Ginge, I meant to say ginge!

I’m not quite sure how we managed it, but somehow our staff trivia night ended up with a table debate over the word ‘minge’. Considering my 50+ year old boss was present in said conversation, it was somewhat strange. Perhaps even stranger seeing as he was the one who bought it up, however accidentally.

He actually meant to say ‘ginge’ as part of our discussion on whether there are any famous redheads you’d consider sleeping with. I was shocked to discovery my suggestions – Chuck Norris and Ron Weasley – were somewhat less than popular.

Luckily as we were about eight bottles of wine into the evening, such topics were less awkward than one might imagine. Although I fear my co-worker’s husband may have been slightly confused/ concerned as to why his half-drunk wife was calling him from the pub asking him if he knew what a minge was. You can’t say we don’t have the most professional work outings.

Fred the Potato Cake

I’m not sure if it’s comforting or disturbing that antone and I seem to share a brain (or lack thereof)

Welcome to our Tuesday email train:

From: Him
Subj: RE: its a pity party and you’re invited…
Date: 28/10/2008 12:46:16 AM

There once was a potato cake named fred
He used to get confused with bread
He lived in a bay marie
But a dim sim he could not be
For he was not a minced cat

From: Me
Subj: RE: its a pity party and you’re invited…
Date: 28/10/2008 01:35:31

Poor little potato cake fred
Was worried he’d lose his street cred
When the chips found out
He and coleslaw had gone out
And ended up together in bed

From: Him
Subj: RE: its a pity party and you’re invited…
Date: 28/10/2008 1:44:40

Coleslaw was not the cleanest thing
She’d had more than the occassional fling
When fred saw her spots
He went to the docs
And came with a fiery ring

From: Me
Subj: RE: its a pity party and you’re invited…
Date: 28/10/2008 02:51:26

Coleslaw was in quite the spot of strife
But wasn’t that just the story of her life
The sex was a bust
Now she was knocked up
And someone had let slip to his wife

From: Him
Subj: RE: its a pity party and you’re invited…
Date: 28/10/2008 4:28:12

Fred’s wife sat alone
In a cold dark corner of their home
When fred walked through the door
She screamed ‘you fucking whore’
And stabbed him with a fishbone

variety is the spice of death

So I went to the hairdressers the other week and apparently decided to skip the generic pleasantries that define basin-side chit chat.

Forming an insta-friendship after realising we’d both spent the previous night inhaling sweat and pheromones at the Peaches gig, my colourist and I moved to slightly more left field conversation topics, notably the planning of our funeral soundtrack.

Not quite sure how we got there to be honest (it was nap time, brain function highly compromised) but am pretty sure the girl next to me was somewhat concerned. Think the poor lass practically ran out the door once she was done. Slightly dramatic I thought – isn’t everyone accustomed to macabre speeches in this day and age of black jeans and black hearts?

So ever since then I have been trying to decide what song/s I would want to accompany my final farewell (tears, tantrums and general histrionics mandatory). Pretty much the only conclusion I came up with is that I should not be the one to pick them, as I am much too fickle. I can barely manage to like a song for more than a month let alone an eternity.

Unfortunately the alternative (palming the responsibility off to others) has its own drawbacks. Knowing my assortment of friends and family, I‘m likely to end up with a killer mix tape that includes in-joke songs that no-one understands (hello HSM soundtrack), emo ballads, BJM tunes for those in the front row and a rendition of Wendy Matthews ‘the day you went away’.

Nothing if not interesting.

I’ll see your friend and raise you a stalker

What’s the deal with cling wrap friends? You know the ones. Generally they’re people you never actually chose to be friends with, but rather got lumped with care of an awkward work/ school/ friend of a friend/ god is punishing me scenario. But despite your worst intentions, somehow you just can’t get rid of them, they insist on hanging around like misspent youths outside a suburban HJ’s franchise.

I have one of these friends, you see. I like to call them my stalker. Because, well, that’s sort of what they do. And not in an ‘it’s ok that they’re stalking me cause I’m doing the same back’ kinda way. Really, I’m all for mutual love bombing.  Particularly for those terribly important times, like when you need to call your bestie and inform them of something particularly hilarious/ embarrassing/ frightening you have just witnessed and/ or done. Like the time you nearly broke your leg busting through the outside balcony in front of your entire extended family on Christmas Day. Or you know, something like that.

But to drag myself back from memory lane. The share and care theory is all well and good for your real friends, but not quite so helpful for ones who are all about the sharing when you couldn’t be further away from the caring. Exhibit A. my weird housemate. We may live together but it’s hard enough talking to her about what’s on TV without rolling my eyes, let alone trying to find the appropriate ‘mmm’, ‘yes’, ‘really?’ and ‘you’re kidding’s’ to accompany her tales of youthful hedonism and sexual prowess. For those that have met my housemate, feel free to join me in a nauseating shudder.

I’ve often wondered if these people even realise that they’re skating the stalker line. Personally, I’d be a wee bit concerned if I’d called someone 6,895 times in a row without response. Particularly if they’d ignored a few hundred emails, texts and facebook messages along the way. But maybe that’s just me.

Granted, I probably lean a little too far in the other direction. If I call you twice and you don’t answer I’m halfway to crying in my cereal because you obviously can’t stand the sight of me and are too busy making midnight plans to egg my house. Or you know, something like that. Slightly neurotic perhaps, but I like to pretend its part of my charm.

Leaving me cold(play)

So apparently Coldplay killed it at the Q Awards this week, picking up Best Album and Best Act in the World Today. Am I the only one who’s thinking (in the most vacant teen way) wtf?

I’m afraid that I just don’t ‘get’ Coldplay. It’s not as if I hate them, it’s just that listening to their music leaves me (excuse the pun) cold. And yes I do mean more than my usual heart of ice, aren’t hugs awkward kind of cold.

It’s not even as if I hate the genre. For those who know of (and kindly forgive) my emo leanings, you will be the first to agree that I hold no grudge against self indulgent, whiny tunes. Hell, on one of my ‘I’m feeling sorry for myself for no reason other than the fact that I can’ days, I practically embrace them (doona over head and all).

But alas, the thought of being locked in a room listening to Speed of Sound on repeat? Pretty much makes me want to smack my head against the wall. Over and over again. At least that way I might get a beat I like.

I think my doctor is Doogie Howser

My doctor is apparently Doogie Howser Part 2. Although sadly without the witty repartee and tinny laugh track. Seriously, the boy looks like he is about fourteen. And that’s probably being generous. Seeing as I have looked sixteen for about the past six years I figure I owed him that much.

It’s not the fact he looks so young that concerns me. It’s rather the impression that I get that he has no idea what he is doing and/or talking about. I half expect him to call for a Vox Pop or phone a friend every time I ask him a question. Which generally is about as complex as, can you write me a prescription for X.Y and Z?

I asked him to fill out a medical form for me the other day so that I could renew my licence. First I had to fake smile my way through one or five lame jokes about how he doesn’t know if he should let me on the road, as I ‘look pretty dangerous’ Hilarious. Really. I can barely contain my laughter.

Then he got me to do some random vision test which involved me staring into his eyes. Yes, it was rather awkward. Particularly seeing as I’m a big subscriber to the ‘stare at the ground and avoid eye contact at all times’ approach. But was there a need for him to blush, giggle like a schoolgirl and then scramble around on the carpet for a good five minutes after he’d dropped his pen? Sheesh.

I suppose it’s my own fault. I can hardly expect a hole in the wall surgery tucked away inside a Priceline to be attracting the world’s best medics now can I? But seeing as they are the only place in six miles to bulk bill and I refuse to spend my hard earned cash on non-essentials like health and well-being, I should probably get used to it. I mean really, one must prioritise – doctors bills or drinks? chemists or concerts? I know which habit I’m helping.

I’ll show you nice…

Just so you know, if I ever ask you to describe me, please try to come up with something other than nice. I don’t care if you think I am the most angelic person since Mother Theresa. I may be friendly but I deserve some fucking originality thanks. I mean really, nice? That’s it? That’s the best you could come up with?

Your third cousin with the lazy eye who has a penchant for sneezing on your face? She can be nice.

Your dad’s golfing buddy with the matching sock/ sweater/polo combo? You can nice him all you like.

But I would like a least a smidge of creativity please.

I mean let’s think abut it.

At best, nice is a boring, overpriced biscuit. One most likely served with tea, no less. Nothing like an 85 year old grandmother’s morning tea ritual as a simile to pump up the self esteem.

At worst, nice is a polite word you use in place ‘your personality is so bland and/ or nondescript that I can’t even be bothered to dress up an adjective for you’.

Forgive me if I don’t blush with pleasure at the thought.

Welcome to the D-List

I would make the best celebrity. I’m serious. I’d be an NW editors dream come true. Not only am I a totally klutz, hence plenty of excellent shots of me falling down, legs and arms akimbo, but I am also the queen of horrid happy snaps.

It could be 10am on a Tuesday morning. I could be enjoying (?) an entirely virtuous, uncorrupted lifestyle of early mornings, yoga and mung beans and yet surprise me with a camera and all of a sudden I’m channelling Courtney Love. A little cropping here, some sneaky photoshopping there and all that’s missing is a witty caption announcing my official entry to Trashbags Anonymous.

And we mustn’t forget to mention my complete inability to get out of a cab/ car/ limousine (one can but dream) with any sense of grace. Granted, I’m hardly going to be joining the no-knickers society in order to really ramp up the sordid snap factor, but even still. Not exactly a look to make the family proud now is it?

I’m sure I could even dig up one (or ten) of those classic ‘source close to the star’ exposes. While I’d love to think all the people in my past are just so enamoured by my lovely self that they would never sell me out to the press, I can’t help but suspect a few sneaky sods would be tempted by the offer.  Luckily I’m a bit of a square so we’re not going to get into too much trouble there. Then again, once you add a little creative licence, some subjective memories and my old friend the bitchy sub-editor, it hardly matters what did or didn’t go down (double entendre – snap) now does it?

I suppose we could always inflate the story about how I couriered drugs back in the school days. Which would be much more bad-ass if I had, I don’t know, actually known what I was doing. Not that I’m sure the boys in blue wouldn’t have accepted the ‘it’s for my friend…she said it was a really important letter…’ story. Sadly enough, I would have passed the lie detector test with flying colours. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry at how frighteningly naïve I was. Oh let’s be honest, am. Street smarts? Not so much my thing.

Sadly I’ve had to accept the fact that I will never make the talent quota for Hollywood (then again, who does these days) but the ‘famous for being famous’ D-List nobody? I’m keeping that dream alive.

Overachievers Anonymous

Don’t you just hate overachievers sometimes? You know the ones. I’ve graduated from uni with two degrees. And started my own company. And made my first million. And volunteered to build orphanages in India for a year. And written a book on my ‘life experiences’. And just celebrated my 21st birthday. Well happy fucking birthday to you.

Really, your stories of success are such a comfort as I sit here wondering if I have enough money to treat myself to a bottle of diet coke rather than the hugely inferior but sadly more economical diet pepsi that’s became my new beverage of lack-of-choice.

Perhaps its just me, (or perhaps its just me trying to feel better about my complete lack of world changing adventures/ activities/ achievements), but I always wonder if these people actually get to have a life at the same time. They may be freakishly smart and frighteningly entrepreneurial, but do they ever get to squeeze in a little bit of fun at the same time?

Yes, my time would be much more productive and profitable if I spent every waking minute working towards a mythical five year plan. And yes, I clearly waste far too many hours daydreaming and trying to ignore my sore feet, sore head and sadly diminished bank balance. But you know what? It’s worth it. Give me the choice between good memories (or in some cases, lack thereof) and a good investment strategy and I’ll pick option A every time. Although if anyone wants to look after the latter while I’m taking care of the former, that would be super.

Me vs the Treadmill

I hate the treadmill.  And apparently the feeling is mutual.

Despite my preference for the lifestyles of the lazy and slothful, I recently decided that this was going to be the year I made friends with the gym.

It’s been a few weeks now and I’m afraid the experience has been somewhat less than inspiring. Despite my best efforts, I still spend half my time mindlessly fantasising about sustaining some sort of injury/ illness to give me a decent excuse to avoid the place. A broken leg, perhaps. Maybe a nice bout of the plague. Hell, a freaking paper cut would just about do it.

But I’m either going to learn to tolerate it (I couldn’t bring myself to say ‘like’) or die trying. And don’t think that’s just some idle threat, there’s a big chance I could actually die. Let’s take week one for example. One might think seeing as this was my first time wearing running shoes in about 85 years, I might ease into it. Start slow, work my way up. Alas I am not that smart.

And the reason why I walked out with heart palpations and shaky legs, looking like a disorientated crack addict with a penchant for overpriced sportswear? Not a newfound commitment to health and wellbeing, not a desire to prove my athleticism, but rather because my future husband decided to jump on the machine beside me.

In hindsight I’m not quite sure how my theory was going to work. Let’s be honest, I’m hardly looking my best when I enter the gym, let alone while busting a lung on the treadmill. I’m sure there’s a girl out there who can pull of a frighteningly red face, matted hair & gimpy running but sadly that girl ain’t me.

Perhaps I naively hoped he might glance at me and think ‘gosh, she may be hideously unfit and sweating like a beast but just look at her try! I can’t help but want to ask her out.’ I mean, clearly he wanted to. He was just… shy. Yes, shy. I’m sure that’s it.

So after a good half an hour of trying desperately to regulate my asthmatic breathing and stop myself from flying off the end of the machine (with only one strategic ‘just stopping to tie this pesky shoelace’ move to stop me from passing out) I finally admitted defeat.

Alas my attempt to slink out the door unnoticed was thwarted by the smirking crowd at the front desk. I mean yes, I may have sort-of awkwardly stumbled and slammed into the drinks display as I tried to exit the not-so-subtly signed ‘entry only’ gate, but who were they to judge? At least I tried.