Is Jeff Lynne your favourite Travelling Wilbury? Don't you just wish you would hear Chris Rea's 'Let's Dance' just once an actual dance floor? Do you wish that James Taylor was your real Dad? Meet FEMBOTanist!

Monday, June 06, 2011

I have moved..!

There will be no more posts on this blog, but if you follow me to tumblr I will be your best friend, I promise..

Sunday, September 26, 2010



Well, the headline read ‘Founding Member of ELO Killed by Giant Hay Bail’, so you can see how I might have momentarily thought it was everyone’s favourite composer, lead vocalist and guitarist from ELO.

It turns out it was just everyone’s favourite electric cellist from ELO, though most people wouldn’t even know his name. I won’t do him the disrespect of Googling what his name was right now so I can tell you – nor will I show him the respect of actually knowing his name in the first place.

So after drying my tear-wrapped eyes, and feeling more than slightly glad that I would not have to report the news of yet another Traveling Wilbury’s untimely death to Father, I started to ponder what it all meant.

If the electric cellist from THE WORLD’S GREATEST SYMPHONIC ROCK BAND can be killed instantly whilst driving along, MINDING HIS OWN BUSINESS on a quiet country road, what does the world have in store for mere mortals such as you or me?

Should he not have been killed in a manner befitting of his awesome talent?

Should he not have been electrocuted on stage at an outdoor concert whilst playing the opening solo for ‘Livin’ Thing’, completely unaware of the rain puddle forming beneath his feet that gradually lapped closer and closer to the worn power cord of his electrified violoncello?

Conversely, I ask you this, dear reader: who out there has lived a life befitting of instant death by an errant hay bail?

Answer: Glenn Beck.

What a clint.


Sunday, July 06, 2008

End of financial year progress report.

When a Lewis is invited to a costume party, the expectation is sufficiently high to warrant significant stress on behalf of Amy and myself. Having done the ‘fake tan on an albino person’ hilarity to death in recent years, we were faced with the dilemma of Tim’s stereotype party sans tan and sans a good idea. It was only two weeks ago when I found myself waking hungover at 6AM on a Sunday, still wearing my boots and still clutching a slice of wrapped birthday cake that I realised who we should dress up as at Tim’s party.

As far as I can gather, the only difference between a Lewis and Amy Winehouse is big hair, black eyeliner and enough heroin to lose fifteen kilograms in forty-eight hours. Deciding that two out of three ain’t bad, we made do with the first two and substituted the heroin with two hamburgers with the lot. At Charlie’s house we primped ourselves with giant wigs, false tattoos and some not so subtle track marks. After Charlie had pinned a sufficient number of cats to her jacket and placed her belongings in a shopping bag, we jumped in my car and made our way to Tim’s.

Approaching the front door, we expected no less than ever single friend we had ever made to be standing around in hilarious costumes, each more elaborate and well thought out than the next. Sure - it wasn’t Science Ball, but usually people made a pretty big effort at these parties. Instead, we opened the door to find about fifty people we didn’t know and about three people that we did, and nobody was wearing costumes.

So there we were, crazy cat lady and Amy Winehouse times two, standing in a room full of possibly the drunkest people on planet earth. Caught like deer in the headlights, there was only one responsible thing to do – get Simon to start pouring the Long Island ice teas and drink ourselves into oblivion.

This was a pretty sound decision on my part as I had promised myself after a particularly fine performance only two weeks earlier (boots and cake night) to “never binge drink again”. It’s funny – as the evening transpired into madness, I still looked down upon others through my monocle of smugness thinking that everyone else was drunk and I was just a wee bit pissy. And just like drinking three glasses of Tokay, three LIIT’s soon rendered me unable to operate neither horseless carriage nor the nerves that connect my brain to my mouth. I was truly a contender for the Russian presidency when I walked out of Tim’s house.

Making our way down Albion Street, Charlie, Luke and I were soon faced with a dilemma. If we were to follow the roads it would take us a good twenty minutes to get back to my house. If we cut through the building site near my house, we could be safely home in ten. It didn’t take much discussion to decide that where we were going, there were no roads.

After gently placing my wig and boots into my backpack, I threw my belongings over the cyclone fence and preceded to climb, insane eye makeup and slicked back hair rendering me less like Amy Winehouse and more like Jeanie Little. Amazingly, it turns out that pantihose isn’t particularly conducive to fence climbing, and as I gingerly began placing each hoof between the gaps in the wire, I was beginning to feel less confident about being the first over the top.

Apparently, Luke and Charlie were a little concerned about my technique, but assumed I may have had a method of fence climbing that perhaps on botanists knew about.

As if a botanist knows anything about climbing fences.

The details from this point on are sketchy at best. Only one fact is clear – I fell from a height of roughly seven foot with only my spine to cushion my fall. Apparently I landed flat on my back with all four limbs in the air, although medical evidence suggests I landed directly on my coccyx bone whilst simultaneously punching myself in the spine. Despite harboring quite painful injuries, I felt it was more important to save face and laugh it off, and I was soon joined by my friends who were probably quite relieved they didn’t have to watch the fire brigade cutting thought the fence with the jaws of life in order for the ambulance officers to get to me.

Crossing the paddock, I was told that I walked not around, but through every single shrub in the paddock, stockinged legs and bare feet stopping for nothing. We somehow made it over the second fence unscathed. Soon, we were passed out in bed, and even sooner it was 9AM, I was still drunk and we had the unenviable task of looking through the camera and discovering everything that had transpired the previous evening. Oh, the hard rubbish – Oh, the humanity.

I was so drunk when we left for breakfast that I thought I actually looked good in the mirror. Unshowered, I left with tousled hair and last night’s eyeliner still on, thinking I looked every bit the rock star. Upon inspection of my face in the rear view mirror after breakfast, I realised that was indeed partly true. Lets just say I looked something similar to Courtney Love after getting to fifth base with Kurt Cobain all night and then waking up in a pile of heroin on the side of a highway.

At that point I did what any decent person would do – I drove directly to a three year olds birthday party and complained about my spine and laughed like a drain for three hours until Amy had to take me home.

I'm still laughing.

Sober and safe at Charlie's.

The face of the only woman in the room wearing a costume.

It's the power you want to touch, but you must not touch.

Last photo before going over the top.Please note Brunswick's major tourist attraction in the background.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Two unfortunate internet events...

and maybe...

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Last Friday, my Uncle Phil peacefully lost his battle with cancer. Today, my family and Phil’s many friends laid him to rest.

Phil worked for the fire brigade for thirty years, and each fire station paid tribute to him today by flying their flag at half-mast. As I passed our local station this morning and later saw his colleagues form a guard of honour after the service, I held my head up high because I was so proud to be Phil Lewis’ niece, and proud to be a member of our family.

I had the privilege of making a speech at his funeral, and as most readers of this blog are my friends and family, I want to share what I said as a tribute to him.

When I think of Phil, his cheeky grin immediately comes to mind. At a serious occasion like today, I wouldn’t be able to look at him because inevitably he would be grinning away to ease the awkward situation, and I know I would crack up laughing. He was just one of those blokes who could instantly lighten the mood.

The Lewis kids always marveled at the myth and the legend that is Phil Lewis. There are far too many funny Phil stories to tell right now, so we hope that you will share some of your stories about him with us later. One of the great things about Phil was that he was a bit of a man of mystery. Just look at his long list of nicknames, truly a reflection of how Phil meant many things to many people.

Despite being such a popular bloke, Phil also liked to be by himself - It’s a Lewis thing. He loved reading The Hobbit and Lord of The Rings, and when our family was lucky enough to get an empty cinema to watch The Two Towers, we all sat at least thirty seats apart so that it felt like each of us were there by ourselves - a very Lewis moment indeed. Phil also loved to go running alone, and was never without his drink bottle filled with his secret sports medicine, a recipe that he will take with him. Though just between you and me, I’m pretty sure the secret ingredient was white wine.

I have great memories of driving to Sydney with my Dad and Phil, always searching for that elusive empty BBQ and grappling with the big questions in life, like “When is it okay to crack the first stubby?” and “Would Albury be too early?” Phil loved those trips to visit Bob and Marilyn, and was content with nothing more than sitting out on the deck with his brothers listening to the cricket or watching the footy, VB always in hand.

Phil once jokingly referred to himself as “Big Hearted Phil’, and this has been often repeated by the Lewis kids as a joke. But it’s not a joke. It’s true. Phil would always help you out if you needed him - just look at his huge list of unofficial job titles and it’s clear that he was always there to lend a hand.

What is so inspiring about Phil is the way he really lived his life the way he wanted to. He never missed an opportunity to have fun or to have a few beers. He seemed to be at every sporting event in Melbourne, and loved a free ticket to anywhere – he even went to see the Guggenheim exhibit at the art gallery - or the Google-heim as he called it. Phil also never missed a chance to go on a holiday with his mates and could always fit in a game of golf during the week.

My Dad Steve played golf with Phil for 25 years. Not just once or twice a month – the brothers played constantly, rain, hail or shine. If you rang either of their mobiles in even the most atrocious weather imaginable, it was guaranteed that they were out on the fairway at Bacchus Marsh or Melton, often unable to hear you through the howling wind and pouring rain. When I talked to Dad yesterday and asked him if he wanted to add to my speech, he asked me how he could put 50 years into words. I think that those words themselves are enough to understand how Dad is feeling.

Our family is so proud of Phil who fought so hard to stay with us. To see his mates show such compassion and love for him was overwhelming, and to see the strength and tenderness with which his family cared for him brings me the comfort that makes a sad day like today bearable.

Last week, we didn’t just lose a member of the family. We lost a great mate. Over the last six months my sister Amy and I spent a lot of time alone with Uncle Phil, and he truly became our friend.

Philly, you were the best. We will never forget your cheeky smile, and the world is a little quieter now without your infectious laugh.

Monday, May 19, 2008

It's just another day, for you and me, in paradise...

Sunday, May 18, 2008

A Saturday morning graph

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Keeping up appearances - A guide for classy supermarket shopping.

1. When you wish to purchase embarrassing foods to be eaten alone at home on a Monday night, it is always best to purchase a party sized quantity to throw the cashier off the scent. Instead of looking like a sad individual who will later be sitting on her bed eating cocktail frankfurts for dinner and watching Twin Peaks on DVD, it looks like you might be on your way to a children’s party. Buy at least half a kilo. Sure - you’ll be eating them for the next three nights but at least it only cost $2.47 for three meals.

After you have collected your cocktails franks, proceed directly to the health food isle. Look at a bag of dried apricots, checking to see if they’ve been preserved with Sulfur dioxide. See that they have, and decide to leave them in order to avoid extreme flatulence later, as if cocktail franks aren’t made of ground up puppies and Sulfur dioxide.

Proceed directly to lolly isle and collect a catering-sized quantity of Lindt chocolate with hazelnuts. Don’t forget that low fat bag of marshmallows.

Realise you’ve been dehydrated for the last five days and rectify the situation by proceeding to the soft drink isle and grabbing a 1.25L bottle of Coca Cola.

Walk directly past toilet roll isle, even though there is approximately half a sheet left at home on the roll.

Oooooh! Reduced to clear, close to expiration date Big M’s!!!

7. Proceed to checkout in haze of self-disgust.

Drive home staring into middle distance.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Ever wondered how the drug ‘de-gas’ works?

I did.

This afternoon I walked past a building being demolished on campus where I used to attend biochemistry practicals. I sat there and watched the demolition crew as they tore apart everything but the supporting beams. I swear that I saw an old fume hood fall three stories and smash into a million pieces. The whole process was TOTALLY FAAARKING AWESOME and I spent a good twenty minutes wishing that I’d put half of the time I have spent studying biochemistry towards learning how to operate demolition equipment instead.

Whilst watching the crew go to work I began to reminisce about all of the incredibly useful knowledge I had gained in that building. Like how laxatives, diuretics and anti-emetics work. Unfortunately, between my pre-botanist days of the year 2001 and now there has been a veritable cavalcade of water under my biochemical bridge that has rendered most of this knowledge removed from my brain like so many multi-metaphored sentences that don’t make any sense any more after you’ve hit the fifty-first word.

So sitting at my desk tonight I decided to have a bit of a Google and remind myself just how laxatives and such actually work. As the nearest living relative of A. Lewis, I know that one of her favourite beauty products (aside from the fresh blood of children) is De-gas.

Now here is a word of advice for those playing at home.

Like me, attempt to type ‘degas’ into your Google search box on your toolbar.

Whoops! Accidentally typed ‘degas’ into facebook login instead. Incorrect password for ‘degas’. Hahahaha. Please try again.

Instantly type ‘degas’ into Facebook login again – same result.


Now type ‘degas’ correctly into Google toolbar.

Laugh? I nearly de-gassed myself.

Monday, April 21, 2008

As most of you know, the level of photographic humour I tend to indulge in lies somewhere between this…

…and this.

I’ve never been a big fan of LOL cats (too much emphasis on lame cutesy text and not enough on hilarious cat with anthropomorphic face ect) until I came across this hum dinger.

Don’t speak.