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.