Humour

29th February 2016

I would like to discuss humour with you. Everybody has a sense of humour and senses of humour obviously vary from person to person; culture to culture; and family to family. The things people find funny are obviously going to fall on different points of the jocular spectrum depending on individuality, background and up-bringing. Like, duh. However, one thing I have never quite understood is the humour that varies from gender to gender. Which leads me to question, “Why can’t I make fart jokes?” Well, obviously I can because I find fart jokes funny and nobody is stopping me from making the fart jokes. So, I should just go right ahead and make fart jokes. But my question requires a broader response; so, let’s rephrase the question. Why is humour gender specific? 

I can kind of guess your train of thought now. “Ugh. Why is she asking a serious question about jokes and shit? Ugh… Ugh.” Maybe with a few more intelligible words thrown in (I did say I could only ‘kind of guess’ though, so that one’s on you). But before I lose your interest, just keep reading because I really want you to keep reading.

I’m getting to know this guy and he’s pretty decent. We discuss movies and music, history and hypothetical questions, society and family and our hometown. I like him. He’s cool. The other day we were hanging out and we’d just eaten a massive lunch of fish and chips. Me, being the charming human that I am, commented on my stomachs satisfaction and fullness with the statement: “That was so good. I need to fart now.” Said guy looks at me, bewildered, and responded with: “Did you just say you needed to fart?” (I should also tell you that before this point he had already compared me to Woody Allen. So, it’s not like me cracking a joke* is out of character.) I replied with: “Well, I do.” Clearly not amused, then he was like: “I thought you were a lady.”

Then I told him that he was sorely mistaken and I am, in fact, disgusting. Just ask my mother, sister, father, brother, closest friends and anyone who has spoken with me for longer than ten minutes. The guy then told me that I am a lady because I am so pretty and daggily sexy and stuff like that (thank you, I try). But that’s not the point. The point is that if I were a guy, I could probably get away with saying that without too much backlash. Ladies should be able to make fart jokes too because we are people and people fart. Even my late uncle farted and he had a colostomy bag.

Oh, and then this whole self-depreciation thing lead him to telling me to not be so down on myself and my telling him that I’m not down on myself, I am disgusting and people laugh at me because of it. Which I am okay with: because, in my books, this means they accept me. And any form of acceptance is a-okay (unless it involves societal intolerance).

So, why can’t I make self-depreciating jokes? Why can’t I be the loveable loser like my supposed comedic doppelganger, Woody Allen? How come girls can’t utilise self-depreciation as a tool to make people laugh without running the risk of being called out as attention seeking? If you pay close attention to sitcoms, you will notice that anytime a man makes a joke at his expense there will be the appropriately timed canned laughter. But when a woman says something at her own expense it’s met with an “aww” of sympathy from the pre-recorded audience.

 Perhaps I’m overthinking the whole thing. Perhaps you’ve finished reading this thinking “what a load of irrelevant wank”. But in my defense it is relevant. Because sometimes I feel like I can’t say anything without being judged, as do a lot of women. We can’t make a joke at ourselves without being thought of as compliment seekers. And when we try to remedy this by being confident we’re told that we are stuck-up or snobbish. Do you see my dilemma?

Reader: “Yes, Meg. So, how do we solve it?”

I knew you’d understand. Well, I propose we all begin with leading by example. Be whoever you are and let your silly shine through. Whether that be: Miranda Hart silly, or Robin Williams silly. Kevin Hart silly, or Lee Lin Chin silly. And if anyone has a problem with it, well, tell them to bugger off: because you are fucking hilarious.

*Cracking a yolk (the egg trope continues).

Poached Eggs

5th February 2016

Metaphors are handy things that many people have used to describe their life situations and points of view. Robert Frost used the whole diverging roads thing, and how he could only choose one so he chose the road less travelled by. Temple Grandin compared her brain to Google Images because of her visual way of thinking. And then there's Katy Perry who likens herself (and every downtrodden listener) to a firework. 

Now, I'm not an accomplished poet; or an influential animal science professor; or a babe-alicious popstar. But for those of you who are interested; my life metaphor of choice is the recipe for poached eggs (hence the blog title “Poached Meggs”). You see, for every major decision I have made in my short life; I have calculated, and estimated, and followed the necessary protocols to ensure that I am not going to end up in a hole or something.

Reader: “Goodness me, how responsible you seem.” 

Meg: “Thank you, reader. I do try.”

If you're clever enough (and I have no doubt that you are); you should be able to draw the parallels between the step-by-step list below and life as we know it.

Step One 

Fill medium sized saucepan to half full (or half empty) with water (tap water is fine, just to clarify). Light stove, place half full/half empty saucepan of water on top of lit stove, and bring water to boil.

Step Two

Stir some vinegar into the boiling water. Preferably white vinegar, but if there's some apple cider vinegar in the pantry you can use that too. I wouldn't suggest balsamic vinegar; but hey, they’re your eggs and I'm not one to force my vinegar views on anyone.

Step Three 

Bring the boiling water-vinegar-concoction down to a vigorous simmer. Crack eggs and pour each whitey, yolky blob of chicken goop into mentioned concoction.

Now, Step Three is the part where most people freak out. Or at least I, Meg, freak out. Because from the moment that chicken goop leaves the eggshell and hits the very hot liquid: you have no control over how those eggs turn out. Will one of them stick to the bottom of the saucepan leaving you incapable of scooping the egg out in one piece? Will the white properly seal around the yolk or will a little bit of water seep in leaving you with a watery egg that will inevitably soak your perfectly buttered toast? Will they cook too quickly; leaving you with hard-boiled poached eggs? (No offense meant towards the hard-boilers, I just prefer gooey). Or will they not be cooked enough? (Despite the fact that you have left them in for the exact amount of time Google told you to, you even used an egg timer). And then there are all of the variables surrounding the eggpidemic. Like toasting the bread and leaving just enough buttering time so the toast will still be hot when you scoop out your, hopefully, perfectly viscous masterpieces. And then there's the blanched spinach, but we won't go into that just now.

Step Four 

Let the eggs sit in there until you think they are the consistency you desire.

During this waiting time, there will be immense tension due to the possibilities I mentioned in Step Three. Know now that bits of egg white will float to the surface and morph into this foamy looking stuff. You will lose vision of your eggs and it may appear all is lost, but push through. Take deep breaths, repeat a self-affirming mantra, and then, assuming all goes well, use one of those big, holey spoons to ladle the poached eggs out from the very hot blood-bath of egg white foam, and onto whatever else you're serving them with. (I would suggest smoked salmon, spinach, and hollandaise sauce.)

Step Five 

Enjoy your eggs knowing they are a product of your own independence and perseverance. And if your eggs have not turned out the way you wanted them to: it’s okay because Woolworths has a seemingly unlimited supply of eggs (trust me, I work there). So you can just try again whenever you’re ready. I should also mention that what a perfectly poached egg is to one is totally unpalatable to another.