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.