So You Think You Can Dance is lame.

Admittedly, being obsessed with TV show makes calling it lame seem extremely hypocritical, but I stand by my title.

I'm only obsessed by it because I'm just stupidly jealous of everyone involved.

Take a seat friends, I have something to tell you.

I can't dance.

Nor do I think I can dance.... well there was that one time at Mustang Bar where the cover band nailed that rendition of 'Ride Around Sally' and I had my comfortable shoes on and just the right amount of Smirnoff in my system. I could definitely dance that night. Ask anyone.

Misguided weekends in my teens aside. I still can't dance.

So naturally I hate everyone on that damn show. They're all too damn flexible and attractive and balanced and coordinated and I'm not.

So in my true style, I've formed a list of bad stuff about it to make myself feel better.

Here we go....

Too many vagina shots

Don't even try to pretend you're not looking. Every time they do a lift and the chick is thrown over the dude's neck there is some serious leg spreadage going on. Something tells me the cameramen are lonely.

Natalie Bassingthwaighte

I don't think you're meant to bag out pregnant women, you're only meant to use words like 'glowing', 'hormonal' and 'curvy' (or anything to make 'fat' less harsh) so I'll go easy on that frozen-foreheaded freak. BUT WHAT IS THE POINT OF HER? No one liked 1000 Stars okay? Stop trying to hijack the show for your popstar ambitions. Just quietly go back to being the other woman in Dr Carl Kennedy's life so we can pretend to hate (but secretly love) you Izzy.

She also has an extremely annoying nose crinkle, not like those cute girls who pull it off and look even cuter with them, just this sort of twitch that makes you want to hand her a tissue before she sneezes.

The old judge who uses too many French dance terms.

Yup, got it, you CAN dance, and you know the correct terms but I don't speak dancequeen so you'll need to use simplified terms for us plebs. So don't give me that 'plie' crap, I want 'bendy knee move' and while you're at it cut the 'Sissonne' when 'jumpy jump' will do just fine. Plus he's one of those people who uses the squint to make it seem like he's got glittery eyes that just shine with emotion when ''witnessing dance in it's true beauty''. It just makes him look like an old guy struggling to read a menu then admitting defeat and just assuming there's a steak sandwich on the menu and ordering that.

Hugging

There is just waaaaaaaaay to much hugging on that show. I understand they are partners and are making dance history and blah blah blah so a hug here and there to celebrate is fine. However, it is NOT cool to hug people when you first meet them! The dancers open the door up to their choreographer for the week and hug the shit out of them... AND THEN INTRODUCE THEMSELVES!!

The excessive use of slow motion

Besides the dancing, the single best bit is the little packages in between that show the behind the scenes stuff, they all look like they have so much damn fun and have awesome outfits to match. They say really nice things about each other and it's all edited nicely into the ultimate montage and then BAM! they have to go and throw in a freaking slow motion ending so everyone's smile just twinkles that little bit. It's laaaaame. It's also overused, they put it in when someone falls, when someone laughs, when someone turns their head, when someone tosses their hair, when Natalie frowns (just to prove she is capable of facial expressions I guess) and ALWAYS when someone cries. CRYING IN SLOW MOTION IS NOT SEXY. There's snot, red blotches, stretched faces and awkward side hugs involved. Stop it, enough is enough.

Unnecessarily long shots of the choreographers reaction

Especially when they dancers royally fucked up the dance. The poor choreographer has to smile through gritted teeth and look happy even though they're totally thinking "thanks for fucking up my career you pimply shit, how hard is a backflip onto a piano? Seriously?!"

But it's possibly even more annoying when they ace the dance and they just go back and forth between the dancers and the choreographers blowing kisses and bowing in appreciation as if to say 'No I love you more! No you!'.

Yep, you did good, NEXT!

Despite it's shit parts, I still love SYTYCD (Yes I'm cool enough to abbreviate it, only true fans have that right) and I'll still watch and be jealous and sulk, I'll just make sure I turn over as soon as I see Nat Bas's (again abb. = awes.) face and watch Customs and wonder whether that's a pimple or a mole on Damian Walshe-Howling's forehead.

Swap meets are lame.

Seriously, fuck you Cleo magazine.

You think you're all inspirational for women?

You think you can change our body\fashion sense\ financial situation with a quiz?

You think you can put a perfectly tanned model in a cute floral dress next to some kooky idea or recipe and it will equal success.

WELL YOU'RE WRONG!

....but it doesn't mean I didn't try it anyway.

"Want to make some easy money? Grab some girlfriends and head to your local swap meet! A great way to clean out your closet and make some cash so you can buy some ---> insert expensive shoe brand here. And who knows? If you all giggle and wear your shortest shorts -you'll probably meet some hot boys with hot bods while you're there! Tee hee!"

Ok so the article probably wasn't that see through or that poorly written, but you get the point. Women's magazines make shit sound fun that just isn't. Anyway, when I realised I had a whole heap of crap lying around from moving house and taking anything from my parents place that wasn't nailed down, it was time to delve into the world of the Sunday morning swap meet.

You can't really describe a swap meet to someone who hasn't been there before. It's something you just have to experience. But the word must be spread to the ignorant so they don't find themselves unprepared. So what I've done is create a bit of a dictionary so you're not going in blind. A bit of a ''Dummie's Guide To...'' type of thing;

Swappie (n) [swop-pee]

a hardcore extremist in the swap meet world. These creatures can be recognised by the absence of dark rings beneath their eyes as they did not have to get up at 3.30am to get a good spot, instead they parked their packed car in the line last night and caught a taxi back to their prime position with a smug look on their face.

The mating call of this creature sounds like 'daaarl, the food van is open now, want some 'mato sauce on ya double bacon and cheese roll? And you want a double mocha ice chill or just a choc iced coffee chill?'

They have no sense of community amongst their own kind and can become fiercely competitive, especially when marking territory. Aggression is not uncommon when arguing about who's trestle table has rightful spot of bay H7.

Bargain (adj) [baaaaaaaar-gun]

Anything broken, soiled, useless, expired or mangled that has been purchased for at least 1\80th of its price when new. This includes: digital cameras with no battery or charger, Kitchen appliances from the '60s that 'just need a new cord', old necklaces with no clasp but 'would be good for the beads', unframed artwork, someone else's shoes, CD's that may or may not be blank, lids to pots, a single earring, VHS videos and auto parts of European cars that were discontinued in 1943.

Rotary volunteer (n) [wanker]

When you think of Rotary, you think of sweet old people who just want to help. Or you think of those Lion's Mints that are always on the counters of banks and Medicare and you have to beg your Mum for an extra 20c so you can upgrade to the 50c redskins. What I'm saying is Rotary people are meant to be nice. But in the world of swap meets they remind you of your evil Year 5 teacher who was a nazi when it came to tucking in your shirt. They have a fierce respect for lines, and any attempt to skip\shorten\avoid a line in any form will be met with an extremely furrowed brow and a "back of the line, no pushing in!". (Note: I didn't skip any lines, this was purely an observation of other, less swap meet practised people. Tsk, tsk.)
Rotarians of the male kind should resemble Santa, complete with jolly personality and female Rotarians should embody Mrs Doubtfire. When they yell at you for having your broken whipper snipper handle hanging 0.8cm over your marked bay, it's like finding out the Easter Bunny isn't real.

How much? (phrase) [it's unspoken, often just a look in your direction with eyebrows raised]

A rather difficult procedure in which there is no correct response. Be assured that no matter what you say, whether fair or not, will be met with resistance. Try not to let the phrase "but it's the principle!" get a hold of you. Remember this junk is all CRAP, you do not want it, sell it in return for any amount of money. You WANT money.

For example...
Swappie:How much for this 1995 Alanis Morrisette CD?
Me: Umm, 50c?
Swappie: Oooooh, guy next door is selling a 1996 version for 35c.
Me (aching to get out of there): Ok well I'll give you ten of those CDs for two dollars.
Swappie: how bout 75c?
Me: Screw you.

...

...

Me: Deal.

Your tattoo is lame.

You are not Japanese.

You don't speak Japanese.

You have no Japanese friends.

You don't even like Sushi.

So when did it occur to you that it would be a good idea to get this tattooed onto your body...





FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!!!

Communicating is lame.

Words are my enemy.

Actually wait, words aren't my enemy, people are my enemy. People and the way they use words are my enemy.

Words are actually quite useful and my possible career is centred around them and the way I use them so I should probably be nice to words.

So let's just stick with me hating the people who use them. It's always the people's fault.

Lately I find myself cringing at a few terms that are being thrown around a little too freely for my liking...


"Thanking you!" - My job involves lots of times a day where I am giving someone something, because of this there is a direct impact on how many times I am thanked. A simple 'cheers' or 'ta' or just a plain old 'thanks' is more than sufficient but some people insist on murdering this age old exchange. Why do these people feel the need to tell me that they are thanking me while they thank me? If you just said 'thank you' in the first place I'm well aware of what you are doing, there is no need for you to tell me " I am thanking you"! It's not like I look at you and say "Serving you!" when I hand you your beer do I? There is no need for either of us to provide a running commentary of our actions while we do them.
It's normally coming from a middle aged man and he always does it with a dorky smile on his face and it's hard to hate him for it. I still manage.

While I'm tearing apart gracious people - I also hate it when some say "Thankyou kindly". Aren't you already being kind when you thank me? Or were all those other thankyous just hollow? Or are you just trying to make yourself sound better by asserting that you are kinder than other thankers? What's your story! Huh!? If you must exaggerate your appreciation, just say 'thankyou very much'.


"Deets" - short and slang for 'details'. As in - "I'll send you some deets on tomorrow night" or "What are the deets for this project?"
What was wrong with the word details? It was only a mere two syllables? I think I hate it most because it's always being used by extremely white guys who just can't fit it into a sentence casually enough for me to not notice it. It just screams "I'M TRYING TO SOUND CHILLAXED"


"Chillaxed" - bleeeeugh.


"Flick you an email" - I have no idea why this one annoys me so much but I just hate how unnecessary it is. Why can't you just send the email like everyone else? There is no flicking involved at any stage of email sending. Thinking, writing, reading, typing, attaching, drafting, proofreading, cutting, copying, pasting and linking are all perfectly acceptable present participles (Yeah - take that every english teacher I've ever had!) that could be used in the process of emailing, but 'flicking' never arises! At a stretch the only time could be when you press the send button, you could possible move your cursor over 'SEND', hold the mouse still with one hand, and then flick the mouse button with the other one - but I just tried it and it really hurt.



"Naysayers" - Who exactly are these naysayers, where can I find someone who refuses something by saying 'nay'. THEY DON'T EXIST SO STOP USING THAT TERM!


"Hubby" - if you ever use this abbreviation in any way, shape or form. I am TOTALLY unfriending you on Facebook.



Sometimes people create and change words for good, like "Maccas", "Octomom" and "Oprah rich". But the other people who abuse them and coin terms like "Brangelina" should chillax before saying thanking you or I will flick them and their hubby an email saying NAY!

Exercise is lame.

I completely and utterly SUCK at estimating.

Ages, distances, weights, heights, but most importantly.... times.

So when it comes to "Finding Thirty" I'm hopeless. If go for a run - ok well I use the term 'run' loosely - I'll run about 100m out of my driveway (or is it 10m?) and then it will be time to have a quick walk to recover from that strain, and then repeat that pattern until I can't go anymore.

I figure this journey to a sweaty, tired and bored destination of exhaustion would take me AT LEAST 30 minutes. But then when I drag my arse back inside and realise it's the same episode of Neighbours playing as when I left, I'm just plain embarassed. I can't even run around my suburb for as long as it takes Karl and Susan to make a cup of tea for Toadie and explain to him that he needs to get out of Erinsborough because the writers are running out of storylines that explain why he gets such hot love interests while he too closely resembles his namesake.



And running around the neighbourhood just isn't as glamourous as the Lorna Jane commercials make it out to be. My outfit rarely consists of anything that remotely matches or is of a sports brand at all. I don't have any windswept hills around my place where the sun shines perfectly behind me while my ponytail swings in perfect unison with my arms. There's no conveniently placed concrete steps for me to run up with a even more conveniently placed water fountain at the top. I rarely see any tanned, toned and painfully good looking guys jogging in the opposite direction shooting me a flirty glance as we cross paths suggesting a future romance.

In fact, the reality is I'm wearing some daggy shorts that once formed my highschool uniform and a baggy tshirt that was bought only because I found myself needing one last item from the '3 for $10' table at JayJays. My sneakers are from the Mart of K and bear the name of Australia's own D-list hero- Guy Leach. Running down my street is no easy feat, it's a gauntlet of avoiding reversing cars and old Italian Nonnas weeding their nature strips while they secretly curse you because you don't. My once perfect ponytail has slipped out of it's band and now the back hangs out giving me an essence of mullet and I'm almost stacking it every few steps trying to keep my dam earphones in my ears because I can't make out where the 'L' and 'R' are anymore. The only source of water on my route is from a fountain at the oval which you've always been told 'someone probably pissed in it'. Seriously - who actually pisses in a water fountain? I'm no guy, but I'm pretty sure that angle is a little uncomfortable, either way I'll be buggered if I'm drinking out of it.
Struggling home I'll be trying not to let anyone see my red and sweaty face, let alone a male of the tanned/toned/hot variety.
So as I collapse on the couch and the credits of Neighbours rolls down the screen, I curse my unfitness and swear never to leave the house again and to listen to Olivia Newton John and just get a Wii Fit.

Ikea is lame.

Dear Ikea,

First of all you know I don't mean that title right? I just have this thing going on with all my blogs and I'm gonna stick with it. You know I love you.

It's just that lately I don't think you're contributing to this relationship between us as much as I am. It's just take, take, take from you.

I think you know I've recently moved house and I think you're just taking advantage of that fact. First it was the conveniently timed new catalogue in the letterbox of my old place and THEN the letterbox of the new one. It's not fair to stalk me like that. We needed time apart and you're just targeting me while I'm vulnerable.

You knew that the day I had to leave the world's most amazing cheese slicer behind with my old housemate that I'd be running straight back into your arms for another. But instead of just a cheese slicer, I left your flat-packed world armed with things I never even knew I couldn't live without. Colourful bendy straws are an everyday necessity now, do you know what that plastic is doing to the planet!? I guess I could make up with it by watering the garden with all the excess water I have after making salad, because I now have the dryest lettuce on the street thanks to that salad spinner you wouldn't let me walk past.

I hate that you lull me into such a false sense of ability too. I look at your perfectly boxed up furniture and you make me lie to myself and think 'yes, I can build that Expedit Shelving Unit' but you know what Ikea?! YOU KNOW WHAT?! I can't!! And I hate you for it. I hate you for the allen keys, and I hate you for the stupid stick man that smiles mockingly at me from the pages of your wordless instruction booklets, and I hate you for the stupid bits of wood that pop out of one end when I'm trying to hammer in the other end with a shoe.

How do you do it Ikea? How do you make me want to have a colour co-ordinated, 'birch' themed bedroom? How do you make me want to bleach all my clothes white just so they won't clash with my perfectly organised wardrobe accessories? How do you make me feel inadequate because I don't have a spicerack? Are you putting mind-control drugs into your $1 hotdogs? Because while that is geniusely evil and a cleverly marketable plan, it's just not fair.

One day I'll work out how to resist all your carefully laid out traps. I'll be able to walk straight past your 3 pack of scissors for $4, I'll ignore those stackable cane baskets that I have nothing to put in, I'll avoid the home organisation section where I always stand contemplating if I need that mini ironing board even though I can't remember the last time I used an iron. I'll hold my breath in the scented candle displays and I'll repeat my mantra - "I do not need a lantern floor lamp, I do not need a lantern floor lamp." And once I've mastered the ability to do all this, I'll be able to head straight to what I really need....

Novelty ice - cube trays.

Team sports can be lame.

There comes a time in every Australians life when they will join a netball team. For a lot of girls this is at the tender age of around 6 when your Mum enrols you in the local 'nettaball' competition. The court is half the size, the goal posts stand a looming 150cm high and the umpire's job is to ''make sure everyone gets a turn''. It's all happy families on a Saturday morning and when the games over you give three cheers for the other team and everyone wanders over to McDonalds for a Happy Meal, just like the ads. It doesn't matter who won, as long as you tried your best.

Some will play for a couple of years through primary school and others continue on. Either way, it generally all ends up the same way. You haven't played for years and then someone from your workplace\uni\group of friends thinks its a brilliant idea to get a team together for the local 'social' competition at the rec centre down the road. Sounds fun doesn't it? We'll all have a laugh playing and then go to the pub after the game and feel less guilty because we did some exercise.

But it's not always like that is it?

Your team is there for fun and a bit of physical exertion, but why is that the other teams aren't?

I recently joined a netball team and it turns out we're probably the shittest team around. Half the team is apparently in that small minority of girls who've never played before and the other are lacking some serious hand-eye coordination and other motor skills that should have probably been mastered by age 3. Like staying upright.

Either way we give it a good shot and obviously it's not our fault we haven't won a game. It's clearly the competition.

In my long netballing history I've been able to group every player into one of the following categories:

The girl who takes it too seriously:

Apparently she didn't get the newsletter about it being a SOCIAL competition, she's the one with game plans and who gets far too upset when someone steps or misses a goal. Never ever tell her 'it's just a game' because she will slap you, or she'll try to scratch your eyes out but it won't hurt because she's one of few that actually remember to cut their nails before the game. She's pretty good herself, but only in comparison to her sucky teammates. She didn't quite have the talent to progress anywhere decent in the sport so she remains in this small time competition to be a massive pleated-skirt-wearing fish in a small tracksuit-pant filled pond.

The surprisingly fast and nimble fat chick:

She's a doozy this one. When you put on your bib and look over and realise your on the fat chick you think 'sweet I can run cirlces round this bitch' and then when that whistles goes and BAM! she's half way down the court with the ball and your still trying to figure out which line you're meant to be standing on. She's also got a great centre of gravity, so in any contest contact is always going to be called against you.

The last-minute replacement girl:

She can always be identified by her teammates calling her by her position instead of her name. No one really knows her and she's normally a timid little thing that just runs up and down silently wishing no one will throw the ball to her. They never do.

The useless one:

She can't catch, she always throws it to the other team, she steps, she's always offside, she contacts, she obstructs, she is just horrible at the game. As soon as this girl gets the ball the whole team basically gives up and assumes she will stuff up. Eventually she will do something useful and the whole team will congratulate her and talk to her as if she was a child who just learnt how to use the toilet. "Awww good catch Debbieeeeeee!! Good for you!!"

The one wearing gloves:

She's just had her nails done and refuses to cut them in order to play. She looks ridiculous but at one stage in the game you'll notice that she never drops the ball and for a second - you will consider buying some yourself.

The fucking annoying tall one:

She's always a shooter and there's just nothing you can do to stop her getting the ball. She just stands under the ring and her team lob it straight to her and she scores. She frustrates the hell out of the other team but the shorter girls take solace in the fact she'd look weird with a really short boyfriend.

The nice one who always claps:

Doesn't matter if her team is losing by 30 goals she will always clap after someone scores. The crowds over it, the teams are over it, the umpire's over it and everyone's just waiting for the time to run out so it can be over and done with, but she still claps anyway. This is the girl who will always initiate the "Three cheers for the other team" and if she's extra nice she'll do the "Three cheers for the umpire."

And then there's the umpires, they are a real special breed. God only knows why anyone would willingly accept this job, it's not like the pay is any good. They come in their own categories:

The one who insists on teaching while umpiring:

Not content with simply calling 'contact' they will walk on court take the ball and re-enact the play and show those involved exactly what they did and how they should do it in future. No one cares.

The older woman who can't let go:

She was a star in her day, but now her knees aren't so good and she can't bare to leave the world of bloomers and ankle straps behind. She always wears a uniform and has one of those whistles that wraps around your fingers and dam her- she picks up EVERYTHING. Nothing gets past her and she blows that whistle like her life depended on it. Not content with simply calling out the foul, she insists on accompanying it with the hand signals and exact description. She's firm. Firm but fair.

The male umpire:

I hate these dudes. They are either sad souls who always wanted to play netball but couldn't when they were younger because it was a girls sport, so they took up umpiring to get into the scene and take their bitter revenge out on those playing. He likes to pick on anyone who is good or argues with his calls. Or... they are lonely, lonely men who are so entirely desperate they can't get a girl so resort to umpiring in some strange attempt to control women, again some sort of sick revenge thing that Freud would probably have a field day on.

The bitchy umpire:

This is often the girl who takes the game too seriously as well. She umpires in her spare time between games because she is often on more than one team. She's probably doing it so she can take notes on your teams tactics before she plays you in the next round. She runs backwards like AFL umpires do even though it's completely unnecessary because the court is only 30m long. She probably already hates you from a previous game when you played her and laughed at her. She exacts revenge by making you do toss ups so you look like an idiot. Don't piss her off.

Netball is an entirely different world to the everyday one we live in. There are hardcore players and parents taking their childs participation far too seriously. It can get really ugly very quickly. Be warned that the minute you step on that court you will take the form of one of the above. Unless you're on my team, we're all awesome.