It's Claire as mud

I’m embarrassed to say it, but I already miss the Voice. Monday nights will be seriously lacking in the over-blown power ballad and wind-machine stakes now it’s over. Who’s going to hump the swivelly chairs now that Seal and his male polish (see what I did there?!) have headed back to being Heidi Klum’s ex-husband? Who’s going keep Australia’s hair extension industry in business if Delta isn’t on air every week? God, think about the toothpicks that will start piling up now that Joel isn’t here to chew them. And Keith, oh Keith – you made us believe that short country singers from Caboolture could be attractive, something we never thought we’d witness in our lifetimes. By the way, what is it with Nicole Kidman and short men? That lady goes through shorties like a boss.

Peace, y’all.

Say what you like about reality television being the demise of family entertainment, but I don’t care. I can’t get enough. Any form of media that allows me to yell at it is ok by me.

Don’t you love that reality television allows you to become an armchair expert in anything? Ooh, that Lakyn (seriously, what did that kid ever do to his parents?) was just a bit flat, his singing style is so affected. Andrew’s oil is definitely boiling and he needs to remember to pack his terrine in tightly or he is going home. I can barely manage to make spag bol, but I do love being able to speak with authority on what elements that stoopid cry-baby Emma from MasterChef needs to include in her stock. That whingey one (I don’t know their name, but there is always one) from the Block really has no feel for textures in their soft furnishings.

I also love that you can make loud and completely unfounded judgements on reality television participants’ personalities. Julia on MasterChef is a flaming beeotch. She is so completely up herself. Case in point: ‘I find it hard to be bad at things’. Oh, Jules, I can give you an example, you’re bad at being humble and likeable. Oh look, I’m sure she’s a perfectly nice girl and sister sure can rock a pair of glasses – unlike her 2012 Alumni, Alice. I swear my mother wore those same glasses in 1984 – but I do like that I can make this entire personality summation based on a poor choice of words. Celebrity Apprentice was also fertile ground for this. Deni Hines, if you ever get a job that is of higher calibre than Twin Towns or its ilk I will drop dead from surprise. Her misdirected sense of importance and delusional measure of her own star power was absolutely astounding, but highly entertaining all at the same time. You can’t look away from a car crash, even when it’s a metaphorical one played out by a Z-grade ‘celebrity’.

Oh finally! My Mum’s been trying to find her glasses for the last 27 years!

I’ve always thought that combining the physical challenges of Survivor and Australian Idol would be quite entertaining. It could be called Singing for your supper or I’m (almost) a celebrity get me out of here. Wait, I think that’s an actual show. Anyways, competitors are placed in a remote wilderness, but to get food and stay in the competition, they have to compete in regular physical challenges, while performing musical numbers. This would be far more entertaining than listening to dirt-streaked outward-bounders whinging about having to eat cockroaches for dinner. They could instead talk about their musical journey and do Lady Gaga medleys while standing on a post for eight hours.

I don’t care if reality television is scripted… meh. I don’t want to watch some person stammer and stumble over their words like I do all day – in that respect, reality is very much overrated.

Mind you, not sure about jumping on the Big Brother bandwagon second time around. Watching peeps scratching their bits and listening to them bitch about someone drinking all the Milo is not my idea of a fun sailboat ride.

What is your favourite reality show or what type of reality show would you like to see?

Mean Girls? They’re probs not that bad.

Our team’s admin assistant pointed out to me the other day, in her own very kind way, that she didn’t know I was ‘totes’ old until she realised I was not using the word ‘probs’ correctly.  When I enquired what the ‘correct’ use of this made-up word was she explained that it was ‘probably’, not ‘problem’, as I was using it.  How was I to know though? Being born in the Neolithic Era and remembering 90210 the first time around and all.

Apart from the thinly veiled, backhanded compliment, this whole conversation concerned me, because it made me realise that some of the things I say or do might make me appear to be trying to kick it with the young folks – even though that is not my intention.  So, am I too old for this shiz?  Shiz like saying shiz, for example.

I’m embarrassed to say I usually pick up these words when I’m watching snappily written television comedy like ‘Scrubs’ or ’30 Rock’ and think I’m going to sound like a sassy, less attractive version of Tina Fey, rather than a superannuated Mean Girl.   I’m even more embarrassed to say that I also pick up these words from sharing lifts with students training for higher degrees at my workplace.  Is it sad or more worrying that the future science wizards of the world pepper their sentences with far too many ‘like’s and ‘OMG’s?  Yep, they are the ones that will be like totes curing cancer one day, mmmkay.

I genuinely am not trying to act young, I promise, but I should probably stop saying things like ‘peeps’ and ‘whatevs’.  Because:

a)      I’m not from the ghetto; and

b)      I’m not a teenage girl in the depths of the Princess Bitch-face stage.  Grumpy woman? Yes!

The age gap is also apparent in the area of clothing.  Skirt and dress lengths get me so g-darned annoyed these days.  I lean more on the more is more style of dressing, hence the urge to run up and down Brunswick Mall on a Saturday night and yank on the bottom of all the 18-20 year olds dresses lest their bottom cheeks get chilly.

Here are some fashion rules I think everyone can abide by, whatever your age:

1)      If you can’t wear it in front of your Grandma, you can’t wear it in public (this goes for tarty clothes and clothes with swear words on them); and

2)      If they’re not swimmers and you need a bikini wax to wear it, then it’s too low or too short, and no one wants to see your hoo-ha.

So I’m probably closer to dressing too old for my age, but what stage is it that leggings go from great way to wear a short dress without looking like the village bicycle to freaky art teacher trying to cover up her cellulite?

Hair is another example of the gaping age chasm.   When I was younger, I wanted it flat and dead straight, now I definitely want more air in my hair and am trying to muster up a new millennium bee-hive most days.  Do I think the additional inches on the top of my head may subtly distract from the Pepe Le Pew patch that is slowly creeping across my hairline?  Next time you’re in the gym changing rooms, try and guess the age of the person in question by how they are blow-drying their hair.  Head upside down, older.  Blow dryer directed at the top of the head and a brush frantically combing downwards, younger.

Most of the time, I’m pretty happy being the age I am, but occasionally I long for the days where a hangover wasn’t a guarantee after a night on the turps, or when I didn’t feel the urge to punch bouncers in the neck when they don’t even pretend they want to see my driver’s licence upon entering a bar or night club.

So while I teeter on the line of young and old, the fact I’m wondering if I have tipped over the edge of the cultural zeitgeist and asking who the young folk listen to, but not really caring, probably demonstrates which side of the line I am actually on.