I thought I was the next Anne Geddes

When I was a kid I had a few specific goals:

1. Become the youngest member of The Baby-Sitters Club at age 9, never mind the fact that half the kids I babysat would be older than me & that the BSC is, y'know, fictional.
2. Find a way, as a grown-up, to have a career as a vet/pop singer/Planeteer even though I am allergic to cats/auto-tune couldn't even improve my voice/Captain Planet is, y'know, fictional.
3. Overthrow Anne Geddes from her photography throne.

OK, so the last one might be a tad embellished but Anne Geddes was a force to be reckoned with in the 90s with her adorable photos of babies in costumes plopped into pot plants, flowers and occasionally vegetables.

"Lettuce never speak of this again."

Ms. Geddes also dominated the wall calendar and stationery trade, which was hella lucrative back in the day. So young me thought she'd try her hand at making a calendar to sell despite having no business savvy, no financial backing, no photography skills & I was, y'know, fictional (... wait). My friend joined me, obviously knowing we were onto a winner, but we soon realised we had an additional dilemma - the only cute babies we knew were Cabbage Patch Kids. So of course we decided on the next best thing. 

RABBITS. 

Between us we owned about thirty thousand of the fluffballs as pets (they multiply, who knew?), so we started sketching out a plan for a calendar shoot, gathered costumes and props and even handmade some of the set decorations so the investors of the calendar could see where all of their hard-earned cash was going. No cheap-looking production values in this prestigious venture!

I'm ashamed to say that my friend and I got bored after about three photos and gave up our dreams (or the rabbits kicked up a fuss and tried to run away/bite us/pooped on the set). But here, for the first time ever, you get to witness the beautiful photos in all of their in-focus, thoughtfully cropped, well-lit glory. 

First up is 'Valentine's Day'. A tisket, a tasket, a rabbit shoved into a crookedly-cut paper heart adorned basket.

Much production values. Very wow.

Next is 'Halloween'. Or as I like to call it, 'RIP the quality of the RIP sign'.

Nothing says Halloween like a sad piece of random green stuff.

And finally, my favourite theme, 'Bed time'? 'Sleepy September'? 'We had a pillow prop and didn't know what else to do'? *shrugs*

There's a toy bunny in there too! Comedy gold!

And remember, in the wise words of philosopher Aristotle, "Always work with children and animals, they're totes awesome!"

I was the world's worst rebel

There are proper badasses in this world, and then there are people who choose to rage against the machine by wearing blue socks to work when the uniform stipulation clearly says black. The latter is a good example of how I spent my 'wild' days as a youth. These are my stories.

*insert Law & Order 'dun dun' sound effect here*

When I was around nine years old I got my very first diary with a lock and key. It had the Genie from Aladdin on the front, which was all the rage back in '92, so I already thought I was the bee's knees. I'd jot down many riveting thoughts in there like, 'My favourite food is chocolate' and 'Today I went to school and it was boring', then dutifully lock it up like it contained FBI secrets. Some days though, when I was feeling like a real punk, I'd write down 'bad' words in there. But just to be on the safe-punk side, I'd make sure they were in pencil instead of pen so I could quickly erase them if mum or dad ever found it. 'Why would you erase it after they've already read it?' you ask. Well, because that's how 9-year-old logic works. Look, when I was little I used to think radio stations miniaturised bands a la 'Honey I Shrunk The Kids' so they'd fit into the car stereo to play music, so past-me wasn't exactly Einstein, OK?

Here's an example of what one of the entries would have looked like:

Dear diary how are you? That's good.
Today my brother was being really dumb. I hate it when he's a stupid idiot. I fed the rabbits today and one bit me and I said sugar honey ice tea at it but no one heard me so it was OK. My favourite colour is orange. OK gotta go bye diary xxx

It was like a really terrible game of mad libs. Oh, and for all the uninitiated rebels out there, Sugar Honey Ice Tea was code on the school playground for 'shit'.

School wasn't only a venue for learning creative ways to not swear. Oh no. It was where we also became adept underground criminals, only we weren't breaking bad, we were... swapping stickers. There's always a craze that sweeps through the classroom like the Outbreak virus: yo-yos, Tazos, Tamagotchis. But nothing caused a meltdown at our school quite like The Great Sticker Bicker of '94. We all became obsessed with making sure our albums were the best on the block. And if you were lucky enough to get your stickers from Kenny's Cardiology, the Holy Grail of pretty stickers at the time, then you immediately had a target on your back as the rest of us Outbreak-ridden folk came at you with wild eyes, foaming at the mouth begging for a swap. It eventually got to the point where the teachers were so sick of the fighting and the presumed lack of concentration ('For the last time, 8 x 6 does not equal 'lots of Jonathan Taylor Thomas stickers') that they actually banned them from school.

As you can imagine, this didn't go down well. So we all conspired together and found other ways to swap our contraband. We'd gather in the parking lot in the morning while everyone was being dropped off and go about our business, bringing out our albums that were tucked away under our jackets like we were a shady character trying to sell stolen watches. We'd also swap notes in class like this:

Unicorn 4 cool dragon?
Big dragon or little?
Big
Only if u put in that Dean Cain sticker 2

OK! P.S. can I use ur glitter pens today?

Rebels for life. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go make a cup of tea and open my milk carton at the wrong end.

My grade six t-ball team almost broke a nun's nose

As previously discussed on this blog sporty things aren't my forte, but I participate if I have to. Just not very well and not with a lot of "skills". Unless running like an asthmatic tortoise or getting hit in the head with a basketball are good things, in which case I am a legend. In Grade 6 we were given a choice of team sport to play for the year and because four square wasn't on the list (those recess and lunch time games were brutal), t-ball appeared to be the best of the bunch.

One aspect of t-ball I did enjoy was the fact that the ball just sat in front of you. No one was pitching it at you, full speed, hoping to clock you in the face. You could take your time, savour the moment, and hit the stand repeatedly before you eventually made contact with your intended target. This was one of my aforementioned "skills". My other "skill" was panicking when the ball flew my way during fielding. One game I just stood there like a statue with my arms raised above my head, eyes squeezed shut... and I caught the ball. SKILLS, YO.

As you can imagine, our team consisted of a scrappy bunch of 11-year-olds (and a couple of awesome kids who could actually play). A little bit Sandlot, a little bit Mighty Ducks and a little bit this:

Despite all this, though, we went on to win every single game. And we all got trophies (something I could proudly display next to my collection of 'well done participator!' & 'the main thing is you tried' ribbons). Our most memorable 'win', however (and I use the term loosely because it was by default), came via one of my teammates who we'll call 'The Chucker'. Now, The Chucker had a lot of enthusiasm and a kind heart, but they also had a horrible tendency to catapult their bat into outer space once they'd hit the ball. I'm pretty sure that's how Pluto got knocked out of the planetary line up. Each match our coach reminded The Chucker to just gently drop the bat to the ground, but every time without fail The Chucker would fling the bat over their shoulder like it was made out of spiders. We were prepared for these sorts of incidents. Our opposing teams were not. Especially one unsuspecting teacher who also happened to be a nun.

During this particular match things were going along nicely until The Chucker stepped up to the plate. We all held our breath as they took a few practice swings, hoping today would be the day they'd heed the coach's advice. Unfortunately The Chucker was having nun of that.

As soon as the ball left the stand, The Chucker let the bat go sailing through the air - right into the nun's face. You could almost hear the needle scratch sound effect as everyone on the oval just fell into stunned silence while blood began to stream out of the poor woman's nose. As some of the grown-ups rushed over to her, our team migrated towards each other in pure mortification, not knowing what the protocol was when you accidentally injured a nun during a sports match. So we all just decided to take a knee and turn the other way out of respect... which in hindsight may have looked as though we were praying for our souls. The game was pretty swiftly called off after that, and the nun was taken to the hospital while we sheepishly headed back to school & wondered how we were going to break the news to everyone at assembly. I'd like to say that The Chucker learnt their lesson that day and became The Delicately Put-It-Downer instead, but I'm pretty sure they kept up their dangerous tradition. This is why four square should always be included in the PE curriculum.

And because I can't help myself, here's pun for the road...

It's a hard job but some pun's gotta do it

I fell off a giant horse and didn't even get a lousy t-shirt

When I was eight years old a Shetland pony kicked me in the shin. Perhaps it was jealous because I was already taller than it, but whatever the reason, I ended up with a severely bruised leg and an aversion of the equine.

You'd think that would have been enough to make me steer clear of them for life. But in 2007 I decided to go on a horse riding expedition. Willingly. For fun. And even though I am allergic to nature and most forms of exercise I was also blindsided by brochure headings advertising "majestic beach views" and "picturesque national parks". In hindsight, maybe the Shetland pony also kicked me in the head and this was just a very delayed concussion.

Arriving at the horse ranch the scent of 'eau de manure' floated through the air, which was already an awesome start. Then the blind date portion of the day began where my friends and I were matched up with a horse depending on our level of riding expertise - or severe lack thereof (I don't think the merry-go-round at the zoo counts). Recalling my knowledge of My Little Pony, I expected my horse to be called something gentle like Cherry Blossom, Flutterby or Buttercup.

My horse's name was Jet.

Hi, I like long walks on the beach, eating carrots & crushing people's souls.

Ignoring the alarm bells wailing in my head, I went outside to listen to the safety demonstration (which should have just been "HOLD ON FOR DEAR LIFE AND DON'T DIE") before waiting in line to meet my doom. One by one we all clambered onto our horses and tried to find our butt groove in the saddle. I've never sat on a big lump of coal before, but I imagine it's just as comfortable. With one last longing glance towards the safety of the car, we were off.

Much to my surprise, the first quarter of the trek was actually OK. Our group had formed a line and we snaked through an open paddock at walking pace. 'Too easy' I grinned to myself. 'How have I not joined a rodeo circuit before?'. But if you guessed I started to brag too early, then you would be correct, sir. As we hit dense bushland, I soon discovered that we were supposed to trot through a tiny, jagged pathway. It was like trying to guide Godzilla across something the width of a toothpick. Clutching onto the reins I gritted my teeth and attempted to recreate the trotting rhythm the instructors had shown us. It was then that I realised my runners had no grip whatsoever in the stirrups.

I ended up riding that horse like a bucking bronco all the way to the beach, sighing in relief each time we eased back into a walk. But the nightmare didn't end there. Out of all the days to go riding we had chosen a rare time when there was a king tide. Basically that meant there were big-ass scary waves overlapping all of the sand and the horses freaked out like woah (but funnily enough, they did not 'woah horsey'). Even my adventure-loving friends had gone pale. Just as I was wishing I were on a seahorse, the instructors yelled for us to turn around and head back.

Resuming my earlier panic, I consoled myself with the fact that we were nearly home. What I didn't count on was the lead riding instructor suddenly screeching at us to canter the rest of the way. First of all, WHY?! Second of all, so this is what it feels like when doves cry. Living up to his name, Jet took off at a million miles an hour and I could feel myself comically tipping sideways like some sort of cartoon character. Accepting my fate, I let go of the reins and fell to the ground with a big thud, bursting into shocked tears like a toddler. Jet had happily galloped away by then, minus one rider, so they radioed their most trusted farmhand, a lovely little old man (one hundred and fifty if he were a day) to come and collect me in his banged-up ute that he could barely see over the dashboard of whilst I nursed my injured thigh, elbow and ego. Needless to say I turned into the human bruise for a good fortnight, and although that sounds like a cool, albeit gross, superhero name, it's not something I'd recommend.

As the old saying goes, "If you fall off the horse, get back on". But in all honesty I relate more to this one: "If you fall off the horse, STAY OFF THE HORSE AND FIND SOMETHING LESS FRIGHTENING TO RIDE. LIKE A SHARK. OR A DINOSAUR. THE END."

Humpty Dumpty scored me a part in a school play

On an acting scale of 1 to Oscar winner, I'd probably rate a solid -3. But that didn't stop me from taking part in a few school productions in my day. I mean, I don't want to brag, but I have Astro from The Jetsons in my repertoire. And I played a singing rat in Year 7, so it's almost like I could be Meryl Streep if she only took on animal roles. Admittedly though, the main reason I got my drama on at school was because it was compulsory to do an extra-curricular activity (and me + sports = disaster). So that's how, in Year 12, I found myself crammed into a classroom to audition for a part in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'.

Aside from being horribly nervous about speaking in front of students who had come to watch the auditions, I also had the small problem of not having an audition piece prepared. So everything was going super well. In my defence, deciding to audition was a very last minute thing so I made sure everyone went before me while I strained my brain trying to think of something to enact. 

Unfortunately my brain was on holiday.

My panic grew as student after student performed monologues, or scenes from their favourite films, some serious some very funny, but all well-practiced. By that point in time my already limited options had been whittled down to 'The Fresh Prince of Bel Air rap' or 'run screaming from the room'. But as the teacher called out my name, my brain decided to arrive back from Hawaii (or wherever brains like to vacay) and deliver me this message:

BRAIN: Psst. Here's a thought. Why don't you do a dramatic reading of Humpty Dumpty.

ME: Because that's a horrible idea?

BRAIN: You're a horrible idea. Just do it.

ME: OK fine. Also, why are we speaking as though we're different entities?

BRAIN: Shh, don't question it...

So, mustering all the confidence I could manage, I took my place at the front and introduced my audition to everyone, all the while internally freaking out about my imminent nursery rhyme improv. For those of you who weren't there to witness the magnificence on the day (lucky you), it went a little something like this:

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall"

(points zealously to an imaginary wall)

"Humpty Dumpty had a great fall"

(*GASP* hands to face a la Home Alone)

"All the king's horses"

(Gallops around)

"And all the king's men"

(Flexes arm like a muscle man - I have no idea either, don't ask)

"Couldn't put Humpty"

(On verge of tears)

"... together again"

(Does best Streetcar Named Desire 'STELLA!' scream to the sky)

End scene. Possibly end of acting career.

Still not the most frightening picture of Humpty I found on the internet.

By some miracle, the performance actually went over pretty well (unlike poor Humpty, am I right? Thank you! I'm here all week!). Which also goes with my theory that all the cafeteria food at the school was deep-fried in hallucinatory drugs masquerading as oil. Anyway. I made it through the audition only slightly humiliated and was rewarded with the part of Mustardseed the fairy for my troubles. But wait! There's more! Someone ended up dropping out of the play during rehearsals and for some misguided reason (*cough*ingesting cafeteria potato cakes*cough*) I took on their role of Francis Flute, too. This meant spending my time on stage as a bellows-mender who liked to wear sparkly make-up, and getting a pretty cool fake death scene during the play within the play (play-ception).

All's well that egg's well.