Nadafest

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

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…

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!

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!

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…

… 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

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.