Happiness Is A Warm Cookie

Why is it that during the grueling weeks of a school term, I pray for the holidays, yet when they finally arrive, my life inevitably slips into a vicious cycle of futility and unproductiveness?

During the school term, my alarm goes off at 6am and my eyes open as I scan the sensations in my body desperately hoping to feel, maybe a sore throat, a pain in the tummy or hell, even a migraine- just so maybe I would have an excuse to take a day off.

No. Such. Luck. Healthy as a fucking healthy horse.

Then? Holidays FINALLY come around and I don’t set my alarm and but wake up bright-eyed whith a tail way too bushy to enjoy a sleep in.

I can’t remember the last time I slept past 7am.

This? Is deeply upsetting.

And let’s not be silly! Of course I don’t want to mark the pile of year 10 essays that eye me off and induce a deep feeling of guilt every time I walk past the study- I’m not THAT desperate!

Anyway, considering the very fact that my days are spent in complete futility I figured this post would consist of some inane babbling about my currently uneventful life and possibly a rant about Mother Nature’s incessant intent on being a silly, silly whore-bag, which has caused us to be stuck inside with nothing to do, and has, subsequently resulted in me:

A. Becoming a master of the blanket fort- architectural engineering of the blanket is so much more advanced when you’re an adult.

B. Inevitably becoming obsessed with Angry Birds, so much so that I have begun to incorporate modified phrases into my vernacular that have been directly inspired by the game. For example- “Hey Canada, by eating this cookie with one hand and scratching my leg with the other I am killing two pigs with one bird!”

See what I did there?

C. Realising that facebook is fucking boring. Wait. I think I already knew this.

Speaking of boring things: The Canadian cashed in all our frequent flyer points and bought an ugly, fuck-off-big television. I am even refusing to call the thing by its more widely used acronym for fear of instilling a false sense of endearment through nicknames.

Since this purchase I have taken every possible opportunity to point out that television is one huge cluster-fuck of utter shit. Granted I have watched 6-9 (definitely under 10) documentaries on the likes of Marie Antoinette, Scotland’s history and so on but I am yet to be convinced that the majority of what appears on this big black rectangle of death isn’t making me dumber.

On that note I am off to take an IQ test now to settle said anxieties. Ok really I'm just going to eat more cookies and play Angry Birds.

Read More 6 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Hey Hey Va-Jay-Jay

A few months ago I took some students on ‘The GREAT Victorian Bike Ride”. It’s this huge organized ride that sees mass amounts of cyclists ride through some of the more remote areas of this beautiful state I live in. The ride was over a week and was 590km long- if you talk in miles, I can translate:

590km= a fuck-off long way.

So me, 12 students and another teacher, just out on the open road. Riding all day and camping at designated camp-grounds during the night:

I love camping but with camping on organized events such as this, comes communal showers and of course, with communal showers comes forced exposure to nudity.

I have no hassles with nudity. Least not my own; I’ve hung out at a nude festival and spent 3 years in a girl’s boarding school. I’ve seen my fair share of vagina. Hell I’m still trying to erase the memory of walking in on my 190 ‘kilogrammed’ boarding house mistress as she was “flossing” her privates dry.

Shudder.

Moment absolutely and most vividly relived.

Nudity. Could not bother me less. But look, call me old-fashioned but I just think at no point in a student’s life should they EVER have to see their teacher naked. I mean I’ll admit for a teacher I don’t think it would be terribly horrific to have to see me naked but I am a firm believer in the fact the students should never ever ever see their teacher’s in all their genital-glory.

Once in high school, on swimming sport’s day, Mrs Nedgo did change straight out of her wet one-piece in stark, bouncing, all-bets-are-off view of the entire year 10 cohort of immature teenagers who were prudently and desperately clinging to their towels as they changed beneath them for cover.

For the rest of my years there, I couldn’t look her in the eye.
And let’s not bring up that whole boarding mistress incident again.

I think I just did.

I also think I just spewed up a little bit in my mouth.

Anyhoo. So communal showers. I chose to shower in my bathers. One evening there was these two women who were- let’s not fuck around- morbidly obese. One of them even had a mole on her arse and I think it winked at me.

Anyway the moled mole had the sheer audacity to verbally denounce my choice of showering sans public display of va-jay-jay. Something about being comfortable naked, flaunt what God gave you, blahdy blahdy mole mole.

I was livid.

But you know what? I didn’t say anything. Not because I have insufficient back bone but more because she was morbidly obese on a physically demanding event and had a winking mole. I figured that her life was probably tough enough.

Read More 2 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

That's Not My Name!

Lately I've been on the receiving end of an ongoing situation in which a multitude of completely unrelated people have been mispronouncing my name. My name is mildly obscure I must admit, so these people can be forgiven for such an expected faux pas, it's the reactions and the varying rectification choices one has when encountered with this situation that has become a point of interest for me.

After recent field work and experience I've come to realise one crucial reality on this here situation:

That there is only a short period of time or window of opportunity within which you are able to correct a mistake-maker which occurs somewhere after their initial making of the mistake and before their continued application of the misconstrued name.

This arbitrary amount of time is crucial in the amendment of the mispronounced name, as once it has lapsed, it becomes utterly awkward and almost impossible to correct the mis-pronouncer.

Case in Point:

At the gym, somewhere in the 5 days a week I'm there and the 673.8 days I've been a member, somebody, somewhere mispronounced my name, leaving out the very necessary and conspicuous 'd' that appears in the latter portion of it. This one little mistake which went uncorrected and was heard by an entire class of gym-goers, has created a domino effect of misinformed acquaintances who now genuinely believe my name is D-less.

Now, now, now I implore you- do not take pity on me, no one is to blame here other than myself, as you see, it was I who stumbled, who hesitated, who did nothing.
That window of opportunity?
Shut.
Gone.
Never to be opened again. And now that the grace period has expired, it's too late to make corrections because they have been calling me this d-less version of my name for over a year, and now it seems if I were to correct someone it would both be futile (seeing SO many of them are making the mistake) and completely awkward and confronting- the two situations I do not deal very well with. The former because I am already sufficiently awkward enough and any increase in my levels of awkwardness would most likely cause me to spontaneously combust. The latter because I simply cannot handle it (a trait inherited by one Davy Sprocket).

So then, I ask you- do I get over it and correct them? Or do I get over it and embrace my name in all its d-lessness?
x

Read More 11 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Nuts About The Canadian

My love of all nuts, paired with The Canadian’s morbid allergy to nuts, has become somewhat of a vexing element in our relationship.

Hazelnuts, almonds, pine-nuts (especially pine-nuts) and even pecans are in my top 10 list of likes…

Not so for the Canadian. Not. So.

If you changed the term “likes” for the term Kryptonite, then we would be getting warmer.

For the first 20 or so years of his life, he was scrupulously cautious and unadventurous with his choice of comestibles and managed to survive the entirety of this portion of his days sans Epi-pen (a.k.a MASSIVE needle with a single shot of adrenaline, used to kick start the body to quickly begin staving off the anaphylaxis).

Enter The Australian (a.k.a Me).

In the 5 years that The Canadian and I have been madly in love, I have managed to play a part in over three episodes of anaphylactic shock. Specifically, in which the Canadian has ended up in hospital and in desperate need of the previously non-essential epi-pen.

In case you’re not good with numbers, that ratio does not look good.

One of these episodes occurred last winter when we were staying at a friend’s place after a music festival. Said friend was enjoying these delicious little muesli clusters and I, as the ever cautious and adoring girlfriend, meticulously scoured the ingredients list for any mention of nut inclusion.

Nil.

Me: “Try these, they’re amazing.”

TC: “Nah, you know I don’t like to mess around with that.”

Me: “Stop being so boring and try these, they’re delicious.”

3-7 minutes later, The Canadian enquires whether granola clusters in point have also caused my tongue to “tingle”.

I explained that I supposed he could say that (however mild and quite possibly imagined the level of tingling may be).

17-20 minutes later, The Canadian enquires whether the host would possibly have a Ventolin inhaler, because after 15 years asthma free, he could be in need of some kind of air passage dilation aid.

Note, no connection is at this stage, been made between any prior happenings or ingestions.

27-45 minutes later, The Canadian has gone all Woogie and I’m feeling the sharp clutches of the guilt police closing in on me.

Precisely 48 minutes later, we are in the E.R and The Canadian is being injected with antihistamines that are stronger than Gary Busey’s “normal” pills.

Needless to say that was the ~~second~~ last time I forced The Canadian to try something more exciting than tuna melts.

Props to him for always trusting me.

I love you boy boy.

Read More 10 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Spring

One old day,

One day soon,

When the grass will be green.

And the swamp, sodden ground,

Will be dried up and clean.

I will call,

I will ring,

On my cup and string phone.

And the Sunshine in me,

Will no more be all gone.

The streamers are blowing,

And the sun it does shine,

And the children roll down,

On the steady decline.

The breeze is just happy

And the air it is warm,

I take it all in

And my life does transform.

I will take,

I will find,

My old pencil case

And take from it, some white-out

And use it to erase.

I won’t remember, or know

About the cold winter-time.

I’ll be content, overwhelmed

With feeling new and sublime.

I’m gonna see,

I’m gonna hear,

Only good things;

Like, flowers, like puppies

And like phones made with string.

Read More 7 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Shoosh-up

The other night, I witnessed a social situation that completely intrigued me.

What was happening was a public address, in front of about 70 people, at an informal gathering, where say, 30% of the attendees were in fact, children.

Children, as you may have observed, are quite noisy and excitable and do not always appreciate social etiquettes like being quiet when some boring old guy is giving a boring old speech.

[Side note: Perhaps this is what makes children so endearing and care-free, the fact that they are completely oblivious to any punctilio of our (conformed) adult world.]

Anyway the dude with the microphone was addressing the crowd and there was this woman amongst said crowd, who took it upon herself to be the unofficial manners police and shoosh everyone for not paying attention.

Ironically, she was so focused on the noisy children and so busy shooshing them, that she was not giving proper attention to the speaker herself.

I found it really quite difficult to decide what was more annoying. Yes, people talking during a public address is quite a nettlesome situation, but the hostile nature of this woman’s shooshing eclipsed that of the incivility of the naïve children’s ongoing chatter.

At least they had an excuse.

She was just so perturbed. I was, as you could imagine quite entertained by the one-sided condemnation and by the assumptive prediction that the knots in her knickers would take a lot of concentration, time and effort to untangle.

Some. People. Should. Just:

and mind their own business...

It has to be said, I’m not entirely against the public shoosher. Especially if shoosher in question is shooshing someone on my behalf. But in such a situation like this, where this woman had absolutely no obvious reason to take this upon herself and even less obviously, any reason to be as dismayed by the noise levels of a crowd....

Well, I think she either:

A) Needs to get laid

B) Needs to loosen her knickers

What do you think?

Read More 7 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Gretzky-pup's Growing

The pup'sa gettin' bigger*.

(*Sung to the tune of that dodgy and incomprehensible song entitled, "The Nips are Getting Bigger" By 'Mental as Anything'.)

Read More 1 Comment | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

How It Should Be (Sha Sha)

The credibility of what is deemed newsworthy by various infotainment merchants (*cough Herald Sun cough*) is becoming downright, utterly humiliating. In the last week alone, the Herald Sun has had, everyday, as their front-page, headline story, something pertaining to sport or players of sport.

Who gives a flying PUCK that Gary Ablett Jnr is back with his girlfriend?? Pardon me, but I’m a little inclined to think there are more pressing matters at hand. Such as the looming election!!!! In which the choice of candidates is between a flaming, bogan ranga:

And a speedo-wearing, fundamentalist buffoon who is quoted as being the "bastard child of George W. Bush and Sarah Palin":

Much more important than a footy player's love life.

Call it sacrilege, call it what you like but I think we take sports just a leeeeetle bit too seriously. I mean really, paying 20 bucks to watch grown men tackle each other and kick an oddly shaped ball through 4 big sticks? NOT my idea of a good time.

Last weekend, I went with The Canadian to watch the Melbourne Ice Hockey Team play at the new IceHouse in Melbourne. I adore the Canadian and would follow him anywhere (obviously) but I was AB.SO.lutely appalled when I saw these (couldn’t-make-it-in-Canada-so-had-to-come-to-Australia) hockey players filing into their bench thingy not having the courtesy to high five this little kid whose hands were stretched out so far and Gumby-like he looked like he was about to soil himself, or burst a kidney, (either seemed equally possible) just to touch these guys.

Granted the kid was severely disillusioned to the level of grandeur deserved of these player, but come on, it’s a kid and you’re an unknown, unpaid sportsman.

Needless to say, I immediately started cheering for the other, visiting team and my position on sports players was confirmed.

I hate spectator sports and I don't particularly like spectator sport players (with a few definite exceptions) and I CERTAINLY don't like that our state's major newspaper insists on reporting on tabloid type stories in lieu of that which is really important.
X

Read More 11 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Some Mothers Do Have 'Em

When I was a kid, I was, uhh, how shall I put this? A little dramatic… to say the least. My parents used to call me Lady Godiva. Although I think more because I had long blonde hair and less because I chose to ride naked through town to oppose certain taxes…

Anyway, I genuinely thought (and perhaps a little part of me still does) that I was going to be famous. After watching movies like Cinderella or Grease, I would be instantly convinced that I was going to fall in love with some highly desirable Prince Charming/Danny Zuko type and I would be whisked away to some kind of castle/sunny-high-school-graduation fair.

Anyway, one year my mum’s best friend made my older sister this sweet granny’s nighty with penguins all over it. Boy was I jealous. Apart from being rather partial to penguins, I thought, in this nighty, my sister resembled both Cinderella and Sandy Olsson from this scene of Grease:

I obviously had to have one.

So I begged my mum’s friend to make it for me and she finally gave in.

Man I was SO chuffed.

I honestly, would sit in my room, wearing that little nighty, singing “hopelessly devoted to you” or just wishing I could go to the ball. In that nightdress, I felt like I was Cinderella.

Anyway this story is one that the parentals simply love to bring up to make me blush, and I figured, I may as well just get it over with and tell the entire world (or my 40 readers) myself.

So one night my parents were having this huge party and I was of course wearing my granny nighty. Mum asked me to go and clean up my toys and I was more than a little disgruntled because I wanted to stay at the party. So I stormed off to the play-room and as I was packing up my toys, it suddenly dawned on me; the dress, the situation….

I was EXACTLY like Cinderella.

All I wanted to do was be at the ball and my evil mother was making me do chores instead. And the fact that I was dressed in my Cinderella nighty made it all too obvious what needed to be done.

So I marched out to that party to assert my dissatisfaction, in front of my parents and their 30 or so guests.

And, at the top of my voice, in the middle of the goings on I yelled:

“It’s Cinderella do this and Cinderella do that….

AND LOOK AT ME! I even have to wear rags………”

As I dramatically spun round to exit stage (or dining room), I was so bloody impressed with myself for finally being able to voice all that the unassertive Cinderella could not, that I don’t recall the eruption of laughter that my parents tell me occurred as a stormed off back down the hall to finish my chores….

Some mothers do have ‘em....

Read More 12 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

The Anti-post

Apologies for the lack of consistent postage over the last week. On top of feeling uber stressed with my job, I've also been feeling a little forlorn with the blogging world of late. You know, the original blogger blues- Trying so hard, spending the time to write the posts and not getting a hugely satisfactory response. Don't misunderstand me, I love love love my few loyal followers but I actually handed in my mental resignation for the blogging world on the weekend. However I am a punter and I' m back to give it my all.

All together now: 'YAY!"

Ok, so getting to the anti-point. If you are reading and liking this here blog, or you read and like this here blog often and you would like to continue reading this here blog, I need a little encouragement. You can follow this blog by clicking here, or the "follow" button on the right hand side. Alternatively, or in addition, depending on how compassionate you're feeling you could even comment and say things like: "Please don't stop posting Corinda, I love you too much to see you go!" or something to that effect.

On the weekend I went to see this amazing band, Tinpan Orange play and I pretty much developed a serious girl-crush on the lead singer Emily. I met her after the show and she told me she loved my hair, consequently, I had an, "I carried a water-melon moment" and replied by confirming that, "it's real".
If you desire to do so, you can fall in love with them too by going to their Triple J unearthed site and listening to songs like "Lalala" and "Lovely".

I did a review of the gig for the Word On the Street Magazine, if you want to, you can read it by clicking the link. My old friend Robyn of Robyn Bell Photography took some beautiful shots of the show:

Robyn is uber talented, if you have facebook, you should "like" her page. I like her page both facebookly and in real life.

Let's never fight again eh?

Read More 5 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Things They Never Tell You Til It's Too Late. Part 2

You can’t please everyone.

And even though your students love you and most people in your life think you’re pretty awesome and slightly adorable there will always, inevitably, be some haters out there who refuse to succumb to your charms…. Specifically, the elderly parents of a student you have a very amicable relationship with who come in and interrogate you on your age and in less than these words ask you what you could possibly know about the world and patronise the living essence out of you until your confidence has been completely undermined, you are sure your face is red and they have made it clear they think you’re too young and naïve to be able to teach a dog to bark let alone a student to read. You try your darndest to stick up for yourself even though you know you’re supposed to be discussing the child’s abilties, not your own, and the scoff building inside your jugular almost gets the better of you when they berate you for incorporating computer work into your class when you should be teaching Grammar, because:

“No one ever got anywhere with computers, you need to teach the kids to think for themselves”.

Yes, sir. No one EVER got anywhere with computers.

Really, I just can't think of one single person who got ANYWHERE with computers...

Yep, you can't please everyone.....

Read More 5 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Things they never tell you ‘til it’s too late 1:

When you’re in grade school and you have to make a poster about what you want to do when you grow up, it is inevitably either too ambitious:

or is the complete and utter opposite... lack lustre and mediocre at best:

In time, the likes of the latter becomes painfully realistic and mortifying, as you bus tables during uni holidays to replenish your bank account with drinking money and of course your grade school teacher happens to come in and order a half-strength, skinny-soy latte and a scone and you just know she’s remembering your childhood aspirations and making assumptions. You can’t help ponder whether you think she’s happy for you for achieving your dreams, or disappointed about all that wasted potential….

Read More 3 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Guest Post- "Might & Main"

Have any of y'all had a chance to check out the Might & Main website? The lovely creator, Michelle, of Oh Mishka, has kindly agreed to do a guest post on my blog, about her positive revolution and the catalysts for its genesis.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

First of all, thanks for having me on your blog, Corinda.

I created my new blog, Might & Main, last month because I was tired of accepting less than I wanted from life. Society teaches us that the proper way to live is to grow up, go to university, get a job where we can be moderately successful and force ourselves to work our whole lives.

Well, frankly, I disagree. I don’t see the value in working at a job I don’t love just because I’m supposed to. Instead, I’m going to create a “job” for myself doing what I love- blogging.

This is my life, so I’m going to live it just how I want to.

The tradeoff is that now I work harder than I’ve ever done before. Chances are, if you leave your traditional job to strike out on your own, you’ll work exponentially harder too.
I don’t mind because, to me, it’s worth it. I’d rather work my hardest doing what I love than put in a half-hearted effort doing anything else.

Ideally, everyone would do the same.

But if everyone left their jobs to do something else, wouldn’t the world stop functioning?

No. Because some people love their jobs already. My boyfriend, for example, wants nothing more than to be an engineer. He’s worked his hardest to get where he is and continues to work his hardest daily.

Now imagine if everyone was so passionate about what they do that they worked their hardest. The world, instead of falling apart, would become a place of productivity and satisfaction.

Michelle
--
http://mightandmain.net
http://twitter.com/ohmishka

Read More 3 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Naked Orthodontist

Seeing we've been discussing paying people for services* and the professional relationships we have with these people; I thought I should tell you about the time when I was in year 11 and my girlfriends and I went to work in a Juice Stand at a festival. The festival was geared towards the bohemian and the free-spirited. It was a place for people to be free and happy and clothing was, if not discouraged, optional... Our juice-boss’s juicing machines were rigged up to bicycles. As there was no electricity at the festival, we powered the blenders by peddling the bikes. Oranges, bananas, strawberries in, peddle, peddle, peddle, voila, bon appétit!

Anyway, as I said, nakedness. Everywhere. Yes, I did it. Only once, on the last day, when we had gone for a swim. If I told you it was amazing and liberating would you hold it against me?
No? Good.
Yes? Boo!!
Anyway, like I said, clothing was optional and mostly people were only naked when they were swimming and would dress when eating, singing or say, buying juice.

Mostly.

There was this one guy who chose to be naked ALL. THE. TIME. Eating? Naked. Running? Naked. Perusing the market? Naked. Buying juice at the Juice stall? You guessed it, naked. And look, this was fine with me. Clearly. I wouldn’t have gone if it wasn’t. The thing that made this all a little bit uncomfortable was the fact that this guy was actually my orthodontist and had been in close and direct contact with my mouth and face for about the preceding 4 years.

One morning he had come to the juice stand for his morning orange juice and it was just me doing the morning shift, so I simply couldn’t avoid him. I was a little flustered but you know, I eased up when he asked to look in my mouth and see if there was any movement in my teeth since my braces had been off…..I kid you not.

If that wasn’t awkward enough for you, please, read on.

The weather was nuts that summer. It was about 40 degrees and I was dirty, hot and peddling my arse off for hours a day and pennies in pay. And when I said dirty just now, I meant dirty. At most festivals, B.Y.O alcohol is prohibited, at this one, the illicit substance was soap…

Anyway I guess my immune system was having a tough time fighting off all that no soap allows. Well, that combined with the heat and the sight of hundreds of naked bodies in all their glories, shapes, sizes and varying degrees of hairiness, made my tummy a little bit upset to say the least.

So I was peddling the shit out of that little bike, absurdly hot and trying desperately hard not to look down, when all of a sudden I started to feel reallllllly nauseas. When it finally became allI too much from me, I ripped the blender jug off the front of the bike and vomited directly in front of me and directly onto my naked orthodontist's, (surprisingly) shoed feet.

Needless to say, neither of us mentioned the festival the next time I had my teeth checked, and I pretended that I had never ever even come remotely close to vomiting on his penis.

* hooker thoughts again?

Read More 9 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Funny and True

The inner teacher in me is grieving the lack of apostrophe..... the inner kid, laughing that this was on a coke stand.... the inner romantic.....loving it.

Read More 2 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Ice, Ice Baby

In 2007, when I was young and dumb and full of rum (was?), I packed up all of my important belongings and followed The Canadian to the other side of the world. To the place he called “The Great White North” and “home”.

Before I moved to this other-hemispherical country, I had only heard stories of its sub- zero temperatures and had never experienced them first hand. It’s laughable to think that when The Canadian told me it could get to 40 below, I genuinely and naively assumed he was blowing smoke up my arse.

The day I left Australia, it was 42 degrees Celsius. 30 whatever hours later I arrive in Ottawa, Canada- a.k.a THE COLDEST EFFING PLACE ON THE PLANET! Where I had effectively gone from 40 above to 20 below, that’s a 60 degree difference people. 60 DEGREES!

No person nor thing can prepare a little Aussie kid for the torture of sub – zero temperatures. Nor can one be prepared for the horrific wretchedness of snow and all that it encompasses.

All that it encompasses:

Snow itself- The white stuff that looks so romantic and beautiful from inside by the fire but drags you outside, away from said fire, to shovel it all from your driveway and off your car:

The actual temperatures needed to produce the right environment for snow- That which forced me to wear water-proof boots, look like the Michelin man and spend 10 minutes prior to leaving the house dressing:

Once I left the vacuum cleaner in the car overnight and it had a metal handle. When I tried to put it down after carrying it back into my apartment….couldn’t. Frozen… Stuck… Ouch. Also forgot to dry my hair properly one morning….snap.

Slush- The disgusting, cold, wet point where the snow is beginning to melt into water but hasn’t quite made it.

Ice- My number one enemy in the universe. If I was more conceited, I could be convinced ice was created purely to taunt me. Bane of existence= Ice.

I’m a klutz. I’ll be the first to admit it. If there is a knee to be knocked, a hole to fall in, or a something to trip on, I am always (unwillingly) able to oblige. Now, Ice and I, we started off ok; I would jump on the weak ice and feel that satisfying crack as it shattered. Alas, I became cocky. I realise that now. I was way too exuberant in such a volatile environment. One day, I was running and jumping to crack the ice in my driveway and what was subsequently cracked was not the ice, but my back and the back of my head.

Ice-1

Corinda-0

What proceeded from this day forth was a monumental thrashing in which ice took the trophy and I took seemingly endless and physically brutal beatings.

Needless to say, the next year and a half was spent dressed like the Michelin man and mostly prostrate. Not in the way you may be thinking (kinky?), but flat on my back, humiliated after another beating by the ice.

My attempts at skiing were an (absolutely hilarious) disaster. Fortunately for you, my darling friend, The Spaniard caught footage of me on one of these attempts. Thus for your viewing pleasure I have included it here for you. Me attempting to cross country ski down a very small pimple of a hill, will surely prove how incompetent I was when it came to things of the other hemisphere:

Now for an added bonus, and if you're not yet convinced of my sheer and utter ineptness; more footage. This time of me trying to get up from 'falling down the slope':

Like laughing at other people’s inabilities do you? You’re sick you know that?

Read More 4 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

You know, like nunchucka skills, bow hunting skills, computer hacking skills...

I've.

Got.

Mad.

Skills.

Read More 3 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Fantastic Chiropractic

For as far back as I can recall, I’ve had “back problems” and I’ve had to visit various, sometimes questionable professionals with their various and sometimes questionable methods. From the self-declared 140-year-old ancient Chinese herbalist who, by the way, did not produce and solid evidence, upon request, to support this claim. To the Chiropractor I have been seeing off and on since I was 11.

So The Chiropractor has been a part of my life for obviously quite a long time now; over 10 years and was visited, during those initial few, pre-teen years by my sister, and myself almost weekly.

Whenever I would lie on his table I would get this overwhelming sense that the man could read my thoughts and I would focus so hard and intently on not thinking anything disagreeable or unpleasant, that he logically concluded I was chronically tense and would therefore require weekly visits in which the ritual cycle of misconceptions from both patient and doctor would perpetuate and of course result in more concern from my highly strung mum and thus in turn, more appointments and so on and so forth.

Anyway, I went to boarding school and then moved to the city to complete university and followed the boy to his cold country so it had been some time since I had seen The Chiropractor when I returned at the start of the year for another visit. My back and legs had been giving me a hell of a time since I’d taken up Triathlons and I needed help, so I looked to the only tried and tested method I knew, to relieve these ailments.

Here is proof that I actually did triathlons in case you (know how much I love sitting on my arse, eating cheese and home-made pizzas, drinking wine and) were skeptical:

On my first visit in about 4 years, I am lying prostrate on the table, when The Chiropractor enters, touches me lightly, mid-back and asks:

"You don’t normally drink coffee do you Corinda?"

Me- "Uhh, well no"

TC- "But you drank some today yes?"

WOAH.

Anyway, I went to see The Chiropractor three times a week for about 7 weeks and nothing seemed to be getting better. A friend of mine suggested I try this local masseuse and it was with him I found instant relief- which was amazing for me but created a certain predicament for my sense of morality:

I no longer needed The Chiropractor.

Problem was, I had already booked an appointment prior to getting the massage and could not cancel, so went along, knowing it would be our final session together. The entire time I spent completely focused on thinking as loudly as inaudibly possible, In a desperate attempt to not allow him his usual, presumed omniscience:

"meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow"

At the end of the appointment I was sort of unsure of how I should act or what I should say. I ended up walking out, just as normal, as if I’d be back next week- just to avoid any awkwardness. When the receptionist asked me when I would like my next appointment, I ashamedly made up a little excuse about me forgetting my planner and that I would call when I knew what time would suit.

Don’t look at me like that- What was I to do?

Is there a correct way to break up with your Chiro or any other professional, for that matters, whose entire relationship with you is entirely dependent on you paying them?*

Should I have made another appointment (and spent another $60) just to break it to him face-to-face that I wasn’t coming back, or is the way I left things sufficient?

Input welcome, in fact compulsory !

*Did you instantly think, “hooker” when you read this? I know you totally did.

Read More 2 Comments | Vomited from the mind of Corianda |

Phrase Phase

Howdy

This is my blog. There are many like it but this one is my own. Within it I make (debatably) witty observations about life or something like it. During the day I teach teenagers things about the world and the English language. I read philosophy books and classics and I have an impressive vinyl collection. I appreciate the small things and I try to make the world better everyday. I love to write and take photos of pretty things using my Diana. I'd loan you my toothbrush...

"For an occurrence to become an adventure, it is necessary and sufficient for one to recount it."

Happiness Is A Warm Cookie

Hey Hey Va-Jay-Jay

That's Not My Name!

Nuts About The Canadian

Spring

Shoosh-up

Gretzky-pup's Growing

How It Should Be (Sha Sha)

Some Mothers Do Have 'Em

The Anti-post

Things They Never Tell You Til It's Too Late. Part 2

Things they never tell you ‘til it’s too late 1:

Guest Post- "Might & Main"

Naked Orthodontist

Funny and True

Ice, Ice Baby

You know, like nunchucka skills, bow hunting skills, computer hacking skills...

Fantastic Chiropractic

Phrase Phase

Howdy

About Me

People Who Have Great Taste In Blogs:

Blogs I'm liking

Blog Archive

****

Search