forty two and ticking

The Soccerwhos?

2009-06-25T12:36:00.004+10:00

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

2009-06-16T15:49:00.004+10:00

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

2009-06-12T13:57:00.003+10:00

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?

2009-06-04T17:06:00.004+10:00

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

2009-06-02T12:15:00.002+10:00

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!

2009-05-29T15:38:00.002+10:00

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

2009-05-13T16:10:00.008+10:00

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…

2009-05-05T11:51:00.002+10:00

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!

2009-04-29T18:53:00.003+10:00

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

2009-04-22T16:13:00.004+10:00

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

2009-04-19T10:42:00.003+10:00

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

2009-04-14T16:55:00.002+10:00

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

2009-04-09T17:59:00.004+10:00

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

2009-04-07T11:05:00.004+10:00

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

2009-04-02T12:01:00.002+11:00

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?

2009-03-26T16:31:00.005+11:00

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!

2009-03-24T12:37:00.003+11:00

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!

2009-03-21T20:00:00.002+11:00

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”

2009-03-17T13:54:00.002+11:00

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

2009-03-12T17:55:00.002+11:00

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!

2009-03-10T10:15:00.003+11:00

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

2009-03-06T13:49:00.003+11:00

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?

2009-03-03T13:18:00.006+11:00

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

2009-02-26T14:28:00.004+11:00

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

2009-02-24T11:46:00.005+11:00

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’!

2009-02-19T10:09:00.002+11:00

"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

2009-02-16T19:15:00.001+11:00

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…

2009-02-12T10:48:00.004+11:00

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

2009-02-09T10:36:00.005+11:00

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

2009-02-05T11:12:00.004+11:00

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!

2009-02-02T11:19:00.006+11:00

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.

2009-01-29T12:46:00.003+11:00

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

2009-01-26T14:54:00.004+11:00

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.

2009-01-20T10:39:00.004+11:00

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

2009-01-14T10:53:00.004+11:00

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

2009-01-12T13:43:00.003+11:00

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

2009-01-08T12:47:00.005+11:00

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

2009-01-06T11:29:00.006+11:00

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

2009-01-03T12:00:00.001+11:00

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.

Tis the season to be Bolly...

2008-12-30T18:37:00.004+11:00

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…

2008-12-28T14:32:00.002+11:00

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....

2008-12-24T13:33:00.004+11:00

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.

2008-12-22T15:30:00.002+11:00

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!

2008-12-17T13:49:00.005+11:00

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

2008-12-13T17:00:00.003+11:00

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

2008-12-09T17:45:00.003+11:00

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!

2008-12-04T15:21:00.001+11:00

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!

2008-12-01T14:02:00.005+11:00

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.

Janet eat your heart out!

2008-11-26T16:11:00.002+11:00

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!

2008-11-23T10:20:00.005+11:00

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…

2008-11-18T09:50:00.005+11:00

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!)

2008-11-11T16:01:00.006+11:00

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!

2008-11-06T14:13:00.002+11:00

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?

2008-11-04T16:09:00.003+11:00

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.

Those wacky Roman Numerals!

2008-10-31T16:51:00.004+11:00

This morning dragged on for what felt like a month, Thursday a leap year, Wednesday through to Tuesday all of my twenties, and don’t ask me about Monday because that’s way before I was born!

Thankfully my brood of six-legged insects hasn’t grown any bigger (although my keyboard does smell vaguely better), and Jaws and I are on a first name basis having stapled our way through the mess of reports detailing how profits are up and orangutan stomach sizes are down. Only another three more hours until I get to escape to a place where there aren’t any newsletters, droning computers, reptiles for bosses, or teary kids and terrified parents to reunite after being separated between ice cream stands.

And even though I sincerely thank the inventors of the Roman calendar for pausing all this insanity, I still can’t help but wonder why they didn’t invent two weekends a week instead of one.

Ms sincerely-hoping-it’s-still-Friday M.

Stampy meet Jaws

2008-10-29T12:35:00.004+11:00

Stampy’s replacement arrived today.

It came in a box labelled ‘dangerous’, had iron bars across the front, and when I neared the corner it growled at me. After arming myself with a heelless shoe and the succulent that’s more dirt than suckle due to my masterful brown thumbs, I bravely approached the cardboard cell and unleashed the beast.

It was big.
Huger than big.
The most massively hugest stapler ever made, or at least the biggest I had ever seen in person.
The picture on the Internet looked so small and cute, and I thought it would have been the perfect replacement for Stampy; not coming too soon after his demise, yet soon enough before the piles of unstapled papers began co-mingling. If I had known that it was a model requiring an extension to my office and three horizontally challenged people to be dropped on top of it just so it could snap, I probably would have ordered the slightly smaller version.

As it is, I desperately need things to be fastened together, so Jaws and I are going to try and be friends.

Now if only I could find a way out of my office,

Ms stuck-between-a-stapler-and-an-MDF-divider M.

My keyboard now, the world by next Tuesday.

2008-10-24T11:44:00.003+11:00

Forget about imaginary cats named dog because a real ant is now living inside my keyboard.

I saw it yesterday while throwing together the minutes of Wednesday’s senior staff meeting, and just as I was up to the part where Mr A couldn’t remember if the minutes of the last minutes had been amended or not, a black spec scurried across the ridge of my keyboard before darting in between F11 and F12.

I’ve never used either of these buttons before, so for all I know, they might be there to serve as homes away for home for itinerant ants, but my concern is if there are others in there, or even just one other but of the opposite sex, and they started getting their antennas in a knot, because enough lint and food scraps have fallen between the keys to feed a whole colony. And then what? Would these tiny creatures gang up and demand that I stopped tapping on their roof, and if I didn’t, would they know me from my scent, eventually track down where I live, and munch into my supply of Tim Tams?

I think it’s safest to take Stampy’s lead and do what he did best,

Ms queen-of-all-things-small-and-smaller M.

The dynamic duo

2008-10-21T18:30:00.001+11:00

I have decided that in addition to selecting a not-so-super power, I require the services of a sidekick to do all the boring superhero things like washing capes, darning ladders in stockings and coordinating press releases for local authorities. And although scanning through the pages of Seek I’ve noticed that I’m spoilt for candidates, I have decided that my sidekick will in fact be an imaginary cat.

I've always liked imaginary cats over real ones as they tend to leave less fur about the place and I won’t have to change the kitty litter as often. Being imaginary also has the advantage of being invisible to all those without an imagination, and everyone knows that baddies are inevitably defective in this area. So an imaginary sidekick for my real life superhero in my spare time it is.

And as for its name, I think I’ll call it dog.

Ms imaginary-cat-woman M.

Live and let fry

2008-10-16T13:02:00.005+11:00

Due to a recent tragedy involving a close and personal piece of stationary, I have given myself a mission, and that is to get a date. It is a mission that I choose to accept even though it holds the prospect of publicly self-destructing. If the demise of Stampy has taught me one thing, it’s that I need to push things along, and in order to further spice up my life between breaths, I plan to continue working as a P.A during the day and sleep between organic linen at night, BUT, in my spare time I will be a stripper who fights crime with her yet to be determined superpower.

Like with most decisions in life there are three gifts to choose from; the ability to appear invisible when standing next to younger women, the gift of leaping small puddles with the aid of a decent run up, and a lasso of truth that doubles as an Alligator strap of reasonable strength.

Then all I’ll need is a uniform that makes the most out of my curves without turning them into a sidekick.

Ms licence-to-grill M.

Nadafest

2008-10-12T12:46:00.006+11:00

Two days have now passed and I feel a bit better about Stampy, as I’m convinced that he’s flown to a place where the staples are twelve karat gold and never run out. Meanwhile, several kilometres below stationary heaven, I'm still waiting for my own stamp of approval. Last night I pushed the odds by venturing out to a local RSL that had gone Germanic for Octoberfest, but there was fierce competition for the few decent specimens, and I was distinctly disadvantaged by not being dressed as a beer wench.

Apparently ordinary wenches need not apply.

I could hire a costume next year and have absolutely no troubles filling out the top half, but it’s my ability to expand the bottom half at an even better ratio that could hurt my yeast-fuelled chances. What I really need to come up with is that ‘no sweat no diet exercise’ routine which reduces my caboose but leaves the puppies.

Ms too-much-bounce-to-be-fabulous M.

RIP Stampy

2008-10-11T19:24:00.001+11:00

My stapler died on Friday.

I thought it was going to be a quick fix with the staples having jammed inside, but when I opened him up and the staples were all lined up nicely, I knew that something was terribly wrong. I rang for Ms O in reception – a woman with over thirty years of stationary resuscitation experience, but it was beyond even her help.

I suppose twenty-one years is a pretty good run for something that gets forcibly snapped together, but I can’t help thinking it could have turned thirty if only I hadn’t forced poor Stampy to get his teeth into things thicker than he should have. It was also the last piece of the old me, having survived since my first day at the zoo. The unbreakable metal ruler had long since bent and snapped, and my favourite pens had stopped working because they could or had migrated without my permission to other people’s desks.

Although I know that Stampy will have to be replaced with an elchaepo made in China by a Filipino model (model of stapler that is, although who knows what state the Filipino fashion circuit is in), I’m still going to keep Stampy as a paperweight reminder of the me that once was.

Ms rest-in-one-tightly-bound-piece M.

It's now or slightly later…

2008-10-05T21:17:00.004+11:00

I have decided to prioritise.

Life before work, or more specifically; inner pleasure before external satisfaction.

To make up for lost time I have already picked out the shiny rock that will adorn my finger for when the yet to be named he and I slide on down the isle. When I say rock I really mean rocks, as it’s a beautiful 1930’s marcasite number with over forty points of affordable bling. The plan is to drop to one knee by the third date and ask / beg if this special he would ‘engage’ me. With any luck he will say yes, and by the end of the night we will be engaged as well!

The only problem I have with the whole engagement thing is being a fiancée. I hate the word with a Jerry Springer like passion and will have to come up with an alternative for the ‘look, drool, but don’t touch’ state. So far the possibilities are; ‘Beyoncé to be’ – which might be a problem if this magical he is expecting a transformation of black bootylicious proportions, then there's ‘three colours off-white’ for my pasty complexion, and ‘oops, missed me by that much.’

Now all I have to do is find the perfect dress, caterer, and a little something called a groom.

Ms seeking-Mr-Fabulous M.

Wooooooooooooooosh!

2008-10-01T13:42:00.006+10:00

I can’t believe another whole week has skipped by and I didn’t even get a chance to do the dishes! At this rate there will be no Mr Bond waiting for me at the end of the rainbow because I’ll be looking more like Oldfinger than Pussygalore!

Unfortunately the quest for a better life / job / legs / and or neverending packet of Tim Tams was once again put on hold for the usual life / boring job / aching legs / and a spiralling Arnott’s induced debt.

And in the middle of all this global credit squeeze, here I am just wanting a peck and a hug. It should be made purrrfectly clear that my rates are reasonable, GST is included, and if things were to get a bit frisky, then I’m fully prepared with three varieties of condoms. The only problem I can foresee is with the latex having disintegrated from being ten years beyond its expiry date, although to be honest, its getting to the stage where I wouldn’t mind being in a position where I was subjected to a Sexually Transmitted Debt. This magical other could have half of the nothing I have. Half of my quarter lived life. Half of my twentieth of a house deposit. And half of my page one of the three hundred page to do list.

But to be fair, he could have both halves of the dishes.

Ms fabulously-soapy-with-tepid-dishwater M.

Oops, I did it again!

2008-09-22T15:13:00.002+10:00

The week that was wasn’t all that much. There were the usual minuted meetings about enclosures being squeezed so as to display every highly poisonous animal on earth in a desperate grab for visitors, a raft of customer complaints that the cafeteria isn’t catering to anyone beyond those who adore consuming genetically modified goop, and of course there was Friday’s unexpected surprise of catching two love birds going hammer, Trojan and tongue during my lunchtime walk. I wasn’t expecting anything special as I took my stroll around the rear of the enclosures, but there Tom was in all his multi-inched glory giving a through induction to one of the PhD students. It was just one of the perks of being a keeper of mammals and being thirty-two without a gram of fat on his body.

Tom had offered me a ride on the pointy saddle about eight or more years ago, and at the time I withheld, thinking I could do better. That was the problem with my brain; all that withholding from thinking, and now I would have loved it if he had even bothered to shoot me a glance as I stood there gawking at his amazing dexterity with one leg propped against the wall.

Elizabeth in reception came up with the suggestion that I should hop onto something called Second Life in my quest for the ‘long lost other side of the bed warmeruperer’. Apparently everyone using it can look how they want to be and meet people from anywhere in the world, but even on the off-chance that the guy who liked like a 3D version of Tom actually was a buff-a-blow Tom in real life, which virtual character would actually want to go out with a forty-two year old anglo woman with sore arches and the occasional strand of grey hair?

I didn’t want to have to morph into Jennifer McCarthy in order to get some action, and even then, what’s the difference between virtual sex and my current relationship with Duracell and Co?

So many questions and too long to recharge,
Ms more-fabulous-if-I-was-blonde M.

Forgive me Blogger for I have sinned…

2008-09-12T17:46:00.003+10:00

… it has been a week since my last rant.

It was a week that began like any other before turning into an eight-day monster, and was capped off with the thing I had last night that could only be loosely called a date. Sure it was a notch up from a soiree for one with Star Trek re-runs on the telly, being an out-there-beyond-the-door date with a male of the species, or at least he was in theory. We met at Soul Mommas; a location that revealed a lot about my ironic sense of humour (although that one was probably lost on Henry not knowing my family history), but also ticked the box of being a busy public space, so that if things took a turn for the stabby, then I would have plenty of witnesses with camera phones (and subsequently be a fleeting hit on You Tube).

As it was I needn't have worried, because the only threatening thing between my plate of four choices and brown rice was being bored to death. Sure Henry was nice enough in that he had a regular job with normal ambitions, but he droned on and on about how he loathed what he did, and how he wanted to get out there and do something else with his life. And before any of you even begin thinking about how he reminds you of a certain somebody, I’ll remind you that slaving away at a zoo for twenty-one years has given me the right to bitch and moan, but six years working as an IT specialist earning twice my wage does not! And besides, I don’t need another me. I’m after someone who’s at stage five of their life so that they can drag me out of stage one, and I can skip all painful the stages in between.

He did kiss me goodnight however and that felt pretty nice.

Ms stage-one-twice-kissed M.

To Tim or not to Tam

2008-09-05T15:52:00.002+10:00

Is it just me or are people making less and less positive eye contact? I might no longer be the bright-eyed size six clear-skinned catch that I once was (or possibly never was according to Mother dearest), but I still have snappable cheeks (unlike Mother dearest), a nose in the right place, and eyebrows that don’t co-mingle. But unfortunately my faces' adherence to something resembling phi didn’t seem to make a damn of difference walking down the street, dodging canine forget-me-nots in the park, or in isle seven of Coles. Last night as I was topping up my emergency supplies of Tim Tams, I was naive enough to pick up a box of instant something that had escaped the clutches of its dribbling occupant, and on returning the package to the mother, she shot me a brand of squint-eyed distrust before pushing down the aisle sans box and maiming two unfortunate shelf stackers.

She had the kid and probably a matching husband, as well as a 4WD complete with baby on board sticker and designer mud that came in a spraycan, but if that’s what my reaction had to be when a stranger offered help then I didn’t want to be like her. Sure what Seniõr Tim Tam and I had wasn’t all that much (and possibly illegal in Texas), but it was still the kind of something that made me happy each night as my head hit the pillow.

Ms soon-to-be-on-a-fabulous-chocolate-high M.

The weekend that is…

2008-08-31T12:32:00.004+10:00

I’m not exactly sure what my size twelve caboose and I are meant to be doing with our two days off and its already turned Sunday morning. Sure the usual double-strength organic Scottish breakfast awaits, as do the usual pre-tea tremors over whether the new waiter will understand the tone of my voice when I say I want it really really strong. Last night was spent indoors admiring Captain Janeway’s justification of placing her whole crew in jeopardy for the sake of a child that one of her crewmen didn’t realise existed some five minutes earlier. Before that it was Bhoj takeaway for one, a bit of the Jacksons (not from my original vinyl because of course mother dearest threw all my records out the second I left home), and the few hours before that were spent lazing on the steps underneath a sun that was having difficulty making up its mind whether it wanted to shine or hide.

Not that I was complaining about the lack of rays, as those twenty minutes spent under vitamin E’s influence was enough to roast the tip of my nose. So a whole day zipped by without having accomplished all that much. No new romances with sticky endings or winning lotteries so I could buy the QE2 and take it for a spin around the Greek isles. Not even a fifth division win so I could take a snoop along a certain Swedish company’s aisles. Just a bit more of the safe same and a feeling that I should definitely, most definitely, make this Sunday a day to remember.

Now if only I could remember what it was that I had to do to make it memorable!

The yet-to-buy-a-lottery-ticket Ms M.

The week that was…

2008-08-30T10:15:00.003+10:00

Monday was bathed in the uniformed glow of a furnishing giant from Sweden.

Tuesday still shone from the previous days Ikeaness, until a dead possum decided to fall through the ceiling in one of the ticket booths, landing maggots and all on top of the new girl Elisa.

The first third of Wednesday was spent trying to convince Elisa that the zoo wasn’t in the habit of storing dead animals in ceiling spaces – walls are a different matter altogether – and the remainder of the day was spent trying to explain the new directives from a certain CEO, which amounted to more of the same; do more with less.

Thursday rolled along and two staff threatened to quit due to Mr A’s reforms, and the Union suddenly reared its head to make things even easier.

On Friday the vending machine ran out of Snickers bars.

There was no doubting that my week festered as the days disappeared. The sheer bliss of complementing shades had been far outweighed by an absence of dairy milk and peanut rectangles only four sleeps later. My hope for a better next week is that Ikea will re-release their catalogue just for moi, but I’ll arrive armed on Monday morning with an armada of Snickers just in case.

The two-notches-less-than-fabulous Ms M.

Ikeafication 101

2008-08-25T14:57:00.005+10:00

It came today.
It arrived in my postbox all flat and untorn.
No, not the latest Keyes, Friedman or Blackwood, but a tome whose pages are designed to bring purely harmonised joy; a type of joy that blurred the fact that it would be another five whole days until my next two days off. I loved my Ikea catalogues, and in a mostly plutonic way, the catalogues loved me back. The mostly stood for the one time I was a single screw short of assembling my Nistrom of a bookshelf. But despite the mutual attraction, my house was still a fair way off from being completely Ikeafied. The kitchen came closest with the dishrack, chopping board, tea towels, plates, knifes and forks all matching in their Swedish made in China origins. The bathroom had its own set of striped mats, striped shower curtain, extendable mirror and turtle nail brush, not forgetting the slim cabinet where my moisturising collection lived (and grew). The bedroom was getting there with its glass wardrobes, lonely queen sized bed and long-necked reading lamps, and last but definitely not least was the lounge room. It had been infected to the point of coming down with a retro carpet, two silver stemmed lights and a large space where my latest acquisition was going to live. At the moment it was renting on page thirty-five in all its faux leather glory. It was sleek and grey with slender silver legs and was proud to be called Verspankit. I could see myself lounging between its comfyness as I snuggled in for a quiet night alone; just me and a book and an endless supply of hot chocolate. Then again I could quite easily fall for the real deal – a black plush couch that was once made from animals (but only the smelly biting kind) that was otherwise known as Verkumalot. The bonus here being that there would even be room for a significant other body of warmth to share the pillows and still not get in the way.

Now if only Ikea sold men that matched their furniture!
The fabulously verfunky Ms M.

But that’s enough about me... What do you think about me?

2008-08-20T16:09:00.003+10:00

If Phelps can find eight medals at the bottom of a Chinese pool, then surely I can achieve just one of my goals and break out from these four walls called work. This morning I penned a feeble list of things stopping me from being the buoyant Ms M that I was destined to be (year eight scrap books don’t lie!), and it strangely didn’t amount to very much of a hurdle. I haven’t spawned any progeny (although I do listen to Prodigy) and I don’t have a mortgage menacing overhead. Sure I need the money, but the pay isn’t all that great (what after tax and bossy overheads), and I wouldn’t even bother stealing any of the animal emblazoned stationary. The money that I earn hasn’t been siphoned off to a husband or two and a bit kids or a holiday house down in Sorrento. And if I'm not going to be the queen of leisure then at least I should be living as an artist, but my painting and drawing efforts are more autistic than artistic, and I don’t have the ovaries to perform stand up.

The real issue is that I don’t know what the alternatives are. All I really know for sure is what I definitely don’t want to do as opposed to what I really want to do, and with only a third of my life remaining, the prospect of being lost in life is a little daunting. There needs to be a roadmap; a Melways for life – the do ‘this’ and wind up with ‘that’, but if you do the ‘other’ then you will have ‘this’ guide to everyday living. It could have a foreword from Phelps endorsing the pages and a big thanks to the original creator / wife, without whom none of the medals, holiday homes, or Louvre-worthy masterpieces would have been even remotely possible.

Now back to reality and rosters,
The seven-medals-off-fabulous Miss M.

PS: before I get any hate mail from the Angelina Jolie stalking club – I do realize that the above lips aren’t mine (although if I had the money they would be), but they will have to do as a future substitute until I find the time to pick up a damn webcam!

To Phelps or not to Phelps... that is the question.

2008-08-16T16:12:00.002+10:00

Ok so the webcam hasn’t happened yet, so you will all have to put up with the ugliness that is Angelia Jolie's chin. I know I know - it’s disgusting bordering on immoral, but time this week has sprinted away from me faster than Phelps in whatever event he chooses to swim in. I’m sure bordering on certain that there is a correlation between the passing of time and what you do with it, because having spent five days a week stuck behind the same desk, almost the same chair, and pretty much the same section of thin carpet for the past twenty-one years of my life, I have found that time has shot away into hyperdrive. On those extremely rare occasions where I get to do something different or exciting or god forbid spontaneous, it seems that then, and only then, is when time takes a bit of a breather and turns the start of the day into last Monday. It’s on days like today that I wonder why I ended up in admin at a zoo of all the places and people that I could have wound up enjoying. I could have been a somebody; a contender; the woman who fits the speedos on Phelps. But instead I was here; tapping away at a keyboard that was more E.coli than plastic and looking out the dirt-stained window to all the tourists having a ball. There had to have been a wrong turn taken somewhere – a left when I should have gone straight ahead – but I hadn’t so I wasn’t, I was here and not out there, which made me happy in a sad kind of way because it was bitterly cold outside.
Must get back to work and find a store that sells non-scratchy scarves,

The semi-fabulous Ms M.

The beginning of the end

2008-08-13T11:16:00.002+10:00

Ok so where to start.
The number of years that I've been exposed to this world is kind of obvious from the title of the blog, and the fact that I feel like it’s ticking means that unlike some people who are in love prancing about hand in hand in slow motion, I am walking through life empty-handed and in thirty times fast forward. Of course it wasn’t meant to be like this. There was a plan, a most definite plan that stated and I quote; “I am going to get married”, which for an eight year old to write on her wall in crayon was all well and good, but what I didn’t realise then was before I could sweep down the aisle, I needed a male of the species to drag along for the ride. Looks weren’t a major issue on my behalf; I’m attractive in a forgettable way, and although my definition might only be standard in a time when everyone’s converting to high def, I still possessed all of the qualities that should be ripe for a decent and lasting union. I have money – not heaps, but enough to stay clear of the instant noodle diet – the hair is all there and behaving reasonably well (and the grey streaks are always replaced by browner ones before they become too obvious) – and I work full time in a job that other people want and I loathe. Perhaps the lack of a significant body of warmth on the left hand side of the bed has something to do with my inability to cook – I even burn cereal – meaning that although I can afford to do otherwise, I did actually have an unhealthy supply of instant noodles living on the top shelf in the kitchen. But they are only there if absolutely necessary and the gourmet pizza delivery boys were on strike (and at this stage I didn’t even care that they’re all Anglo), or for those times when I couldn’t be bothered getting off my rump to Bhoj or Soul Mamas.
If further proof is required of my standardness but still the catch of the day abilities just look at the photo above and ask yourself “can that be the skin of a forty-two year old?” Of course the answer is no, and technically you would be right as it’s a shot of Angelina Jolie’s cheek, but I’m getting myself a webcam next week so that I can prove to the world, and perhaps even myself, that I still have a chance to score.

The mildly fabulous Ms M.