STOP IT, PLEASE. WE DON'T NEED TO KNOW.

Ex Girlfriend of Former Bachelorette Dude Rants on Social Media about How He Hurt Her 

Read about it if you can be bothered. It's all here. Personally, there is little I care about less.

But what I do care about is the way people air their personal grievances on social media. Why do people do this? When did private lives cease to exist? And how will anyone ever be able to trust anyone again if we all just run to social media every time we are hurt or disappointed?

I see it all the time, on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. Celebrities and regular people, with or without huge followings, sharing with the entire online universe the most intimate details of their lives. The dates. The sex. The passion. The hurts. The breakups. The betrayals. The disappointments. The fights.

It doesn't sit well with me. As someone who literally makes a living from writing about my life, I am very, very clear about my boundaries. And let me tell you, I'm sure it's cost me a click or two. I could fascinate you all with tales of my romantic adventures over the past couple of years. I've had highs and lows you wouldn't believe. (Or maybe you would - you've seen similar scenarios played out on other people's accounts ad infinitum.)

I've had great sex and awful sex. I've been deeply in love and hideously hurt. I've had fantastic first dates and quite shockingly bad ones. I've had all sorts of experiences that I could have played out, blow by blow, on your social media feed.

But I haven't, and I won't, because it's just plain wrong. It would be undignified for me, it would grossly unfair to the men involved, it would be humiliating for my kids and parents, and - most importantly of all - it is none of anybody's business.

Why would I need complete strangers to understand my perspective on a relationship? How would that help my pain or healing, or allow me to move on with my life? And whilst yes, there is a definite salacious titillation in knowing why two people broke up - I mean, which one of us hasn't wondered about Tom and Nicole, or Princess Di and Charles, or Jennifer and Brad - how does it help the actual parties themselves to share their secrets online?

Have some dignity, please. Keep your private lives private. The world doesn't need to know every single detail of your lives.

And we also don't need the inevitable 'Bouncing Back from Heartbreak' stories or the 'Brave Jilted Girlfriend Rocks Bikini Body On Beach'. But trust me, people. They are on their way.

Twitter, Celebrities, & The Force For Good

Last night I realised (yet again) what a powerful tool Twitter is, and how it can be used as a force for good, and for change.

I follow the actor/comedian Ricky Gervais, who is a complete genius. I love his tweets and I love his work. But last night I took offence to one of his tweets, a joke ridiculing fat people in leggings. I didn't respond, but many others did. Ricky returned, defending his original tweet, and posting comments encouraging fat shaming by exclaiming that losing weight is simple and easy.

I couldn't help myself. I felt outraged. I responded to Ricky, explaining that eating issues are never simple. When he continued, I did too, with tweets to him about food addiction and compulsion. And he responded to me. Oh yes he did. He was reading my tweets. He was reading all of our tweets.

And guess what? He deleted his tweets. All of them.

This, people, is what I love about social media. Not that it made Ricky Gervais revise his opinion. God knows what he really thinks - maybe he is just concerned about being offensive, maybe he really did take it on board, who knows. But it allowed me, a little person, one of the masses, to be heard. It allowed me to communicate directly with an person of massive influence.

Five years ago, when I joined Twitter, I had no agenda whatsoever. I didn't intend to blog, or to forge a writing career; I simply came on board because celebrities were on Twitter and I was keen to see what they were saying. One of my first ever responses was from the actress Demi Moore and I was beside myself with excitement. (She had tweeted "Everyone needs to love each other!" I tweeted back "Do I have to? I have three kids. I'm exhausted from all the loving!" She responded "As long as you love yourself!" Shortly after, I unfollowed her. All the Ashton-fuelled love tweets were making me queasy.)

And then there was Mia Freedman. Mia was one of the first people I followed; I had always admired her, and was hoping to have a chance to engage with her. Well, I began answering her tweets, and we developed a rapport, and shortly afterwards I began writing for Mamamia. And that undoubtedly was my biggest career break. I am quite sure I wouldn't be here today if I hadn't had the opportunity to connect with her online.

These days Mia doesn't read most of her Twitter responses; she has publicly stated that she has deleted her @replies. And whilst I respect her decision - she receives a lot of vitriolic tweets and nobody needs to read those - I think it's a shame for those who admire and wish to connect with her. Unlike me, they will probably not have the chance.

Now, I suspect Mia is not alone. Most celebrities would receive hundreds or even thousands of tweets daily; it would be simply impossible to keep up with all of them.

But the fact that Ricky Gervais read and responded to his, and more - that he took the comments on board, and deleted some of his offensive tweets - gives me hope. Social media is still a formidable force. And Ricky Gervais is still a seriously awesome bloke.

And happily, I managed to screenshot the tweet. So here it is. Ricky, you can't delete me!

Helpfully circled in red in case you couldn't pick it 

Where Everybody Knows My Name. (Or Pretends To.)

I love being recognised in the street. And one of the best things about living in my part of the world is that I get recognised in the street. A lot. This is primarily because my mother lives two streets away, and is forever at the local shops when I walk down. And she tends to recognise me, probably because she gave birth to me and has seen me regularly ever since.

However, it's not just my mum who recognises me. The neighbours from my apartment block recognise me (because we see each other in the hallway a lot), and I have a friend who lives across the street who recognises me too. But - even more thrillingly - there is a café along the main road, past which I walk every day to deposit my kids at the bus stop, and the guys who work there recognise me too.

I cannot tell you how exciting this is, to walk past a café and have the two (rather delightful looking, Italian) brothers who run the joint smile and nod. Now, it's not surprising that they recognise me, considering I stop in there most mornings for a coffee and to debrief about the events of the previous day.

and what on earth is wrong with 'extra hot'???

 

"The five year old had a fever last night," I might say, and Pino nods sympathetically, or

"I have a deadline to meet and I have no ideas!" I'll complain, and Tommy looks empathic and pours my froth, or

"I went to a sex shop yesterday to research a story I'm writing," I'll comment, and the entire café falls silent and twenty pairs of eyes turn expectantly towards me.

That kind of thing.

And then there's the fact that I don't need to order my coffee. Because they know what I like.

"Extra hot skinny cappuccino?" Tommy will ask, almost totally disguising his eye roll of despair that I would choose to ruin such a beautiful beverage with unnecessary heat. And, as it's a bloody good coffee, I will forgive him the tiny eye roll that remains.

So thank you, beautiful men of Blip Café. Thank you for knowing my name, and for knowing my coffee. And for the little love hearts on my froth of a morning.

(And for those wondering, this is not a sponsored post, though I am quite hoping to get a free cappuccino or two out of it. Maybe even a slice of toast. You listening, Pino?)

Do you have a local where everybody knows your name???

Give The Woman Some PRIVACY

Poor Nigella Lawson. For those who have been in a cave these past 24 hours, she was photographed by paparazzi being abused by her husband, Charles Saatchi. Actually, let me rephrase that. I am not happy with the passive tense. The paparazzi photographed Charles Saatchi abusing his wife. So Nigella was a victim in two senses. For a start, she was a victim of her husband's abuse. And for another, she was a victim of the cold, money-grubbing photographer, who stood there filming as a female person was being attacked by male.

What a world we live in.

Many women are abused by their partners and I feel for them all. And hopefully Nigella is in a better position than many, in that she will have the financial resources to support herself if she chooses to leave her spouse. So many women do not have that luxury. So many women are forced to stay in abusive relationships because they simply do not have anywhere else to go.

However, Nigella has a disadvantage that most of us can not fathom. She is a celebrity. And as someone who has recently gone through a personal crisis of my own, I cannot even imagine the nightmare of having to live out my most intimate moments in the public eye.

I used to want to be famous. Like, super famous. When I became a woefully unsuccessful child actor, my principle motivation was not the love of theatre, nor even the joy of being in front of the camera; it was the promise of having my picture in TV Week. Once that happened, I lost interest in the whole thing.

But had I kept at acting, and had I actually shown some promise, I could have been super famous by now. I could have had paparazzi following me down the street. I could have been photographed through my bedroom window, or when I was out walking on Bondi beach. And when I was young, that sounded like excellent fun.

Now, at 44, with all sorts of life experiences behind me, I am grateful that particular childhood dreams never came true. I am grateful that I have had the opportunity to deal with my private dramas privately. And I feel deep sympathy for those who have to live out their traumas in the public eye.

I hope Nigella Lawson finds the space she needs away from the prying eyes of the world. And I hope the next time a photographer sees a person in need, they will rush to assist them instead of standing at the sidelines taking pictures. Compassion, people. COMPASSION.

There Is No Excuse

I don't get outraged a lot these days. The older I get, the more aware I am of my own flaws and limitations, and the less I judge other people. What's more, as the years go by, the more attuned I am to the dark side of the human condition, and the less surprised I am by some of the shocking things that occur.

But the Chrissie Swan saga outrages me. Not because the woman had a sneaky cigarette whilst pregnant. I mean, seriously people - do we not have more important things to worry about? She didn't beat one of her already-born children, or take to her pregnant stomach with an iron bar. She didn't mainline heroin or strap a dozen mobile phones to her stomach to send radiation to her poor helpless fetus. She didn't even smoke a pack a day. She had a few sneaky cigarettes. I mean, give me a break.

And yet the woman is required to offer a tearful apology to the entire nation because of her bad behaviour. It is outrageous. It is none of our business. NONE. It has nothing to do with you and nothing to do with me. Chrissie Swan is a 'personality'. She has made her living through media work - television, radio and newsprint. And good on her. That is incredibly hard to do and she has risen above the pack and succeeded. I admire her and I envy her.

But the fact that she has made her living through media work does not make her public property. Chrissie Swan is not Kyle Sandilands. I have listened to her radio show many times and read her columns and watched her on TV. She is respectful of other people, self-deprecating and warm. She does not deserve or invite public shredding.

As for Woman's Day, well, they ought to be ashamed of themselves. They won't be, of course, because they are a tabloid publication, and celebrate women by mocking their weight gain, pointing out their plastic surgery, speculating on their eating disorders, and celebrating their personal tragedies. Of course they're going to publish photos of yet another 'fallen' celebrity, however ridiculously fabricated the 'fall'.

I just wish they weren't pretending to believe they were doing a community service by highlighting the dangers of smoking whilst pregnant, because that is cruelly and laughably disingenuous. We all know the dangers of smoking whilst pregnant. They did it because they knew it would sell a lot of magazines, at the expense of a decent human being. And there is no excuse.

Sometimes, these days, I still get outraged.

Kristen Stewart, Prince Charles, and LOVE

Poor Kristen Stewart. Seriously. She is twenty-two years old, has made a stupid mistake, and is now dealing with the consequences in front of the whole world. Can you imagine that? I've had shocking times with my husband, and it's bad enough when the kids come in and see us fighting, but I can't even conceive of the pressure of paparazzi waiting outside my home to catch us in the act, and teenage girls screaming at me because I've destroyed their fantasies about perfect love. It would be hell. Utter hell.

Kristen is twenty-two years old, and she had sex with her director - an older, handsome, powerful man - when she was off on location. Now, I've been on film sets, and let me tell you, they are seething hives of infidelity. Everyone is doing someone else. I'm not saying it's right, I'm not saying it's fair on the partners, but it is like summer camp for adults, with a lot of stress and late nights and alcohol and spectacularly good-looking people thrown into the mix, and a certain amount of bed hopping is bound to happen.

Everyone interprets things differently, but I read Kirsten's apology and felt sick for her. To me, it wasn't a publicity stunt, or a manufactured statement, it was a direct appeal to her boyfriend to forgive her for being such an idiot. 'I love him, I love him, I'm sorry,' she said, and I wanted to cry.

love love love

I love love. I really do. It kills me when people who are truly meant to be together are kept apart by circumstance or error. I am such a sucker for a happy ending. I must be one of the few people in the world, for example, who celebrated when Prince Charles and Camilla finally got married. Charles had loved Camilla all his life (as a good, loyal tampon does), he had been pressured into marrying the wrong person, and in the end, he was reunited with his true life partner. That, to me, was a fairytale, no matter what a dick Charles was, no matter how completely un-fairytale-like he and Camilla are.

Charles married the wrong person, and Kirsten had sex with the wrong person. The stories aren't similar at all, except that they're both about true love being thrown off its path. I just sincerely hope that, like Charles and his bride, K Stew and R Patz manage to find their way back to each other.

Love is too important to let die over a stupid mistake.

Just When I Think I Haven't Mortified Myself Enough

So. I have a treat for you.

Just when I think I can't possibly expose anymore of myself.

Just when I think I can't share more of the intimate and mortifying details of my life.

Just when I think there is nothing left to laugh at.....

This turns up.

Remember that TV mini-series I did when I was 16? Well, none of the footage remains, and sadly my only VHS copy of the show disintegrated long before the invention of the DVD.

However, an intrepid reader, Suzie, dug this up from the archives of the Australian Film and Sound Archives. A very short clip from my series, Butterfly Island, showing me, as Sally, with Grandma hair, Harry Highpants shorts, no bra, and a man wearing long white socks.

I figured I could either show it to you myself, or wait until someone else outed me.

And so, without further ado, here it is.

My shame.

On The Set Of Modern Family

A strange thing happened after I met Simon Baker. I lost my awe of celebrities. It wasn't that I become jaded or world weary, it's just that, well, I had peaked. I had met my Celebrity Crush, my personal Mr Perfect, my owen Impossible Man, my He Who I Never Thought I'd Meet...

Okay, so maybe enough with the monikers.

My point is this: by the time my family and I visited the set of Modern Family the following week - one of my absolute favorite TV shows (along with Mad Men, 30 Rock and Young Talent Time) - I wasn't nervous at all. Excited, but not nervous. And I liked not feeling nervous. I was, like, totally Hollywood.

We were visiting Modern Family because our friend Michael is one of the directors of the show. (An Emmy winning director, mind you, and my god that statue is heavy).

Me with Mi(chael)'s Emmy

As we drove to Fox to meet him, the kids and my husband and I wondered who we'd get to see.

"Are we going to meet Sofia Vergara's breasts?" The Architect enquired.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Are we meeting Sofia Vergara? The one who plays Gloria?"

"You asked if we were meeting her breasts!"

My husband rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. So are we or not?"

"What?"

"Meeting her breasts?"

Yup.

We arrived at the lot at 10am and were greeted by Rachael, the delightful production assistant assigned to shlep us around in a golf buggy and fetch us donuts whenever we were hungry.

And just in case you didn't read that the first time, we had a production assistant assigned to shlep us around the lot in a golf buggy and fetch us donuts whenever we were hungry. I may be comfortable around celebrities now, but my god that gave me a thrill.

We were shown onto the Modern Family set, and it looked exactly like it did on TV, which probably shouldn't have come as a surprise to someone as Hollywood as me. Though the rooms had no ceilings, they were completely enclosed, with four walls and doors and furniture. We posed for photos on the iconic couches in which the characters are 'interviewed', and examined the contents of the prop fridges and cupboards. My son was delighted to find real food in the refrigerator, and if I hadn't been such an old hand at visiting sets, I may have been a little delighted too.

On Jay & Gloria's couch

We watched some filming, a scene involving Claire (Julie Bowen) and Phil (Ty Burrell) and their daughter Haley (Sarah Hyland) and suddenly all my Hollywood coolness fell away. They were incredible. The scene was reshot at least eight or nine times, and every single time the actors' nuances were detailed, their performances were subtly different, and the scene was as freshly hilarious as it was the first time. They deserved every Emmy they have won and I was awed.

For a painful moment, I wished desperately I had not given up my promising career as an actress. And then, for an even more painful moment, I remembered how crap I had been, and how the only award I would possibly have won would have been Waitress of the Month (and as I'm clumsy, impatient and rude, it's doubtful I even would have won that).

Sarah Hyland & Ty Burrell & me

After the filming, Rachael took us on a tour of the Fox lot like the VIPs we (wished desperately we) were. Then we chugged back to the set, and met several cast members, which, had I not been so used to meeting big celebrities, might have given me a bit of a thrill.

Rico Rodriguez II

The kids of the show were all absolutely divine - poised and confident and polite and friendly - just like Boo is in my dreams of the future. Ty Burrell and Eric Stonestreet (who plays Cameron) were warm and approachable. And Julie Bowen was hilarious, cracking jokes, talking a million miles an hour, and taking it upon herself to plait Boo's hair and interview Boo about her special blanky. (It turns out, much to my surprise, that the blanky is a 'boy', and cannot turn into a girl because it is not a 'magic blanky'. I did not know this.)

Me & Eric Stonestreet

Sadly, we did not get to meet Jesse Tyler Ferguson, who plays Mitchell brilliantly, or Ed O'Neill, who I have worshipped ever since his days in 'Married... With Children'. And even more sadly for The Architect, we did not get to meet Sofia Vergara's breasts, or even Sofia Vergara herself.

The Architect was crushed, and for that I am sorry, by my god I was relieved.

Julie Bowen

All in all, it was a very pleasant day.

And if I wasn't so totally Hollywood, I might say it was bloody awesome.

Women In Plastic Masks

I'm not hugely interested in the Golden Globes. I don't watch a lot of TV, other than Mad Men, Entourage, Chelsea Lately and every episode ever made of Spongebob Squarepants. Oh, and documentaries on women obsessed with big breasts and the history of pole dancing. (What can I say? My husband hogs the remote.)

However, last night, after the kids were in bed, I idly turned on the GG coverage. A close friend of mine was there with her director husband, and I was hoping to catch a glimpse of them. I didn't, of course. This was partly because there were a lot of people there, and partly because my eyes kept going out of focus at the sight of Jake Gyllenhaal. My GOD have you seen him? But, er, anyway...

In the past, when I've watched the Globes, I've been in awe of the beauty of the actresses, and the finery of their clothes. (And, when Simon Baker has been in attendance, the gross unfairness of his being married to someone else.) This time, however, my feelings were very different.

I felt a bit sad.

The young women looked great, as young women do. But the older women looked better - freakishly, perfectly better. Like they were wearing tight, plastic masks of the faces they once had.

I KNOW everyone wants to look their best. I KNOW that Botox and fillers are a fact of the world. But this is different. These are women so surgically altered that they don't actually look like real people anymore. There is no expression in their faces. No softness. No lines. They are not the faces of mothers. They are not the faces of friends. They are not the faces of partners, or aunties, or sisters. They are the blank faces of perfect, surgically created beauty.

Now, I'm not arguing against plastic surgery. Everyone should have the choice to do what they want to do with their own bodies, provided that it doesn't hurt anyone else, including themselves. What saddens me is that women feel pressured to do this. Can you imagine the insecurity of these gorgeous, talented, accomplished women that inspire them to go under the knife, presumably repeatedly, in the desperate attempt to look 20 years younger than they are? I feel sorry for them. I truly do.

Yes, these are Hollywood stars. They have money. They have fame. They have success. But at the end of the day, they are women, and I believe that they are terrified. Terrified of losing their looks, which to them equates to losing everything. And I feel sorry for anyone who has to live their life in fear of something so inevitable, and natural, and normal.

We all want to look good. But when the need to look good is so extreme it leads to turning yourself into a plastic mask, it makes me sad.

The Door That Jopped

The other day, I was interviewed for television by a reasonably famous television journalist. Now, I'm not going to give you specific details about why I was interviewed (so don't ask), but it was about someone else's project, not my own. I was being interviewed in the capacity of 'commentator' rather than 'star', which, quite frankly, is not at all my preference. As you know, I have never been one to shun the limelight, and I can talk about myself for hours. Still, any publicity is good publicity, so I touched up my lippy and composed myself on the couch.

'So, what was your reaction?' the reasonably famous television journalist asked me.

'Well,' I said, beaming, and offering my best side to the camera (which, obviously, was the one without the sticky-out ear), 'when I saw it for the first time, my door jopped.'

'Right,' said the RFTJ. 'Let's do that again. So, what was your reaction?'

I beamed again, a bit blankly, wondering why the hell he had repeated the question.

'Well, uh...' I started. And then it hit me. Oh GOD, I realised, did I say just say door jopped ?)'Um... my JAW, it DROPPED,' I said, slowly and carefully.

'Right', the RFTJ said, smiling and nodding back at me, clearly understanding that he was dealing with someone who had a serious speech impediment. He looked about to wrap up, but gave it one more go.

'So why do you think about it?' he asked. (Okay, so he was a bit more specific than that, but it will do for the purposes of this post.)

'Um...' I began, and my mind went blank. What DID I think about it? Did I think anything at all? I wasn't sure I did. In fact, I couldn't recall any thoughts I'd had, ever, in my life. But I had to say something.

'Well, I think it's marvellous, just marvellous,' I said, because obviously that was expected of me. I beamed again, showing my flat ear.

The RFTJ looked satisfied. 'Great! Just great!' he said. 'I think we're done here!'

'So I'll be on the news tonight, then?' I asked.

'Tonight! Yes!' He shook my hand vigorously. 'Of course you will. Don't forget to watch!' And he dashed to the next subject.

And I was on the news. A glimpse of my hair, seen from afar, as I was deeply and eloquently engrossed in conversation with someone who wasn't waving a camera in my face.

But my interview? It wasn't used. And as I watched the show, in great anticipation, my door jopped.

A Star Is Born

Usually in my blog posts I try to demonstrate how I am EveryWoman, just like you*. Not so in this post. Because in this post, I demonstrate how I have recently become a Star, elevated above the EveryWoman exponentially, kind of like Nicole Kidman, or Scarlet Johansson, or Katie Holmes (except that she’s... you know... a Scientologist).

ANYWAY, regular readers of this blog may know that I penned a little parody. Well, the other night I went to the home of a lovely young man named Adam (who is EveryMan, except that he is not really like any other man at all), and actually recorded the parody to music. You know. Made a real song. Just like a Star.

The experience was quite surreal. I arrived carrying a large bottle of champagne, partly as a thank you to Adam, but mostly as a means of enabling me to sing in front of a semi-stranger. Given that my children, my husband, my best friend, and the (cruel, cruel) Year 5 teacher who denied me access to the school choir all agree that my singing voice is abysmal, I needed some liquid assistance to get me through.

Surprisingly, though, once the music started, I was off and running. Not literally – I was actually sitting at Adam’s desk in front of his computer, where he was frantically adjusting his ‘AutoTune’ programme to make my voice sound less, well, terrible – but figuratively. So enthusiastic was I that I practically shouted my lines, barely noticing Adam wincing out of the corner of my eye (though when I did, I just thought he’d squirted himself with champagne).

It wasn’t till we listened to the first take that I realised I was out of tune. Not slightly out of tune, not in an ‘AutoTune-can-fix-that’ way, but rather in a ‘not-even-remotely-in-the-ballpark’ way. Like, I was singing a completely different tune to the one required. A tune never before heard. A tune not of this world. A tune that quite possibly could destroy civilisation.

I took another swig of champagne. Adam, who looked somewhat pained, took another seven or eight. And we tried again. And again. And again. After the fourth or seventeenth take, we were both rather drunk, I was singing in a maniacal staccato, and Adam had joined in with a bizarre falsetto worthy of any of the Bee Gee brothers. Through my champagne haze, I was awed.

Adam mixed in some sound effects, which made me sound quite professional, and others, which made me sound like a robot sucking helium. He added sound bites of my children yelling, which made me reflexively flinch and swig more champagne. And he added echo, which made me sound like I had twenty backup singers, which was brilliant, as that was never going to happen in real life.

So now we have our soundtrack. And yesterday we filmed the videoclip. Watch this space. It’s going to be BIG.

And by the way, Year 5 school teacher? The one who wouldn’t let me in the choir? Big mistake. HUGE.

*unless you're a man, in which case I'm nothing like you, but probably a lot like someone you know**
**unless you actually do know me, in which case I'm exactly like someone you know.

On The Mark

Last week I met an idol of mine, the author and columnist Mark Dapin. Mark is tattooed, Jewish, and an ex-editor of men’s magazines, which makes us similar in at least two ways. He is hysterically funny, and uses lots of asterisks in his writing, a technique I have appropriated as my own*. He is also quite famous, as far as writers go, which meant that I was very nervous to meet him.

You see, I do, as a rule, become immensely stupid around celebrities. It’s a problem. Though I can be normal** around non-celebrities, I am staggeringly awkward around the famous. My mouth feels peculiar and I blurt out inappropriate things and my limbs don’t know what to do with themselves. It’s like I ceremonially debase myself before the celebrity as a gesture of my respect. Or perhaps I’m just a blithering idiot.

It’s happened to me many times before. When I met the (Jewish, non-tattooed) author Lily Brett at a book reading, I became overcome with excitement, putting up my hand and asking her a question that I was afterwards reliably informed made absolutely no sense. Lily kindly attempted to answer it anyway, but the look on her face revealed a wary compassion clearly usually reserved for stalkers and the insane.

My run-in with Toni Collette was equally tragic. I found myself in a lift with her at Westfield one day, along with my two older children, who were chatting excitedly about getting home to watch Toy Story 2 on DVD.

“How are you watching Toy Story 2?” Toni asked. “It hasn’t been released on DVD yet.”
“We got it in Fiji!” my son yelled with glee. “It’s a fake but it still works!”

Toni looked at me with reproach.

“Oh, we never usually get pirated DVD’s!” I started babbling desperately***. “It’s just that the kids saw it and they really wanted it and I couldn’t say no and I’m so sorry and I don’t mean to destroy your industry and I’ll never do it again and I understand it’s really wrong of me and...” at which time I noticed that Toni had exited the lift about three floors earlier and I was prattling away to myself.

Then, memorably, there was my encounter with Nicole Kidman. I was with my husband and our friend J in a cafe, and Ms Kidman walked in and recognised J from school. Now, I wasn’t a fan of Nicole Kidman, and yet still I became an irrepressible moron. I tried to smile but my face went the wrong way, my eyes started twitching, and when I attempted to say ‘Nice to meet you’ it came out ‘Nimyeoo’. Happily, though, I believe Nicole just thought I was drunk.

So my encounter with Mark Dapin was, by comparison, far less embarrassing. I gushed and I rambled and I raved and I even offered to show him my tattoos, but still, I managed to speak, and at least I didn’t confess to owning any pirated software.

I did, however, blurt out ‘Nimyeoo’ when we parted. But, unlike my farewell to Nicole Kidman, in this case, it was a Mark of respect.

*as I demonstrate here.
**using ‘normal’ in the sense of ‘normal compared to exceedingly abnormal people’
***though we’d just brought home about 25

Originally published in the AJN

How Nicole Kidman Stole My Life - Part 2

"LOST IN CATERING"

The first impediment to my brilliant career was my hair. Why, I hear you ask? After all, Nicole got through with hers, and it was frizzy and red.

Well let me tell you, red curls are a dream compared to the short grey hair that I was sporting.

Yes, for my foray into fame, I had short grey hair. Of course, I didn't have short grey hair in the weeks before the shoot. I was 15 years old, for god's sake! I had gorgeous brown curls, hanging down past my shoulders. But after the director decided I needed blonde streaks, and the hairdresser made an error with the mixture, I turned grey in a tragic bleaching accident. To try to cover it up, they then dyed my entire hair, which left me grey, but with streaks of orange. To try to cover that up, they cut my hair to my neck. Then my ears. Then above my ears. Then it lost its curl, so they permed it. The final result provided an excellent solution to the problem of a 15 year old girl playing a nearly-18 year old. I now looked approximately 65.

Still, the good news was that I was still very slim, and - after several production sponsored sessions at the solarium - tanned. So off I went, with grey hair and stars in my eyes, to Queensland.

The mini-series was being shot as a film, and films are shot out of sequence. All the exteriors were being photographed in a six week shoot on a small island near Cairns. Cast and crew would be accommodated in the motel type facilities, before returning to Sydney for another six weeks of studio work.

And it was here, in Queensland, on location, where I personally erected the next hurdle on my path to superstardom. More like a roadblock, really.

It had to do with what I put in my mouth.

Film sets are notorious for their lavish catering. Full, hot breakfasts, morning teas of cakes and pastries, stodgy lunches, more sweets for afternoon tea, massive dinners with a selection of desserts, and suppers for night shoots. They are designed to help the mostly male crew to keep up their strength for the physical exertions of the day (not to mention their physical exertions of the night, another thing film sets are notorious for, but that's another story).

For me, it was a paradise. Up until now, my mum had been primarily responsible for what I ate, and she kept a very healthy home. I'd eat the dinners she cooked, and make breakfasts and lunches from the selection of ingredients in our kitchen. Away from her and my dad, with buffets on display five times a day, every single day, I went a bit beserk. Porridge and french toast for breakfast, muffins for morning tea, burgers for lunch, cakes, hot chips, ice cream, pasta, schnitzels..... My costumes got tighter and tighter, my cheeks got fuller and fuller, and with my short grey hair I took on the appearance of a molding Mr Potato Head.

By the time we arrived back in Sydney to shoot the interiors, I had gained a stone. By the end of the 12 week shoot, I had gained nearly two.

The continuity girl was frantic. It was her job to ensure that all the shots filmed at different times matched up to make one cohesive scene, one flawless narrative. This posed a tremendous challenge when the scene showed Sally frolicking in denim cut-offs on the beach, a petite size eight, only to walk through the door and enter the family home, suddenly a rather chunky size 12.

The makeup artist spoke to me sternly, the wardrobe mistress lectured me about my responsibilities, but I was a 17 (ehem - 15) year old girl, away from home for the first time, virtually unsupervised, and I was running wild.

Needless to say, the producers were unimpressed. The mini-series turned out to be reasonably successful, and it was picked up as a regular series. Sally, however, was written out. Apparently, she had left her island home to become a flight attendant. Clearly on an airline without weight restrictions.

TV week reported that I was likely to return for "several of the new season episodes". This several turned out to be "one". So humiliated was I with my big (literally) failure that I politely declined the offer of a day's work, and another girl was flown in for eight hours to play Sally. Apparently she wasn't very good either.

In the end, I went back to school and let go of my acting ambitions. Still, it was fun while it lasted. I had my moment in the sun, light streaming through my orange streaks, my fat cheeks glowing with health.

Maddeningly, though, there is always that reminder of what could have been... the woman whose career mirrored my own, up until she took off into the stratosphere, and I headed back to the buffet for seconds.

Ah, Nicole. My nemesis. Bet you're glad I stood aside.

How Nicole Kidman Stole My Life - Part 1

It is a truth universally acknowledged (at least in my own head) that Nicole Kidman stole my life. Or - to be more precise - she took the life that should have been mine, had she not ever existed. Oh, and had I not the tendency to eat everything in sight when confronted with a buffet.

As a fifteen year old girl, I harboured dreams of becoming an actress. My parents - thrilled, as you can imagine, by the prospect of their private-school educated daughter ending up a waitress instead of a lawyer - relented and found me an agent.

My success was meteoric, in a somewhat muted kind of way. Just weeks after joining the agency, and having attended only a handful of auditions, I got a call back for a leading role in a movie. I was beside myself. It was breathtakingly exciting. I was going to be a star!

The read through with the director went extremely well, and I was subsequently called back for a third audition. This time I was asked whether I rode a bike. I did (or at least I had, when I'd last been on a bike some 8 years prior) so I confidently answered 'yes'. I went home with high hopes, and a resolution to begin practice cycling immediately.

Later in the week I received a call from my agent. I'd come runner-up for the role - the lead in a film called "BMX Bandits". They'd chosen another newcomer, a tall girl with frizzy red hair who I knew from my acting classes. I was seething with jealousy. Still, I figured, who's going to see a movie about some kids on bikes?

Happily, my bitterness was short lived. Just weeks after missing out on the BMX Bandits role, I received a second call back for another role - one of the leads in an eight part television mini-series, to be shot on location in Queensland. I'd received the script, but no indication of which part I was up for. There were three female characters - a woman in her mid-thirties, a twelve year old girl, and a teenager of nearly eighteen. Whilst I felt pretty sure I wasn't being considered for the thirty-something role, I wasn't sure which of the others I was auditioning for. At fifteen, I was smack bang in the middle.

I sat in my chair, between the director and producer, listening to their concept (a family on an island) desperately searching for clues. Do I swing my legs and try to look young, or cross them and try to look sophisticated?

"Of course, we're considering you for the part of Sally," the director said. Ah... the seventeen year old.

"Of course," I said knowingly. I crossed my legs and tried to look mature.

The read through went well, and I was called back the following week to audition with the actor already cast as Sally's father. I was getting closer and closer to my dream, and it was way better than some silly film about bikes. A TV mini-series! I'd have my photo in TV week! I'd be famous!

I passed the audition, and then it was time for the final stage. The swimsuit contest. Okay, so it wasn't exactly a contest, but close. The director needed to see me in my bathers, to check that I was, well, lithe enough for the role. No-one wants to see a chunky 17 (ehem - 15) year old girl frolicking around in shorts on the beach. Not on TV, anyway.

I was demented with excitement at the final audition (and quite light-headed from lack of food). I wore a black faux-leather bikini which nicely showed off my 17 (ehem - 15) year old figure, whittled down dramatically from eight stone to seven-and-a half in the week before the audition. I felt ridiculous parading around, but quite frankly would have stood on my head wearing a red nose and leg warmers if it gave me my shot at fame.

I didn't have to. The faux-leather bikini worked. I got the role.

"We're definitely casting you as Sally," the director said. It was the greatest moment of my 17 (ehem - 15) year old life.

The path to fame was lit ahead. I just had to walk down the red carpet to the Hollywood career that awaited. Unfortunately, though, there were some minor bumps along the way.