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.