Felix to my Oscar

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

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

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

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

Ms I’m-no-expert-but M.

The other big O

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

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

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

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

Is this really too much to ask?

Ms don’t-bother-answering-that M.

Thanks for the ‘aouuuu’!

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

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

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

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

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

Ms Bubbles-stop-that! M.

Wonky Chocolate

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

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

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

Now that’s something worth not dieting for!

Ms rocky-road M.

Shoes are my friends…

and now I can eat my friends!

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

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

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

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

Ms prepping-her-tootsies M.

Please hang in there

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

This is one of those times.

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

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

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

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

From the threshold to the finish line

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

Or at least be the wife in the team.

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

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

Post 'ohhh' yeah!

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

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

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

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