A semi-decent proposal

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 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

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

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

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...

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…

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.