Tuesday, December 30, 2008
* Tried to scale that fence to get OFF the oval
* Suggested to the nice shareholder who climbed the fence with me and later asked me out that I maaaaaay be free next week.
Friday, December 26, 2008
ME: What? Oh no, these are old. I just don't wear them much.
HIM: You wear contacts most of the time?
ME: Oh no my eyes are kind of... not that bad. So I just wear them at the computer mostly.....Um but you must have seen these before because I distinctly remember wearing the glasses when you interviewed me for the job - I thought they would make me look smarter haha.
(A brief appalled silence where I realise my attempt at charming self deprecation has failed)
HIM: So... I guess it worked then?
ME: (Nervous laughter).
Monday, December 22, 2008
2. If you must get drunk in the afternoon try not to let the lure of drunken shopping draw you in.
3. If you must go drunken shopping at least buy some totally awesome Marc Jacobs perfume you will otherwise find impossible to justify.
Me: There are probably more discreet ways to scratch your balls, young man. Say, absolutely any other way you can think of.
To: The girl trying to see what her arse looks like in those black jeans by craning her neck around and squeezing both buttock cheeks.
Message: Don't worry, sweetheart, your arse looks great.
To: Everyone else
Me: Fuuuuuuuuuuck you.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Thoughts I had when, pulling on a pair of fishnet stockings, I noticed that the skin peeling off my sunburnt legs was HANGING THROUGH THE HOLES...
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
So normally I would be outraged. The very idea of having Sherlock Holmes dash about shirtless is, to my mind, an affrontery to the very IDEA of Holmes. Smacked out of his mind, yes. A kind of pain-in-the-arse know it all, sure. Possibly really sexist and totally racist? Hey, dem books are old. But shirtless? Come ON man.
This argument tends to break down, however, when you recall that the role of the great man in the latest movie adaptation is being played by an even greater man: Robert Downey Junior.
I had a request the other day from a regular reader to ask if I couldn’t try to indisperse my gooey boy-related posts with some ‘girls I’d turn for’ action. To be accompanied, of course, by some graphic photos. I said I’d give it some thought, and honestly I did. But, faced with a choice between staring into some minx’s faux cleavage or some shameless gushing about RDJ… well, my hands are tied.
The truth is that RDJ could, at this point, more or less take a giant crap – an ACTUAL crap – on any number of my favourite literary creations and I’d probably let it pass. Oh you’re going to play Maurice as a straight man are you? Oh well done, if anyone can pull it off you can. And um Gatsby is, er, black? Uh huh well, um… good luck with all that I guess. Should make a fascinating double feature with your take on The End of the Affair in which Henry is Weekend-at-Bernies-style dead. So, can I meet you in your trailer afterwards or what? Cheers, RDJ – you’re the best.
Friday, December 12, 2008
As I sat watching Twilight last night, surrounded (I assume) by sexually frustrated teens, it occurred to me that the success of the entire movie, by which I mean whether you love it or hated it, hung more or less on one thing: do you want to fuck Robert Pattinson?
Luckily for the movie of course you do. Me too.
Two hours spent looking at his face brood its way through some cheesily awesome dialogue filled me with the desire to bring the word “scrumptious” back into popular usage. His cheekbones should be giving other people’s cheekbones lessons on how to be cheekbones. Even his hair, which, in the movie is actually eleven feet high, started to look tasty to me if only because, I reasoned, if he could make THAT stand up all day… well, let’s just draw a curtain over that little suggestion. But seriously: the bit where he opened his shirt? Yeah if someone could tell me what happened in the ten or so minutes after that bit that would be great – I think I blacked out.
Sure Rob’s role (you mind if I call you Rob?) as Cedric Diggory in the Harry Potter franchise does leave the unsettling impression he’s only about 15 and you reeeeaally shouldn’t go there but in reality the boy is a strapping 22-year-old. Not only legal but moderately socially acceptable.
Walking out of the cinema the always insightful Andy described the concept thusly: “it’s like a girl had a wet dream and then made a movie about it”. For once he was incredibly right. And this wet dream is six foot one AND speaks with a British accent.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
So a story in the Daily Telegraph today makes me laugh almost as hard as it makes me cringe.
The story (and apologies because my links bit isn't working for some reason) found that more than a third of Britons will lie about about books and magazines they have read to impress a prospective date. Sounds about right to me but the really disturbing bit is the break down of ‘top ten reads’ to impress a man or woman and, no, I’m not sure how they came up with them.
FOR A MAN it goes something like this:
1. Current affairs websites
3. Song lyrics
4. Cookery books
6. Nelson Mandela’s autobiography Long Walk to Freedom
7. Jane Austen
9. Religious texts
10. Financial Times.
Sadly FOR A WOMAN it’s no better:
1. Nelson Mandela’s autobiography Long Walk to Freedom AGAIN
3. Cookery Books
5. Song lyrics
6. Current affairs websites
7. Text messages
9. Financial Times
Now I do appreciate that clearly these poor respondents had to respond to multi-choice range of options and weren’t spontaneously deciding that reading the bible Really Does It For Them but… really? I mean REALLY?
I have nothing against Mr Mandela or what I imagine would be a fascinating story but vom-it. Ditto for anyone, no matter how cute they were, pulling a copy of fucking Hamlet out of their bag on a first date. Whatev, mate. Even if he was completely genuine I would still assume he was a liar. And, obviously, a massive wanker.
But some of the other stuff is even weirder… um, emails? Facebook? Who gets impressed by visual evidence the object of ones affection knows how to use a computer? Cavemen and women? Text messages are almost worse – I mean, sure, we all use them but if his idea of a good time means fiddling with his predictive text the chances are your break up speech (should such a day arrive) will read something like UR DUMPED SO SORRY ITS ME NOT U.
To summarise: people are weeeeird.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
On various planes at various times in my life I have drunkenly had a bit of a cry, fallen asleep, probably drooling, on the shoulder of a complete stranger for Quite Some Time and been creepily chatted up by someone I was then forced to sit next to for the following 15ish hours. (You scoff but if you had to try to avoid physical contact with a fleshy neighbour for that long while sharing an armrest you too would consider, somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, gnawing off your arm below the elbow).
Of course then there was the time I wound up lost, alone and ticketless in Singapore airport en route to China, the day I turned up 24 hours late for my flight to New York and the time I arrived (on time) for my flight from London to Perth with two years worth of accrued baggage… without my ticket.
To summarise: I am a useless traveller. I fuck up dates and times and forget to collect crucial documents like tickets and visas. I get bored sitting in those cramped little seats and I can almost never sleep. I dread being seated next to people who Won't Shut Up but am then secretly disappointed when the chatty cutie I met in line ends up sitting ten rows away.
This pattern of stupidity on my part shows no sign of abating. To misquote Graham Greene I am too old and too tired to change now – as with the duff shoulder for which I refuse to do the simple exercises required to prevent the regular onset of crippling pain, my policy is medication, not prevention. And for my medicine I choose booze. Little, handy-sized bottles of booze delivered straight to my tray table, if you want to get into specifics.
Pour enough of it down my throat and I will still miss flights and get seated next to lecherous bores. And, yes, okay, it may even increase the chance that I will doze (albeit in what I fancy is a fairly friendly fashion) on my neighbour's shoulder. The only difference is that I don't care. The people around me do, of course, but who are they? Gormless fellow commuters I will never meet again who, if they had half my sense, would be getting very drunk very quickly too, thus enabling them to deal with all of the above in addition to my hysterical giggles at whatever deliciously trashy 'novel' I've bought for the trip.
Put all of this context and I think you'll find that even a siezable sum of money (and if I convert it into pounds it's only… um, you know, less) for the reassurance of something more than warm orange juice in my glass is a bargain. Plus – and perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier – the changes also mean I wind up with two extra days in London. Oh, yes, and my fucking travel agent somehow "forgot" to save my seat (???) on the cheap arse dry flight because she's actually just some bullshit student who just works there on Saturdays and (fair enough) couldn't give two shits about the job, so my penny-saving flight is not even an option anymore. Still, I think I've come out on top in the deal. One way or another. Or I'm just too drunk to care.
Monday, December 8, 2008
At least the rebellion bit used to be cool, though I’m sure it will stun and amaze you to learn I wasn’t very good at it. I wallpapered my room with a mish-mash of cringingly pretentious “literary quotes” and song lyrics, which my mother cunningly praised as “lovely and creative” (well played, madam). I listened to music at high volume as I sulked on my bed, prompting at last some urging from dear Mum to open the door so she could hear it better. Arguably my fault for choosing Belle and Sebastian as the soundtrack of my revolution but STILL.
Fortune did start to favour me somewhere in my later high school years when the police turned up at some random party to shut it down. Easily the closest I had ever come to a brush with the law in my 16 years. I forget why they were there or what we’d done wrong exactly but they herded us outside the house, where we milled about awkwardly. My friend Alley Cat and I made ourselves comfortable on a nearby kerb - too nervous and mildly squiffy to call our parents, too poor to consider a taxi. While we sat there, our bags filled with at least, gosh, two (mid-strength?) beers apiece a loitering cop came up to speak to us.
“You girls need a lift home?” he asked.
This, though it may not sound like it, was one of those questions I would later replay to relive that little prickle of pleasure (as in much later years it would be “do you want to stay over” or a few other things I won’t mention here).
My grin, as I clambered into the back of the paddy wagon, my heart only slightly panicked by the unmistakable sound of the beer cans banging together in my bag, was not the thrill of a child getting to ride in a cop car – it was the delight of a moody teenage getting to rock up at home with sirens (I hoped) blazing.
It was then, of course, I remembered I was staying at Alley Cat’s house but still, I reasoned, surely her parents’ concern was as good as my own. So I resolved to enjoy it. The ride is, these days, a blur, but I distinclty remember the arrival: pulling into the quiet Dalkeith street, clambering awkwardly out of the paddy wagon and thanking the (admittedly pretty damn decent) cops and heading in to face a barrage of questions. Except not quite so much.
The flaw to the plan? Well the cops had broken up the party pretty early and so it happened that while WE were home before midnight Alley’s parents were not. The cheeky sods were still out. Alley and I sat up eating chocolate for a bit and then went to bed. We didn’t hear them when they came in.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
2. Compounded sunstroke and dehydration by getting a leeeetle bit drunk on the plane.
3. Spoken to my boss AT ALL at the party.
4. Repeated that crack about my boss' jacket... to my boss.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
In short: the entire reason TV exists.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Playing the game of the moment - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles since you asked - required players to have not only possession of the three floppies on which the game was stored but the will to change discs literally EVERY TWO MINUTES. On screen the inch-high Leonardo or Donatello gave the impression of suffering from digital narcolepsy – unable to negotiate more than a single obstacle before exhaustion overcame him and the direction INSERT DISC TWO helpfully appeared above his bowed head.
I thought it was fucking amazing.
Every day after school I'd come home with but one thought in my head: how to get to Level Three. Those were indeed halcyon days and twenty plus years on I have nothing but fond memories of the bulky monitor and the CPU that sounded like a jet engine taking off. Twice. Even the keyboard, with its smattering of crumbs from biscuits ill-advised consumed mid game, or (just once Dad) sticky cordial dripped onto keys. I can still recall the joy of finishing Bubble Bobble with my brother, the mammoth Space Quest sessions that ultimately required the entire family's input, playing the shameless unapologetic Mario Brother rip-off The Great Giana Sisters the day I found out my cat had been run over in our neighbour's driveway. Good times.
And while my family and, more recently myself, have gone through a few different computers in the intervening years there has never been a machine to touch my heart with quite the same degree of joy as the Amiga 500. Until this weekend, obviously.
Do you remember that scene from Y Tu Mama Tambien? (And if you tell me that movie is soft porn I will cut you). Do you remember the first time you saw Gael Garcia Bernal's beautiful face and body in that movie? All pouty lips, tea coloured skin and a certain languid shrimpiness that made the too-big beauty of his face palatable? Of course you do - that's exactly when you and I fell madly in love.
That pang of frustrated longing is pretty much how I felt when I spied my new laptop this weekend. How embarassing. I don't tend to think I'm terribly acquisitive. Yes I have a mild book buying problem and, yes, in truth, I may own several more trashy DVD box sets than are STRICTLY necessary but when it comes to the big expensive shit I can't really be bothered. Sure I love my car but it is almost as old as I am and, in the words of a dear friend this week, "it's looking a bit shitty" these days. Similarly my phone was chosen by virtue of being the cheapest model in the shop, while my clothes are... well I mean I LIKE wearing and buying clothes but to suggest that any item of clothing in my wardrobe costs more than my prized 1930s Great Gatsby edition would be a lie.
But the laptop... I couldn't resist. Much like Gael Garcia Bernal the moment I saw it I wanted it. Desperately. It's not arguably necessary: I have a laptop at home, it's just that it no longer closes and can therefore not be said to be portable in any conventional sense of the word. Even so a new model still seemed an extravagance. And yet... fuck it. I love it. It is a thing of beauty and it fits in my satchel - my satchel! And HONESTLY if you had a pint sized Gael Garcia Bernal you could pop in your bag and pull out when desired wouldn't you be all over that? Damn straight.
* With the sweet sounds of what sounds like a dump truck reversing through several piles of kindling drifting in through the window.
* With the too-late recollection you have left your delicious pre-prepared lunch at home in the fridge.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
2. Pretending not to hear the moaning (in-pain moaning, not the other kind) that went on for about 30-40 seconds wherever the hell he was.
Monday, November 17, 2008
* Holidays. The past week and a half has been a dream.
* Seeing lovely friends I have missed in past week and a half.
* Shopping for portable netbook. This fucker is so, so cute.
* Frasier. You know when you run into an old boyfriend you were a bit so-so about and he looks much hotter than you remember? That's this.
* My big sis' unborn child. I swear this isn't cluckiness but I wish the little shit would hurry up and be born already.
* Antonia Quirke's heavily autobiographical novel Madame Depardieu and the Beautiful Strangers. Maybe it was the pseudoephidrene but I read this yesterday and it was a bloody delight.
*Being tended to while sick by my lovely boyfriend despite his own hideous cycling-induced injuries. I am a bad, bad patient.
Meanwhile I'm Hating...
* Going back to work after holidays. Blerg.
* Being sick but unable (for a variety of reasons) to miss work.
* The new Brideshead Revisited Movie. Crushing disappointment.
* The fact that CERTAIN people who shall remain nameless have become awfully slack bloggers - I miss them.
* Being sick. It deserves two spots because it sucks all kinds of balls.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
"And the terrible irony in Robert Downey Junior being made an emblem of self-destructiveness... is that he, the scapegoat, cannot be made to look like a cautionary tale. He looks like a walking advertisement for drugs. Everyone knows that in the last analysis most drugs are just poison. But there should be a special dispensation for anyone who's really good on them. You'd have to go to court, stoned, and prove that you were actually brilliant company. If you couldn't, you'd go to jail, like Richard Dreyfuss. But if you could you'd get a renewable five-year licence and we'd be allowed to hang out with you, like Hazlitt around Coleridge."
(Madame Depardieu and the Beautiful Strangers, Antonia Quirke)
Thursday, November 13, 2008
"Last June, Joel Benenson, who was Barack Obama’s top pollster during his presidential run, reported on the state of the campaign. His conclusions, summed up in a sixty-slide PowerPoint presentation, were revealed to a small group, including David Axelrod, Obama’s chief strategist, and several media consultants, and, as it turned out, some of this research helped guide the campaign through the general election. The primaries were over, Hillary Clinton had conceded, and Obama had begun planning for a race against Senator John McCain."
You can read the rest here.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I've been biting my tongue a bit lately. Thought I'd see what that was like. Not all the time, obviously. I wasn't biting it when someone almost related to me suggested Kevin Rudd was responsible for ruining the economy (dear sir, a terrifying thought: I now know more about the economy than you) or to a very dear friend who told me the other day he's now "anti abortion" (dude, nobody's exactly pro-abortion but you're two steps away from voting for Sarah Palin in 2012). But on another matter I have remained quiet. Ish.
Obama. Or at least a very specific subject relating to Obama.
And now that he's, you know, IN and everything and we can all breathe a massive sigh of relief-slash-start-excavating-any-long-lost-almost-American ancestory I feel I can finally say it. Because he's um kinda hot. Isn't he? And yet it's not the sort of thing I've felt I can bring up in recent weeks when someone much smarter than I is banging on about Obama's policy on awfully serious matters. One feels compelled, even, to come up with SOME kind of contribution that isn't along the lines of "Yeah sure but have you ever had that dream where you just dive into the depths of his eyes?" Trust me: it doesn't play as well to your highbrow mates as you might suppose.
But now things have moved on. I've made it through the election by faking a handful of wanky remarks I barely understood, the dreamed-for has happened and he's in - I can come out and say it. Because he's a dreamboat. Possibly even the dreamiest dreambot to ever step into the role of US head of State. Maybe? I don't know - shall we reflect?
I mean starting with the lowball of Bush? You've have to scoop out your eyes first. And your brain.
Clinton? Yeah, yeah I hear he's a hit with the post-menopausal crowd but... meh.
The other Bush? I thought he was dead. BEFORE he was elected, I mean.
Freakin' Reagan??? Sure he'd be able to forget it in a flash but for you you? The memory of those wrinkly jowls wobbling towards your pink pits (ew, I'm sorry) would linger forever.
Back a bit further (and skipping a few so as to skim over my frankly sub par knowledge of American history - don't blame me, blame my delicious uni history teacher who seduced and distracted me with his gravelly tones) the obvious parallel is JFK. Also charismatic. Also with a stylish and semi banging wife. And I know he was supposed to be hot and all and maybe if it's good enough for Marilyn Monroe I shouldn't complain but... really? That guy? What with the giant hair and the jaw and everything he kinda looks like Family Guy's piss-take of an in-bred writer for the New Yorker. Times two.
Back a bit further still and, yes, while you might go there with FDR it'd only be a)pity shag because of, um, you know, the legs and all and b)because he was FUCKING AWESOME.
And so we circle back to Obama. Who is decidedly tasty. But... too tasty? Is it possible to be just a little too dreamy to have sensible chats in the white house, strut about like you're on West Wing and generally resist the temptation to take off your shirt?
I think not. Because while the uber hot should be, frankly, avoided when it comes to relationships (here's a tip: look for porn. If you find none he gets his kicks wanking into the mirror... flee and don't go back for your bag) when it comes to politicians a little tasty on the side can't be a bad thing. Because if Australian history has taught us anything it's that electing a douchebag toe-rag who wouldn't look out of place in a line-up of massively eyebrowed paedos is never a good idea. The mere knowledge that absolutely nobody was listening to John Howard rag on refugees/bloody gays/insert minority here and wondering what his lips looked like when he said the word "fuck", gave the fucker strength to continue his rule for five hundred million years. Or did it just seem that way?
Paul Keating on the other hand? Arguably the best Prime Minister we've ever had. At least in my lifetime. And come on, I mean, hé's got to be 60 if he's a day now and you'd STILL go there. Me too. Case closed.
Friday, November 7, 2008
I'm off in Melbourne at the moment but a friend sent me an email the other day, while the votes for the US election were filtering in and my heart was in my mouth. "You up for history?" my friend, who is half American, asked me via email. And that really sums it up - what a freaking moment in history we've just had.
I know I'm preaching to the converted but Jesus what a rush. My only regret is (weirdly) that I wasn't at work for the moment the vote was decided: I've been in desperate need of a holiday and I'm loving it but it would have been a rush. I haven't had this sort of joy since Rudd romped it home for Australia. Fricking amazing.
Meanwhile Melbourne is awesome: like London had sex with Australia and this was the result. If I could merely transplant my friends and family here I would never leave.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
In the meantime I can do no better than point you in the direction of my favourite distractables. If you haven't been to Go Fug Yourself you haven't lived. If you're not into making fun of silly chicks in dopey outfits (come on!) Stuff White People Like is just about funny enough to make you feel vaguely superior to everyone who doesn't read it, while I Watch Stuff is like film porn. Um without the, you know, titties. And if I haven't recommended Television Without Pity to you before now then are we even friends? Or if you want to get even vaguely cerebral head to the guardian and check out CHarlie Brooker. And know that by "cerebral" I mean "scatalogical".
Monday, November 3, 2008
To which I reply with a guilty smile "I know, I've always... meant to go." And I have - I've just never got around to it.
So imagine my excitement at the fact that I leave for my first ever Melbourne trip in about... um 36 hours. Ish. I think. Maybe a bit... more? Less? Okay, on Wednesday. I leave on Wednesday.
The pathetic bit is that I have no idea what I want to do over there. Oh okay I know I want to hang out with my preggers sister and get boozed in front of her just to make her jealous. I know I want to poke around cute wee shops and sup at delicious drinks in delightful bars and cafes. But... specific locations? I don't know. My mind goes blank. I just don't KNOW Melbourne. At all.
That's where you come in readers because, clearly, if you read this blog even semi regularly you're My Kind of People as well as being the kind of people who have a leetle bit too much spare time on their hands (hey, no offence: me too).
So to those who have dabbled in what Melbourne have to offer and lived to tell the tale and make me feel guilty for not having been before, please, tell me: what should I do?
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
The worst part being I couldn't even get too angry, given I'd been reading hers too.
Luckily for both of us I was only about 15 at the time and a shy bookish type, meaning the raciest bit of gossip ol' sis managed to extract from those pages was a list of Boys I Would Like to Kiss. Yes that's right - kiss. Oh for simpler times.
Still the experience put me off committing anything for paper lest it be used against me. The irony being that it was only when I had things worth writing about that I declined to do so.
But in the past week or so three things have happened to make me decide I'm getting getting back on the diary train.
1. I found an old shoebox full of letters from school friends and ex boyfriends.
2. I listened to another friend play a ten-year-old recording of himself singing and playing bass down the phone line.
3. I attended the (awesome) wedding of two delightful friends.
It was the letters that started all of this. I've always suspected my memory has been irrevocably addled from booze and general idiocy but the proof was in realising exactly how much I'd forgotten. The box - a collection, of notes passed in class, awkward flirty banter in paper form and break-up letters - was so full of things I'd forgotten it was a bit like reading my sister's diary all over again. I didn't recognise myself. There were schemes I never remembered hatching, crushes I'd wisely erased from the hard drive and names I couldn't match to faces.
I had remembered, obviously, the high cringe-factor of my ex-ex-boyfriend's post break-up "why you're a bitch in 1000 words or more" letter but did I recall the cruelty of the prose, his WILD allegations about my many emotional problems or his killer PS? No, no I did not.
The phone call exacerbated my concerns. Do I have, for instance (as does my aforementioned musically-talented friend) a record of the short-lived radio show young Anna Sinclair and I performed in her bedroom between the approximate ages of 11 and 13? No and no again.
And so of course the wedding cemented the whole thing because it was lovely but I'm a little afraid that, given time, I may forget entirely exactly why it was lovely if I don't have some sort of written memory of the thing. And when an elderley gentleman leans in to tell you that you look like something out of The Great Gatsby (a shameless lie but given I was feeling slightly self conscious about my ridiculously awesome hat one which I appreciated) you don't want to let it slip the old noggin'.
So I'm back on the wagon with a fancy pen, a delightful new notebook and a weekend full of delights to transcribe. Just, um, don't check under my pillow. That means you, Sis.
UPDATE: Thanks for your charming comments, dear FRIENDS. But, no, contrary to popular opinion I have no plans to a)get married b)breed c)start finding children charming d)own a copy of The Notebook on DVD. The day that I do you shall be the first to know.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
I'm sorry I don't believe I have the number.
What I meant:
Not only do I HAVE the number and am choosing not to give it to you but I will never, ever, ever give you any number of any personal contact of mine because you are a bint and I do not care for you. Now get the fuck off my desk.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
Meet Trixie and Tiffani (probably): these two fake tanned slappers enjoy doing that faux lesbian dancing thing in clubs to please the boys, haven't read a book since He's Just Not That Into You and don't believe in date rape. The black hole of charisma on the left practices that pout in the mirror and failed to receive the memorandum that those big glasses she's wearing went from Darjeeling-Limited-dorky-cute to annoying six months ago and from annoying to punch-you-in-your-face-rage-inducing the second after she put them on. They're everything you hate about everything.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
You know that insanely good looking guy who is kind of a dick? He's delicious,yes, but so smarmy, arrogant and self consciously munchable that you suspect he wanks to a photo of himself? The sort of guy who talks about his band a lot and smokes a lot, like a LOT, of pot?
And you know how you sort of hate yourself for it but you're a little but in love with him? Yeah that's THIS guy.
The man in the centre of the room pulled off his sarong and lay it over a chair.
We all stared at his cock. Okay, well at least I did.
Welcome to life drawing, which is actually completely awesome. Once you've not-so-surrepticiously stared at the rude bits for 5 minutes you can forget about the naked man standing five feet away and start to panic about the fact that you can't draw for shit.
Oh at least until said naked man changes his pose and suddenly you're locked in a staring battle with a strange naked man holding, um, a wooden pole. No, I mean an ACTUAL pole.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
Saturday, October 4, 2008
I do seem to go through them pretty quickly but this one I'm a bit sad about.
Okay, so, if I think about it she wasn't quite as good as the one who owned a shop right below my old apartment. He was great - I've still yet to have a blow-dry that equalled his. But could he shut the fuck up? He could not. Reading magazines over my shoulder to comment queenily on EVERTHING, long, long stories about events involving people I'd never met, random characters who wandered in and out of these ridiculous plots. Outrageous. Friends know or could guess how I feel about this kind of chit chat: for me half the pleasure of having my hair cut is the pleasure of indulgence, including silence. So he had to go.
This latest one didn't have head massages to touch the dudes at Toni and Guy. Holy shit - what are the feeding those little emo waifs to give them fingers of steel? I don't know, maybe it's something in the water. Anyway I had no complaints with the haircut either - efficient and pretty. And they gave me champagne. But once you've burst into tears two minutes into a haircut and poured out recent awful events there's only one way to go: out of there. So Toni and Guy were out, en masse.
Half the reason the loss of this latest one saddens me so is that she was none of the above: she knew how to cut hair in complete silence, bless her. No questions. No commentary. yes, there was a woman who knew how to ignore and be ignored. Aw shit I'm, getting all sniffly just thinking about it.
Only problem is that she either hates me or she's a really shitty hairdresser.
Those two options are the only solutions to the question of why my hair currently looks like I've spent six months inside in a wind tunnel. Seriously, I appear to have lost a three hour fight with a racoon. The whole thing measures two feet wide.
"I think I'll keep the natural wave in it," I said. "There's no need to straighten it."
"Right," she said. "I can play up the wave a bit if you like."
"Um, sure." That's me.
Fifteen minutes later I have tears in my eyes from having a)been burnt by some kind of curling iron device b)the sight of my reflection in the mirror c)having had my entire head of hair pulled out strand by strand, or so I assume based on my scalp sensations. Either I've misjudged this whole 'we're both happy with silence' thing and she thinks I'm a biatch or she's getting her styling tips from Pretty in Pink. Either way... sorry lady, it's not going to work out. But it's been one hell of a ride.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
HIM: Did you say (broker's last name)?
ME: Uh yeah.
HIM: With a name like that is she a bagel muncher?
ME: Um. A bagel what now?
HIM: A hook nosed bagel muncher....
ME: Um, I"m still...?
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Centuries ago it was a cinch to discover stuff. You could hardly make it out the front door in the morning without tripping over a new element to whack on the periodic table, accidently inventing the automobile or stumbling onto the previously undiscovered part of the brain responsible for convincing you stone wash jeans were ever a bright idea. Back then nobody knew even the most obvious things – evolution, the fact that the earth is round, smoking causes all lung cancer. All theories, one is inclined to feel now, you could pretty much knock up in your lunch break.
These days it’s not so easy. I mean, one hesitates to say that everything that can be invented has been invented for fear of looking as much of a tit in the future as the guy who said it back in 1898 does now but still it’s a little bit easy sometimes to feel there’s no new frontiers to explore and a complete lack of insights out there for the making.
Which is presumably why modern day researchers have now turned their razor sharp minds to motherfucking office romances. At least that’s the only explanation I can come up with – that or I’m pretty sure it’s one of the signs of the impending apocalypse.
Yes those brainboxes at Monash University are, apparently, “investigating” office romances to, among other things “(suggest) strategies and organisation guidelines” for coping with the issues thrown up by office romances and, particularly, those that turn bad.
Right. I mean really? Really??
Though I hesitate to blow my own trumpet I think I could save them a little bit of work. 1. Most relationships break up 2. Your office fling will probably break up 3. Try to dump them first so you don’t have to see them giving you pity eyes over morning conference and 4. Try not to have sex on the photocopier. Not because it makes things awkward later when, post-breakup you can still see your arse-grooves as you wait for a copy of that report but because it’s just a bit tacky, not to mention logistically tough.
I jest (poorly) but does anyone really need to have the pitfalls of office romances explained to them by someone in a white coat? Does anybody need to be told that there’s a reasonably high chance a work romance gone wrong will fuck up not only your love life but your working life too? Put your hand up if you don’t know it’s going to be awkward as fuck seeing them at work every day and to avoid such a pitfall you should probably attempt to keep your romantic life an work life separate. Now put your hand down only if you’re such a tosspot you think keeping said two things separate is in any way do-able. Righto? Good.
Over ten(ish) years of working I’ve had freaking dozens of work crushes and exactly one decent work romance. While I was working my way through uni at, um, Woolworths. Ahem. Ours was a love born of a deep shared appreciation for Morrissey, vague hostility towards customers and a lack of desire to work particularly hard at uni. It started off very promisingly, chugged along perfectly happily for about eight months and ended pretty badly, necessitating this conversation at a party:
HIM: You don’t want to talk about it?
ME: Honestly? Not really.
HIM: You don’t think we have to? I mean about what’s going on?
ME: Well, um…we’ve broken up.
HIM: Have we?
ME: Oh. Uh, yes.
(Two minutes later)
HIM: Can I get a lift home?
Were things tense at work afterwards? Of course. Did I employ a range of techniques and strategies inteneded to minimise the pain on both sides? Er no: although it was pretty distressing at the time the reality was I avoided him, he avoided me and we made do.
The thing is that nobody is ever going to stop having office affairs just because they might go wrong, just as nobody is ever really going to stop having affairs full stop just because it’s odds-on to end in heartbreak and misery on at least one side. In the same way, having “strategies” in place to deal with office romances, should they go wrong, is just as fucking useless as having them in place to deal with the collapse of any relationship – you can plan all you want but you’re still going to feel like shit, irritate your friends by having long boring conversation in which they tell you “you could do so much better” while their eyes plead silently for death and either gain or lose 10 pounds.
Planning for the end before it’s arrived is stupid – if that’s the road you want to take why not just get yourself a bad haircut and go on a bender now to cut out the middle man? Better yet skip straight to the rebound fling with that cutie in IT – you know he wants you and he can probably fix the photocopier afterwards.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Fucking Giles, eh? I could eat him up with a spoon. I could pack him into a bong (if I ever smoked, Mum, which obviously I never ever have) and smoke the fucker. I could skin him, make him into a pair of pajamas and wear him every night.
Er, yes, quite.
A friend of mine recently suggested he was a bit of a Giles. Hmm yes, I said politely, there's certainly a resemblance. Which there (kind of) is. But the way Giles looks, in or out of a delicious tweed three piecer is almost irrelevant. Giles is awesome not because of his (relatively) sleek figure, his ridiculously posh-caramel accent, his unbearably tasty suits or even his giant brain but from a combination of all of the above. Cadging all the best lines, working the father-figure thing without actually being a creepy, um, father figure. Being completely awesome All. The. Time. This is the reality that is Giles.
Is there a better Buffy moment than in one of the final episodes of Season Three in which he nails the deliver on a cold one-liner to his douchebag repalcement ("For God sake, man, she's 18 and you have the emotional maturity of a blueberry scone")?? I think not. Unless it's the episode where he reverts to being a bad-arse teenager (the white t-shirt with the cigarettes in the sleeve... the accent... bloody hell). If I had teachers like this I would never have left school
*Actually there are three kinds of people including those who just don't like Buffy. But these people I fear I simply don't understand. Get on the train or stay off the tracks, friends.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
1. Work. Like the stoner friend sleeping indefinitley on your couch work started off the week as a pleasant distraction and quickly became the bane of my existence. Please just don't tell me it's Sunday already.
2. Buffy. I was a massive fan of the Buffster first time around and am currently involved in something of a rival. If you don't get a frisson of excitement at the sight of Anthony Stuart Head (AKA "Giles") in a cardigan then I just don't know about you. The perfect antidote to a rough day at the office.
3. Wine. Bit of a moment this week when I found myself absolutely freaking johnsing for a glass of wine one night when there was none to be found. One of those defining 'do I or so I not have a drinking problem?' moments. I think I passed the test.
4. Book buying. Here I may actually have a problem but honestly it's not MY fault: it's the fault of the second hand bookshop that is closing down and insists on having a perpetual fifty per cent off sale. It is easily the best second hand bookshop I've ever seen and I am now officially its bitch.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Answer: ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NONE.
Monday, September 15, 2008
I have no idea who he was talking to, nor did I crane my neck about to find out - I'm middle-class and able bodied so I just ducked my head and kept walking like nooothing was happening do-do-do-I'm-just-walkin'-down-this-road style.
The incident struck me as pretty weird though, for a number of reasons. Firstly, assuming wheelchair man (I'm sorry, I know the nickname is gross but anything I think of, "wheels" for instance, sounds somehow much worse) wasn't just mad and shouting obscenities for no reason what did said fucking arsehole do to anger him in the first place and why? I mean... who fucks around with the disabled really? Hitler maybe, in fact Hitler definitely, but anyone else? Surely even people who want Colin Barnett in charge of their State steer clear of THAT kind of shit.
Secondly, and I know this sounds even grosser than the whole wheelchair man bit but aren't the disabled supposed to be, um, nice? Has fiction lied to me when it trotted (ok, wheeled) out stereotype upon stereotype of kindly disabled people who, by virtue of their injury (natch) have developed a zen attitude towards life that the able-bodied miscreants who come into contact with them can't help but admire? Vietnam Vets aside I've always secretly thought that people in wheelchairs existed, at least partially, to make me feel better about myself in a "wow, if SHE can live a perfectly happy life as a limbless torso and still trot out a quick quip why can't I?" kind of a way. Um, but that's a secret because it makes me sound like a heartless bitch, a Conservative voter or both.
Now, having made myself sound like a member of the Hiter's Youth Party (or at least a One Nation voter) allow me to get to my point. Which is that on the weekend I had occassion to spend a day in York with a friend in a wheelchair and had my perceptions changed a bit. Oh no, don't worry, not in an afternoon special sort of way, I assure you.
You see the thing is that people are scared of people in wheelchairs. They seriously are and so, now that I come to think of it, am I. I am not scared they'll back over my foot, or call me a fucking arsehole, I'm scare of what they represent. And as a result I - and a lot of other people - bend over backwards to be nice to people in a wheelchair. It's ridiculous. Anyone else steals my parking spot or runs over my cat and I'd lose it. If the dude behind the wheel in both cases had a wheelchair riding shotgun beside him I'd offer to clean his car.
When you actually ARE a person in a wheelchair, or pushing a person in a wheelchair, it's easy to take advantage of this fact. It's not all that wrong: people want to be nice to you and you want to let them. People want to give up their seat and you, well, you can't say no. People want you to ram the wheelchair into their shins - twice - so they can pretend it doesn't hurt and you're only too happy to oblige.
It can do terrible things to a person though. Standing in line at the bakery while my own wheelchair man waits on a nearby bench I select an array of pastries and hot beverages suitable for frittering away a drizzly afternoon.
"Is that for both of you?" The bakery girl asks, nodding towards my wheelchaired friend.
"That's right," I say, trying to look like the brave buddy of someone crippled forever by a tragic hit-and-run instead of a glass-boned boob sidelined for two months after a broken leg incurred two weeks earlier in a soccer game.
"That'll be $11.50," the bakery chick says.
She wants me to pay? I think, just briefly. I'm standing here with my friend in a wheelchair, having lugged his arse all over town all day until my arms are ready to fall off and she wants me to pay?? For all she knows he's dying tomorrow and I've brought him here as a last supper before he has his fucking useless legs cut off and donated to science and she wants me TO PAY??
"Here you go," I say, handing over a twenty.
Fucking arsehole, I think.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Epitaph on a Tyrant
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand,
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
Questions raised by the presence of a Norma Desmond-type I saw sitting at a bus stop in Shenton Park early this morning:
2. Can those too-dark brown curls possibly be real?
3. How long would it take to break her if I kidnapped her and refused to let her out of the outside toilet until she promised to teach me the secrets of her awesomeness?
Saturday, September 13, 2008
It wasn't quite as heartless as it sounds, the email thing. It was, however, ridiculously fucking complicated. First there was the email breaking up with him (four pages if you can believe it). Then there was the phonecall, not breaking up with him but asking if I could come over for a bit. Oh and suggesting he might want to check his email before I got there.
The funny thing was that, as it turns out, I should have followed my nonconfrontational instincts and left it at the email: when I arrived at his house it was to find him sitting beside the email, parts of which were highlighted, presumably with the intention of engaging in some vigorous rebuttal. (He not being yet old enough to realise there is no rejoinder when someone tells you that, no, they don't love you and me not being cruel enough to point out the obvious).
I'd like to blame this enounter for the ensuing lifetime of avoiding confrontation, if only so I would have something else to pin on the boy in question besides his theft of my copy of Catch 22. But the truth was that I'd been a pussy long before he came on the scene.
1997, for instance, found me at Hungry Jacks working under the supervision of my boss, henceforth referred to as Mad Bitchface.
Mad Bitchface was, as the name suggests, Mad. She was also a bitch with a face like a perpetually smacked bottom whose idea of a good time was to yell at her employees while others stood and gawped, battling with the dual emotions of pity and schaudenfraude.
This is probably why she liked me so much, given that I provided apparently endless fodder for her tirades. You see, hard as it is to believe, I wasn't very good at my job. I was actually pretty shit. It would be nice to pretend this was because I was some kind of teenage slacker who was shit simply because I couldn't GIVE a shit. This, however, would be slightly disingenous. I was then, as I am now, an eager-to-please nerd. I wanted to be good at the job and I tried hard to be good at the job. I just, you know, wasn't ACTUALLY good at the job.
The uniform I could manage. Even at 15 I knew how to iron a good shirt and fasten my name badge on straight, which was actually more than you could say for the miscreants who operated the broiler and gave me free chicken nuggets. Also in my repportoire was turning up to work on time and being friendly to customers. It was only when it came to everything else that I lost it.
And that was all that mattered to Mad Bitchface. She didn't care if I had a good attitude or whether my cheeks hurt from grinning all day - she cared about the long queue of cars waiting by the drive thru whose orders were far from being completed, or the junkie passed out in the toilets to whose presence I had apparently failed to alert her.
If I'd had any sense or if I'd not been so terrified of confrontation I might have stood up to Mad Bitchface. But I didn't. Just as I know that I wouldn't if the same situation were to happen tomorrow. As it was I just tried harder: I came in a bit early, I stayed a bit late. No, no of course I didn't need lunch breaks.
Pathetic. It didn't work either, though again this may have been my fault. Somehow I sense that the day it all went really wrong between Mad Bitchface and I was when she caught me chucking a sickie. It was a horrible moment: the night of my brother's 21st and Mum had agreed to call in sick for me, given I'd been unable to get out of my shift. My first faux sickie, I believe, and probably my last for at least another five years. What with everything going on, though, Mum forgot the most important part of the plan where she ACTUALLY called in sick for me. So it was that half an hour after I was supposed to have started work the phone rang. I answered it to find Mad Bitchface demanding to know where I was. The cringiest bit? When I told her (in a spontaneously croaky voice, although I'm not sure my symptoms ultimately matched up to Mum's excuse) that I'd have to go and get my Mum. Oh. The. Humanity.
So things between Mad Bitchface and I were at rock bottom about then. She hated me more than ever and I gave her good reason to hate me more than ever by becoming even crapper and more or less losing any enthusiasm I'd ever had for the job. Instead of turning up early I dawdled through the door with wet hair. Any opportunity I had and I was out the back to flirt in an unbeilievably clumsy fashion with the hottie on fries (oh Brad, and we could have been so great together, too). Somewhere in there I dumped a whole bag of the milkshake mixture stuff all over the cooler-room floor.
Then a breakthrough: I got another job at a deli up the road. The pay was just as shit and my new boss was a lumbering chain-smoking haystack of a woman who would later prove quick to anger and slow to do any work but I was desperate.
Finally, I thought, this was my chance. Finally I could stick it to Mad Bitchface. This thought alone sustained me. As I worked the till, cheerfully asking people If They Would Like Fries With That I drafted a resignation letter so seethingly full of venom it would render Mad Bitchface silent for the first time in her life. Mentally I scripted dramatic showdowns in which i got all the best one-liners and she was reduced to gawping, stuck with ellipsis-riddled dialgue intended to convey her ineptitute in all matters.
But people don't change. Not really. We might change the way we look, learn to shave off some of our sharp edges and grow accustomed to concealing the worst parts of our characters but ultimately we are what we are and I was never going to become someone capable of delivering even one of my carefully-constructed denouncements of her moral character. The fiery dialogue of my confrontation was gone altogether when I hatched a plan to simply dump my resignation letter in Mad Bitchface's inbox and depart on a 2 week holiday, never to return. The vitriolic letter of resignation became an apologetic epistle that all but ended in a series of xoxoxoxos and a promise to catch up for coffee.
But just as I ultimately vented my rage with the dumped boy whose misfortunes kicked off this blog by breaking radio silence two weeks later with an incredibly bitchy demand for my copy of Catch 22, so too did I manage a parting shot at Mad Bitchface when I refused to return my (super fugly) uniform. Ignore the fact the entire cost was deducted from my pay and you can score one for Kate. That's right - who ever said I was a pussy?
Friday, September 12, 2008
There should be a word to describe the pleasure of having two different people send me a link to the SAME James Franco interview (http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2008/sep/08/jamesfranco.pineappleexpress) within about half an hour of each other.
In return all I can do is give you this kick arse clip. Franco!
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
In any case, at least half of the 50ish seedlings I put in with my scatter-gun approach are still raging along, although there's a few of them that look a bit weed-like to me. I've also forgotten which ones are squash and which are broccoli, though in the unlikely event any of my babies make it to term I imagine the answer should be obvious.
More than anything, though, I'd forgotten how bloody boring growing things can be in the early stages. It's not like those Magic Tree and Magic Garden things we had as kids where you set it up and these fancy (hey, it was the '90s) crystal blossoms start to appear within hours. Those things were awesome. By comparison my veggie seedlings just sit there all, meh, what did you think, that chucking some seedlings into a patch of dirt was going to turn you into someone who wears overalls, makes pumpkin pie from scratch and has a perpetual healthy glow? I'm too shy to say that's EXACTLY what I'd thought...
Monday, September 8, 2008
8.35pm: Awesome - Jessica Walter! It's 11am and she's drunk - this series rocks.
8.40pm: Man that teacher is H-O-T. I'm just sayin'
8.41pm: Peach Pit! Holy shit, I'm sure that's the same dude from the original story. Now who is the new Dylan McKay? Please tell me it's not that douchebag getting a blowjob in his 4WD.
9.13pm: Oh god oh god oh god. She's singing. Holy fuck. I'm embarassed for everyone involved.
9.19pm: Now someone please - is that or is that Dad not played by the same guy from Melrose Place? Guy... something. C'mon you remember: he lived with that hot brunette chuck um Jo? Oh right, like you're too good for Melrose Place??
9.30pm: Oh whatev show - weekly bonfire parties on the beach eh?? I call bull-shit on you - bull-fucking-shit I say. And please God let Ethan keep his wetsuit on, that's all I'm asking for.
9.32pm: No I take that back because you have fucked me, show: you have FUCKED me and fucked all your viewers by this bullshit frolicking-in-the-ocean-while-dressed BULLSHIT. Who are your writers? Who are they that they think this is what people do? Are they on acid? That's all I want to know right now, show: Are. They. On. Acid?
9.33pm: (Broken weeping)
9.37pm: Ooh double episode. Awesome.
9.41pm: Now, on the plus side we have an alternate love interest to douchebag blowjob Ethan. But on the negative end of the scale said alternative love interest is a wank job and he's singing - singing! See above.
9.51pm: Am i drunk or is there a bit of ho-yay on my screen?
9.52pm: Aw crap, I think I'm drunk.
10.08pm: Oh riiight. And what was he doing standing out there on the balcony by himself? Whatev, show, whatev. And ew, he's such a tool. I bet he has crabs. Crabs he will pass onto Brenda Lite when he fucks her in seven episodes time.
10.12pm: i was so bored by this bullshit scene I started googling tit bits about the original BH90210 and came up with this stellar fucking summary of Luke Perry's character Dylan McKay. If this snippet of a truly awesome synopsis doesn't underscore exactly why the old show kicked this ones arse I don't know what does:
"Perry's send-off features his character marrying...the daughter of the mob boss who ordered his father's death during the third season. Before the marriage, Dylan attempted to use Antonia to get to her father, but falls in love with her instead. Her father, uncomfortable with the marriage, orders Dylan's death. The hired hitman inadvertently kills Antonia instead due to the fact that she is driving Dylan's car at the time of the planned hit, and is wearing a hooded raincoat, so the hitman cannot see whom he is shooting. Dylan leaves town heartbroken... it is revealed later in the series that Dylan's father was not really murdered and that he had faked his death in order to enter the Witness Protection Program."
10.20pm: Man even I kinda wish Shannon Doherty would come in and cut this poor imitator.
10.23pm: "I'm breaking up with us"???? MWAHAHAHA!!! That's actually awesome.
10.28pm: Okay I may have bagged it and slagged it but this show is so awesome I want to lay it down gently by the fire and make sweet love to it. That's right - I said make love: that's awesome awesomely-terribly-awesome this baby is. Aaron Spelling, you've done it again you mad bastard.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
PS: Nice fucking VEST.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
UPDATE: I am devastated. And I know that everyone has a right to their opinion, and not everyone thinks the same way about everything blah blah blah but FUCK IT, the mood I'm in fucking liberal voting pieces of shit should just stay the fuck away from me right now unless you have a very large glass of wine in your hand. I'm good for no man or beast. Sigh.
UPDATE 2: Well now this is just an emotional fucking rollercoaster ride, isn't it?
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Gob: 52% of the country is single. That's a market that's been dominated by apartment rentals. Let's take some of that market. I call it "Single City."
Narrator: ...his ideas failed to evolve.
Gob: It's, like, "Hey, you want to go down to the whirlpool?" "Yeah, I don't have a husband." I call it "Swing City."
Stan Sitwell: Let's get into some new areas, if you don't mind.
Narrator: But Gob continued to fine-tune his first one.
Gob: How do we filter out the teases? We don't let them in. This goes for the guys, too. Because sometimes the guys are tapped out. But check your lease, man. Because you're living in *bleep* City.
Stan Sitwell: You're fired.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
The solution: Lay off the booze, get home as early as humanely possible and bash the thing out until you collapse from exhaustion at 2.30am. Email to boss and cross your fingers.
Monday, September 1, 2008
I've always suspected I'd make quite a good gardener, in the sort of vague way that some people believe they'd be good at sports or something given half a chance - despite a lack of any evidence to back up the claim. So I went all out at the shop: tomato, rocket, broccoli and squash. Had a bit of a hiccup when it came to the giant bag of potting mix I'd lugged from the garden centre bit of Bunnings to the check out though. The woman on checkout was surely only trying to be helpful but she got on my tits.
HER: You know this potting mix isn't very good, do you?
HER: It's not a very good potting mix. It doesn't have the stuff that your garden needs.
HER: You need to add stuff to it.
HER: I'd say it's one of the worst potting mixes you can get. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone.
I wanted to tell her I didn't give two shits, or ask her why the store sold it if it was so shit but I'm such a pussy I said I'd leave the potting mix but take the plants then. Being too lazy to go back for a more superior type of potting mix and too embarassed to admit I was fine with some shoddy inferior brand actually I went to work in the garden minus any kind of potting mix at all but with the resonably strong conviction that some (allegedly) shit potting mix was probably better than no potting mix at all.
The second problem came when I realised I'd overcatered. There was only a small patch of usable garden, really, and about 50 seedlings to jam in there. The labels had helpful suggestions like "plant 30cms apart" but I thought bugger that and just threw them all in. Looks pretty bloody cosy though. If I'm lucky and if I know my year 12 biology (and I think I do) they'll probably all cross pollinate and I'll end up with one hell of a good veggie that looks like a broccoli had sex with a tomato but tastes like sunshine.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Boss: Hi it's (Boss' name) look I'm just wondering if you know what time (important conference) is on tomorrow?
(Long silence in which I wonder if it's possible to guess)
Me: Maybe um... 10am? No wait 9am? Wait... (spotting passing waiter) I think that wine is mine... um I mean yeah sometime tomorrow... maybe.
(Another long silence in which only scorn is audible)
Boss: Right. So... no idea then?
Me: No, not technically.
Me: Sorry I'm qui- (luckily by this time said boss has hung up - thank fuck).
Sunday, August 24, 2008
HoYay: Noun, abbreviated from 'Homoeroticism, Yay!' The phrase originated from the television programme Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and is used most commonly in various internet fandoms. It can also be an exclamation of glee.
(Today's hoyay was brought to you by the bloggers Thom and Dans. Thanks you two, it certainly improved the look of my Sunday at work.)
There are long hours - for a start - which mean I frequently start and end the day feeling absolutely buggered and become a hideous snapping shrew to anyone foolish enough to ask me how I'm going. They mean I am constantly late to anything that happens on a weeknight and frequently too buggered to do much on a weekend anyway.
It is also high-stress, and while I guess everyone feels that way about what they do, there is something about working to a daily deadline that precludes much in the way of down time. Ever*.
Then there is the slightly embarassing fact that I'm not actually that frightfully good at it, meaning I frequently find myself lurching from one embarassment to another as gaps (more like chasms) in my knowledge are displayed for all to see, constantly hoping I might get away with it for Just One More Day.
And between you and me the pay's not too crash hot, either.
But the thrill of a day like today when you have a breaking news story that genuinely makes you excited to cover it and - more than anything else - to feel that you've got your part, however small, in what people will read about over their breakfast tomorrow (only the certain types of people who read certain parts of the paper, in my case, obviously) cancels a lot of that out. Exactly what proportion of the crap is cancelled out by the good, precisely, is a calculation to be done by someone with a better grasp of maths than me but it's up there.
Then again, ask me as I drag my corpse-like body out of bed at some ungodly hour tomorrow and I may have rejigged the sums just a little.
(*Also, in hindsight, this comment does seem slightly at odds with the fact that I inevitably DO find time for directionless blogging during work hours and excessive internet perusal for non-work purposes. So, you know, I might be full of crap.)
Friday, August 22, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
And it was around that lovely time that I became quite a fan of walking. Or, should I say, of rambling. Because there’s no lycra, sneakers or hand weights in what I do: it’s more about going for what my Grandma would probably call A wee stroll. At least maybe she would if she were scottish.
I started rambling partly in an attempt to tire my body sufficiently that It would motherfucking let me get some goddamn sleep (mixed results on that front) but I kept doing it because it’s surprisingly enjoyable. But you have to do it right.
The Ramble is different to The Walk in many respects. For a start you need a destination, even if that destination is as dull as the library, the shops or, if you’re lucky, the pub. Admit that you’re heading out just for the hell of it and you break the first rule of rambling: go somewhere, just go slow. The art of the ramble exists in taking your sweet arse time to get somewhere else where you’re going to do absolutely nothing of much consequence. One doesn’t ramble to a job interview or en route to the weekly Big Shop – you can walk, sure, but it’s simply not the same.
Similarly one can’t, for instance, ramble in the morning before work, or at night after work: you need time and no fixed deadline to be anywhere important for a couple of hours. An ipod is optional and sunglasses are a must so you can check out fellow ramblers without being spotted. Supplies are essential to enable you to do what you fancy: whether it’s reading your book in the sun for a bit or slipping in a cheeky shandy. You certainly need money because popping in and out of shops you never knew existed to buy things you almost certainly don’t need is another key plank in the rambling manifesto. Without money, again, I’m Sorry you may well be having a grand old time but you’re actually on a walk, not a ramble.
Circuitous routes are favoured, as there’s nothing more depressing and less in the spirit of rambling than slugging your way along a three lane road while car exhaust clogs your pores. You don’t need to be scaling fences or, heaven forfend, stick to designated walking tracks but a saunter via a parks or an interesting back street renders any outing at least 3.75 times more enjoyable as a straight trudge along bitumen. And that’s just science.
Finally, it was good ol’ Nietzsche who said all truly great thoughts are conceived while walking and while I apologise for quoting him because there are few things that come off quite as wanky as quoting Nietzsche on anything (I may as well just wear a black beret and smoke moodily right now) I think he had a fair point. But the very last thing you must do on a ramble is Try to Think. Rambling is an activity that requires little thought and should therefore be treated as such. Go rambling in an attempt to break writer’s block or Make a Big Decision and you will return weeping in either rage or frustration – neither of which could rightly be termed particularly ramblelike by any definition of this (partly-made-up) term you should choose to use.
Monday, August 18, 2008
I am in love. Madly, madly in loved with a scruffy laybout who wears his hair in his face, dresses like he’s just got out of bed and barely opens his mouth to talk. I speak, of course, of that delightful ragamuffin Julian Rhind-Tutt.
What is there to say about exactly how pathetic it is to fancy someone just because you’ve seen them on the telly? Worse – you don’t even fancy them, you fancy a fictional character they have portrayed. It’s about as lame as harbouring a crush on Jay Gatsby. Who is, in any case, kind of a douche.
And yet somehow this past weekend I’ve given Julian RT six hours of my life by way of a shameful Green Wing binge merely for the chance to see him wearing scrubs, making moved on drink chicks and going for a bit of a naked motorbike ride. Ahem, no, and I didn’t make that last bit up either.
I could tell you I like Julian RT because of his delightfully toffee double-barelled surname. Which I DO like rather a lot. Or I might suggest it’s because he comes off so charming yet amusingly self-deprecating in interviews. Which he does. But the truth is that my crush was borne before I knew so much as his name.
The sad, sad truth is that I fancy him because he’s aesthetically pleasing (cheekbones check, come hither eyes check, a-dorable smile double check - none of which, I concede, are incredibly visible in this photo) and because he plays A Cool Character on the telly. Which, luckily, is about as much as you need, if you’re a Token Smokin’ Hottie, in my book. Which is probably why a less classy girl than myself might rename this section "dudes on TV whom I would quite like to nail should the opportunity arise and my boyfriend allowed me a freebie". Luckily I still have my breeding.
* And by the way, is it just me or would "Rhind-Tutt" be a fairly cool bit of (semi) rhyming slang for "fuck"? I'm going to make this work...
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The perfect music video clip doesn’t just happen, you know – it takes work and there’s a formula involved. Certain boxes to be checked, if you will. As a long time watcher, first time commentator I should know. And I’m not talking about the shit you see these days featuring gyrating pre-pubescent lip-synchers, designed apparently purely to attract middle aged masturbators. Done right it’s a beautiful thing and there’s a delicate balance involved, damnit.
So for our case study today, let’s take a look at Michael Jackson’s Beat It – to my mind one of the greatest video clips ever.
Let’s take the basics out first, with a view to getting them out of the way. The presence of A GOOD SONG, for instance, is, you know, moderately important. James Blunt may be pumping out some corkers on the music video front but there’s not enough time in the world for me to get around to watching them, if you see what I mean. And while I can’t say for sure whether Beat It is on my ipod or in my CD collection I doubt there’s a reader here who hasn’t enjoyed a bit of an (albeit shameful) dance to it in his or her life – whether it’s in a public setting or in the privacy of one’s own bedroom. Hey, I don’t judge.
EYE CANDY is… well it’s not necessary, arguably, but it is desirable for a number of obvious reasons. And call me crazy but Michael Jackson actually looks sort of, um… c’mon don’t make me say it. But he really totally does. Don’t give me the stink eye, readership – you would go there and so would I.
But, really, all that is window dressing. A mediocre song can be improved with a kick arse video clip, and I’m prepared to watch ugmos for four minutes, providing there’s some sort of extreme entertainment value involved. And entertainment in spades is what this little beauty delivers.
Starting with SUSPENSE.
The first time you see this video clip your first thought (if you’re me at least) is What The Fuck Is Going On. I mean, for a start who are these random dudes (who clearly AREN”T Michael Jackson) in a diner and why are they… wait, are they rounding up a posse? And why is that dude coming out of the sewer…?
Then Michael Jackson pops up (in, by the way, the most awesome t-shirt I’d ever seen until I got an eyeful of James Franco’s shark-eating-a-kitten triumph in Pineapple Express) but there’s no obvious connection between what he’s doing (poncing about) and what everyone else in the clip is doing (also poncing about but en masse).
So for about three quarters of the clip you can see these other dudes getting set for a rumble, while MJ fucks about in a jacket looking vaguely tortured (and, btw, sort of hot. And fuck you.) and it’s, frankly, entirely unclear how one storyline will meet up with the other. In short: you’re not quite sure what’s going to happen.
Which brings us to…
So the whole video is building up to this kick arse rumble, right? And you know it’s going to be kick arse because the two guys leading the rival gangs both look like they just swallowed the 80s. If you can’t be arsed watching the video above allow me to paint you a word picture by saying simply this: one of them is wearing a white (denim?) jacket featuring a giant picture of a DRAGON on the back of it. And on we go.
So it’s rumble time – there’s some extremely unconvincing stab action going on and then MJ busts in, walks between the gang leaders and… starts… dancing. DANCING. And instead of getting a shiv to the side suddenly they’re all doing it – and I don’t mean finger clicking and toe-tapping: I’m talking COORDINATED HIP GYRATIONS. Phew, who saw that one coming?
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
For most people, perhaps, this might have been disturbing.
For people like me, whose significant other is a chronic sleepwalker, it's pretty much par for the course.
Unlike ordinary people I have become accustomed to waking to find my partner tangled in the blinds, insisting he is ensnared in power cords or attempting to "hold up" the wardrobe while yelling at me to Get Off The Fucking Bed.
These unpredictable, but inevitable, episodes aren't nearly so frustrating or frightening as you might imagine. They're actually quite fun. Not only do you get the hi-larity factor of recounting them the next day ("and then you said the walls were moving closer... honestly you did") there is the simple but sweet joy of getting to bring your partner out of it.
"Now honey," you say in your firmest but kindest voice, "don't you think you could POSSIBLY be imagining some of this? Is it, you know, logical, that a flying monkey would really be in our bed right now?"
He denies it. Sometimes angrily. You insist, gently but - still - firmly. He wavers. You push. Eventually he agrees. He lies back in bed.
This is the first time he has ever let you win an argument in your life.
Of course there is a downside. There always is. So immune have I, and presumably hundreds like me, become to these fits of fancy in the middle of the night that it is virtually impossible to shake me from my sleepy calm or convince me to take allegations that the floor has turned into a whirpool seriously. I have seen it all and heard it all - sometimes twice in one night.
And so the ultimate, grissly, end to this sorry situation seems somehow inevitable.
"Darling," I say in my Firm Yet Calm Voice, my eyes still half closed in sleep as a masked intruder begins the process of stabbing both me and Boyfriend Andy to death with a sharp implement, "don't you think it's possible this is, you know, all in your head?"
Monday, August 11, 2008
Partly, perhaps, it's the slightly naughtiness of it - I quite legitimately have today off work but somehow I still feel like I'm pulling a sickie. Then there's the fact that on the weekend there's a certain requirement to catch up with people, go out and see friends. And it's not that I don't enjoy all of the above but a day off all to yourself, with nobody else in the house, and nobody suggesting you do something, is wonderfully relaxing: the lifestyle equivalent of a piping hot bath after a hard day's labour. If I knew what that felt like.
Even so, there is also something quite terrible about a day all to oneself that only occurred to me today as I lay, curled on the couch with a pair of new shoes at my elbow and a stack of fresh library books on my lap. And the terrible thing is this: that only on a day off when you have nothing to do, when you can, in theory, do exactly what you want, are you forced to realise exactly what sort of person you are.
Take me, for example, and the line I am very fond of trotting out when I simply can't be arsed doing what I supposedly love best - writing. There are plenty of excuses to go with: a full time job, friends, family and a borderline drinking problem (kidding, Mum). The shorthand for all of which is that I simply Don't Have Time.
And yet when I do have the time - ie; today - what do I do? Settle down for the day with my laptop and a head full of ideas? Er, not quite, but I did read a very good book and buy a truly awesome pair of shoes. Ahem. Now you start to see the problem.
This I can't brush away as not having enough time, being too tired from work or having Too Much To Do. I had nothing to do. And yet I did nothing.
Sometimes there's something to be said for a ten hour day.