A few weeks ago, we scattered my uncle’s ashes into the beach. We all grieved differently. My mum quivered on the edge of the pier. My 12-year-old cousin quietly sobbed. And someone scooped a portion of my uncle’s ashes to keep in a plastic zip-lock bag. At the get-together afterwards, my grandparents refused to cry. Continue Reading
My order at my local café is so predictable it’s a joke. I’ve been ordering scrambled eggs with kale and tomatoes every Saturday and Sunday for the past two years. When there are new staff members, I explain, “Just so you know, I order this every time – because there is so much in my life that’s unpredictable, BUT THE EGGS I CAN CONTROL.” Everybody laughs. But the reality is that, even though I don’t live in a warzone, or live in fear of being deported, my life can turn to shit at any given moment – and frequently does. Continue Reading
My butt is living its own life; I am merely its carrier. Yes, I am a person and my butt is part of me, but if you knew my butt, you would know that it merits its own life story. So here it is. In 1983, my butt was born, attached to me. It was, in many ways, a butt like many other butts, but over time it grew and grew, bigger and more rotund than the rest of me, and with the consistency of uncooked sourdough. Continue Reading
Like all self-respecting citizens of Melbourne, I’m an arsehole when it comes to my coffee. On average, I drink around five cups of Joe a day, and I like at least two of those Joes to be barista-made. But not made by any barista; I need my coffee made by my barista, otherwise I hate life, hate society and rue the day I was born. Continue Reading
When I was 17, I did work experience at my local newspaper. I was in year 12, it was my holidays; I really should have been out there losing my virginity or at least licking someone’s face. But instead, I wrote articles about local politics and tagged along with journalists (my heroes) when they went out on the road to do interviews. Continue Reading
I’m a wog and this means I grow hair from many locations on my face and body, and my pubes can wrap around the Earth. It’s the price I pay for being able to make my own gnocchi. And sure, once upon a time, I didn’t care for this balance sheet. “I’m sorry,” Mum told me, “but you have a moustache and you need to do something about it.” I did what I usually do in situations where I have no control: threatened to kill everyone and blamed my parents. Continue Reading
Everyone thinks they’re a “nice” person. Well, nearly everyone. I’ve met a few folks who knew they were rampant arseholes and were really quite at peace with that aspect of themselves. I don’t know if that makes it any better, but it’s always nice when someone isn’t deluding themselves. Continue Reading
Do you know what I hate paying for? Everything. Because I’m a tightarse.
Obviously, paying for some things is unavoidable. Like shoes, underpants and Ant-Rid, since I can’t make these things myself. (Although, traditionally, I bypass the expense of underpants by not wearing any, as I’m generally wearing outer clothes anyway, and the whole concept is a scam if you really stop and think about it.) Continue Reading
I’m a wog. And I can say “wog” because I am one.
My father, like many other wogs, came out on a boat from the old country (Italy) in the ’60s. His father (my nonno) was an ex-soldier who fought under Mussolini and took a bullet in the butt for the Nazi cause. His mother (my nonna) is a homemaker who believes that God blew up the Challenger spacecraft because humans were trying to get “higher than Him” and blowing them up was his way of saying, and I quote, “Fuck you.”