Monday, December 24, 2012

May your Yule logs be frog-laden this Christmas (another bog blog)

You know how things always happen at the worst possible times?

Just in time for Christmas, and family visiting, our toilet broke. No Yule log jokes please.

Proof positive that the Universe has a sense of humour (and is a bastard) - and that I CAN EVEN MAKE A CHRISTMAS POST ABOUT THE TOILET.

Despite our lavatory challenges, from my lily pad to yours, I'm wishing all of my lovely readers a safe, happy, and stress-free festive season. And functioning toilets.

See you all after Christmas Day sometime.*

*Or maybe sooner. Does your bog work? I'll be right over...

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Hello, Alan Rickman. The Christmas Post.

I adore Christmas. I always have. I decorate the house, put Christmas music on, cook a crazy in this hemisphere it’s so hot turkey, ham and all the roasted trimmings.

At this time of year our movie favourites come out. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, Scrooged, A Muppet Christmas Carol… all quality stuff on high rotation around here when it’s time to get your Yule on.

These are all standard Christmas movies. About Christmas. Set at Christmas time.

I have another collection of Christmas movies that are a bit different. These are the ANTI-Christmas movies. These are the ones set at Christmas time, but not about Christmas.  
Trading Places. This came out in 1983 - WHEN I WAS 15 PEOPLE JAYZUZ I’M OLD –
and is one of my all-time favourite movies regardless of genre. YEAH.

See the movie, then you’ll get the joke. YEAH. Hilarious image from here.

Gremlins - 1984. Don't get him wet, or feed him after midnight.
Image from here.
Die Hard - 1988. Bruce Willis and HELLO, ALAN RICKMAN*.
Way to crash a Christmas party, John McClane. Image from here.

Ghostbusters 2 – 1989. A sorry follow-up to the original but a worthy
ANTI-Christmas movie just the same. Image from here.
Lethal Weapon 2 – 1989. No pics of Mel thanks. Image from here.

Hmmm**. People losing all their money, forging unlikely allegiances, children disobeying instructions, people trying to kill each other, houses being wrecked, spirits rising from the dead  and HELLO, ALAN RICKMAN.****

Maybe they were about Christmas after all…

Have a cool Yule y’all and be kind to each other.

Can you name any other ANTI-Christmas movies?


** The 1980s was the decade of anti-Christmas movies. Or am I just showing my age.***

*** Don’t answer that.

**** OK so Alan Rickman isn’t directly related to Christmas but HELLO, ALAN RICKMAN.
HELLO, ALAN RICKMAN. Hans Gruber taken from here.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Harassment, possum-style

Dear PT Barnum,
This letter is in response to your unjustified legal action accusing my clients of harassment. Our clients (Frog and Partner) were within their rights when pointing a massive halogen lamp and camera at their own roof line at11pm on the night in question. My clients were not expecting to impact on your quiet enjoyment of the property as required under the Residential Tenancies Act.

My clients were surprised when you appeared, and any filming of you on was accidental.

My clients strenuously reject your assertion that they were running along in the dark, giggling, bumping into each other and hissing “ssshhhhh!!!!”. They were, in fact, checking that the back yard clear of obstacles, ready for the high-speed Christmas Day BBQ-to-back-door turkey-transfer.

They also reject without reservation your statement that they were “standing in their pyjamas at 11pm, on the street, hiding behind a shrub”. My clients state that they heard a noise and when they investigated,found you standing on their roof.

You state that you were standing “silhouetted against the night sky, at the helm of the ship, like a majestic marsupial figurehead,surveying your territory”.

My clients challenge this and say you were standing on the apex of their roof “looking to get your furry arse into trouble, probably with a (sexy) lady possum”.

In your legal action you state that while you were exiting the property, my clients stood laughing and waving a torch at you. My clients respectfully respond that they were assisting you in your tightrope manoeuvre across the electricity wires by shining the torch so you could see where you were going.

The noises you heard were noises of concern for your welfare, as you repeatedly and unsuccessfully tried to swing upside down, holding on by your back feet. My clients held these sounds in to a muffled snort to avoid waking their neighbours.
 Possum Gangnam-style. Abused image from here.
Given your recent history of noise disturbance, Gangnam-style dancing in hobnail boots,and dangerous circus tricks, my clients feel that they have no choice but to issue you with a notice to vacate their property within 30 days. They will provide you with alternative accommodation*, as prescribed by your lease.

Please sign the attached agreement and pop it through the manhole in the ceiling when you wake up ready to go dancing in your hobnail boots at 11pm tonight.

Yours sincerely,
D’oh and Scheisse

Lawyers to the Lily Pad

Monday, December 17, 2012

I am not serious enough for the internet (guest post)

The gorgeous Zoey is sitting on the lily pad with me today.
I adore her ascerbic wit and her photography is amazing.
She's snazbigly funny.
She also gives excellent squeeze. 
{Serious Internet Image from here}
Once upon a time, I looked like a serious person. I had a serious job in public health. I was passionate about all sorts of super important issues. I had gone to university and received a serious qualification. I’d always been studious. All things that to the untrained eye, make me look serious.

Until I found myself at a wedding and my first baby was about two. And I was faced with all sorts of serious questions like ‘so what have you been doing?’ Apparently creating an entire human and keeping her alive and/or not killing her is not an achievement. And while I tried to think of an answer that was not boring, I realised I’d lost a good portion of my bullshit ability. Which lets face it, a good part of my career in public health and marketing was based on my bullshit ability which I have to say is stellar. And as the evening wore on and I went from realising I was not serious and probably never had been to taking the piss out of everything that moved. I’m sure being on the piss helped.

At face value, the internet is not serious either. You’d think we are a match made in heaven. And we are kind of. I mean the internet has lolcats. LOLCATS people. Somewhere that has lolcats can’t take itself too seriously, surely. You say one wanker thing once, in a publication that no one reads and all of a sudden #ActivatedAlmonds is trending all over your ass. Not serious. You say one dumbass thing at a conference once and people continue to in-joke about it for freaking months. (Yep, that was another in-joke. ZOMG I’m doing it again) Definitely not serious. Or so it would have you believe. But the not seriousness of the internet is a lie. A bare-faced lie. And the lolcats are just there to distract you from just how serious it really is.

You know those slightly inspirational or slightly funny pictures that people post on facebook? People actually interpret that shit. Depending on how those people are feeling on any given day you might have given new meaning to their entire life or you might be wrong, so wrong. Or worse, you might be judging a whole minority group. Why do you hate people with [insert offended group]? WHY?! And you thought you were posting pictures of cake. You weren’t.

Also, don’t express an opinion. Be a sheep. Express other people’s opinion. That’s safer. Or better, fence sit FOREVER. The internet loves that. Because you can then keep everyone happy, all the time. You thought you were being vaguely amusing with that throw away line? Unfortunately not. You are now a troll. A troll bully. Who is stoopid. Now what were you saying about that thing I passionately care about but will forget tomorrow?

If you have a blog or a facebook account or on twitter and you don’t blog for a cause, re-share that ridiculous vaguely-related to cancer update or reteweet all the charities then I’m afraid you are a horrible waste of skin. I’m sorry, it had to be said.

I’m not serious enough. Because inappropriate jokes that the internet will never forgive me for pop into my head all the time. I find all the passion, all the outrage kind of exhausting and a bit boring. Except when I’m outraged by something then I’m all over it like a freaking rash. And then the internet gets to call me a hypocrite and then nothing I’ve ever said, ever has any meaning or value whatsoever.

After awhile you get desensitised to it. Now I’ll post a picture of my kid drinking homophobic hot chocolate WITH SUGAR, whilst sitting in a car seat with twisted seatbelt straps (I like to call it the baby death trap). When someone on Facebook complains about it (they will) I suggest they use the extremely disturbing app that will turn all of my baby pictures into lolcats. Or I’ll go into a forum where they are discussing how vanilla and annoying I am and I will only barely be able to resist leaving a comment ‘mmmmm vanilla’. But I don’t because then they might mock me by emoticon. Actually that’s not the reason, I’d be sitting there praying for the golf clap emoticon instead of the yawning one.

I spend too much time on the internet saying ‘yeah, that was a joke’. And no, it’s not me. I’m freaking hilarious. So when you see me around, please know that I am mocking everything in my head because I’m hiding from the Internet. That bitch has no sense of humour.

Zoey is a reformed perfectionist and chaos manager. She blogs in words and pictures at Good Googs, but mostly pictures. You can catch her being not serious on Twitter and posting things without hidden meaning on Facebook. She thinks the only purpose of her phone is to take photos. Evidence of this can be found on Instagram. (Frog: She also writes a pretty decent serious bio for herself).
Are you not serious enough for the internet too?

Thursday, December 13, 2012

PT Barnum is an arsehole

Afro Possum created from here and here.
Na na nananana na naaa naaa… na na nananana na naaa naaa…
Possum Circus… Possum Circus… nanana nanana Possum Circus!

Those of you who’ve read my blog before will know how interested I am in creatures.

Over here I warned you about homicidal starfish and I shed a tear for lovelorn deep sea invertebrates.

Then over here I introduced you to some tragically crack-addicted Tarsiers.

I believe I may have talked about horse shit too.

This post is about another animal. PT Barnum.

Frankly, PT Barnum is an arsehole.

One of PT Barnum’s long-lost relatives,
from the non-performing side of the family.
Photo, strangely, from a UK site

Yes, the P in PT Barnum stands for possum. We know it’s him because we’ve caught him on the roof of our back veranda, about to leap into the trees in our back yard*. For a total arsehole, he’s pretty cute.

Late every night the Possum Circus** wakes up and goes tumbling, leaping, swinging and generally stomping around in hobnail boots in our roof space. Waking us all up.

Then Possum T Barnum comes back home, scratching and thumping, doing the lasso move and singing “Heeeeyyyyy sexy lady” at around 5am. Waking us all up.

Holy shit, he is craptacularly LOUD for such a small critter.

We could call someone to catch and remove him, but they’re apparently only allowed to move possums (even circus ones) 50 metres from where they live.

Erm. I reckon PT might be able to work out how to get home.

We could get someone out to patch the holes where he’s getting in. WE can’t do it because FUCKPANTS our roof is high off the ground on one side. The problem with this option is – what if we trap PT Barnum inside our roof space? He’ll be left die of dehydration, Gangnam Style, leaving a hideous mouldy dead circus possum stink behind.

Neither of these options works for us.

So I’m throwing myself (and PT Barnum) on your mercy.

How do you evict a possum circus from your roof space permanently and humanely?


*Good luck doing this move after yesterday PT, when R cut down the closest branches to the house. Sucker!

**We think it’s actually just one possum - PT Barnum. Not sure how he manages to make so much noise, even with those hobnail boots. What’s he doing up there? Possum Circus Gangnam Style?

***I wish I knew what bastard was selling hobnail boots to small territorial marsupials. I’d buy a pair of their boots, shove them on the nearest possum and pop it in THEIR roof space. Selfish arsehats.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

May the road rise with you this Christmas

Photo from here.

No, really, it’s not. Instead, it’s a quick thankyou note to some lovely bloggers who’ve linked me in Christmas linky thingamajigs and the Sunshine Award.

I love that these wonderful, kind bloggers have linked to me – what a lovely Christmas surprise!
I adore each of you, and thank you so much for involving me in your linkies. Go check these ladies out.

The idea of these link games is to ask questions, answer them for yourself and then tag people to then do the same, in a big, fun chain-letter-blog-dance that could, frankly, go on a for about a decade. Terrific for driving traffic to your blog and maybe picking up some extra readers.

Here are my answers from these linkies for those who are curious**:
  1. What would I do with a million dollars? Pay off my home loan, sell the house and buy somewhere near some really good coffee. Give some to the RSPCA.
  2. Favourite Time of the Year? Bedtime. No, actually it’s Christmas. Bedtime. At Christmas.
  3. Favourite Festive movie? National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Can I refill your eggnog for you? Get you something to eat? Drive you out to the middle of nowhere and leave you for dead?
    Image from here. 
  4. What is your Passion? It changes daily. So ask me tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day... good luck keeping up with that one.
  5. Favourite Colour? Purple.
  6. Favourite time of the Day? See No 2 above.
  7. Favourite Flower? One that doesn’t have wild crazy plant sex every Spring and make me want to gouge my eyes out with a weeding fork.
  8. Favourite Non-Alcoholic Beverage? What are these non-alcoholic beverages of which you speak?
  9. Favourite Physical Activity? Seriously? Do you not know the frog at all?
  10. Favourite Vacation? Anywhere that includes warm weather, a pool and cocktails. Lots and lots of cocktails...

At this point I’m supposed to link to a handful of other bloggers that I admire. The bad news is, I’m not going to carry on the link. I admire many, many fabulous bloggers but I don't want to add to the business of this insane season by linking to them and obliging them to continue the chain. So yes, I am the Grinch who stole the linky.

The good news is that I want to wish everyone some peace and rest in this fuckpants crazy time of year. I hope you all survive it without too many valium-laced eggnogs.

May all your Christmas lights illuminate first try.

Image from here.

May all your trees be squirrel-free. (At this point I’d also like to add possum-free but that’s the next blog post)

Image from here.

May the road rise with you this
Christmas Season

Image from here.

*“The Sunshine Award is an award given by bloggers to other bloggers. The recipients of the Sunshine Award are: “Bloggers who positively and creatively inspire others in the blogosphere”. The way the award works is this: Thank the person who gave you the award and link back to them. Answer questions about yourself. Select 10 of your favourite bloggers, link their blogs to your post and let them know they have been awarded the Sunshine Award!”

** Probably just those three ladies I mentioned above.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

The day I accidentally waxed myself (on a tram)

So this happened last week.

On a tram, on the way home from work.

Naturally I had to tweet it*

And then something even funnier happened.

Yes. An American waxing company followed me seconds later.

This is why I love you, Twitter.

*ERMAHGERD, only14% battery left on my phone? OH THE HUMANITY!

Saturday, December 8, 2012


The emotional shit-storm of high school.
It was the best I could do.
You wanted to see a real storm of shit? No? Then shush.

Dear readers,

I have a favour to ask.

I keep waking up at sparrow’s fart.

What even is that? Do sparrows fart? I’ve never heard one, have you? Would it be very loud? Sparrows’ arses must be very small, wouldn’t you think?

And while we’re at it with stupid sayings, why do we call someone a “something extraordinaire”?

A “blogger extraordinaire”.

A “saxophonist extraordinaire”.

Like, someone can be a “blogger ordinaire”, or a “saxophonist ordinaire”?

Where was I?

Ah yes. Sparrow’s fart. At this time of the month I’m always awake early. Which is just fabulous.*

Human creatures crave connections. As a species we’re social, like our primate neighbours. We naturally tend towards grouping together, fitting in and feeling that others understand us. That craving for connectedness – the need to feel an emotional connection to another – is wonderful and terrible.

I was bullied at school (and later at university), picked on, harassed and generally made fun of, because I didn’t fit in.

I was a freak, different, weird.

I WANTED to fit in. Desperately.

So what happens when you’re denied connectedness when you need it most? You either grow a big fat denial gland and decide it’s not what you want, or you soldier on and try not to hurt too much.

My denial gland refuses to function so I soldiered on and learned that most things turn out for the best eventually. Looking back, I would have dealt with those bullies differently.

I’ve had bouts of Depression and Anxiety Disorder over the years. That’s hardly a brave revelation in these times of chronic over-sharing (hello I am the shameless QUEEN of this).

Currently I’m officially well, which is quite wonderful.

This current bout of wellness has unearthed a new challenge. For a week and a half every month, I become that anxious, horrible, aggressive person I am when I’m sick. I get PMT so badly now that for almost half the month I’m someone else. I’m Hormone Helen.

I lose that feeling of connectedness, of belonging. The walls close in. To me, it seems that everyone is having wonderful conversations without me. Everyone has bazillions of wonderful, close friends that I don’t have. I feel excluded and worthless, my connection to everyone summarily cut off.
All my connections severed.

With ironic cruelty, the need for connectedness becomes immeasurably stronger, just at the time when it’s been severed.

I’m thrown back into the emotional shit-storm of high school crapulousness. I’m that weird kid again that almost everyone hates. I blather all over social media, trying to reconnect. I usually fail because HELLO when I’m like that I’m not good company. I’m flat out crazy (and not in my usual froggy way). The snake starts eating its own tail.

When Hormone Helen isn’t visiting, everything’s fine. So I know she lies, just like Depression lies, like Anxiety Disorder lies.

So I try to wait out this week and a half each month, hoping that I don’t become so horrible that everyone, including my family, finally decides enough is enough.

You may spot Hormone Helen on my Twitter feed now and then. Please say hi to her, give her a hug and then tell her to get the fuck off social media before she hurts herself.


The Frog - Chronic Over-Sharer Ordinaire

* This is a lie.

Friday, December 7, 2012

The Hotel California Experience (all the BROWN)

If you’ve visited this lily pad before, you may know I’m a trainer in my other life. This means a bit of travel now and then. Ah, the glamorous life of the corporate traveller.

True, sometimes, I get to stay somewhere posh, where king-size beds and tiny bottles of body lotion abound.

Sometimes, I get to stay in places like this.

I think I just threw up a little at the memory.

Last week I had a brand new experience in the accommodation lottery. I'm coining it my Hotel California Experience.

I checked in late and Lurch was on Reception. Lurch in this case was called Mamun and had half the height (and half the charisma) of the original Lurch. This should have been my first clue.
Lurch is thinking “Fuckpants! Even I have more charm than Mamun.”
Image from

I was exhausted after a crazy few days of travel. Not exhausted enough, though, to not be taken aback by my room.

Decorated by skint minimalists in the 1970s.
When plywood and BROWN were chic.
So much BROWN.

 If you look very carefully you may spot some brown.

Yes that’s the view from the curtains back to the door.

Note the ceilings. Cosy. Not.
Fear not!
The bedroom was so cosy you could barely walk
between the bed and the wardrobe.

Obviously trying to make up for the lack of “cose” in the main room.

These are the instructions for turning on the TV. Yes a whole page of them.
Hotel California – you can check in but you can never teev
(because the instructions are too long)
Outside the room wasn’t much better. Things took an ominous turn on the balcony.


They’re “EXITS’. Not real EXITS.
We call them ‘EXITS’ but really they’re just a door in front of a blank wall and HAHAHAHAAAA YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!


I also shouldn’t have looked down over the edge of the weird atrium in the centre of the building.

It didn't look any better when I glanced sideways.


And to top it all off, when I went for a walk, I discovered I was clearly in a weird part of town.

All this severe oddness (and extreme BROWN), and this was all I had in the fridge:

Living the dream.
Travelling for work is just not what it's cracked up to be, you know?  Even having instant Berocca and strawberry milk loses its glamour after a while...

What craptastic places have you stayed in when travelling for work?


Saturday, November 24, 2012

The long history of New Media (anyone for a pamphlet?)

Welcome back to the Lily Pad folks. Pull up a comfy chair, sit down, pop your feet up and settle back for a small history lesson about pamphlets.

From the 1500s to the early twentieth century, pamphlets were a common way for people to share their opinions. Pamphlets were short, quickly-created publications that had a distinct aim. They related to something of common, current interest such as politics, religion, personal issues, famous people or literature. They often used satire and were frequently controversial, even slanderous. They were designed to be read by the masses.

Someone who created and distributed these pamphlets was known as a pamphleteer. Pamphlets were around before either books or newspapers.
A Pamphleteer getting his pamph on. Nice tights.
Image from
In 1518 Martin Luther* – a German religious pamphleteer – was surprised to find a private publication he’d written had been translated, copied and widely circulated by some of his friends. It soon spread through Europe. Imagine his even greater surprise when this “95 Theses” became the basis of the Protestant Reformation of the Roman Catholic Church.

Martin Luther nailing his 95 Theses to the door of the church.
This is a myth.
He sent it to them via homing pigeon or bicycle courier or something.
Never let the truth get in the way of a good
"nailing his protest to the door of the church" story.
Image from

In 1776 a pamphleteer called Thomas Paine** anonymously published a pamphlet called “Common Sense”. It would become the rallying call for the American War of Independence as it was copied and handed out across the country.

Feeling edumacated?

Now, go back to the top of this page and read it again:
  • Replace the word pamphlet with blog.
  • Replace the word pamphleteer with blogger.
  • Replace the word copied with shared.
New Media? Really?

Read any good pamphlets lately?

* Yes I know Martin Luther was many things besides being a pamphleteer. Shhhh!

** See above *. Insert "Thomas Paine" where you see "Martin Luther".



Friday, November 16, 2012

Conversations with my brain: Tarsiers on crack

Honestly Orificer I had no idea someone had spiked my cicada with crack.
Image by Mike Belleme

Me:        "Tarsiers are SO CUTE."
Brain:     "They look like they're on speed. Or crack. Or like someone is shoving something unpleasant up a delicate orifice that only the most intimate and trusted of Tarsier partners would normally see."
Me:        "They do look a bit surprised."
Brain:     "I'm not surprised they look surprised. You'd be surprised too."
Me:        "Tarsiers are gorgeous little carnivorous primates. They eat insects mainly but also birds, snakes etc. They're nocturnal."
Brain:     "If I looked like a mouse on PCP who had just received an unexpected anal incumberance I'd only come out in public at night too."
Me:        sigh
Brain:     "What?"
Me:        "I'm trying to educate us here and all you can do is bring it down to... arse jokes."
Brain:     "Yes."
Me:        "Why? Why do you have to do that?"
Brain:     "Because that's why you keep me around. And also because: arse."
Me:        "Actually I keep you around because it’d be inconvenient if you weren’t here. What with all that keeping me alive, making sure I breathe and don’t die stuff. And that was an utterly crap answer."
Brain:     "My job here is done."
Me:        "Did you know that each of the Tarsier's eyes are as big as its brain? What would you do if it was the same for us?"
Brain:     "I'd tell you to stay indoors during the day like the Tarsier does."
Me:        "Oh, ARSEBISCUITS!"
Brain:     "Arsebiscuits the unexpectedly rear-ended Tarsier on drugs. Nice."
Me:        Slams head down on desk.
Brain:     "Ouch."
ERMAHGERD! A tiny carnivorous primate!
Image from here.

Do you and your brain get along?

P.S. If you want to learn about Tarsiers, go
here for some more serious information...