The Tale of an Evil Three-Year-Old and The Missing Poo.

Last night I went around to my sister Mary’s house, to re-start our long-planned Firefly bonding sessions. Mary and I are only 17 months apart, which either means she was an amazing kid and our parents wanted to try their luck for another one just like her, or she was really terrible and they wanted to try their luck for another one nothing like her. Or I was an accident. One of those three things is what happened. Despite being very close in age, we weren’t all that “close” growing up, mostly because in the formative years when siblings bond over mutually disobeying parents, Mary was kicking ass well beyond her years academically and then left home.

Now we see each other a whole bunch more and share a few interests and more than a few mutual friends and so I thought there was no harm in letting her show me this Firefly thing she has been raving about for years.

When I got to her place, she was obviously super tired and my nerdphew, V was really hyped up, mostly because he was watching a compilation of videos on YouTube of planes taking off … because that is a thing, a thing he is really into. He was telling me all about how his dad had just gone to ‘Merica on a plane and how it made him sad but it was okay because soon V himself would be going to ‘Merica on a plane and the plane would jump into the air to take him there.

I offered to sit with V while he ate dinner of an English muffin, but he insisted on eating it at his train table, where before he could eat, he needed to destroy a bridge and then drive every single one of his 947 trains off the bridge one at a time. I ended up practically having to hold him down and stuff him with mouthfuls of muffin just to make sure he ate something, which proved a mistake.

I was sitting on the floor and V was standing in front of me when suddenly he sneezed a huge sneeze through a mouth full of Vegemite muffin, which meant I was showered in soggy muffin, spit and snot. In my shock and horror, I failed I move out of the way of the second sneeze which soon followed and my screams echoed through the house as more food matter landed on my face. Turns out V sneezes exactly like my dad: frequently, violently and with an open mouth. I ended up wearing the better part of his dinner, which he found hilarious.

I scooped him up and took him to the bathroom to run his bath, and as I bent over to put the plug in, he started playing my butt like a set of bongos. ‘I’m smacking you! V is smacking Julia! Aaaahahahahah!,’ he screeched as I fumbled to work out the fancy bath.

Because I was bent over so far into the bath, I failed to notice V sneak up beside me until it was too late, and he’d turned the shower on as hard as he could and my head and back were soaked and my glasses were filling up with water and I couldn’t see and I could only scream and flail around.


The bath consisted of me trying to wash him while he insisted every single piece of his skin was ticklish and that jumping in the bath is a great idea. The torture only ended when he suddenly announced he needed to use the potty, which set off another round of panic as I searched for his towel and mentally prepared myself for the task at hand. ‘V,’ I crouched in front of him, ‘I’ve never done this before. What do you do? Do you use the big toilet or this potty?’ He looked at me like I was stupider than Baby Wombat’s Week. ‘No, not the toilet. Not that potty, that potty is TOO SMALL! I need to poo!’ ”OK WELL THEN WHICH POTTY, WHERE IS THIS POTTY?!’ He pointed to the blue turtle-shaped potty that I happened to be squatting over myself without noticing. I jumped back and he planted himself on it and chatted away to himself before standing up and saying, ‘I’m done, that was just a little one!’. I peered fearfully into the potty. ‘V…there’s nothing in here. Where … where is the poo?’. I couldn’t believe how far my night had devolved.

I turned around and found V had disappeared, naked and presumably in possession of a little poo. What followed was a good few minutes of me chasing a naked child around a living room yelling, ‘WHERE IS THE POO, WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT, THIS ISN’T FUNNY!’

We never did find the poo.

Finally I wrangled him into a Lego onesie while he screamed. Just as I snapped up the last button, he looked at me and smiled and said, ‘Julia? You forgot to put on my night nappy … NOW WE HAVE TO TAKE PYJAMAS OFF AGAIN, AAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!’   

Just then I heard the front door open as Mary returned with dinner and I had never been so happy to see her and relieve myself (so to speak) of any responsibility of an evil three-year-old and a missing poo.


Bob in Bed

So Bob Ellis has written a piece on Girls and if you’ve read anything that Bob Ellis has written in recent years, you know as well as I do that he’s a click-bait puppet and we click because we can’t help it because we want to know exactly how much of a shamble this wordsmith has become.

His piece is littered with base opinions that I’ve come to assume Bob may or may not actually believe himself, but can’t help spouting because he gets off on the inevitable reaction they provoke.  

He begins by flogging what was already a tired mule a week ago when the episode of Girls aired that is now infamous because Lena Dunham dared cast herself naked opposite a man some factions believe has a much “better” body than she does*  Ellis describes Lena as “pudding-plain with tattoos and a dress-sense like a bloodstained six-car pile-up”. He really likes hyphens and by the end of the piece, we discover that he also, quite lecherously, wants in on this bloodstained six-car pile-up.

Lena’s generation isn’t one that is “lost” as the title of Bob’s piece would lead you to believe. Lena’s generation are all over the Internet, moving so fast their concentration spans have halved and we were done expending energy defending Lena’s body against really stupid opinions days before Bob seems to have gotten around to watching Girls on his Foxtel IQ, or torrenting it from Pirate Bay.

Which brings me to my next point: how does Bob watch Girls? If he has Foxtel, does he also watch that one show about the guys who wade into rivers and catch catfish with their bare hands and the promos for it always make it look like catfish are really dangerous, rather than just really huge sloppy fish with dopey, adorable moustaches? What does he think about this show?

Has he ever wondered what it is about HD TV that makes Bill O’Reilly’s pupils look red or fretted over the fact that his IQ box fills up every time there’s a marathon of The Bill?

If he downloads TV, where does he watch it? Does he watch it in bed with some warm, buttered toast, spluttering sticky crumbs into his laptop keyboard every time Hannah tries to negotiate new sexual terrain? Does his wife look at him over the top of her reading glasses as she devours the latest Hilary Mantel and tries to ignore his guffawing?

Share these moments with us, Bob. They are infinitely more interesting.

Nothing Bob Ellis wrote added to the discourse surrounding Girls, mostly it just made me imagine him in pyjamas a lot and have the strange urge to tell Imaginary Bob Ellis that if he wants his butter-drenched toast to stay crisp, he needs to buy toast rather than sandwich loaves.

*Re-watching this episode I was struck by how beige the Joshua character was. I can’t believe this wasn’t deliberate. Everything from his house furnishings, to his bed linen to his tanned body was some shade of beige. I remember a lot more about Hannah’s naked form than I do his.

Who went to school with someone who is famous now and what was he/she like?

I was reading a thread about this on Reddit yesterday and it got me thinking. What would people I went to school with say about me if I suddenly got famous?


‘She used to come to my house every day and play Mario Bros. Once she came over in the morning before school and my mum didn’t realise she was there and walked out naked.’.

‘She told everyone that her World Vision sponsor child was her adopted brother.’.

‘She brought a packet of those hard sugar balls you decorate cakes with to school and told us they were her medicine. Then at her birthday party, her mum put them on her cake and we all knew she was a liar.’.

‘She brought a baby bat into our classroom and then denied it.’.

‘She used to wear talcum powder on her face. Like  a lot of it. Did she think that looked good, do you know?’.

‘She had massive chronic bitchface.’.

‘She had these two blonde streaks in her hair that were so obviously done at home with bleach. It’s like she thought she was James Iha or something.’.

‘When we broke a scale in the classroom at lunch time and pretended it wasn’t us, she panicked and told us that the teacher would probably get it dusted for fingerprints. We got caught.’.

‘She and one of her friends ate a finger bun at recess every single day.’.

‘She was really average at maths, but her older sister was like a maths genius.’.

‘She didn’t get all the euphemisms in Ænema or know that “Die Eier von Satan” was a cookie recipe. And she claimed to be a massive Tool fan. Pfft.’.

‘She was really tall. Do you know how tall she is, by the way?’.

‘She was like a feminist or something. She made this shitty art project in year ten with a Barbie in a plastic Coke bottle and it was meant to be about media projections of women’s bodies or some shit. It looked like it was done the night before it was due.’.

‘She liked Tess of the d’Urbervilles.’.

‘I gave her three detentions one day as punishment for going to the front office and photocopying the pages she missed when she was away from school sick. She was meant to just be sitting in the corridor quietly, doing her work. It was my reward sometimes, to let them sit in the corridor. I never let her do that again.’.

‘I signed all three of her detention slips one day and didn’t make her do the detentions because she was actually an okay kid and to be honest, I’m not sure we’re technically meant to allow students to work in the corridor. How can we teach them if they’re not even in the same room?’.

‘ I banned her from continuing with PE. She really sucked at physical activity and she was a total smartarse about it.’.

All Tomorrow’s Parties

I was going to go down to All Tomorrow’s Parties in Melbourne this coming weekend, but life drama got in the way and so I put my ticket up for sale on Mess+Noise. Happily, a gentleman from Melbourne named Simon wanted to buy it and we conversed about the best way for me to get the ticket to him.

Somewhere along the way, a friendship developed:







Falling Into February


February is my least favourite month in Sydney, typically. February is the month it gets very humid and I look like a drowned rat and refuse to meet new people lest they think I always look like that and every Sydneysider opens their windows at night, hoping for a southerly to wash away the heat.

However, this year it’s not been particularly hot or humid, so I’ve been out of the house more and having fun, despite a continuing battle with insomnia (please let this be the year that ends).

The cooler weather has also meant that Wuz is much more inclined to hang out with me. Typically we avoid all contact for at least six months, during which she sleeps on the closed lid of the toilet and I wonder why I paid so much money for a purebred cat if she just wants to sleep on a toilet.



I have also spent time in Canberra this month, where I lived in 2001. I feel like I’m coming to a tentative truce with Canberra, one where I enjoy visiting again and I can see the advantages of its size and location and climate, but we had a bad breakup and it’s taken me this long to get this far.




Most importantly, I got to see Skye. Skye and I met in high school when our respective schools selected us to go to the nearest university to debate the merits of a referendum on Australia becoming a republic. Both of us were then chosen to fly to Sydney to debate the same topic at State Parliament. We would see each other around in Orange, but probably only shared a quick wave, but as fate would have it, we ended up very alone and lonely in line next to one another at O-Week at Canberra Uni and the rest is history. Despite out lives taking vastly different paths and despite some great hardships that meant we haven’t been able to see each other in person much, we have remained ridiculously close and I love her to pieces.



I’m also getting ready for winter. I have a really specific idea of how I want my winter clothes to look this year, as I’ve lost enough weight to justify new things. Mostly it’s pretty leather-centric.



Other random happenings:

Cooking things that don’t contain black beans.

Working on-call shifts from the office while really hungover.


All of the Godfathers and all of the cheeses.

Dragging out old silver after watching far too much Sons of Anarchy.

Things Your Parents Don’t Want To Know, vol. 354.

This morning I was on the train and – probably because I had about one wink of sleep last night – I started thinking about nipples. Specifically one incident at my 20th birthday party, which was held in the backyard of my parents house.

My then-boyfriend arrived with several of his friends and after quite a lot of afternoon drinking, I started making claims about my high pain threshold. When one of the friends expressed his disbelief, I stood up and challenged him to test me by the only method The Guinness Book of World Records acknowledges as a measurement of pain*: the nipple cripple.

He was sitting in a plastic garden chair, so I straddled his legs and hissed, ‘Come at me, bro’.

He performed said nipple cripple (through my clothing, admittedly. I have some boundaries) and I laughed at his weak effort. No matter how hard he tried, I did not flinch. Around about the third rotation of the nipple, I realised my dad was standing mere metres away from us, and rather than looking impressed at my prowess for pain, he looked disgusted.

I did the only thing I could think to do at the time and that was bend my head down and grasp with my teeth the bottle of beer I had stashed in my cleavage for safe keeping while the nipple cripple took place, wrench my nipple free from the pinch of a man my dad had never met before, take a slug of beer and wave vaguely in Dad’s direction.

Needless to say, this was immediately added to the long list of things I have been caught doing that my parents have never discussed with me again.

*This is a lie.