A Narrative Rendition of Justin Beiber’s Mistletoe

A narrative rendition of this song called mistletoe.  With added early-pubescent angst.

I have noticed that it is getting close to Christmas, the time of year that I, because of my young age, still consider to be the most beautiful and exciting time of year.  As I walk down the street, I see the Christmas lights decorating the surrounding shops and houses.  The lights make me feel so cheerful it feels as if the lights themselves are not emitting light, but warm glows of cheer and joyfulness.  Usually, I would go play in the snow with the boys.  But somehow, this year, like my cracking voice, something has changed.  I’m feeling that I should find me some mistletoe.

It’s not like I want to miss out on the Christmas holiday by being distracted by these new, strange feelings I’m having.  But for some reason, I just can’t stop staring at this girl’s face.   My biology teacher said that I’d someday have feelings like this, but I’m too young – I should be making snowmen with my friends.  But instead, I’m going to find the most socially acceptable way to get a girl to kiss me. I’m going to find some mistletoe.

I can’t wait to kiss a girl under the mistletoe.  I wonder what it’s like.

It’s getting rather cold outside.  I assume that it’s because of the copious amounts of snow.  Everybody is congregating around the fire and roasting chestnuts, as per cultural tradition.  I should probably go and join my parents but due to these strange new changes, I feel I’d rather ditch my folks and snog you under some mistletoe.

I wonder if Santa will take me off his “nice” list for thinking these things, because I’ve just been reminded by a passer-by that he’s coming on his reindeer tonight. I should be making a list for Santa, asking him for a Ben 10 watch.  But I think I’d rather some mistletoe to catch a chick.  Then I know she’ll kiss me.

Hey you, I want you to come over here.  Get your pretty bottom over here and stand with me under the mistletoe.

If I called you “shawty”, like a gangster, would it change your mind?  Because I really want to get kissed under the mistletoe so I can tell all my friends in the locker room in Gym class tomorrow.

Hey, I know!  I’ll make a religious reference to make myself appear more intelligent and sensitive, and maybe then you’ll kiss me. No?

Or maybe I’ll just be a sleaze.  I’ve heard it works.  Apparently all the bad guys get the ladies.  Woman, you don’t need to buy me anything – your body will do.  Kiss me under the mistletoe to make my Christmas merry.

As I said earlier, I think Christmas is beautiful and exciting.  The lights seem to be making everything even more cheerful.  I know I should be having snowball fights with Jimmy from the Pokemon fan club, but jeeze woman – I just want to get snogged under the mistletoe.

I don’t want to miss out on all the wonderful presents my Mummy and Daddy have bought me for Christmas, but I just want to eat your face.  Screw playing Warlocks and Warlords in the snow, I want you to under the mistletoe.

I want you to kiss me.  Under the mistletoe, if you’d prefer.

Come on, woman, if you can’t make me a decent sandwhich, at least kiss me under the mistletoe.

KISS ME WOMAN!  DO IT NOW!

Don’t you love me?  If you did – you would kiss me.  Under this mistletoe that I’m holding in my left hand over our heads.

Come on, kiss me. Pretty please?  Don’t you love meeeeeeee?

Kiss me.  Under the mistletoe.

The Debutante Ball (or the Outdated Traditional Fundraiser/Economy Stimulant)

Me, comprimising on the "all-white" rule.

On Saturday night, I participated in the 4th Debutante Ball held by a dance teacher from my church.  It was a great night – the 12 debutante girls looked simply captivating in their white dresses and the blokes looked dashing in their suits  We’d been learning a dance specially for the night, and most girls were very excited to show off the dance to their expectant friends and family.  After four years of nagging, I finally agreed to participate.  I didn’t originally want to participate for two reasons that I held on to dearly.  Firstly, I didn’t want to wear a white dress (there was a compromise - I was allowed to wear black as well).   Secondly, I had a view that I hold less dearly and radically, I believe that debutante balls are outdated and pointless.

For those who don’t know what a debutante ball is, I’ll explain.   The word “debutante” comes from the French meaning “female beginning”.  It is a ceremony in which an aristocratic or upper class young woman who is of age is introduced to society as marriageable.   The young ladies wear white and dance with eligible bachelors and are introduced to upstanding members of society.   (After the debutante ball, men will ask the father of the young lady for their daughter’s hand in marriage, then the daughter will marry some bloke she barely even know, she’ll push out a hundred babies and then die before she reaches her thirtieth birthday.)

The fact is that this is a completely pointless excercise in modern society, particularly in Australia.  Wikipedia, the fount of all knowledge puts it this way -

In Australia, débutante balls (or colloquially “deb balls”) are held in year 11 or 12 for students of Australian schools or are held outside the school system by organisations such as the local chapter of Lions Club, RSL sub-branches or a local church parish. Girls do not have to ‘make their deb’ and today the vast majority of Australian girls elect not to attend débutante balls. The term ‘debutante ball’ is in fact not known by the majority of Australians, for this reason the very concept of debutante balls is considered a dying, almost obsolete right of passage in Australia.  Many Australian schools have a “formal”, similar to the American prom. The formal, like a débutante ball, consists of dancing, however not formal ballroom. The formal has taken over much of the need for a “deb ball”.

Amen, Wikipedia.  Debutante balls have no significance whatsoever in Australian society today.  Most girls are out in society early.  The do not require a formal dinner to meet the eligible young bachelors of society – they are already with them, completing Year 12, doing Law degrees or electrician apprenticeships together.  Today, blokes don’t arrive at the father’s house, as suitors, attempting to “court” the young ladies.  Women are not stuck in the kitchen, or in the parlor, gaining “accomplishments” so any decent bloke will even look at them.  They are not locked in their houses, only to be beaten by sacks of potatoes when they reach 27 because they’re “dreadful, undesirable old spinsters” who are obviously too old and too ugly to be married and have since become a burden to their family. NO!  The thriving economy and women’s liberation have seen to that.  That is our past.

So what is the point of a debutante ball now?  Well, as I see it, there is no point.  Except for fundraising purposes and for girls to buy more stuff they don’t need like dresses and shoes they’ll never wear again.

Not to say I didn’t have a lovely night.  No, I’m not saying that at all.  But just like eating a kilo of cookies and cream ice-cream whilst watching Sweeny Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street is also lovely, the underlying point of it all was…well…nothing.

18# Drink something you’ve never tried before.

Ok.  I admit it.  I have actually drunk red wine before, but this is a mildly entertaining story, so I’d thought I’d share it.

Last night was my work’s AGM.  It was wonderful.  Full of people telling us how fantastic we are, free food and free booze.  Each table was allocated unlimited bottles of red wine.  Now, usually I don’t really like red wine – it makes me feel kinda sick when I drink it.  But when someone offers you free booze, you don’t pass it up.  That would be un-Australian.

So here I am – eating, drinking and being merry with my colleagues.  The waiters are walking around, filling up our glasses.  I was feeling happy.  I was feeling good.  I was feeling kinda sick, but not wanting to be rude, I didn’t say no when a colleague filled up my third glass of disgusting red wine.

After the formal stuff, we all went down stairs to the casino part.  I saw a friend and said hello.  He was one of the security people at the casino.   My colleague wanted a smoke, so I went outside with her.   We were just starting to talk about her ex when I projectile vomited all the wine I had drunk on the floor, much to the amusement of my security-guard friend.  We were then all asked to leave.

So above all, a fairly tame and decent AGM, I shouldn’t wonder.

30 Days of New

Not my wallpaper on Day 26, but still lovely.

Being an avid reader of frankie magazine, I am often sucked into buying the stuff it so cheekily advertises.    It was because of frankie that I began to listen to Them Crooked Vultures and Spinnerette.  It was because of frankie that I bought this ridiculous, over-priced herbal tea that tastes like watery salad.  And it’s now because of frankie that I subject myself to 30 days of new.
I better backtrack a bit.  Frankie magazine is an arts, music and fashion magazine for the discerning hipster.  It has a bunch of writers who write on mildly amusing topics such as depression, tea cups, and beer worthy of the most picky hipster.  And they have a ’30 Days’ column.
This month, Daniel Evans (one of the writers) was challenged to find something new for 30 days and write about it for the magazine.  He found all sorts of things like “A New Smile” and “A New Pair of Undies”.  I’m not doing the article justice, but it really did make me giggle.  So I decided to do the same.  So here I am, embracing a month of newness.

A New Friend.  A bloke called ET.  He had me at ‘sun-taaan low-shun’.

 A New Parade Ground.  Usually, for the end of the Annual Camp, NT Army Cadets parade on an oval.  However, this year the oval was a minefield of dead trees, mud and exploded fireworks, forcing us to parade somewhere new.  We chose a new parade ground of bitumen.  And although it was ridiculously sunny there, it made a much better parade ground than the grass in my opinion.

A New Colour (A).  My hair is now “Deep Mahogany” instead of a cacophony of oddball colours.

A New Age.  Today was my birthday.  I am now 18 and able to go to real prison.

A New Arrangement.  For my birthday I received a six foot high bookcase to fit the preposterous amount of books I read.   To fit the enormous bookcase into my room, I had to do some serious rearranging of my stuff.  Overall, very pleased.

A New Flavour of Tea.  Chai Tea is very delicious.

A New Song.  ‘U.R.A Fever’ by The Kills is my new favourite song of the month.  iTunes has just informed me that I’ve played it 26 times since the 1^st of July.

A New Favourite Movie.  Sleepy Hallow is an excellent movie with a very surprising ending.  And lots of beheadings.  Thank you, Tim Burton.

A New Irony.  I hate mainstream music, particularly any techno or dance music.  I also hate being around a lot of people, in loud buildings and the smell of vomit.  Which is why going clubbing is the latest item on the list of “Really Ironic Stuff Sharayah Does”.

A New Book.  To add more substance to my new bookshelf, I bought Russell Brand’s autobiography.  It also kills two birds with one stone – it completes my ‘something new’ goal and ticks off one of my goals on my bucket list.

A New Self-Discovery.  I’m an incredibly competitive person.  This was proved when I said to my friend Richard that I’d ‘kill him slowly with a spoon in his sleep’ if he didn’t move out of my way during a challenge on the CDU Christians Mid-Year Camp.  A New Moment of Kindness.  During the CDU Christians Camp, we were required to be a ‘Secret Angel’ to a person whom we’d picked randomly out of a hat. When you’re a Secret Angel, you have to do kind things to the person you have, such as do their dishes, and give them chocolate and all sorts of lovely things.  But you can’t let them know you’re their Secret Angel, hence the ‘secret’ part.   I got my friend Aaron.  I really enjoyed being a Secret Angel.  I’m not used to being kind.  It was good practice.

A New Favourite Bible Verse.  ‘The last enemy that shall be defeated is death.’ – 1 Corinthians 15:26.  Yes, it’s also in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.  That’s why it’s so completely awesome.

A New Prize.  I, Sharayah Harvey, has never even won a game of ‘pass-the-parcel’ or ‘musical chairs’ but, on the 14^th of July 2011, I was part of the winning team of the CDU Christians Mid-Year Camp Dance Off.

A New Opinion.  I used to be very pro capital punishment, but now I’m absolutely against it.  Fun fact.

A New Way of Seeing the World.  I don’t mean this all metaphorically and hippie-like, I mean that I have a new way of seeing the world literally.  After six years living under the tyranny of glasses, I have been liberated with the conquest of contact lenses.

A New Hair Cut.  Today, I got sick of my hair so I layered it by hacking at it with a pair of paper scissors.  Surprisingly, my spontaneous hair mutilation doesn’t look too terrible.

A New Subject (A). Northern Perspectives.  It’s one of my compulsory subjects for my degree.  Defence Against the Dark Arts would have been entirely more useful.

A New Subject (B).  Introduction to Psychology B. The Bachelor of Behavioural Science students are hilarious in this subject.  They’re like the Bachelor of Social Work students – they think that they’re gonna save the world.   Poor little things.  God bless ‘em.

A New Sales-Assistant.  Usually, when I walk into JB Hi-Fi one of the sales-people know me and ask what type of alternative music I’d like to buy (clearly, I spend way too much time in that shop).  But today, none of my regular johns were in there.  So I made a new sales-assistant friend.  He works in the phone department and likes the colour blue.

A New Way of Cooking Mi Goreng.  In the microwave for three minutes, stir in golden syrup and chilli sauce.  Delicious.

A New Means of Communication.  Today, I bought a new mobile because my other one was lame and wouldn’t show any texts that weren’t from Telstra.  Racist bastard.  I threw that one in the bin.

A New Colour (B).  I got bored so I re-dyed my hair.  It’s now a splatter of red, black, yellow and black.  Imagine a freshly shot tiger that’s been run over with a truck and placed on a white girl’s head.  Yep, that’s my hair.

A New Pair of Sunglasses.  They are black tinted, flowery types in the shape of Ray-Bans.  But only for $9.00 from K-Mart.

A New Favourite Song Line.  “There’s a hole in the world like a great black pit and it’s filled with people who are filled with shit and the vermin of the world inhabit it!” – Sweeny Todd, on London.

A New Wallpaper.  Because I realised that I have done nothing new today, I changed my wallpaper from a picture of the Death Eaters watching that Muggle Studies teacher get eaten by a giant snake to a picture of Sweeny Todd and Mrs Lovett staring at Sweeny’s razors whilst standing in a pool of blood.  Entirely more appropriate.

A New Name.  One of the kids at work has decided to change my name to “La’treyah” because “it sounds more famous-er”.

A New Shift.  This wasn’t even intentional, like a lot of these ‘new’ things have been.  I went to work today at my usual time of 8am, expecting to work until 6pm.  But then, to my intense surprise,  my colleague tells me that I’m late for work.  I’m never late.  In my Hermione Granger-like fury, I march into the office, slapping my hand on the roster list to double-check my shifts.  Turns out my colleague was right – my shifts had changed to 7:30am until 5:30pm on Fridays, without my knowledge.  Lovely.

A New Infestation.  Today, I discovered how wild mice had gotten into my rat’s cage to eat their food.  They had eaten a hole into the rusty metal bars, which my pet rats are now escaping out of. Oh well, time to get a new cage then.

So did I learn anything?  Did a ray of sunlight creep through the window with shining revelation  of the human spirit?  Did this whole exercise have a point?  Absolutely not!  But it was, however fun enough.  :)

11#. Read an autobiography by a semi-obscure celebrity.

I walked into Dymocks, purposefully setting out to the ‘Autobiography’ section.   Closing my eyes, I spun around with an outstretched hand, fully aware that the large man in a trench coat who was looking at Big Book of Sex Toys by Taormino Tristan was probably looking at me like I was insane.  But I didn’t care.  I was there with a purpose.  With a goal. With an ambition.  I was going to complete number 11 on my bucket list – ‘Read an autobiography by a semi-obscure celebrity’.   And I was terribly excited.  So I didn’t care what even the fattest of Big Book of Sex Toys readers thought of me.

After deciding that I had spun around long enough, I stopped, my arm pointing Heil-Hitler style at a grey and pink book, balancing precariously on the lint covered shelf.  Upon further examination I discovered the cover displayed the author, a man with a ridiculously cool haircut.  It was Russell Brand.  I picked up the book and the back informed me that the Daily Telegraph regarded this man with the stylish hair as ‘the most talented stand-up comedian to emerge in Britain this decade.’   I was thrilled.  Firstly, because the author is British and I frequently refuse to view or read anything that is American or Australian.  Secondly, he’s a comedian, so his book was unlikely to be filled with boring crap about he contemplates his naval before writing a speech that will save the ice-forest penguins in north Finland.  And finally, I was pleased because I was feeling a tad motion sick so I didn’t fancy spinning around in circles again.

I went home and began reading.  I wasn’t disappointed.  Russell is extremely open and honest about his life.  And it’s not that ‘I came from nothing and now I’m famous, never say never!’ rubbish.  Russell is almost sarcastic about his childhood and the disturbing stuff he went through.   And he makes it funny.  So, overall, without giving much away, it’s a good read.  The Daily Telegraph was right.

As you can probably guess, I haven’t finished reading the book.  Uni started yesterday and I have to read Anna Karenina by the end of the week, so I have to put Russell Brand on my shelf of ‘books-I’m-still-reading-but-uni-is-eating-my-soul’.  But I’ll come back to it, just as I’ll have to come back to Lolita, Islam in Our Backyard and Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.  And when I do, I’ll have a little giggle.

Top 5 Stupid Things I’ve Done This Semester

My friend Jeff told me yesterday that I should write down all the stupid things I’ve  done at university, otherwise I might forget.  Taking his advice, I began to write them down.  So, in celebration of an almost complete semester one, here are the top five stupid things I’ve done at university.

1.      Changed my name every time I order a coffee from the uni coffee shop.  Sometimes even three times a day.

Possibly the worst thing about ordering coffee is giving the barista your name for the order.  Especially when you have a completely ridiculous name like Sharayah.  So usually, I go by the name of ‘Brody’ when I order my coffee.  However, being a uni student, I found myself visiting my local coffee shop a lot more regularly than usual.  Now, I’m one of those people who hate repetition.  I just get bored easily.  To combat the mundane routine ofordering coffee, I decided to change my name every time I placed an order.  It took the coffee ladies two weeks to realise what I was doing, which is surprising, considering I sometimes order coffee two or three times a day.   I even get themed coffee names – during the week of the Royal Wedding, my name was Kate, Queen Elizabeth or even Prince Harry.  For the release of the Foo Fighters new album, I was David, Coat Tails, Pat, Nate then Dead Pleasant.  And for the capture of Osama Bin Laden, I was…wait…let’s not go there…

2.      Ripped all the pandas out of the “have you used ecstasy?” campaign posters.

All over Darwin at the moment, there are these posters with awesome pandas and enormous yellow writing that asks “HAVE YOU USED ECSTASY?!” written on them.  I don’t really know what the campaign is about (possibly something to do with ecstasy) but what I do know is that the pandas are really cute.  So I’ve been collecting the pandas by ripping the panda out of the picture and leaving all the informative rubbish behind.  I’ve got 147 pandas now.

3.      Refused to answer any question directly, instead choosing to make reference to Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings.

I don’t really know why I do this.  Possibly because I need practice talking to people.  After all, doing an English major means my head is always swallowed by a book.  Or maybe it’s because I enjoy being annoying.  One of the two.  Anyway, instead of calling people “pathetic tossers” when they cut me off when I’m driving, I’ve taken to calling them “filthy mudbloods”.  And today, when a friend complained that her computer was making a weird noise, I proclaimed loudly that the goblins were coming and that we all must fight to the death.

 

4.      Suggested to my lecturer that they should put fat people on chip packets to try and stop people eating junk, just like they did on cigarette packets.

This was a really stupid thing to do, as my lecturer got really mad at my friend and I and called us cruel and suggested that we are obese people on the inside.  But you can see the logic – they put rotting limbs on cigarette packets to stop people from smoking.  So maybe they should put obese people on fast food packets to put people off eating junk.  It totally makes sense.  Only the lecturer couldn’t look past her clouded, politically-correct judgement and spent the rest of the tutorial glaring in our direction.

5.       Moved all the books on Post Modernism into the Children’s Fiction section of the uni library.

I hate Post Modernism with a passion.   The idea that there is no real truth at all and that we have to make truth up is just stupid and dangerous.    I got into a fierce argument with the same lecturer who called me obese on the inside about it, which ended in her calling me a “thoroughly right-wing minded person”.  I asked her what she saw was bad with valuing traditional ideals, but she couldn’t give me a proper answer.  After class, I walked into the library and, upon finding the books on Post Modernism, I moved them to the Children’s Fiction.  Before I left, I placed a little sticky note on the books saying “Blame Janey Harris*”.

*Name changed because my lecturer hasn’t finished marking my major essay.  Oh, and for privacy reasons. And because she’s possibly a Death Eater, or an Orc from Mordor.  In any case, I don’t want her using the Avada Kedavra curse on me.

40# – Be the proud owner of all The White Stripes and Queens of the Stone Age albums.

“Hello, Sharayah, what CD can I get you this week? Do you need more Queens of the Stone Age, The White Stripes or The Kills? Or prehaps I can tempt you with the Foo Fighters?”  The guy who works at my record store of choice with chunky hipster glasses smiles knowingly at my handful of CDs.  Lately, because I have a new job that pays nicely, I have been in this store every Sunday, buying CDs.  I was planning to only buy one – Blood Pressures by The Kills – but the sales guy is really persuasive.  He knows me well.  I leave with three CDs and the Series One and Two box set of Being Human.  Clearly, this guy needs a pay rise.

Goal number 40 from my bucket list goes way back to 2009.  It was a quiet day in December.  I was entirely fed up with the world.  I was contemplating writing a series of depressing poems.  But before I did that I decided to muck around on Google for a bit, typing random words in the search bar to see what Google came out with.  I ended up typing in “the weather outside is dead”.  Instead of finding an angsty emo blog, I found The Dead Weather.  And the rest, they say, is history.

But what, you may ask, does that have to do with The White Stripes and Queens of the Stone Age?  Well, The Dead Weather is a supergroup featuring Alison Mosshart, Dean Fertita, Jack White and Jack Lawrence.  Because I love their work, I only listen to bands that are connected with The Dead Weather in any way, shape or form.  I stumbled upon Queens of the Stone Age because Dean Fertita has played with them, and Jack White was, well, The White Stripes.   Other bands I listen to include The Kills (Alison Mosshart), the Raconteurs (all four of TDW), Them Crooked Vultures (Josh Homme of QOTSA), The Distillers (Brody Dalle married to Josh Homme) and Spinnerette (Brody Dalle).  I’ve collected all of their CDs, but I hadn’t finished my collection of QOSTA and The White Stripes.

And so the quest began.  The first album I bought from The White Stripes was Elephant because it had ‘Seven Nation Army’ in it.  I’d already listened to that song and knew I loved it.  Then came Icky Thump because the song ‘Little Cream Soda’ was used as inspiration for my Child Studies major in year twelve.  So, out of respect, I bought that album. Next was White Blood Cells.  I bought that album because I was pissed off at one of my lecturers that day and needed something to cheer me up.  Needless to say singing/screaming ‘Hotel Yorba’ at the top of my lungs in my friend’s flat certainly did cheer me up a lot.   Next came their debut album The White Stripes.  I bought this album because it has ‘Jimmy the Exploder’, ‘Astro’ and ‘I Fought Piranhas’ on it.  These songs are WAY better than Hi-5, so I’ve been teaching them to my daycare kids.   Finally, I bought Get Behind Me Satan and De Stijl on the same day because I was keen to have them all.  The White Stripes are really lovely.  My favourite album is Icky Thump even though it makes me sad.   It was their final work.

The first album I bought from Queens of the Stone Age was Songs for the Deaf.  I’m going to be honest – the only reason I bought this album was because its red and red is my favourite colour.  However, it’s actually now my favourite from them.  Between their songs they have all this radio chatter.  It’s quite funny and cleaver and you all should go out and buy yourselves a copy.  The second album I purchased was Rated R.  I bought it because ‘The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret‘ was playing in the motorbike shop I went to and the sales guy had pissed me off so I went to the record store determined to be better than the bloke.  In my fury, I bought the deluxe version of Rated R which has some live tracks added onto it.   So the moral of the story is that sometimes getting angry is a good thing.  Lullabies to Paralyze was bought next because it has a creepy girl that reminds me of Dakota Fanning in Hide and Seek on the cover.  And then I bought the remastered version of their debut album Queens of the Stone Age because the Rolling Stone magazine mentioned it.  Finally, I bought Era Vulgaris today because it was $7.99 and I had spare change.

So there we go.  Goal 40# is complete.  What did I learn from this experience?  Well, I learnt that I am an excessive spender under pressure from the consumerist culture in which I live.  Secondly, and prehaps more importantly, I discovered that I like the Foo Fighters (David Grohl – QOTSA) very much.  A new collection is now forming.  Thank you, The Dead Weather.

Something That Happened Sometime Ago

I did something two weeks ago.  This something I did was so incredibly something that I took time off uni and work (without pay!) to go on this thing that lasted a week.  This is the thirteenth time I have gone to this thing but this time was by far the best something I have ever been on.  I met up with some people I knew from some where and we did some things that were here and there.   I really wish I could tell you just how awesome this thing really was.

 It began some time in April.  I was really nervous because sometimes this thing can be hard.  But it turns out that when this person from somewhere came, all my fears were gone because this person really helped me out with knowing how to do something.   So with all the stress gone, there was just time left to enjoy this thing.  It was hot, it was sweaty and something was said about the “black boy bush” which some people found really funny.  Someone else got tired of saying “so how do you think you went” and someone else became friends.  I personally made friends with someone who is sort of like me in some way.  So over all, it was really something to brag about.

 Normally, I don’t talk about this thing on my blog – I never have before.  But this time it was so awesome and exiting that I couldn’t contain myself and I just HAD to write about this thing. And I wish I could tell those who don’t know about this something, but the rules of this thing that I enjoy so much says that none of its people may talk about it unless it’s officially approved.  This rule extends to facebook, but all of the something people break the rules there.  So, unfortunately, this blog post will only make sense to those who know what I’m talking about – the people who are also involved in something.  It’s a lawfully-bound in-house joke.

 The irony is that another rule of something states that if there is less than twenty people involved in something than something can’t exist anymore.  Which is crap coz somewhere something only ever has twenty someones.  But in my opinion, if we can’t tell people about something, how are people gonna want to take part?  How will they know that something exists or that it is really really REALLY fun? 

 So since I can’t tell you what this something is, why do you ask me what it is I did?  Give me a text or an email if you really wanna know what something you can do, if you’re not yet too old.  And then we’ll sit down somewhere, whether it’s here or it’s there and you’ll be amazed as the something I’ll tell.

A Narrative Rendition of Rebecca Black’s Friday.

As I am going to be a teacher in four years, I figure a little proof reading practice is probably a good idea.  If Rebecca Black had any brains or the ability to write academically, this is how it would read.  Enjoy!

The time is precisely 7am, the time I am required to rise in the morning to ensure I am sufficiently ready for school.  For example, I visit the latrine before orderly moving downstairs where I consume cereal in a bowl, as per the culture in which I live.  Because my eyesight is immaculate, I am able to clearly see that my family members are making haste and the clock signifies that it is almost time for me to depart.

I have to leave my house in time to catch the bus, my preferred mode of transportation in which I depart for school.  Whilst waiting for the bus to arrive, I notice my school-friends enquiring if I would prefer to commute to school in their convertible.  However, this poses the question of which seat I am to sit in.  I have to decide promptly, but the question is proving to be exceedingly difficult to adumbrate.  On which seat should I sit?

Despite my indecisiveness, I am comforted by the fact that today is Friday.  It is socially accepted that Friday is the day to relax before two days of further relaxation.  Just to reiterate, today is Friday, the day irresponsible teenagers use as an excuse to socialise.  This will continue on the weekend. There will be entertaining parties.  It shall prove to be enjoyable. Again, this excessive enjoyment will continue on the weekend.

It is now 7:45pm.  My friends and I are commuting along the motorway is an expeditious manner.  I want the time to appear to go as fast as this convertible is illegally going.  Whilst my friend is driving, I am thinking about the enjoyment I will experience at the immanent party. My arousal leavls are indeed high, as I am now thinking incoherently; my thoughts make little sense to even myself.  I note that a friend of mine is seated on my right.

Although I am already seated, the stress and excitement of the impending party begins to overwhelm me to the point where I being to debate the position in which I sit.  Both the front and the back seats would prove to be agreeable places to be seated.  On which seat should I sit?

Despite my indecisiveness, I am comforted by the fact that today is Friday.  It is socially accepted that Friday is the day to relax before two days of further relaxation.  Just to reiterate, today is Friday, the day irresponsible teenagers use as an excuse to socialise.  This will continue on the weekend. There will be entertaining parties.  It shall prove to be enjoyable. Again, this excessive enjoyment will continue on the weekend.

As the night progresses, the excitement proves to be far too overwhelming for an underage child like myself.  It really is past my bedtime.  To calm myself, I remind myself of the days of the week.  Yesterday was Thursday because today is definitely Friday due to the feelings of elation emitted by the people among me.  This means that tomorrow it will be Saturday and following that is a Sunday, unless I am mistaken.  However, this is irrelevant as I do not wish the days of enjoyment that the weekend brings to come to a close.

I am comforted by the fact that today is Friday.  It is socially accepted that Friday is the day to relax before two days of further relaxation.  Just to reiterate, today is Friday, the day irresponsible teenagers use as an excuse to socialise.  This will continue on the weekend. There will be entertaining parties.  It shall prove to be enjoyable. Again, this excessive enjoyment will continue on the weekend.

15# – Read a book to your offspring. Or borrow someone else’s offspring and read to them.

“Oi, Sharayah, I read your blog yesterday.”
“Really?  What do you think?”
“It’s despicable!  You work here, in a childcare centre, and you’ve never read to a child before!  I am shocked!”
“Yeah, well, I guess I just never did.”
‘It’ ok.  You’ll complete your goal today.  You can read to the kids in Group Time.”

At that moment I was excited.  I would complete the first thing on my bucket list.  Number 15 comes from frankie magazine.  I do admit, I have read to children before.  I have two sisters and a foster brother who are under the age of nine, so I’ve read to them all sorts of inappropriate things like The Gashlycrumb Tinies by Edward Gorey and poetry by Edgar Allen Poe.  But I have never read to my own offspring (I’m childless – thank the Lord) and neither have I ever stolen anyone else’s kids to read to them.  I thought that maybe it would be more interesting than reading to my sisters.  And, yes, I was absolutely right.

Group Time at the centre in which I work involves the carer sitting on a chair with all the little kiddies sitting at their feet, listening attentively to the story and occasionally punching each other in the guts.   So, in preparation, I set up my blue plastic in the sandpit and awaited the arrival of my twenty 3-year-olds and the book that the other carer was picking out for me.   As the kids trickled over, my excitement grew.  I like reading to kids because its kinda magical sharing words with little people who can’t read it themselves.  Once the kids were settled, the carer handed me the books with an amused smile on her face.  My stomach dropped.  This was not just any book.  This was We’re Going on a Bear Hunt.  A book you have to SING.

I walked up to the carer who was now laughing at the sight of my face, twisted with discomfort.
“Of all the books in the library, you chose this one!”
“Well, yes, I thought you needed a challenge.”

By now, I couldn’t back out – the kids had already seen the book and were shouting at me to hurry up an read it.  I sank back into the chair.  Clearing my throat, I began to read it.  One of the kids, let’s call her Susan*, asked me why I wasn’t singing.  I replied that I couldn’t sing and she’d just have to put up with my ‘talking voice’ instead. After a few pages of this, Susan lept up and said in her little voice – “well if you’re too chicken to sing it, I will!”

So in the end, all I had to do was turn the pages as little Susan, who knew the book off by heart, sung it too her friends.   I guess you could say that I cheated with my first completed goal.  And I would tend to agree with you.  But I did learn a thing or two about what it means to have confidence in yourself.   I mean, how many of you can get up in front of twenty of your peers and sing about an insane bear hunt?  How many of you would even have the guts to read that?  I think this little girl showed a tremendous amount of courage.  She definitely had more guts than me and I only had to read to people who were a fifth of my age.   Susan has definitely encouraged me to be less of a coward, which in the end, is the only thing that counts.

*Name has been changed for privacy reasons.  It’s a shame because in reality, she has a most beautiful name.

My Bucket List (or the Forty Things I Want to do Before I’m Thirty)

Ok, ok.  I know this isn’t technically a ‘bucket list’ because life doesn’t end at thirty (well, isn’t supposed to unless you’re REALLY unlucky).  But there are a couple of things that I’d like to do before my life is defined by my job and the accomplishments of my various offspring.  These things I’d like to do were inspired by various people, particularly my good friends Stephanni and Jaymi-Lee, and I will go into further detail once I’ve completed each task.  Oh and I’m not going to do it in order either because ‘make lasagne from scratch’ is obviously far more achievable than ‘travel to all the European countries you haven’t been to yet’.  AND I should mention that some of these things on the list are from frankie issue number 40, because they always have really good ideas.  I hope this will inspire other morbid people out there to create their own bucket list.  :)

Sharayah Harvey’s Incredibly Awesome List of Totally Awesome Things
(a.k.a The List)

1. Learn how to speak German.  And not just the sweary bits either.
2. Get another degree.
3. Write an angsty song of some sort.
4. Climb a mountain.  Or a large hill.  (Very difficult to do in Darwin, I might add.)
5. Buy an original work of art.
6. Learn to make sushi.  With the roly-mat and everything.
7. Travel to all the European countries you haven’t been to yet.
8. See at least one of your favourite bands perform live.  (Correction – see The Dead Weather perform live.)
9. Hold an Alice in Wonderland themed tea-party.
10. Milk a cow.
11. Read an autobiography by a semi-obscure celebrity.
12. Sing karaoke.
13. Learn at least five constellations to point out in the night sky.
14. Take more photos.  And print them out.  Photos taken in Army Cadets don’t count.  And neither do photos stored on facebook.
15. Read a book to your offspring.  Or borrow someone else’s offspring and read to them.
16. Go to the zoo.  And no, the Territory Wildlife Park doesn’t count.  A real zoo.  With elephants.
17. Develop a ‘signature dish’ and make it for lunch for everyone you work with.
18. Drink something you’ve never tried before.
19. Learn how to play Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes on the piano.
20. Go to an art gallery with someone who really understands art.
21. Properly celebrate your friend’s birthdays.  No more ‘quiet meals with a friend’.  There should be at least one mystery bruise the next day.
22. Get a dog.
23. Go backpacking with a variety of friends.
24. Read the bible in its entirety.  From start to finish.  Including Numbers.
25. Make friends with someone who does I.T.
26. Own a vinal copy of your favourite album, Horehound by The Dead Weather.
27. Read War and Peace.
28. Make lasagne from scratch.
29. Write a villanelle that is actually half decent.
30. Write a letter to a politician.  And no, that time you corrected Paul Henderson’s grammar on facebook doesn’t count.
31. Learn how to talk to random strangers without feeling self concious and dorky.
32. Get a tattoo.
33. Run the “Australia Day Fun Run and Walk”.  Don’t just walk it.
34. Draw something.
35. Dye your hair bubblegum pink.  Like Nymphadora Tonks, in Harry Potter.
36. Find out what Sponge Bob Square Pants is and listen to a song by Taio Cruz (whoever the hell that is…)
37. Get to know your neighbours every time you move.
38. Start a recipe book/photo album/family history book for your future offspring.
39. Move out of your comfortably sweaty hometown.
40. Be the proud owner of all The White Stripes and Queens of the Stone Age albums.

Yes, Your Child is Singing About Exploding Apples.

One of the worst things about working with children and having younger siblings is the music they listen to.  Right now, I live in a world that is dominated by the fun-tastic tunes cheered out by Hi-5, The Wiggles and the Hooley-Dooleys (yes, they still exist).  These kiddie entertainers prance around in brightly coloured costumes more suited to construction workers whilst surrounded by terrifying, human-sized animals and singing sickening songs about how “special” the children their paid to be nice to are.

And that’s what really bothers me.  Yes, the electro sounds pumped out by Hi-5 accompanied by high pictched wails is less appealing to me than getting buried alive, but it’s actually the lyrics that piss me off the most.  The other day, a song by Hi-5 was playing on TV.  The lyrics went like this:

“Wow! What a surprise! You’ve opened up my eyes! You really are AMAZING! You’re the ant’s pants! You’re the bees knees! You are amazing!”

And then there is the sound of puking at the end of the track followed by someone yelling out “you lying bastards!” before slamming the door.  Well, maybe not, but that’s the response a children’s song dripping with lies should have.   And this is why the people of my generation and the next are self-absorbed arseholes.  Our entire lives we’ve heard songs telling us about how “special” and “amazing” we are.  But in reality, we’re exceptionally insignificant.  No one is special.  Hi-5 should be ashamed of themselves.

So instead of teaching children songs and rhymes that lie to them, I prefer to use some of the songs that I would listen to now.  I refuse to sing self-glorified songs, or songs that lie to children (including Santa songs).  But instead I opt for more…interesting songs.  Here are five of my favourite songs to teach to children:

 

The White Stripes from their early days. After 13 years, they only recently called it quits.

 

Jimmy the Exploder – The White Stripes
This is definitely my favourite song to teach to kids.    The song is about a monkey who explodes everything that isn’t the colour red.  You can make up epically cool actions to go with it, plus there’s a bit in the middle where the kids can pretend to be Jimmy the Exploder.  It’s particularly popular with over-active boys who enjoy pretending to be rabies-infected monkeys that bite people.   It’s a lot of fun.
In fact, most of The White Stripes songs are good for children as the lyrics are simple, metaphorical and sing-able. Let’s Shake Hands, Little Room and Little Ghost are also very good.

Walking with a Ghost - Tegan and Sara
I don’t really know why this song works, but it does.  Like Jimmy the Exploder, it’s got very simple lyrics that kids can remember.  My youngest sister likes to sing it in a scared voice before making an ear-piercing scream before running to hide under a bed.  I’d also like to note that most kids that have heard this song prefer it in The White Stripes’ cover version of the song.  Probably because the originally Tegan and Sara version is a tad slow and whimsical.  Either way, it’s still a good song.

Intimate Secretary - The Raconteurs
This song has short and simple phrases that actions can be made to compliment (‘I’ve got a rabbit, it likes to hop/I’ve got a red Japanese teapot’).  It also contains big words such as “kakistocracy” which, if you’re education-minded, can add to the children’s vocabulary.  A further bonus is that it’s an extremely easy song to sing, even if you can’t sing much better than a toad.

Monkey 23 – The Kills
Alright, with this song I do admit that you have to be a tad creative to make it more kid-friendly.  Lyrics say “there’s a monkey on my back; makes me act/talk like that.”  To make it entirely more entertaining for the children and myself, I encourage the children to act or talk like a monkey at the end.  Again, rabies infected monkeys seem to be the most popular type of monkey to be.

A Gorey Demise – Creature Feature
As I learnt, be very, very, VERY careful if you decide to use this as a nursery rhyme for children.  The verses are entirely too morbid for a child to sing.  The verses go through the alphabet, describing how each person was put to their death (K is for Kimmy who was shot in the head..).  Definitely not one to sing to the kids.  Especially if the kids aren’t yours.  However, the chorus is fine – it’s completely metaphorical, just like “Ring-a-Ring-a-Rosy”, a nursery rhyme about the Bubonic Plague.   The first stanza of the chorus says:

“One by one we bite the dust,
Kick the bucket,
Begin to rust.
Give up the ghost when your number’s up
We all fall down.”

Clearly the perfect song to skip around in a circle to and fall down at the end.  Just like the rhyme about Black Death.

And finally, just to prove that I do have some moral convictions about what children should be listening to, here are some extremely good and extremely catchy songs that I would NEVER sing around a child.

Feel Good Hit of Summer – Queens of the Stone Age
Children don’t really need to know about “nicotine, valium, vocadin, marijuana, ecstasy and alcohol. C-c-c-Cocaine!”

Lordy Lordy – The Distillers
A very catchy song indeed.  But it threatens “you come near me now girl I’ll go get me a gun” and remarks that “I’ve never been to prison, I don’t know why.”  A good camp song for 12-year-olds, but not for kiddies.

Six Shooter – Queens of the Stone Age
“F*** this road, oh f*** you too.  I’ll f***ing kill your best friend. What you f***king gonna do when I come?  Shoot. Shoot.  Shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot…POW!”  Enough said.  Yes, I know you could make ups some pretty cool actions to go with that, but no.  Just no.

Buried Alive, A Corpse in my Bed or any other song by Creature Feature.
Death apparently isn’t a nice thing for children to sing about.  Apparently.  Besides, you’d hope that a child wouldn’t have “the hopes of being buried alive” or be pondering if it’s “really that wrong to have a corpse in my bed.”   Fantastic song, just not pleasant coming from a 4-year-old.

So there you have it.  Some pleasant songs that don’t involve self-glorification or nausea.  :)

Farewell, The White Stripes

On the 2nd of February, one of the world’s greatest bands of all time announced that they would sing no more. The White Stripes concluded their 13 years of music by writing a simple farewell on their website.  The wrote that they hope their conclusion will not be met with sadness, but instead seen as a positive move on their behalf.  I have to agree.  For a band of only two people, The White Stripes have done amazing work and have never released a bad album.

All of their songs have distinct personalities of their own, so you’d never get tired of The White Stripes. I can remember the first time I ever listened to their music.  I was watching TV Hits and I was disgusted at how terribly uncreative and mass produced the most popular music seemed.  Then Seven Nation Army played, with its simple tune and gut-wrenchingly honest lyrics, and I thought “yes, this is what music is about”.  From there, The White Stripes have been a muse for almost all of my work.  Little Ghost from their album, Get Behind Me Satan inspired my descriptive writing that got me a 20 out of 20 in year 12 English, as did Little Cream Soda from Icky Thump for my Early Childhood Studies literary assignment.
The White Stripes was colour.  Although I love Jack White’s other project, The Dead Weather, it was not the music I would listen to when I was down – The White Stripes was.  Whenever things were grey, The White Stripes would paint the world candy-cane colours through the stereo.

Above all, I’m not sad that The White Stripes are gone.  Because they’re not really gone at all. The White Stripes will live on through the people.  The White Stripes live on when a small group of children sing Jimmy the Exploder at the local daycare centre.  The White Stripes breathe when a mother murmurs Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn to a new baby who just won’t sleep.  The White Stripes are when that person’s sick and only Icky Thump is there to make him smile.

Reading back over the farewell message Jack and Meg posted on their website, it doesn’t cease to amaze me how wonderfully right their goodbye is.  This sums up their 13 years of flying their red and white flags brilliantly:

“The White Stripes do not belong to Meg and Jack anymore. The White Stripes belong to you now and you can do with it whatever you want. The beauty of art and music is that it can last forever if people want it to. Thank you for sharing this experience. Your involvement will never be lost on us and we are truly grateful.”

Sincerely,
Meg and Jack White
The White Stripes

And so they shall live on.  Lest we forget.  :)

The Three-Foot High People I Work With

After getting fired from a lingerie shop, I decided I would work in an industry that was the furthest removed from retail as occupationally possible.  I needed something that didn’t involve me selling anything, I needed flexibility to fit in with university and it had to be a job that was legal.  Although it wasn’t completely necessary, I wanted a job that would push me out of my comfort zone (but not too far out of my comfort zone – I’d had enough of that in the tit-fitting industry).  So when a job at a local childcare centre came about, I eagerly took my limited resume out and got me a job.

My friends were surprised, to say the very least.  I mean, children are the second worst things in existence next to consumerist bimbos in my book.   All they do is scream, cry and look at you funny (much like when bimbos ask about my music collection).  So according to my friends, childcare – and boob fitting – would seem like the last thing I’d ever even think about getting myself in to.

However, today I’m going to let you in to a little secret – sometimes I love children.  Sometimes I even adore them. Shh! Don’t tell anyone. The reason I like children sometimes is because sometimes they say or do things that are absolutely hilarious!  It’s classic!  Because children don’t know about silly, boring-people things like political correct-ness, they say the things that we’re all thinking, but are too worried to say.

Take this conversation for example.  Peter* was playing in the play-kitchen when Clara* approches him.  This is the conversation they had (no joke):

Clara*: Hey Peter*! Do you want to play Mums and Dads with me?
Peter*: Ok, I’ll be the dad and you can be the mum.  Pretend I’m coming home from work.
Clara*: Ok! (Pretends to cook in the kitchen)
Peter*: Wife! I’m home! Make me a sandwich!

So, it appears that little Peter* and Clara* have already got their gender roles sorted out and they’re only four years old!  Another conversation happened between me and a five year old girl  Let’s call her Kate*.  As you know, there has been massive floods in Queensland, Victoria and New South Wales.  News about the floods have been running on the television constantly.  But I was still suprised to find out how much little Kate* knew about the flood.  She was digging a hole in the sand pit and she had a bucket of water and three plastic people next to her.  This is what happened:

Me: Hello Kate*, what are you making there?
Kate*: Queensland. (pours the bucket of water in the hole)
Me: How is that hole Queensland?
Kate*: Well, right now Queensland has lots and lots of floods.  See – the hole is Queensland and it’s flooded with water.  These are the people in Queensland.
(Puts the plastic people in the water-filled hole)
See! They’re drowning Queenslanders! Help me! Help me, Julia Gillard!

Yes, the flood-crisis is not something to joke about, but you gotta admit that Kate* is one clever kid.

The last funny thing a kid at my centre has done was draw a picture of me:

"Sharayah shooting Larry* in the eye because he said the F-word to her."

Children.  They may be alien swamp-monsters, but they do have style.  :)

*Children’s names have been changed.

Decent into a Boring Pit of Madness

I’ve had a few people complain to me about my apparent lack of writing as of late.  I do admit that these beautiful people have a point.  I haven’t wrote anything since Christmas.

I guess the problem is that there is really nothing you’d want to read worth writing about.  I mean,  there’s nothing exciting going on my life at the moment.  Most of my friends are in the southern corners of Australia, escaping this tiny, sweaty town plagued by rain, wet-blanket heat and smashed beer bottles in the playgrounds.   Because of the desertion, I’ve spent my time either at work with people who are two-feet tall with the voices of mice; or I’ve been locked in my darkened bedroom writing poetry and short stories with only the works of Edgar Allen Poe, Edward Gorey, Sylvia Plath and Philip Larkin to keep me company.  The consequence of my reclusive behaviour is that I now look like something that has stepped out of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video clip, I have lost all social skills I previously had (not that I had many to begin with) and my eyes hurt when I merely stare at the crack of light under my door.  But hey, at least my handwriting has improved.

I'm definitely the one on the left, next to Michael

Looking back at my blog, I’ve noticed that I put a post about not knowing which option to choose in regards to gap year versus straight into university.  Well, as soon as my Year 12 results came in the route was chosen for me – the gap year.  My ATAR (yes, I to have no idea what that abbreviates) score was completely rubbish.  It was so rubbish, it didn’t even reach the minimum standard the local hill-billy university in my tiny town requires.  And that’s with the “rural” bonus points we receive.
My problem with school wasn’t that I couldn’t do the work, I just couldn’t see the incentive.  I mean, sure, you do the work to gain the points to get into university to become all rich and successful and happy and other such deluded lies.  But why is the curriculum like it is?  Why do we have to learn the area of a circle or the symbol for potassium?  Why do I want to know that?  If I wanted to know that, couldn’t I just Google it?  So instead of spending hours writing my requried essays on the oppressive white bastards of Australia and the history of the contraceptive pill, I would spend my time writing villanelles or Twilight parody screenplays or remarking on how much my Psychology teacher looked like Hagrid from Harry Potter.  And then I’d write the essays the night before, meaning my grade suffered.  But being a maths dyslexic, I didn’t really know or particularly care.  After all, it was just a number.

But the downside of my academic ignorance is that I’m now faced with at least six months of the repetitious timetable of work/sleep/write.  I hate repetition.  I fear that I’ll go absolutely stark raving bonkers and rip my teddy bear that sits in my cupboard to shreds with my teeth.  And then I’ll probably sit down and write a poem about it using a shopping receipt and a blunt crayon.   But of course, this is less likely to happen if I see some real people.  Not just the ones at work.  But real people.  So, dear friends in Darwin, come and see me once in a while.   I have some poetry you could read in a dark room by the light of a candle and some friends amongst a garden of words I’d like you to meet…

For Leah