My subconscious has gone AWOL


An arsehole. Image

Brain:    Good morning!

Me:        Ugh.

Brain:    What?

Me:        Why did you have to give me those dreams last night?

Brain:    Which ones? The one about the wedding, or the one about the unicorn?

Me:        You gave me dreams about weddings and unicorns?!

Brain:    Errrrm… No?

Me:        *side eye*

Brain:    That’s physically impossible.

Me:        I know; that’s why I’m telling you I’m doing it. Because I can’t actually look at you.

Brain:    Right.

Me:        You gave me this stupid dream where I was trying to convince a man to get back in contact with his young daughter. Every time I almost got them back together, something happened to ruin it.

Brain:    Yup.

Me:        So what was your point?

Brain:    I don’t understand dreams, I just give them to you.

Me:        Isn’t a dream supposed to be my subconscious trying to tell me things?

Brain:    Sure. But the subconscious isn’t here right now to answer your questions.

Me:        Where is it?

Brain:    I don’t know. I’m not your subconscious’ keeper, you know.

Me:        …

Brain:    …

Me:        Actually you quite literally are.

Brain:    …

Me:        Can you please take a message then?

Brain:    Sure, why not!?

Me:        Gee thanks.

Brain:    You’re welcome!

Me:        So there I was dreaming a confusing dream about a dude and his daughter, when you gave me a nightmare.

Brain:    I would never do that!

Me:        Liar. You did give me a nightmare. You made me dream about SHOPPING FOR CLOTHES. You bastard.

Brain:    That doesn’t sound like me. That was definitely your subconscious.

Me:        You made me dream about shopping for clothes AND IT WAS HORRIBLE.

Brain:    I wondered why you woke up sweating.

Me:        Why do you hate me?

Brain:    I don’t hate you. Maybe your subconscious hates you.

Me:        Well then please pass that message on to my subconscious when it comes back from wherever the hell it’s gone.

Brain:    You’re asking me to tell your subconscious that you hate it? That doesn’t sound healthy to me.

Me:        You started it.

Brain:    Your subconscious started it.

Me:        Bastard.

Brain:    That’s not very nice.

Me:        Arsehole.

Brain:    You seem to be a bit confused about anatomy.

Me:        Ugh.

Does your brain hate you too?

I’m linking up with Laugh Link again this week. Click on the button below to read some hilarious bits of bloggery. I dare you.


What do vomit, Downton Abbey and insanity have in common? Me, apparently…

Not Brendan Coyle pondering how to get vomit out of taupe linen.
Image from here.

Well I hope you’ve all had a rip-roaring start to the New Year. I’ve slowly dragged my reluctant froggy arse into the first working week of my year and it’s PAINFUL.


So it was with real delight that I read some snort-inducing, cringe-worthy, HOLY SHITBALLS HOW DID SHE SURVIVE THAT moments while reading Alison’s post about embarrassing situations here.  Her blog and my blog were separated at birth. (You get to guess which was the evil twin). Get her blog in your eyeballs, people.

Once I’d wiped my (thank DOG that didn’t happen to me) tears of laughter away, I realised that I owed you all some more from my Top Ten Dumb-Arse Moments list. Thank you Alison for your inspiration.

Five – How to cure yourself of a crush (and ensure you’re never allowed near expensive furniture again)

About 11 years ago, I was living the exciting life of a 30-something recently-divorced chick working in independent film in London. Which is to say I was working 16 hours a day, 6 days a week, going to the pub a lot, emotionally unstable and generally insane.

The makeup artist on the film had just moved to a new flat, teaming up with an actress. This actress was in a television show at the time with someone who bore a remarkable resemblance to Brendan Coyle. Look him up ladies, he’s now in Downton Abbey. At the time, I was rather partial to a bit of Brendan Coyle. 

Imagine my excitement when I was invited to their housewarming party.

Imagine the utter squee-inducing delight when I heard that the-actor-who-resembles-Brendan-Coyle-but-is-not-Brendan-Coyle* (let’s refer to him as Not Brendan Coyle) might be there.

Imagine the pee-producing combination of joy and terror as I walk in and there is Not Brendan Coyle, in the loungeroom.

Imagine the copious amounts of alcohol I consumed in my nervous/emotional unstable/insane state in order to hide the fact that I was nervous/emotionally unstable and insane.

Now imagine the disappointment when I woke up the next morning, amid a pile of sleeping bodies, to discover that I had drunk so much/something/whatever and then vomited. All. Over. Myself. And a brand new taupe linen couch, apparently.

Imagine the horror when the first words I heard that morning were Not Brendan Coyle saying “Way to throw up all over yourself, Aussie”.

This is why I can never watch costume drama again, and flinch at the site of taupe furniture.

6 – Waiter, there’s a funeral in my soup

Yes I did go to a fancy cafe in the hills near Melbourne.

Yes I did ask the nice lady all in black for some more coffee.

Yes she was a mourner from the wake that was happening in the private section of the cafe.

Yes I am going to hell.

7 – PT Barnum is still an arsehole

If you’ve been following the PT Barnum story here and here, you’ll know that we’ve been hosting a slightly unwelcome roof visitor lately. As a result we bought a possum box and my partner kindly nailed it to a tree in our back yard.

Apparently trees and ladders aren’t designed for people shaped like me.**

“I know,” I thought optimistically, “I’ll pop up the ladder and add the leaves and some banana to the box to entice PT in and make him so comfy he never wants to hang out in our lumpy old ceiling ever again!”

“I know,” I thought, again with remarkable positivity, “I’ll just go a bit higher and climb into the tree so I can reach”.

“I know,” I thought with mild annoyance, “I’ll just waggle myself around a bit; I’m sure I can un-wedge myself from this position and get further into this tree”.

“I know,” I thought with admirable calm, “I’ll just wait for my partner to notice that I’m firmly wedged via boob and hips between the ladder and this branch, and then he’ll send for the fire brigade to cut me free.”

“I know,” I thought as I finally climbed down from the tree, “I’ll just gas that little fucker out of the ceiling and he can go find a possum box in feckin’ possum heaven.”***

And so the list of my misadventures is growing. Think of it as a community service – humiliating me so you don’t have to.

* It was Brendan Coyle.
** For the record, NOTHING in life is designed for people shaped like me.
*** Updated: I am now DEFINITELY going to hell. Three weeks after publishing this, I had to publish this

What have you done that was deeply embarrassing in front of a famous person?

My top ten dumb-arse moments of all time

I am astoundingly stupid. No, hear me out. Oh, no-one was arguing? Oh. Right. Moving along then…

I’m a frog who manages her own successful lily pad business. I’ve managed to raise a tadpole who can just about dress himself (OK yes that’s where the analogy-or-metaphor-or-whatever falls down. Bear with me). In most areas I have boringness adult frogdom down pat*.

Nevertheless, I do some amazingly, stupendously dumb shit on an astonishingly regular basis.

Since I seem to be an expert at humiliating myself, I thought I should share some of my experiences. For the greater good. (The things I do for you, so that you don’t have to. I deserve some kind of public service medal. Someone needs to get onto that).

And so, here, in no particular order, are my top ten** dumb-arse moments of all time***:

One – the butterfly incident (or how not to admire nature)

Last weekend I was saying bye to my friend Karen after waking her up at an ungodly hour to pick up her boot. (See here for the reason for the boot).

Picture the moment: A beautiful clear sunny winter morning, with a light breeze blowing. I’m enjoying this short peek into the gorgeousness that spring will soon bring, once winter throws off its icy mantle.
Movement beyond Karen’s shoulder catches my eye. Be still, my heart – is it? Could it be? Yes it is! Spring’s first butterfly is over there near her garden tap, fluttering in brilliant black and scarlet majesty. I excitedly grab Karen’s elbow.
“Oh my god!” I cry, “Look at that butterfly!” My heart fills with wonder that such a large butterfly has come out so early in the season. The excitement is tinged with worry that it’s come out too soon, that Melbourne’s wintery conditions will kill it. Poor butterfly!
This is not the butterfly in question.
It doesn’t have a piece of wire sticking out its arse for a start.

Then it’s tinged with something else as it occurs to me that the butterfly has been hovering around that tap for an awfully long time. Then it’s tinged with “oh good grief what a fuckwit I am” as I look at Karen’s face and realise IT’S A FAKE SOLAR POWERED BUTTERFLY ON A WIRE.

I swear I don’t need glasses. I was just a dickhead caught up in the majesty of the coming spring.

Two – Don’t throw your GPS out the window (or how not to wave goodbye)

After the Butterfly Incident, I attempted to drive away. I pulled out, and saw Karen waving to me. “Quick, wind down the window a bit so you can wave!” I thought.

I hit the down button on the electric window. The window started to open, and I popped my hand out to wave. The window, knowing I’m an all-or-nothing-kind-of-gal, decided not to stop with a couple of inches; it was going all the way.

No problem.

Except that the GPS was suction-cupped to the inside of the window. The window that was now going down and pushing the GPS inch-by-inch towards its ever-widening gap.

I spotted that the GPS was mounting a slow-motion bid for freedom and panicked. I hit the up button.

Which was fine.

Except that the window was determined to keep the “this chick never does anything in half-measures” motif going, and tried to close completely.

With my hand still out the window.

So this up-down-ouch-shit-there-goes-the-GPS-don’t-forget-to-wave-and-steer-the-car dance went on for several more seconds, as I drove at 2 kilometres an hour with tears of hysterical laughter rolling down my face. Thankfully there were no witnesses other cars on the road.

Three – the ultimate mouthwash (or how not to eat fish and chips)

I was sitting there happily scoffing fish and chips, being a slob. Eating in the lounge room, on the couch. Happy as a… well, frog on a lily pad. Assuming it’s a large lily pad with access to fish and chips. And lemonade. I digress.

There was I was, eating fish and chips. I had a bottle of lemonade on the floor next to me, for the occasional swig.

I like a bit of vinegar on my fish and chips, so I had a bottle of vinegar on the floor too.

You can see where this is going, can’t you?

Yes, I did, while distracted by the television, take an almighty swig of white vinegar instead of lemonade.

Bet you didn’t know that it takes four days to get the taste of vinegar out of your mouth after you drink a mouthful of it. See? Now you do. I do these things for YOU, you know.

Four – the lost phone moment (or how not to make notes)


This has happened to me a number of times now, and just proves that old adage that you can’t teach an old frog new tricks.

I’m on a phone call. I have an iPhone. I love my iPhone. I’m very attached to it. If frogs and phones could mate I’d be tapping that phone EVERY NIGHT.

While on the phone, I realise I need to grab my phone and make some notes in the Notes app. I love that app. If frog and apps could mate… you get the picture.

Right. Find the app.

Oh my DOG! Where’s my phone? (Frantic searching through Tardis handbag). I’ve lost my PHONE!!! (Palpitations, gnashing of teeth, wailing…)


It’s here. In my hand. I’m talking to someone and now I have to take notes and… where’s my phone… (RINSE AND REPEAT).

Yes I am.

I’ll build on this list of life’s potholes to avoid over the coming months.

You’re welcome.

* This is a lie. I APPEAR to have it down pat. Fake it till you make it, baby! (But that’s another blog post).

** Well-spotted. There aren’t ten dumb-arse moments. Yes. Hang in there; some more are no doubt lurking just around the corner… you know you can rely on me.

*** All time = so far. Let’s just call this a “living document”.