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.