The Soccerwhos?

I’m beginning to get it.

The whole watching a ball being kicked around by twenty-two sweaty guys in the middle of a freezing night.

Sure it’s taken me a week to recover from the cold, but I’m still buzzing from the thought that I can now appreciate a game beyond the short shorts and snazzy hairdos, because something happened last week as I stood there amongst the seventy thousand green and gold others.

I actually enjoyed it.

I enjoyed screaming obscenities, waving my arms like a mad woman and twirling my scarf at inappropriate times. I liked the chants, the flares, the booing of referees.

The fact that we won 2-1 against Japan wasn’t half-bad either!

Ms kick-it-to-me M.

V isn't for Vulva

So now even Vitex is an anaphrodisiac?

It’s hard enough attracting the gaze of wannabe beaus with not-so-miniature Vesuvius’ erupting all over my face, but to learn that the one thing that prevents the Pompei reenactments is the very same thing that’s reducing my libido?

How can this be remotely fair?
And why is a 42-and-three-quarters year old woman still doing with acne?

And where is the scientific proof that copious amounts of Snickers bars are bad for you?

Then again it’s probably just as well that my libido is quelled, as I’m not sure my brain could handle dreaming of chucks of hunks every third second of the day.

Ms Vitexed M.

K is for Kugelhupf

It might have been a Queen’s birthday for some, but I spent my long weekend cutting into chocolate Kugelhupfs hoping that my birthday miracle would finally appear.

But it didn’t.

The TV and every other horizontal surface still needed dusting, the dishes still glared with their crusty stares, and the growing pile of dirty clothes almost matched the damp ones out on the line.

Maybe the knife had cut through to the plate?
I think should order another two just in case.

Ms fingers-crossed M.

Wa Wa Nee to the head?

Because there simply isn’t enough chest hair, cinema violence or objectification of men in the world, I have attempted to address the problem with the below link.

Pay close attention to the ancient method of excess hair removal.
The basic rule is ‘Wax on, Lee off.’

Enjoy your trip to a place that almost looks like the Colosseum,

Ms ‘waaaaaaaa’ M.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TbIwQMBeC2c

Two degrees of Kevin Bacon separation

Why is Victoria fast becoming the swiniest state of them all?
Is John Elliott to blame or is it something more sinister and closer to home?

It’s a well documented fact that sexiness and dishes aren’t great bedfellows; meaning the more dishes and dusting and ironing and overall disgustingness there is, the less sexy I feel, which explains why my apartment is currently a brothel.

Not a brothel in the good sense with people getting paid to bonk and slithers of safe sex in bins, but a seedier, lack of laundered linen and stains bringing back painful memories kind of red-lit emporium.

My fear is that one of these misty mornings I will open the door to government authorities wanting to quarantine my apartment as the source of all things Miss Piggy.

So I have hid the crayons just in case they connect the dots and have begun the search for a thing called a vacuum cleaner.

Ms 42-and-oinking M.

Norway? No way!

I’m not sure if it’s the shock of having a teenager babbling about fairytales being ranked higher in the musical crème brûlée stakes than a man who is willing to shake out of his shirt, or that I'm suffering from a strain of kosher flu, but whatever it is, it’s prevented my fingers from coming close to gracing my coffee-stained keyboard.

Up until the shock of the Eurovision 09 / oinkless flueness, I hadn’t so much as sniffled in eight years, and had almost forgotten the joys of having a tissue permanently stuck to my face or the inside of my pant pocket.

So therefore I have decided to place a ban on watching all future Eurovision song contests, on the off-note chance that it was the upsetting distribution of 'points’ that made me feel so poorly!

Ms 12-points M.

Some like it… not

Winter has kicked in and it’s beginning to hurt.

Sure the rain is good for everything green, and we’ve barely got enough water to drink let alone suds our cars, but there’s something about the cast of grey that numbs my general outlook.

Maybe it’s just my third of a quarter of English heritage or that my knuckles are becoming achingly stiff.

Maybe it’s the frigid winds that make skirts a freezing impossibility.

Or maybe it’s just a lack of vitamin E?

Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s too much to ask if we could have just have a little bit of uninterrupted solar shine, and allocate the hours between two and seven AM for above average rainfall.

Ms bring-on-the-supplements M.

To not to do or not to do…

Ok so I might not be that much closer to being Australia’s next top anything, but at least I have expanded my list of things I don’t want to be:

Flatulence Analyst: a job that speaks for itself from both ends.

Barnyard Masturbator: although being hung like a horse is a good thing, this is a bit too close to the bone.

Carcass Cleaner: being vegetarian I tend to weep over lettuce hearts, let alone the best of what’s left of fluffy bunnies.

Sensory Deprivation Subject: I’m deprived of enough things as it is, to the point where I could already qualify as an expert.

Blue Cheese Factory Labourer: see Flatulence Analyst.

So although the above list is far from definitive, at least I have made some headway into what I don’t want to be doing, and therefore hopefully making the quest of what I do want to be spending the rest of my nine to fives on, slightly more conspicuous.

Ms getting-there-slowly-but-surely M.

Yes we can!

I simply loved the fact that everybody, including a part of myself – the nasty left-hand side that should never see the light of day – had written Susan off before she uttered a single note, and yet, when she opened her mouth, she sang like an angel.

It just goes to show that you should never read a book by it’s cover – unless of course the cover has missiles or black pointy planes or people pointing guns at each other, because then it’s bound to be crapola!

So if Susan can wait until she’s forty-eight to have her dreams finally realised then so can I.

Just have to work out what the thing is that I’m meant to be doing!

Ms this-Aussie’s-got-talent M.

Death: the not so silent killer

Sure we all know that what goes up must come down and what goes around comes around, but what sound comes out when you go upside down, turned by boys, and never to resurface again?

Apparently the popular usuals when standing there at the lip watching them slip away are ‘My Way’ (or the highway), ‘Wind beneath my legs’, and ‘Another one bites the dust (and if only he had dusted more often, then there would have been far less dirt munching).

But surely there must be better tunes to mark the passing of a life reasonably well lived.

When I eventually suffer a fatal heart attack at the age of 103 after being expertly massaged by Enrico the pool boy (as opposed to Enrico Palatazo the great tenor), I would like the thousands of mourners with their placards of why did she have to die so young, listening to the strains of one of the following songs:

Lucy in the sky with diamonds – William Shatner
Always look on the bright side of life – Monty Python
I’ll be mellow when I’m dead – Weird Al Yankovic
The theme to ‘I dream of Jeannie’
My heart will go on – Celine Dion.

I should clarify that the only reason why Celine is in there is because even in death I’m a sadistic bitch.

Ms another-one-rides-the-bus M.

In Rod we trust

So this is why I can only find boys and not men in Melbourne, as all the well-hung members are off cavorting in Japan!

Forget about Easter and Christmas and worshipping mothers or Boxing Day specials; National Penis Appreciation Day is what we all should be clamouring to see!

The only snag that’s not well adorned is that it seems to be celebrated on the other side of the hemisphere, so the almighty M plan is currently being amended to include the Australiafication of this holiest of days. There will be puppetry of the penis, penis duels, penis painting, and of course penis rides.

Being the coordinator of all things phallic means that I will have the arduous task of auditioning these prospective rods.

It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to ‘do’ it.

Ms prepping-for-the-‘p’ M.

Typical Tuesday

Thursday was fine, Friday bordered on good, and Saturday was decent enough.

Sunday started off as ‘good’ and then slipped back into ‘ok’ by around three.

All of which meant that Monday was my last chance from five sets of twenty-four that were supposed to rejuvenate the aging lobes that is Ms M.

The closest I got was a half-hour block on Monday night; some time after dinner and before Sarah Lee time, where I took a walk as the sun knocked off, and I almost felt like the human being I was before the nine to five grind.

A mere half an hour to regain the four-month long summer vibe that was the me of yesteryear.

Where’s a defective Zoltan machine when you need one?

Ms fourth-form M.

Reasonable Thursday

The weather is fantastic.

Or at least it is on the other side of the heavily glazed window three inches from the edge of my desk.

I can see the stark blues of the sky and the stillness of the leaves, but not even the twenty-something degrees of warmth can make it through to this side of the window.

The only thing keeping me from licking the windows is the thought of being free for four whole days.

Fours days to get out there and do whatever I want.
Four days to reinvent myself and cook like a sous-chef.
Four days to rewrite the history according to M, four days to find Mr Right.
Four days to loose those extra inches around my thighs.
Four days to unwind and recharge.

What’s the bet I don’t even leave the couch?

Ms sleepyhead M.

Call of the mild

So it’s official, I’m a cougar.

Well not so much a cougar as a wannabe cougar, or more like a meerkat, because as much as I’d like to be taking advantage of younger and svelter male species of the animal kingdom, at this stage it’s only my age and desire that permits me to qualify.

Perhaps I should place an ad in the local newspaper seeking well-endowed tradies to come over and play with my plumbing, who in turn could be compensated with above average swooning and sub-standard sex.

The again I could just have a Harrison Fordathon and get sponsorship from Duracell.

Ms meow M.

April Tools

Could somebody please tell me what the point of April Fool’s Day actually is?

I know for most people it’s meant to be a day for harmless pranks, but for us in Zooville it’s phone call after phone call for Mr G Raffe, or getting a Mr Lion on the line, and having already been subjected to the day twenty something times, the routine is getting a little tired.

To even things up, us Zooies should be allowed to ring the pests back on every other day of the year and annoy them with meaningless drivel.

So until that glorious switcheroo arrives, I’m spending all April firsts from now on ignoring phone calls, conversations, emails, and tea-leaf readings.

Ms Sue-Keeper M.

Are you berkin my stocks?

So what if I’m a woman who wears comfortable shoes, because this is one Homo sapien who’s almost proud of the fact.

Life is too short (and my bunions too painful) to walk around in ankle snapping heels all the time, so if a man should snub me for wearing my Merrells, then I’m sorry, but he isn’t the one for me.

That is of course unless he’s really good looking with a great sense of humour, who’s kind to small kids and animals (and maybe even to larger kids who ate little animals), and then there’s a chance that maybe, just maybe, I’d heel it up.

It’s a fine balance between falling arches and failing urges.

Fingers crossed the feet go first.

Ms heel-at-a-pinch M.

Gurn for Gold!

Some would say that I’m already a world gurning champion.

It could be the British blood that surfaces no matter how hard I try to repress it.

It could be because I’m a horsey girl on a budget, and on the weekends I walk around with a horse’s collar around my neck as I can’t afford the rest of the four-legged beast.

It could be because my lips are naturally luscious and springy.

It could also be because I’m reaching an age where my teeth are ready to fall out.

Yet regardless of reason, I’m determined to turn this unsightly negative into an unsightly positive, and the best part about it is that unlike Wife Carrying, I don’t need a husband for a partner.

If only Mum could see me now!

Ms hoping-the-wind-doesn’t-change M.

It’s not easy being green!

Why did I turn up to work today dressed in green tights, green skirt and emerald top?

Tell me why I wore the greenest shoes I owned and platted my hair into pigtails with matching limy hair ties? Tell me why I was looking forward to beer o’clock, green Guinness, replica pubs and general inappropriate behaviour when St Patrick’s day was ages ago?

Anyone?

This is what happens when starting work as the security guards open the gates in the morning, and finishing well past when the girls at reception have answered their last prank call. This is the direct result of working weekends in a windowless office and not having time for meaningful contact with the rest of the inebriated world.

So today despite it being days too late, I’m going to celebrate St Maggie’s day and make up for my lack of Patrick.

Ms unhappy-little-leprechaun M.

“There’s a bathroom on the right”

Is it just me or does the J. Geils band seem to be inappropriately harping on about having racist girlfriends?
“My angel is a xenophobe?”
I mean what is that all about?

And then again why is another woman being blinded by the light while wrapped up in a douche like a runner in the night?

As weird as some lyrics (and muso’s) are, I really think there must be something terribly wrong between my ears and brain, because I’m always hearing words that surely shouldn’t be there. It just doesn’t make sense that Bonnie Tyler would be living in a powdered egg and giving off farts – although if you did live in a powdered egg, it could get pretty smelly – but my brain somehow chose to accept these ludicrous substitutions, and then continued on with whatever else it was meant to be doing like stapling, sending emails, or stapling sent emails.

Perhaps it’s the result of built up wax.

Then again I could be just insane!

Ms mondegreen M.

Life would be so much better with a plot

My New Year’s readolution was to read more – and to win Tattslotto and buy some wonderful far-flung tropical island where the pristine white beaches were mottled only by well-oiled natives – but as unlucky I was in love and other sweepstakes, could scanning the wrappers of period biscuits actually count towards reading?

The thin strips of facts were interesting enough, and can be used the next time I’m in a hostage situation and forced to answer the precise amount of water contained in a cucumber.

It’s 96 per cent by the way.

I used to pride myself on having a voracious appetite for books, and there was a time where I owned (and used) a dictionary – and not a virtual one, but one that was heavy to open – but now my attention span has (d) evolved to the point of having trouble focusing beyond the first line of a haiku.

So this weekend the plan is to regain my reading skills by starting with something simple.

Now where’s that cereal packet!

Ms bidding-to-be-bookish M.

My first time and the earth moved!

At first I thought it was the fridge complaining about never ever being full.

It made noises.
Loud noises.
Loud shaking kind of noises that were annoying and vibrated (and not in a good way).

It was one of the few things in the house I hadn’t splurged on and bought a silvery double-doored version of (although I’m not sure what else came with double-doors that I could buy) and had come courtesy of my grandmother via the Kelvinator factory some time back in the forties. The shelves were made of thin strips of metal as opposed to glass, the plastic containers where the vegetables were meant to visit (but never did) were plastic and solid looking, and the freezer did exactly that.

The most modern thing about it was its step-pedal that allowed you to open the fridge without using your hands.

Apart from that it was huge; had taken two guys and three hernias to lug up the stairs, and had a life of its own when it switched itself from ‘dull but acceptable roar’ to a sound similar to a jet engine having swallowed a mouthful water down the wrong way.

So really, it’s completely understandable that I should think that it was the fridge and not the earth that was causing my walls to do the limbo. And sure, in all probability I might have already felt an earthquake at least once in my 42 year tenure in life, but how could I have known it was tectonic plates going at it Greek wedding style and not my own salacious adventures that made the earth shudder?

In the end it was all over pretty quickly – as was the earth tremor – and thankfully the already scary cracks that were beginning to divide my rooms into uneven numbers didn’t spread too far further south.

Ms no-longer-an-earthquake-virgin M.

Mmmmmmmmm

I’m not sure if it’s the shift in weather from being a sweltering forty-plus hot box to a cold and drizzly tween but I most definitely have the urge to eat.

And when I say eat I don’t mean nibble.

I want to eat doughnuts and Minties and Golden Gaytimes and white bread with hundreds of thousands sprinkled on top. And then for main course I want Maltesers and Kinder Surprises without the surprise, and lots (and I mean lots) of Nutella. If by some miracle my body was able to cope with this toxic array of chemicals and cholesterol, then I would happily gorge on all things fast-food because it made me one happier than happy chickadee.

But the truth was that I couldn’t walk past a Snickers bar without spots coming out on my face, and as peachy as my caboose was, it didn’t need to be any more fruity.

So unfortunately walks to the office will be via the long way so I can bypass the vending machine’s whispers and limit my cravings to a wholemeal sandwich, an apple, and a celery stick smothered in peanut butter.

Ms doughnut-dreaming M.

Christmas every day anyone?

I have come to the conclusion that what’s holding back the floodgates of manly love in my dam’s direction is a lack of spruiking my domesticity.

Sure I might not be your traditional domestic goddess, but I do have an apron that has a well-endowed body that could be mine (after a strict diet of lipo and fresh air), and despite the slew of takeaway boxes that may suggest otherwise, I am proud to announce my housier than housey attributes:

I pour a mean bowl of cereal,
I brew a spiteful pot of tea,
I stir an acerbic G&T (the secret is to use a handful of fresh mint)

And if these three things weren’t already enough to get prospective tongues a-wagging, I also peel a vengeful tangerine; if you know what I mean (and if you do please email and explain it to me!)

Ms ho-ho-ho M.

Felix to my Oscar

I’m not so sure I would make a great Oscar board member.

Sure the invites to exclusive parties ‘hosted’ by the stars of nominated films might be fun, as would their car wash and pet-minding service (I don’t drive but you can come on over and clean me any time Brangelina), but as I seem to be the only person in the world who doesn't like Slumdog Millionaire - to the point of walking out after the first forty minutes - I probably would have been asked to return the bottle of Benicio del Toro sweat I use for letters and all other things sticky.

It wasn’t so much the torturing of kids or the glossing over of major issues, but more the fact that I just didn’t care about what was happening in the film. I wanted to care. I mean, what wasn’t there to care about; young and innocent children suffering because their only crime was to be born into poverty, but somehow this film managed to make me disconnect with everything I cherish in life, and for that I suppose it is worthy of an Oscar.

And really, when was the last time they gave an undeserving Oscar to anyone?

Ms I’m-no-expert-but M.

The other big O

I’ve never been the mouth-breathing type – primarily because there’s always too much to say and so much to eat – which basically meant that if asked to go ten rounds with a three-story Oreo tower, then my answer would most probably be a definite ‘YES’!

Food and I have always had an ‘on-on’ relationship.

Whenever I’m good and come close to nearing the magical sixty-five kilo mark, I always treat myself to whatever I've been withholding from my tongue, so that within three weeks I’m back to where I started. Sometimes a few more kilos down the road.

I just wish there was a pill that could take care of all my sustenance; of course it would have to be delicious, calorie-free, fat-free, meat-free, GM-free, 100 percent biodynamic made in Melbourne yumtastic.

Is this really too much to ask?

Ms don’t-bother-answering-that M.

Thanks for the ‘aouuuu’!

"What do you want for Christmas my child?"
"I want a robotic head, a white glove and a family of chimpanzees!"

I was thirteen when Michael Jackson’s ‘Off the Wall’ came out, and one of my clearest memories was standing in the bathroom trying to reach that pitch in ‘Rock with you’. Then there was that time he did the moonwalk on stage, and I practised – and failed – for weeks.

I remember having Michael’s poster on the wall above my bed – the white suite one with a tiger – and dancing around the house listening to his music at full blast whenever dad wasn’t at home.

Mum even joined in on the boogie once.
She wasn’t too bad a dancer.

But as much as I like hanging onto my past (possibly to the point of suffocation), I’m not really interested in buying golf buggies airbrushed with the likeness of Michael dressed as Peter Pan or portraits of him dressed as royalty. Instead I prefer to keep the part of him as I remember myself; proud, talented and black (although in reality I've always been as black as he currently is).

Ms Bubbles-stop-that! M.

Wonky Chocolate

Ok so I didn’t receive any chocolate pumps or heart shaped boxes or cards from secret admirers, but there is every possibility (and I mean every possibility) that my highly sensitive junk mail filter may have bounced the lovelorn confessions from a certain Johnny Depp and the invite for lunch from Brangelina.

It wasn’t that I was expecting much because I wasn’t (well maybe a little), and I know that Valentines Day is just like Easter and Christmas and Shrove Tuesday being commercialised and just another excuse to wait in line for price-checks with thousands of others at shopping centres without any natural air or light, but I was kind of hoping that someone – even Peter down in reptiles – could have given me a little something to cheer about.

So next year instead of waiting by the letterbox pretending not to care, I’m booking myself a trip to Willy Wonkas or the Cadbury factory down in Tassie, because at least then I can treat myself to my own weight in chocolate.

Now that’s something worth not dieting for!

Ms rocky-road M.

Shoes are my friends…

and now I can eat my friends!

What better way to say ‘your are the sunshine of my life’, ‘apple of my eye’, ‘and the sexiest biped on this side of the street early on a Sunday morning’ than to give the gift of chocolate shoes?

In fact it makes so much sense it’s scary.

They can be worn (on your face) and then proceed to soothe the dull ache consuming bodies and minds over the lack of chocolate shoeness in life, more boring than boring work, and bushfires consuming innocent lives.

So whether it’s one of the gals at the front desk wanting to see me bounce off the walls or a Mr Mysterious after a different sort of bouncing action, please pretty please with Jimmy Choo’s on top, can somebody send me some size eights!

Ms prepping-her-tootsies M.

Please hang in there

There are some things more important than moaning about a lack of functioning staplers, bosses who couldn’t staple even if they did know how to use a stapler, and an absence of all things binding and hairy-chested in life.

This is one of those times.

My heart and everything in it goes out to the people affected by the devastating bushfires that have consumed all in its path. Having to drive back home and turn that final bend, only to see where once stood a home full of memories and life is nothing but a smouldering shell is a pain beyond my imagination. And then to think there are those who have lost even more than that.

Meanwhile here I am sitting in the suburbs trying to get on with the everyday mundanities.

It makes the sorting out of rosters seem even more trivial than usual.

Ms not-doing-a-very-good-job-of-holding-back-the-tears M.

From the threshold to the finish line

I am so over the being a born-again bog-snorkelling the heat (my god the heat) getting hitched anywhere but the Pancake Parlour virgin, and so have decided that the only way to get my name out there in a positive light (apart from constructing the Ms M signal) is to become Australia’s first World Wife Carrying champion.

Or at least be the wife in the team.

My theory being that although there might be better, faster, slimmer or permanently post-sex hair looking Aussie chickadees, but to be the first in something? Well, first is forever. All I have to do now is perfect the Ukrainian Method - which apparently is far more successful than the Rhythm Method - although if this is the reason why Russia wanted them to shuffle to the left and play with themselves, then I might just have to go Kazakhstani style!

Ms looking-for-an-ex-Russian-statesman M.

Post 'ohhh' yeah!

What I really want in life is after-sex hair all the time.

You know - that perfectly messed up but still naturally refined glow that hair follicles only achieved after the act of copulation (or sitting in some Hollywood stylist's chair for sixteen hours).

It was the look that A through to A minus celebrities wore when sashaying down the crimson I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-carpet, and even though the closest I’ll ever get to strutting down a carpet with flashes going off is if I parade down my apartment corridor and all the lightglobes decided to simultaneously die, I still think it’s awfully important that your normal (but not average) everyday (in a special occasions type of way) woman can feel slightly Wellafied from time to time.

The sex before the after-sex hair wouldn’t be so bad either,
Ms hair-at-the-ready M.

The heat. My god the heat: part infinity.

Ok now this is just becoming silly.

One day of 42 degreeness is fine, two at a pinch, three and I’m not running down any decked halls singing fa-la-la-la, but four consecutive days of mind-numbing heat? Four days over 42 degrees isn’t Melbourne it's Marrakesh, and I don’t want to live in Marrakesh (no offence to all those Marrakeshites out there) because my body can't do four 42's in a row. I don’t have the right kind of clothes, the right temperament, I don’t do thongs, and my apartment doesn’t have any insulation (unless you count paint) let alone an air conditioner. The closest I've come to a cool breeze in the past few days is when opening the fridge, and I’m finding myself lingering by the shelves longer than usual just to pause the stream of sweat.

The only way I got through last night was with the aid of three cold showers (and when I say cold I mean frigid) and having a frozen tea towel draped across my head (and when I mean tea towel I mean tea towel).

Perhaps I can do what the cricketers do and fall asleep in an ice bath.
Now if only I could find an ice dispenser and Brett Lee’s phone number!

Ms melting-away M.

The big day in

This one is for all the prospective husbands out there who aren’t quite sure where I want the big day.

As much as I like the outdoors with its rain and wind and sunburn and creepy crawlies, I would really prefer to be married indoors. A photo session can of course be taken outside, and if all else fails, the snaps could be taken in front of a bluescreen where we (Mr ‘insert name here’ and I) would appear beside the eight wonders of the world; the usual seven plus the Pancake Parlour.

And even though this means forgoing killer bees, hayfever and itchy grass, I have a feeling that the comfy chairs and twice recycled air-conditioning of the nearest mansion can more than make up for it.

So here is the following list of places where I would not like to get hitched (in no particular order):

Underwater,
On an iceberg,
Next to an iceberg,
Anywhere where the water is so cold that it turns into dangerous hunks of ice,
Skydiving,
In a hot air balloon,
Mount Everest – see above section about icebergs,
And lastly and ever so importantly, not within a hundred kilometre radius of a zoo!

I am open to other suggestions as long as it isn’t where the shark pops out of the water at the Universal Theme Park.

Ms sorting-out-the-guest-list M.

The heat. My god the heat: part deux.

I could turn the air conditioner on to stem the stream of sweat running down my sides, but that would mean having to sacrifice my hearing as there is still something wrong (horribly wrong) with the air conditioner in my office.

It makes a sound like death metal gone right, and going by the howling grind, the machine probably is in its last throws. And it’s not one of those it’s-getting-hot-in-here, so-let’s-take-off-all-our-clothes kind of perspiration situations. It’s a highly unsexy, hard to breathe, impossible to work kind of sweatshop.

Of course if you stepped through the door into Mr Bigshot’s office it was as silent as a mouse (a dead mouse), so I have to quickly decide which sense is more important; my hearing or sense of smell.

Ms earmuffs-it-is M.

A semi-decent proposal

It’s now been so long between prods it’s highly likely I've qualified as a born again virgin.

And if this is true, then what are my chances of selling my virginity as a forty-two year old woman? If a twenty-two year old can sell off her virginity for 5.3 million dollars, then surely my born again virginess must be worth something. The way I look at it, a million is lost for every decade, and a further hundred thousand for each stretchmark, which should leave me with $236,894 and fifty cents – give or take a few dollars depending on if any new crow’s feet scratch their way between the bidding time and close of auction.

The next thing to consider is if I’m willing to break the draught with a man who is so desperate to have sex with a forty-two year old reconditioned newbie that he would pay almost a quarter of a million dollars for the honour.

Ms booking-the-holiday M.

The politics of sex

2009 isn’t about the economic crisis or a carbon-trading scheme fundamentally flawed with a set number of ‘polluter’ permits. It’s really about a party that will serve us regardless if we’ve been naughty or nice – although I expect to be served twice for being half as naughty!

As far as titles go, The Australian Sex Party might be blunt enough to turn a few people away, but it’s refreshing to actually know where they stand on the all important (but always elusive) act, especially when compared to the big parties, who are so morally flexible their priorities seem to be based on wobble-boards.

I’m just hoping there will be an opportunity to meet the members in private so as to judge each on their own merits, and if there has to be a recount, I’m nominating myself as being available to re-inspect the heads of party!

Here’s hoping it doesn’t have to be done in those tiny paper booths!

Ms vote-twice M.

Bogalicious dudettes

I have finally discovered my true calling.

All this time wasted behind a desk making C.E.O’s feel good about animals locked up in cages when I could have been out there bog snorkelling.

That’s right; snorkelling through bog.

Dirty mucky thick wet stuff that was good for the pores and cost a fortune to be plastered with down in St Kilda, but over in Wales it’s all the rage. Everyone knew – especially the Welsh – that crystal waters and coral reefs were so overrated, and the extra bonus of a bog, apart from glistening skin post serious shower, is that there aren’t any sharks nibbling on your nether regions to worry about. I will however check just in case there is a rare species of Great Brown Shark that infests Britain’s trenches before I book myself a ticket.

The other thing I have to look up is if they provide the necessary gear, as although I quite happy to swim through someone else’s muck, there’s no way I’m sharing a snorkel.

Ms training-in-the-Yarra M.

Not so evil dead

Instead of vauging out to the tube I actually read a book last night.

Well not so much a whole book but a decent fistful of chapters, and I’m proud to admit that it wasn’t all about butterflies or perky breasts or other ephemeral joys, instead concerning the life of a guy who worked in television and was desperate to be in films.

And not just any man but the man.
A man who knew his way around a haunted house, D.I.Y chainsaws for limbs, and a girl’s brassiere.

There’s just something about Bruce Campbell – or to be more specific, something about his chin that screams “give me some sugar baby”. And sure his character is sexist and stupid and is all chins as far as the eyes can see, but at the same time there’s something about his character (apart from his giant facial anomaly) that made you want to fall in his arms as he nonchalantly blew away zombies and the suited and overpaid dead. Nothing ever phases him, even when he is outnumbered, outclassed, and occupational heath and safety practices say that he should behave very differently, and yet because he doesn’t know how to spell P.C, he always succeeds in reaching the top of the festering pile with an admirer hugging his leg.

I wonder how much chin enhancements are going for these days?

Ms come-get-some M.

New Years Nada

The night before last (or was it the night before that?) there was a party in my sensibly comfortable, yet still definitely shapely pants, and everyone was invited.

Well not exactly everyone.

I didn’t really want to unzip for yobbos or drongos or bogens or pissed idiots, and as much as I liked the feminine touch, I wasn’t that type of girl (no matter what happened on band camp), meaning that my pickings were pretty slim as I stood there amongst the ooohing and ahhhing masses by the banks of the Yarra. The fireworks were pretty enough, some of them even prettier than that as they rained droplets of fire onto muddied water, and perhaps it was due to all this extra illumination of my face – a face that was previously quite happy in the shadows – that turned away good prospects amongst the throng of two hundred thousand.

Next year I vow to wear a t-shirt that spells out my needs phonetically, combined with a not so classy belt for a skirt for those dyslexically inclined.

Ms unfabulously-untouched M.