Ginge, I meant to say ginge!

Posted in Uncategorized on October 30, 2008 by jacquif

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

Posted in Uncategorized on October 28, 2008 by jacquif

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

Posted in Uncategorized on October 24, 2008 by jacquif

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

Posted in Uncategorized on October 15, 2008 by jacquif

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)

Posted in Uncategorized on October 9, 2008 by jacquif

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

Posted in Uncategorized on October 7, 2008 by jacquif

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…

Posted in Uncategorized on September 29, 2008 by jacquif

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.