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.

To not to do or not to do…

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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.