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.