Tis the season to be Bolly...

Ok so here’s the deal.
In my next life not only will I be a football star of Beckham like proportions (except in the voice and package departments), a famous moopersodel, and president of the world (the moopersodel and El Preseidentè can be two different lives if need be), I also want a life set aside for being a Bollywood starlet.

A real coy, eye fluttering, saronged diva of the mildly sexual screen who could have her pick of all the dancing boys. It didn’t matter that spontaneous dance sequences happened for no apparent reason, or that the films always ended with good things happening to the good guys and you-know-what to the baddies, because in a time when people were all too busy picking each other to death, it would be nice to be surrounded by such unadulterated purity.

I can see me now; top billing for ‘The sound of Punjab’, ‘My big skinny Deli wedding’, and ‘You can’t stop the Sitar.’

Ms birdy-for-your-num-nums M.

Tis the season to be trolley…

Christmas has come and gone without too many tears and an unfortunate absence of mail-order husbands.

This might have had something to do with my insufficient understanding of exchange rates in order to purchase enough stamps, a severe lack in six foot something hunks who like writing poetry and doing the dishes, and quite possibly something to do with the miniature nature of my letterbox.

I did however receive three pairs of underpants that were obscene proper from my mother (surprise surprise), some reindeer chocolates from the nicer neighbours, and a parsnip in a pear tree. My present to myself was a gift of one night’s accommodation to the Santa Cause which made me feel a little better about gorging on animal shaped chocolate with underpants on my head as I watched Star Trek re-runs on the telly.

Here’s to a pimple-free New Years Eve,
Ms fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la M.

All I want for Christmas is....

Dear Santa, I think there’s very little doubt that I've been far far nicer than naughty (despite futile attempts to the contrary), and should therefore be permitted to be just a little bit naughty over the new year's break, and I don’t mean getting close and personal with a bottle of Baileys.

The present should be about six feet in height, about two feet in width, and have bumps in all the right places. Wrapping is highly optional.

If you come through with this one for me Santa, I promise I won’t ask anything more of you until Easter.

Ms-now-where’s-that-mistletoe M.

The heat. My god the heat.

Forget about industrial strength hairdryers, I need an industrial strength air conditioner and pronto.

Of course the air con works perfectly fine on the other side of the door where El Presidente reigns (yesterday I caught him practising his signature and it began and ended with an X), but only two bricks away where the rest of the world lives, I was sweating along with the primates.

My body wasn’t designed for summer.
And I’m not just talking about my chicken wings for arms or skin that burnt on reflections, but my mind tended to go into a freefall of lethargy, where even lifting a glass of water to my lips to replace the loss of fluid via my armpits was almost too much effort.

The computer complained more than usual, my stockings clung to the carpet, and if the change didn’t come through soon, I would have to endure the horror of all nine to five horrors and be stuck on a tram with a hundred other pits, all raised and surrounding me in stereo.

Dreaming of icebergs, ice creams and Spaceballs on ice,

Ms doing-the-rain-dance M.

You can't stop the muzac!

If Shane Warne can have his own musical then so can I.

It would be called ‘MS the musical’ – my last name begins with an S – but the obvious problem was for the production not to be confused with being MS the disease set to music.

My musical (MS without the shakes) would follow the extra-ordinary adventures of a woman who wanted to break free, but was too afraid to loosen the shackles, and with the help of several muscle-bound lads with an addiction to baby lotion, they manage to writhe themselves to safety, goodness and the Armenian way.

All music would be supplied by the genius of Jacques Morali, or if he wasn’t up to it, then we could just play the soundtrack to ‘You Cant Stop the Music’. I can see it now in lights across theatres in Collins Street, that place in London, and on Broadway off-Broadway off-Broadway (off-Broadway). Of course there would be a guest starring roll for William Shatner so he could give us his rendition of all things Lucy in the sky, and it would end in a stirring version of 'I Believe in Miracles' by the Jackson Five – or Smith Six as fiances might force it to being.

Preparing my Tony Award winners speech,

Ms-bright-lights-and-jazz-hands-M.

Here Kitty-Kitty

It 's raining again.

I know I really shouldn’t be complaining as rain is something we’re terribly short on these days, but I find it hard not to have Supertramp choruses lodged between my ears whenever the skies grey over.

On days like these I tend to hibernate and spend far too much time on my rump, either staring at the raindrops as they hit and run along the glass, or spending equal amounts of time on my caboose mulling over what my pornstar name should be. (Note sure exactly why; perhaps it's something to do with wet T-Shirts and freezing nipples?)

I never had a pet (because mum wasn’t a fan of anything furry), but I did occasionally meow to a cat who lived next door back when we were at Dickens Street; meaning that my pornstar name could be Smokey Dickens. And although this did have a certain je ne sais quoi, it really didn’t have the wow factor that ‘Biggus Tittus’ or ‘Ivana Humpalot’ had.

Perhaps I could be Kitty Spankalicious, or even better still, Kitty-Kitty Bang-Bang.

I can hear the chorus of singers now:

‘Bang-Bang Kitty-Kitty Bang-Bang, our fine formed female friend.’

Ms planning-her-starring-role-in-the-next-great-bonkbuster M.

Mow in peace

I have a patch of lawn that needs to be trimmed every once in a while, and even though it's colourfully known as c@#t grass, for once I’m not dropping any silly euphemisms.

This grass of mine that needs to be cut is done so by a gardener, as he possesses the tools of the trade and I possess hayfever; the gift that keeps on sneezing. So late on Sunday when he came over to my place to do his quick green lap, he mentioned in his low-key way that his mother had died only forty minutes earlier.

He seemed very calm about the whole thing; obviously having forewarning about her fate helped somewhat, as she was apparently struck down by an illness, that once it started, there was no cure. He told me that only a month ago his fourteen-year-old daughter and mother had gone camping on a solid three day trek, and they both came back scratched but in great shape.

As he drove away in his van and trailer, taking all my clippings with him, his words reminded me about the finality of death. There were no take two’s, just a single shot and that’s it. So for what it's worth, I devote this blog entry to all the gardeners of the world and their mothers,

Ms practising-one-take-wonder M.

Give us a H, give us an O, give us a M and an E!

I was sitting on the tram today headed towards the usual (and unpleasant) grind and minding my own beeswax (but of course), when an Indian boy in a football top accidentally trod on my toe.

The fact that my tootsies were trod on wasn’t all that significant, as in my years of PT travels, they had been mashed, stomped and randomly ground by many a heavier source than a 21 year old Indian foot. But after finding out that it was a foot belonging to a boy who was off to see the Homeless World Cup, and support people that were going through tough times like he had only three short years ago, helped to make it an ‘ouch’ to remember.

So tonight instead of attending to press releases justifying multimillion dollar elephant exhibits that should never have been, I’m going to leave early and cheer on those who live an Ikea-free existence.

Ms sometimes-it’s-good-to-feel-pain M.

Who’s the boss? Who cares!

I can’t tell you why I don’t like Mondays – well I can, but there’s not enough time – but I can tell you what gets me through each Monday through to Friday. The truth is that I’m one of those people infected with the Mana-ma-na virus, and am known to walk down corridors late in the afternoon replying to peoples’ requests with a Tourettes like ‘Do-doo de-do-do!’

And if it’s not ditties from puppets, it’s the strains of Manfred Mann and his ability to be blinded by the light whilst being wrapped up in a douche like a hoona in a high.

Of course it goes without saying that I don’t mind being held closer by Tony Danza!

The only cure I know of is to quit, so unfortunately I’m still highly infectious!

Ms mana-ma-na M.

Janet eat your heart out!

I spent all of yesterday deep in a wardrobe malfunction.

Although there are some who would say I live in a perpetual wardrobe malfunctioning continuum (these same people believe that corduroy is out and black will never be the new black anytime soon), yesterday was definitely a new low in the fashion stakes according to Ms M.

There was nothing wrong with the ensemble; a sixty dollar retro dress with a brown and red flower print combined with a pair of pressed and presentable pinstripe pants. The problem peeked out a bit further south between my comfortable, yet still heterosexual shoes, and where the pinstripes ended. A pair of underpants had decided on some impromptu airing, and they weren’t a sexy pair of more air than fabric (because I didn’t own any of them), but a more demure pair of granny pants (of which I owned plenty).

What made matters worse was that yesterday was the twice a year board meeting where the snootiest of snooty gathered to slap themselves on the back and give each other pay rises, and instead of appearing as a serious woman of business presenting issues that really mattered, I was greeted with eye rolls and a smattering of applause.

From now on freefuring it is.

Ms underpants-are-for-under-the-pants M.

Three might be the magic number, but I’ll settle for two anytime now!

Last night was spent at a wedding, where the plan was to get so Wang Chunged along with everyone else in order to guarantee my chances of being Lionel Richied.

As it was, the only thing on tap was water, and I was stuck sitting next to a guy who was so lactose intolerant that I didn’t dare breathe the words ‘cheese’ or ‘Gromit.’ I made up for it however in eating my weight in cake, and even managed to scoff a slice of the wedding variety before it was stabbed and nibbled by the bride and groom.

But the truth was that all the Bomb Alaskas in the world couldn’t shake the hangover as I stood there by the kitchen sink wallowing in the truth that I had gone to a wedding and failed to pick up an overnight husband. This morning I should have been deeply immersed in a love hangover, or at least love sleepover, but as I stood there with cold feet waiting for the kettle to scream, all I felt was the three kilos over that I was since this time yesterday.

Ms must-only-attend-licensed-weddings-from-now-on M.

Something sticky and something Blu…

Pressing all the F-numbers at once didn’t do much for transforming my worklife into a life of no work, but it did manage to slow down my already painfully slow computer back to the summer 1984.

Starting up now takes an eternity plus five minutes, opening Word ten minutes more than that, and for me to actually attach something to an email, I might as well take the round tip to the U.K. because it’s bound to be quicker!

One unexpected bonus of having extra time waiting for technology to keep pace with my highly caffeinated life is being able to reassess the reassessment of my worklife versus my lack of life within life balance. It came to me on Friday as I was twiddling away the half hour it now takes to print a single page, and is a solution that is both therapeutic and creative.

The art of Blu-Tack!

Ms in-the-process-of-moulding-a-Blu-Tack-pole-vault M.

Save Ferris (and me while you're at it!)

Today is one of those perfect Ferris Bueller windless blue-sky mid-twenties days that makes working beside a window unbearable.

My dying succulent and I both know that we should be out there frolicking barefoot in the grass or reclining on a Banana lounge with my Breakfast at Tiffany's sunglasses, but apart from work, what's stopping me (and not Succy because he's not much of a runner) is the inevitable stepping on some tanbark and rolling an ankle, while the Banana lounge would somehow crumple in on itself and slowly bake me into a loaf of bespecaled bread.

And nobody likes to eat Jade flavoured Banana bread.

Surely there’s a way of gaining the freedom of not having to work and yet still getting paid to do nothing. And don’t tell me that it can’t be done, because the almighty Mr A in the office behind me does it everyday and gets away with it. My guess is that it’s something to do with computers.
A ‘virtual’ something.

I’m going to try pressing F1 through to F12 all at once and see if that does the trick.

Ms if-this-doesn’t-work-tell-Succuy-I-love-him M.

Vote for me, not Pedro!

If a black man can become president of the United States of America (including Mississippi), then surely a white woman (no matter how much I wish the freckles would merge) can become the next leader of the known universe.

It’s not as if I’m asking for all that much, and I would of course be the most benevolent ruler! Tim Tams would become the national food (but only once they had been certified organic), dishes would be abolished, Ikea stores would become the new places for worship and their catalogues the holy Scriptures, and films concerning death via wood cutting implements or buggy things with lots of teeth and nasty dispositions would all be turned into charming mobiles or beer coasters.

Terrorism, meanism, and stupidity are all out.

Joyism, surrealism, and holding hands in the beautiful outdoors under loads of sunscreen, protective layers of clothing, a hat, and some witchazel for the inevitable windburn are all in in in!

Ms proud-to-be-human M.

How many Phars in a lap?

Today is the day the whole nation is meant to take a break and watch small men whip large horses, so that other men in dark suites and women in fascinators the size of newly formed European states can get pissed and shout “hurrah”!

So what am I doing today?
Placing a bet? Not a chance.
Watching the race? Unlikely.
Dreaming of whips and saddles? Mmmmmmmm?!?

As nice as all the leather is, there’s something about the public flogging of animals that just doesn’t do it for me. However, if the race was run with jockeys being whipped by other jockeys hung like horses, then I would strongly consider getting frocked up and having a flutter, and might even go as far as owning a stable.

Of course I would have to name my first jockey ‘Too Cute To Shoot’.

Ms teeny-weeny-polka-dot-bikini M.

Those wacky Roman Numerals!

This morning dragged on for what felt like a month, Thursday a leap year, Wednesday through to Tuesday all of my twenties, and don’t ask me about Monday because that’s way before I was born!

Thankfully my brood of six-legged insects hasn’t grown any bigger (although my keyboard does smell vaguely better), and Jaws and I are on a first name basis having stapled our way through the mess of reports detailing how profits are up and orangutan stomach sizes are down. Only another three more hours until I get to escape to a place where there aren’t any newsletters, droning computers, reptiles for bosses, or teary kids and terrified parents to reunite after being separated between ice cream stands.

And even though I sincerely thank the inventors of the Roman calendar for pausing all this insanity, I still can’t help but wonder why they didn’t invent two weekends a week instead of one.

Ms sincerely-hoping-it’s-still-Friday M.

Stampy meet Jaws

Stampy’s replacement arrived today.

It came in a box labelled ‘dangerous’, had iron bars across the front, and when I neared the corner it growled at me. After arming myself with a heelless shoe and the succulent that’s more dirt than suckle due to my masterful brown thumbs, I bravely approached the cardboard cell and unleashed the beast.

It was big.
Huger than big.
The most massively hugest stapler ever made, or at least the biggest I had ever seen in person.
The picture on the Internet looked so small and cute, and I thought it would have been the perfect replacement for Stampy; not coming too soon after his demise, yet soon enough before the piles of unstapled papers began co-mingling. If I had known that it was a model requiring an extension to my office and three horizontally challenged people to be dropped on top of it just so it could snap, I probably would have ordered the slightly smaller version.

As it is, I desperately need things to be fastened together, so Jaws and I are going to try and be friends.

Now if only I could find a way out of my office,

Ms stuck-between-a-stapler-and-an-MDF-divider M.

My keyboard now, the world by next Tuesday.

Forget about imaginary cats named dog because a real ant is now living inside my keyboard.

I saw it yesterday while throwing together the minutes of Wednesday’s senior staff meeting, and just as I was up to the part where Mr A couldn’t remember if the minutes of the last minutes had been amended or not, a black spec scurried across the ridge of my keyboard before darting in between F11 and F12.

I’ve never used either of these buttons before, so for all I know, they might be there to serve as homes away for home for itinerant ants, but my concern is if there are others in there, or even just one other but of the opposite sex, and they started getting their antennas in a knot, because enough lint and food scraps have fallen between the keys to feed a whole colony. And then what? Would these tiny creatures gang up and demand that I stopped tapping on their roof, and if I didn’t, would they know me from my scent, eventually track down where I live, and munch into my supply of Tim Tams?

I think it’s safest to take Stampy’s lead and do what he did best,

Ms queen-of-all-things-small-and-smaller M.

The dynamic duo

I have decided that in addition to selecting a not-so-super power, I require the services of a sidekick to do all the boring superhero things like washing capes, darning ladders in stockings and coordinating press releases for local authorities. And although scanning through the pages of Seek I’ve noticed that I’m spoilt for candidates, I have decided that my sidekick will in fact be an imaginary cat.

I've always liked imaginary cats over real ones as they tend to leave less fur about the place and I won’t have to change the kitty litter as often. Being imaginary also has the advantage of being invisible to all those without an imagination, and everyone knows that baddies are inevitably defective in this area. So an imaginary sidekick for my real life superhero in my spare time it is.

And as for its name, I think I’ll call it dog.

Ms imaginary-cat-woman M.

Live and let fry

Due to a recent tragedy involving a close and personal piece of stationary, I have given myself a mission, and that is to get a date. It is a mission that I choose to accept even though it holds the prospect of publicly self-destructing. If the demise of Stampy has taught me one thing, it’s that I need to push things along, and in order to further spice up my life between breaths, I plan to continue working as a P.A during the day and sleep between organic linen at night, BUT, in my spare time I will be a stripper who fights crime with her yet to be determined superpower.

Like with most decisions in life there are three gifts to choose from; the ability to appear invisible when standing next to younger women, the gift of leaping small puddles with the aid of a decent run up, and a lasso of truth that doubles as an Alligator strap of reasonable strength.

Then all I’ll need is a uniform that makes the most out of my curves without turning them into a sidekick.

Ms licence-to-grill M.

Nadafest

Two days have now passed and I feel a bit better about Stampy, as I’m convinced that he’s flown to a place where the staples are twelve karat gold and never run out. Meanwhile, several kilometres below stationary heaven, I'm still waiting for my own stamp of approval. Last night I pushed the odds by venturing out to a local RSL that had gone Germanic for Octoberfest, but there was fierce competition for the few decent specimens, and I was distinctly disadvantaged by not being dressed as a beer wench.

Apparently ordinary wenches need not apply.

I could hire a costume next year and have absolutely no troubles filling out the top half, but it’s my ability to expand the bottom half at an even better ratio that could hurt my yeast-fuelled chances. What I really need to come up with is that ‘no sweat no diet exercise’ routine which reduces my caboose but leaves the puppies.

Ms too-much-bounce-to-be-fabulous M.

RIP Stampy

My stapler died on Friday.

I thought it was going to be a quick fix with the staples having jammed inside, but when I opened him up and the staples were all lined up nicely, I knew that something was terribly wrong. I rang for Ms O in reception – a woman with over thirty years of stationary resuscitation experience, but it was beyond even her help.

I suppose twenty-one years is a pretty good run for something that gets forcibly snapped together, but I can’t help thinking it could have turned thirty if only I hadn’t forced poor Stampy to get his teeth into things thicker than he should have. It was also the last piece of the old me, having survived since my first day at the zoo. The unbreakable metal ruler had long since bent and snapped, and my favourite pens had stopped working because they could or had migrated without my permission to other people’s desks.

Although I know that Stampy will have to be replaced with an elchaepo made in China by a Filipino model (model of stapler that is, although who knows what state the Filipino fashion circuit is in), I’m still going to keep Stampy as a paperweight reminder of the me that once was.

Ms rest-in-one-tightly-bound-piece M.

It's now or slightly later…

I have decided to prioritise.

Life before work, or more specifically; inner pleasure before external satisfaction.

To make up for lost time I have already picked out the shiny rock that will adorn my finger for when the yet to be named he and I slide on down the isle. When I say rock I really mean rocks, as it’s a beautiful 1930’s marcasite number with over forty points of affordable bling. The plan is to drop to one knee by the third date and ask / beg if this special he would ‘engage’ me. With any luck he will say yes, and by the end of the night we will be engaged as well!

The only problem I have with the whole engagement thing is being a fiancée. I hate the word with a Jerry Springer like passion and will have to come up with an alternative for the ‘look, drool, but don’t touch’ state. So far the possibilities are; ‘Beyoncé to be’ – which might be a problem if this magical he is expecting a transformation of black bootylicious proportions, then there's ‘three colours off-white’ for my pasty complexion, and ‘oops, missed me by that much.’

Now all I have to do is find the perfect dress, caterer, and a little something called a groom.

Ms seeking-Mr-Fabulous M.

Wooooooooooooooosh!

I can’t believe another whole week has skipped by and I didn’t even get a chance to do the dishes! At this rate there will be no Mr Bond waiting for me at the end of the rainbow because I’ll be looking more like Oldfinger than Pussygalore!

Unfortunately the quest for a better life / job / legs / and or neverending packet of Tim Tams was once again put on hold for the usual life / boring job / aching legs / and a spiralling Arnott’s induced debt.

And in the middle of all this global credit squeeze, here I am just wanting a peck and a hug. It should be made purrrfectly clear that my rates are reasonable, GST is included, and if things were to get a bit frisky, then I’m fully prepared with three varieties of condoms. The only problem I can foresee is with the latex having disintegrated from being ten years beyond its expiry date, although to be honest, its getting to the stage where I wouldn’t mind being in a position where I was subjected to a Sexually Transmitted Debt. This magical other could have half of the nothing I have. Half of my quarter lived life. Half of my twentieth of a house deposit. And half of my page one of the three hundred page to do list.

But to be fair, he could have both halves of the dishes.

Ms fabulously-soapy-with-tepid-dishwater M.

Oops, I did it again!

The week that was wasn’t all that much. There were the usual minuted meetings about enclosures being squeezed so as to display every highly poisonous animal on earth in a desperate grab for visitors, a raft of customer complaints that the cafeteria isn’t catering to anyone beyond those who adore consuming genetically modified goop, and of course there was Friday’s unexpected surprise of catching two love birds going hammer, Trojan and tongue during my lunchtime walk. I wasn’t expecting anything special as I took my stroll around the rear of the enclosures, but there Tom was in all his multi-inched glory giving a through induction to one of the PhD students. It was just one of the perks of being a keeper of mammals and being thirty-two without a gram of fat on his body.

Tom had offered me a ride on the pointy saddle about eight or more years ago, and at the time I withheld, thinking I could do better. That was the problem with my brain; all that withholding from thinking, and now I would have loved it if he had even bothered to shoot me a glance as I stood there gawking at his amazing dexterity with one leg propped against the wall.

Elizabeth in reception came up with the suggestion that I should hop onto something called Second Life in my quest for the ‘long lost other side of the bed warmeruperer’. Apparently everyone using it can look how they want to be and meet people from anywhere in the world, but even on the off-chance that the guy who liked like a 3D version of Tom actually was a buff-a-blow Tom in real life, which virtual character would actually want to go out with a forty-two year old anglo woman with sore arches and the occasional strand of grey hair?

I didn’t want to have to morph into Jennifer McCarthy in order to get some action, and even then, what’s the difference between virtual sex and my current relationship with Duracell and Co?

So many questions and too long to recharge,
Ms more-fabulous-if-I-was-blonde M.

Forgive me Blogger for I have sinned…

… it has been a week since my last rant.

It was a week that began like any other before turning into an eight-day monster, and was capped off with the thing I had last night that could only be loosely called a date. Sure it was a notch up from a soiree for one with Star Trek re-runs on the telly, being an out-there-beyond-the-door date with a male of the species, or at least he was in theory. We met at Soul Mommas; a location that revealed a lot about my ironic sense of humour (although that one was probably lost on Henry not knowing my family history), but also ticked the box of being a busy public space, so that if things took a turn for the stabby, then I would have plenty of witnesses with camera phones (and subsequently be a fleeting hit on You Tube).

As it was I needn't have worried, because the only threatening thing between my plate of four choices and brown rice was being bored to death. Sure Henry was nice enough in that he had a regular job with normal ambitions, but he droned on and on about how he loathed what he did, and how he wanted to get out there and do something else with his life. And before any of you even begin thinking about how he reminds you of a certain somebody, I’ll remind you that slaving away at a zoo for twenty-one years has given me the right to bitch and moan, but six years working as an IT specialist earning twice my wage does not! And besides, I don’t need another me. I’m after someone who’s at stage five of their life so that they can drag me out of stage one, and I can skip all painful the stages in between.

He did kiss me goodnight however and that felt pretty nice.

Ms stage-one-twice-kissed M.

To Tim or not to Tam

Is it just me or are people making less and less positive eye contact? I might no longer be the bright-eyed size six clear-skinned catch that I once was (or possibly never was according to Mother dearest), but I still have snappable cheeks (unlike Mother dearest), a nose in the right place, and eyebrows that don’t co-mingle. But unfortunately my faces' adherence to something resembling phi didn’t seem to make a damn of difference walking down the street, dodging canine forget-me-nots in the park, or in isle seven of Coles. Last night as I was topping up my emergency supplies of Tim Tams, I was naive enough to pick up a box of instant something that had escaped the clutches of its dribbling occupant, and on returning the package to the mother, she shot me a brand of squint-eyed distrust before pushing down the aisle sans box and maiming two unfortunate shelf stackers.

She had the kid and probably a matching husband, as well as a 4WD complete with baby on board sticker and designer mud that came in a spraycan, but if that’s what my reaction had to be when a stranger offered help then I didn’t want to be like her. Sure what Seniõr Tim Tam and I had wasn’t all that much (and possibly illegal in Texas), but it was still the kind of something that made me happy each night as my head hit the pillow.

Ms soon-to-be-on-a-fabulous-chocolate-high M.

The weekend that is…

I’m not exactly sure what my size twelve caboose and I are meant to be doing with our two days off and its already turned Sunday morning. Sure the usual double-strength organic Scottish breakfast awaits, as do the usual pre-tea tremors over whether the new waiter will understand the tone of my voice when I say I want it really really strong. Last night was spent indoors admiring Captain Janeway’s justification of placing her whole crew in jeopardy for the sake of a child that one of her crewmen didn’t realise existed some five minutes earlier. Before that it was Bhoj takeaway for one, a bit of the Jacksons (not from my original vinyl because of course mother dearest threw all my records out the second I left home), and the few hours before that were spent lazing on the steps underneath a sun that was having difficulty making up its mind whether it wanted to shine or hide.

Not that I was complaining about the lack of rays, as those twenty minutes spent under vitamin E’s influence was enough to roast the tip of my nose. So a whole day zipped by without having accomplished all that much. No new romances with sticky endings or winning lotteries so I could buy the QE2 and take it for a spin around the Greek isles. Not even a fifth division win so I could take a snoop along a certain Swedish company’s aisles. Just a bit more of the safe same and a feeling that I should definitely, most definitely, make this Sunday a day to remember.

Now if only I could remember what it was that I had to do to make it memorable!

The yet-to-buy-a-lottery-ticket Ms M.

The week that was…

Monday was bathed in the uniformed glow of a furnishing giant from Sweden.

Tuesday still shone from the previous days Ikeaness, until a dead possum decided to fall through the ceiling in one of the ticket booths, landing maggots and all on top of the new girl Elisa.

The first third of Wednesday was spent trying to convince Elisa that the zoo wasn’t in the habit of storing dead animals in ceiling spaces – walls are a different matter altogether – and the remainder of the day was spent trying to explain the new directives from a certain CEO, which amounted to more of the same; do more with less.

Thursday rolled along and two staff threatened to quit due to Mr A’s reforms, and the Union suddenly reared its head to make things even easier.

On Friday the vending machine ran out of Snickers bars.

There was no doubting that my week festered as the days disappeared. The sheer bliss of complementing shades had been far outweighed by an absence of dairy milk and peanut rectangles only four sleeps later. My hope for a better next week is that Ikea will re-release their catalogue just for moi, but I’ll arrive armed on Monday morning with an armada of Snickers just in case.

The two-notches-less-than-fabulous Ms M.

Ikeafication 101

It came today.
It arrived in my postbox all flat and untorn.
No, not the latest Keyes, Friedman or Blackwood, but a tome whose pages are designed to bring purely harmonised joy; a type of joy that blurred the fact that it would be another five whole days until my next two days off. I loved my Ikea catalogues, and in a mostly plutonic way, the catalogues loved me back. The mostly stood for the one time I was a single screw short of assembling my Nistrom of a bookshelf. But despite the mutual attraction, my house was still a fair way off from being completely Ikeafied. The kitchen came closest with the dishrack, chopping board, tea towels, plates, knifes and forks all matching in their Swedish made in China origins. The bathroom had its own set of striped mats, striped shower curtain, extendable mirror and turtle nail brush, not forgetting the slim cabinet where my moisturising collection lived (and grew). The bedroom was getting there with its glass wardrobes, lonely queen sized bed and long-necked reading lamps, and last but definitely not least was the lounge room. It had been infected to the point of coming down with a retro carpet, two silver stemmed lights and a large space where my latest acquisition was going to live. At the moment it was renting on page thirty-five in all its faux leather glory. It was sleek and grey with slender silver legs and was proud to be called Verspankit. I could see myself lounging between its comfyness as I snuggled in for a quiet night alone; just me and a book and an endless supply of hot chocolate. Then again I could quite easily fall for the real deal – a black plush couch that was once made from animals (but only the smelly biting kind) that was otherwise known as Verkumalot. The bonus here being that there would even be room for a significant other body of warmth to share the pillows and still not get in the way.

Now if only Ikea sold men that matched their furniture!
The fabulously verfunky Ms M.

But that’s enough about me... What do you think about me?

If Phelps can find eight medals at the bottom of a Chinese pool, then surely I can achieve just one of my goals and break out from these four walls called work. This morning I penned a feeble list of things stopping me from being the buoyant Ms M that I was destined to be (year eight scrap books don’t lie!), and it strangely didn’t amount to very much of a hurdle. I haven’t spawned any progeny (although I do listen to Prodigy) and I don’t have a mortgage menacing overhead. Sure I need the money, but the pay isn’t all that great (what after tax and bossy overheads), and I wouldn’t even bother stealing any of the animal emblazoned stationary. The money that I earn hasn’t been siphoned off to a husband or two and a bit kids or a holiday house down in Sorrento. And if I'm not going to be the queen of leisure then at least I should be living as an artist, but my painting and drawing efforts are more autistic than artistic, and I don’t have the ovaries to perform stand up.

The real issue is that I don’t know what the alternatives are. All I really know for sure is what I definitely don’t want to do as opposed to what I really want to do, and with only a third of my life remaining, the prospect of being lost in life is a little daunting. There needs to be a roadmap; a Melways for life – the do ‘this’ and wind up with ‘that’, but if you do the ‘other’ then you will have ‘this’ guide to everyday living. It could have a foreword from Phelps endorsing the pages and a big thanks to the original creator / wife, without whom none of the medals, holiday homes, or Louvre-worthy masterpieces would have been even remotely possible.

Now back to reality and rosters,
The seven-medals-off-fabulous Miss M.

PS: before I get any hate mail from the Angelina Jolie stalking club – I do realize that the above lips aren’t mine (although if I had the money they would be), but they will have to do as a future substitute until I find the time to pick up a damn webcam!

To Phelps or not to Phelps... that is the question.

Ok so the webcam hasn’t happened yet, so you will all have to put up with the ugliness that is Angelia Jolie's chin. I know I know - it’s disgusting bordering on immoral, but time this week has sprinted away from me faster than Phelps in whatever event he chooses to swim in. I’m sure bordering on certain that there is a correlation between the passing of time and what you do with it, because having spent five days a week stuck behind the same desk, almost the same chair, and pretty much the same section of thin carpet for the past twenty-one years of my life, I have found that time has shot away into hyperdrive. On those extremely rare occasions where I get to do something different or exciting or god forbid spontaneous, it seems that then, and only then, is when time takes a bit of a breather and turns the start of the day into last Monday. It’s on days like today that I wonder why I ended up in admin at a zoo of all the places and people that I could have wound up enjoying. I could have been a somebody; a contender; the woman who fits the speedos on Phelps. But instead I was here; tapping away at a keyboard that was more E.coli than plastic and looking out the dirt-stained window to all the tourists having a ball. There had to have been a wrong turn taken somewhere – a left when I should have gone straight ahead – but I hadn’t so I wasn’t, I was here and not out there, which made me happy in a sad kind of way because it was bitterly cold outside.
Must get back to work and find a store that sells non-scratchy scarves,

The semi-fabulous Ms M.

The beginning of the end

Ok so where to start.
The number of years that I've been exposed to this world is kind of obvious from the title of the blog, and the fact that I feel like it’s ticking means that unlike some people who are in love prancing about hand in hand in slow motion, I am walking through life empty-handed and in thirty times fast forward. Of course it wasn’t meant to be like this. There was a plan, a most definite plan that stated and I quote; “I am going to get married”, which for an eight year old to write on her wall in crayon was all well and good, but what I didn’t realise then was before I could sweep down the aisle, I needed a male of the species to drag along for the ride. Looks weren’t a major issue on my behalf; I’m attractive in a forgettable way, and although my definition might only be standard in a time when everyone’s converting to high def, I still possessed all of the qualities that should be ripe for a decent and lasting union. I have money – not heaps, but enough to stay clear of the instant noodle diet – the hair is all there and behaving reasonably well (and the grey streaks are always replaced by browner ones before they become too obvious) – and I work full time in a job that other people want and I loathe. Perhaps the lack of a significant body of warmth on the left hand side of the bed has something to do with my inability to cook – I even burn cereal – meaning that although I can afford to do otherwise, I did actually have an unhealthy supply of instant noodles living on the top shelf in the kitchen. But they are only there if absolutely necessary and the gourmet pizza delivery boys were on strike (and at this stage I didn’t even care that they’re all Anglo), or for those times when I couldn’t be bothered getting off my rump to Bhoj or Soul Mamas.
If further proof is required of my standardness but still the catch of the day abilities just look at the photo above and ask yourself “can that be the skin of a forty-two year old?” Of course the answer is no, and technically you would be right as it’s a shot of Angelina Jolie’s cheek, but I’m getting myself a webcam next week so that I can prove to the world, and perhaps even myself, that I still have a chance to score.

The mildly fabulous Ms M.