The Soccerwhos?

I’m beginning to get it.

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

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

I actually enjoyed it.

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

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

Ms kick-it-to-me M.

V isn't for Vulva

So now even Vitex is an anaphrodisiac?

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

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

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

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

Ms Vitexed M.

K is for Kugelhupf

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

But it didn’t.

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

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

Ms fingers-crossed M.

Wa Wa Nee to the head?

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

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

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

Ms ‘waaaaaaaa’ M.

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

Two degrees of Kevin Bacon separation

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

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

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

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

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

Ms 42-and-oinking M.

Norway? No way!

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

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

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

Ms 12-points M.

Some like it… not

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ms bring-on-the-supplements M.