaten by these pistachios. There will be an almighty row when Badger gets home, so I am determined to wring every last drop of satisfaction from my act of thievery. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken quite so many…I wonder if he counts them.

I renew my attack. Fingernails, teeth and knife are all used but to no avail. The only results I have to show for my efforts are a gashed thumb and very sore fingers. I swallow my pride and ask for help.

I google How to open a stubborn pistachio?

And in 0.34 seconds, I have my answer. I demolish the now-defenceless nuts with ease.

Ah Google, you’ve done it again.

Discussing my dad after he did something we disapprove of

Me: How terrible! I hope you told him off!

Mum: I couldn’t! I was so flabbergasted I was lost for words!

Me: Well, you should have dragged him away by the ear to scold him!

Mum: Yes, I should have pulled his ear so hard that one side was longer than the other!

Me: I’ll talk to him later to scold him for you.

Mum: No, no! Tell him a sob story so that it’ll tug at his heartstrings!

Me: That’s for you to do! Since we’ll both be giving him an earful, we need different strategies.

Mum: Good to see results from your psychology degree.