Jonquils.

YES YES YES.

I have been all about jonquils for the last little while. They have steadily edged Mayflower out of the ‘favourite flower’ AND ‘favourite historic boat’ race, and if this was a baseball metaphor: they are bringing it HOME.

Let me go back to the beginning. One day I walked out my front door to notice that pretty much OVERNIGHT, a whole new joyful crop of cold-weather narcissus had sprung up in our front garden. They were jolly and gay and bright, but you know what else? They. Smelt. Fricking. Amazing.

THIS VASE MAKES US EVEN MORE ADORABLE!

Jonquils smell like happiness. A big slug of happiness, seasoned with a sprig of self-confidence and oiled with a greasy cloth of ‘YELLOW!’. I am surrounded by them right now – I have two separate vases of jonquils in my study – and the smell just makes everything better. It makes it okay that I am writing a play with character names like ‘Bikini’ and ‘Ochre’. It makes it ok that it’s so cold in this room that even my nose is cold. They smell beautiful and they look like little snub-nosed golden pig faces, and they’re a much subtler and more modest version of the daffodil and yknow what, I THINK YOU GEDDIT.

It’s also really fun to purse your lips in a big ‘O’ with hands out around your face like a mane, and impersonate them:

Thanks Edmund.

So if you’re part of the inner circle of Jess’n’friends, feel free to come by for a big gusty nosing of our garden. Otherwise get yourself to your nearest florist or IGA because seriously they are pretty cheap and THEY MAKE LIFE WORTH LIVING.

They also trump this bitch, despite the fact that she’s stood by me all year:

SORRYILOVEYOU

Bananas

NOT.

Ok, whoa, calm down. Ok, read this BEFORE you blow up and go all chimpancrazy on my comments page. Let me start by saying something really important:

I love bananas.

Bananas are delicious. They’re great on their own, they’re fabulous in a buttery loaf/sweet bread and DONNA get me started on what sort of tastesation they are in a berry or mango smoothie. (Seriously Donna). It’s undisputed, in this particular forum and in this particular blog post, that bananas are the shiznay. But that is not what I am getting at here.

What I am getting at is:

Bananas are dangerous.

IMMA KILL YOU

Bananas are little steaming sulphurised time bombs. Bananas are potent. Bananas just need to sit NEXT to something in your fruit bowl to eff up its shiz. A mandarin that’s in primo ripe-town? Mouldy. An $7.00 apricot imported from Venezuela with magical love-doctor properties? Squishy and flavourless.

Bananas will take one look at anything surrounding them and will decide that they need to assert their primacy, big-time. Bananas do the equivalent of pissing on your carpet and rubbing their poo into its woolly fronds, but banana-style. They either make all your fruit go off, or they make EVERYTHING YOU OWN smell like bananas.

You know when you’d pack a school lunch and you’d be like “mm, peanut butter and banana crackers” and “mm vegemite and banana sandwich” before you realised THIS WAS NOT AN INTENTIONAL FLAVOUR CHOICE, that your banana had just snuck its way into your lunch and pooped its pungent nutty flavour sacs everywhere, and suddenly your whole life is just bananarama and YOU DIDN’T ASK FOR IT TO BE LIKE THIS.

So, here’s my advice:

  • NEVER put bananas in a brown paper bag.
  • ESPECIALLY never put them in a brown paper bag with ANYTHING ELSE unless you want that everything else to be held hostage by banana.
  • Keep bananas in a separate area of the house, one that’s dark and lonely, like our house’s Scary Room.
  • Otherwise go on with your day, cos if that’s your biggest problem, you’re doing pretty good, mate.

 

Offline social networking.

YES.

Ok, this one surprised me, cos as far as I’m concerned, everything is better online. You’re in a chair that you like, you have all your good luck plants around you, you can take your time in answering invasive questions about your personal life, you can be wearing the same mustard jumper you were wearing all of last week…

But I was wrong.

Life is much better offline. For example, when you’re sitting in a dog park, on a dog hill, surrounded by real and not tamagotchi dogs. When you go to Woolies and choose your OWN banana with your OWN hands and pay your OWN $3.50 for it. When you tell someone to their FACE, “that was stupid and insensitive” or “I find your social deficits really unattractive” or “I don’t want to be penpals” and you watch their head explode, because people just don’t SAY that sort of thing, honest and real stuff like that, to each other anymore.

NO! YOU HANG UP FIRST!

So, grab a real dog and a real banana and start sassing out some strangers, face to face.

Just…don’t forget to keep reading this blog, I guess.

Calling someone by a name that they don’t want to be called.

NOT.

I don’t feel that strongly about this, but then you know we like to focus on the little things here at Would Jess Like It Pty Ltd, the niggly things that just sort of fester on the edge of your brain when its time to go to sleep, that chomp quietly at the innermost relaxation-centres of your cerebral cortex when you’re trying to have nice quiet dreams about Zac Efron or jonquils. And all I’ll say is that when I have handed a new acquaintance or colleague the scented bouquet of friendliness that is “call me Jess”, I expect them to call me by my pleasant nickname from that point forward. And every time they persist in calling me Jessica I will see it as a personal slight, as their way of saying “I don’t care what you want to be called, because I want to call you THIS, and you know what, bitch, from now on I’ll just call you whatever I like, even if it sounds nothing like Jess, in fact, let’s just assume your new name is Sourdough or Canada from now on, because that’s what I feel like.”

Call me Bubbles, darling. Or I'll knife you.

And you know what? You know how revenge makes everything a bit better? Well, the best thing abut this situation (because every crap-lined mucus-bucket can be turned into a silk purse) is that these people, the ones who persist in calling you by your full name, usually HATE being called by their nickname. They hate it. And so for every time that they call you Jessica (or your version of your full name, I guess), you can call them “Jo” or “Joey” or “Babes” and just watch them eat away their stomach with hate-acid.

Lindsay Lohan.

BIG TIME.

Here at Would Jess Like It, we (I?) are really Livin La Vida Lohan. We are all about Lindsay. We loved the potential she showed in movies like The Parent Trap. We loved the innocent sass she showed in Mean Girls. We loved that Herbie Fully Loaded fit into the category of ‘sports movie’ which has a blanket ban in the Bellamy household, so I didn’t have to bother watching that one.

We were happy about that.

And recently, with all the strain and struggle Lindsay is facing in her personal life, with the court cases and drug binges and rehab jaunts and movies like Georgia Rule, she’s still kept that little magic something, that branding of “STAR” that Dina Lohan burnt onto her pale freckled hide as an innocent 5-year-old child.

I STILL GOT IT

And I guess what I’m getting at here is: if any of that struck a chord with you, you might want to check out my one-night-only show on Friday night 10th June.

Would Jess Like Self-Promotion? Yesssss.