blind date

we all know that people who find love on the internet are ugly middle-aged virgins (or, of course, pedophiles).

its true, i've seen them on a current affair heaps of times, gazing into each others near-sighted eyes as they tell ray martin about how they found each other in a star trek chat room (and espousing corny, preconceived puns about how it was "love at first write").

being that i'm not an ugly middle-aged virgin myself - well at least not two of the three, that is* - i've always viewed these stories with an air of patronising superiority, simultaneously thinking "how sweet, even overweight buck-toothed halfwits can find love on the internet", and "thank g-d i'll never be as sad as them".

but then this lady came into my life, and everything changed. at first it was all very innocent - a comment here, a reply there. nothing serious. but then the emails began, and before i knew it the subject of a face to face rendezvous was being discussed. i was in a cyber relationship**.

i began having overpowering urges to watch star trek and change my name to noeleen.

and tomorrow we will meet. in the flesh. for the very first time. and this boy will be there too. and we will eat and drink and talk and laugh and make fun of people who obviously aren't as stylish and witty as us. cause that's what we left wing feminist f#cked up communist dykes do.

but what am i going to wear?



*you can guess which of the two i am.

**well, really i just have a new friend. but its fun to pretend isn't it?

the amazing adventures of me and a book

i'm almost finished reading a book. B-O-O-K.

remember books, blogfreaks? they're like blogs but on paper. and without all the self-indulgent exhibitionist nerds-are-the-new-black cynicism*.

i have thoroughly enjoyed the book in question, and might even go so far as to list it among my top ten. along with the 400 other books i have proclaimed as such. its a very exclusive list.

i write now, however, not to describe this fabulous work of fiction, but instead to share my pride with you all in my achievement of having almost finished absorbing it.

this is the first book i have read in over a year. since my father died. and my mother got cancer. and my world fell apart. and i stopped being able to concentrate on anything for more than 5 minutes at a time.

and so you see, its quite the accomplishment for me.

but now i am not sure if i want to finish the book at all. because what if this is it, and its the only book i will ever read again? maybe instead i should prolong it, like a good meal or a first kiss. and then maybe i'll never have to feel like an illiterate junkie with a-d-d again.

maybe...

*and those are the good ones.

and they're not even manohlos!

this morning i went to the doctor. she asked me what had caused the horribly infected cuts on the back of my shin that continue to spew forth vast amounts of vile green matter and may possibly be involved in a terrorist plot against my leg.

"my new shoes", i cheerfully informed her.

"no shoes are worth losing your leg for, my dear" , the doctor replied.

obviously she hasn't seen these shoes.

skinny and skinnier

everyone's favourite future porn stars, mary-kate and ashley oh-oh-olsen, are promoting happy meals in france. I'M NOT KIDDING!

i was all ready with several witty and scathing remarks about this most ridiculous marketing ploy ("starving french kiddies", "d-i-y bulimia kits", "free gram of coke hidden in every burger"). But when i sat down to write, i felt somewhat like a cheap old whore, performing hackneyed tricks in the hope of winning the affection of strangers.

so instead of making obvious olsen twin jokes which i'm sure have all been done before, i will tell you all about a conversation i overheard on saturday night in the ladies room of a certain kings cross establishment. a place at which its rumoured that a girl can get pregnant just by sitting on one of the couches. a place where dirt can take on human form and ask to buy you a drink.

when i walked into the ladies room i found, preening themselves in the mirror, three ivana trump aspirants, clad head to toe in dolce, gucci and pucci. i was rather shocked to find these creatures in the same seedy dive as me and mine. but not as shocked as i was by their conversation, which went something like as follows:

emaciated princess: he, like, obviously doesn't like me because i'm so fat.

devoted friends: you are, like, so not fat.

emaciated princess: no, seriously, like, i've always been really jealous of you guys. i mean, i'm not a racist, but i've always wished i was, like, asian too, so i could be, like, really skinny all the time and not, like, worry about anything.

okay, so i may have thrown in a few "likes", but the rest is pretty much what i heard. no further comment.

shana tova (happy new year)

yesterday was jewish new years day. this means that it was one of the two days per year that i acknowledge my religious links to jerry seinfeld and go pay a visit to my rabbi.

it also signifies LOTS of eating, drinking and couching, all of which i am a big fan.

but why do jews celebrate new years in september? i hear you all pondering.

well my ignorant little pagans, the jewish religion teaches us that jesus was no more than a good carpenter who gave mates rates to anyone who joined his wacky new-fangled cult called christianity. therefore, we still go by the jewish calendar, ignoring all the BC and AD stuff. and so yesterday was the first day of 5765.

shana tova to you all.

necrophilia means never having to say . . . well, anything . . .

when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much, the daddy puts his penis in the mummy's vagina and 9 months later they go into debt. but sometimes the daddy is a crazy sicko pervert who bribes morticians to let him put his penis in dead vaginas. this is called necrophilia (NEC-RO-FEE-LEE-AH) and it is very, very, very, very, very, very wrong (times infinity).

it is so very wrong that arnold schwarzenneger (he played the tall brother in twins) has recently enacted a law making necrophilia illegal within california. where he is the governor. which is also very, very, very, very, very, very wrong (times infinity. plus one).

i don't really think this will be too much of a problem for those wacky californian necrophiliacs however, because since the expression-destroying botox craze hit, everyone in california looks like a frozen corpse anyway.

i would like to know the reason behind arnie's sudden anti-necro crusade? is he just bored of his regular schedule of being a right-wing militant sexist nazi psycho? or is there a deeper issue at hand (perhaps six feet deeper)?

suggestions?

another reason why i love my beautician

reason # 4239:

she often goes home and says to her twenty-something son, just for kicks:

"i bet i saw more pussy than you did today."

sex and oprah

yesterday i was such a good little stepford wife. I ironed, i cleaned, i cooked. I didn't wear a sexy french maid's outfit and scrub the floor on my hands and knees with a toothbrush, but if it helps you to pretend i did, then you go right ahead.

while i was ironing i watched oprah, which i believe is the official pastime of the bored suburban homemaker. the topic was "is your sex life normal?" and involved unattractive middle-aged doctors (all of whom are, i suspect, still card-carrying members of the international virgin society) giving sex advice to unattractive middle-aged couples who looked about as sexually charged as matthew perry on a fat week.

now on previous occasions when i've seen sex topics on oprah, i have generally giggled hysterically every time oprah said a naughty word and then tried hard not to projectile vomit when she eluded to her own freak show/sex life. except the time when the show was about teenage sex ("is your teenager leading a double life?") and i watched on in car-crash style horror as 15 year old girls admitted to taking part in rainbow parties* on a regular basis ("like, yeah, der, everybody's doin' it mom").

however, i think the ironing board had a bizarre bewitching effect on me. as i stood there de-crinkling my clothes i began to wonder why my own husband hasn't touched me in over 6 months, why he never looks at me like he did when we were dating in college, and why he is screwing his secretary as well as my best friend. tears welled in my eyes, and i stopped ironing in order to get the phone so i could call and abuse the good-for-nothing, cheating scumbag.

but the minute i stepped away from the ironing board, a great tingling sense of calm washed over me (kinda like one feels post-orgasm, but without the mess or the guilty feelings). i realised that i don't actually have a husband, and that i am really a 23 year old single gal ironing her clothes at midday on a wednesday because she has nothing better to do with her time. okay, so then i wanted to cry again, but for totally different reasons.

the moral of this long and drawn out tale of nothingness is that performing household chores while watching oprah can be hazardous to one's wellbeing. imagine if the wind had changed. i might have remained a bitter, frigid housewife for eternity. and thats not supposed to happen for at least a few more years.


*a rainbow party is an oral sex party. all of the girls put on lipstick and each one puts her mouth around the penis of the boy/s who are there to receive favours and leaves a mark in a different place on the penis.

F*#K ME! not to sound like a prude or anything (hey, i'm no priss. i've been to strip clubs. i've watched porn. i've purchased batteries for things other than my discman) but when i was in high school a good party was one wear you kissed a boy and/or puked.

what the hell is going on? do teenage girls have no respect for themselves anymore? are they at least getting favours in return?

idiocy is the new black

stupid things people said today at my work:

- "do you have this in black?" (about every item in the store, after i'd told her twice that everything we have is on the shelves)

me: "no."

"how about this?"

me: "no."

"well, i think they would have been better in black."

- "can you tell the designer to make all the pants shorter from now on because i have really short legs."

- me: "how did you go with the pants"

raging moron: "oh, they were too small"

me: "did you want me to get you a bigger size?"

raging moron: "no, i couldn't possibly wear a size 10."

- "if i buy it, and then don't ever wear it, can i return it next year?"

- "my boyfriend doesn't let me wear blue."

- "do you think i could tuck these pants into my ugh boots?"*

- blind halfwit: "is this a new shop?"

me: "no, its been here for about 6 years"

blind halfwit: "i don't think so, i walk past here almost every day and i've never seen it before. it must be new."

me: (i didn't actually speak to blind halfwit again, as i was too busy gagging on the acrid smell of her rotting braincells).


*granted this isn't an unintelligent question in itself, but anyone planning to commit such a crime against good taste must be a cousin-marrying ignoramus.

not sure what's gotten into me

new-age cult leader and rock eisteddfod junkie ms fits asked me if my hip hop dance classes are in any way connected to my dazzling past career as a rock eisteddfod frontliner. there is in fact no connection to speak of (except the dancing link), but i have devised a rock eisteddfod entry, dedicated to my wacky hungarian dance teacher, and my wonderful hungarian beautician.

"Hungary Eyes"

A lonely young girl with hungarian roots traced back to her great grandparents* dances a melancholy solo on stage to britney's "everytime", conveying to the audience through her overstated movements, her tattered brown lycra catsuit, and her miming of the words that she is an ugly boyfriendless loser with no talent.

Her fairy godmother/hungarian beautician appears on stage, suspended from a flying fox, dressed in a dazzling fuscia lycra catsuit adorned with sequins and feathers, and tells the girl (in a thick accent that conjures images of goulash and caravans) that she has been granted three wishes.

"I want to be beautiful", mimes the girl, a few seconds ahead of the prerecorded voiceover.

Suddenly, 100 plump little teenagers dressed as tweezers, eyelash curlers, and pots of wax burst onto stage in a frenzy of starjumps and spirit fingers and dance in horrible line formations to a remixed techno version of "beautiful" by xtina aguilera. when the music stops, they all freeze with their backs to the audience to create the illusion that they aren't there at all. it doesn't really work.

"And vot do you vont for ze second vish" booms the voiceover.

"To dance as well as my hungarian hip hop teacher" mimes the girl, again missing her cue.

On stage walks a schoolboy who has committed social suicide by joining the rock eisteddfod, thus admitting to the much circulated rumours and many toilet wall scribblings that he is in fact a raging homosexual. He plays the part of the hungarian hip hop master, and with his well coiffed hair and stylish b-boy clothes, he dances a powerful duet with the heroine, where he pretends to teach her to booty dance, while it is painfully obvious to the audience that she is already well on her way to being a parramatta eels cheerleader. This is all done in time to destiny's child's "bootyliscious" of course.

"And lastly, i wish for the war in iraq to end, and for people everywhere to be free and happy. I WANT TO HEAL THE WORLD", says the girl, finally getting the timing right.

And with a wave of her magic straightening wand, the hungarian fairy godmother grants this last wish, and the three leads dance a short routine to the first few verses of michael jackson's "heal the world", until the cd jolts and cuts unsmoothly to kylie's outdated yet too-inspiring-to-ignore "celebrate", and all the fatty boombas dressed as tweezers and waxpots unfreeze themselves and dance their little hearts out for the finale, until the music stops and they all freeze once again, arms outstretched in peace signs, showing off their vaseline covered pearly whites, and hoping that their teacher won't be mad that they fucked up the last 8 counts of the dance.

*for all of you out there who are oblivious to the power of metaphor, that's me you fools.

identity crisis

other people i really wanted to be today:

- the girl in my dance class with the stunning curves and killer moves.

- ms fits.

- the guy at the next table in the cafe eating the massive breakfast special.

- jake gyllenhaal's love slave.

- bullet-dodging superhero who can save the hostages being held in a russian school.


reasons i was tickled to be me nonetheless:

- morning walk with the lovely sophie.

- cup of tea with luscious lisa.

- afternoon stroll with michael jackson*.

- free wax from the goddess.

- dance class with the hungarian hip hop master.

- cuddles from my kitty.

*the not famous one. from canberra. who was born white. who won't touch your kiddies in their special places.

too political?

george bush has stated that he will not be speaking at the site of the september 11 attacks during his re-election campaign because he feels it would be considered "too political".

i think someone needs to explain to dubya that being the president of a country means that he is the head honcho of a political system, and therefore everything he says, does, thinks, writes, dreams, threatens, bombs, sings in the shower or whispers to his teddy bear is in one way or another considered "too political".

maybe then the dumbass will realise that running for re-election is "too political" for him and will then pull out of the race.

the poet laureate of concepción

when i lived in chile i used to go to an empanada* bar named 'Treinta y Tantos'. this dark little haven was home to the best empanadas in all of south america, and also made a mean pisco sour**. i spent many an evening there drinking and eating with friends, and wondering whether or not the barman actually was saddam hussein (the resemblance was uncanny).

there was an old man who would come into the bar every night, a distinguished gentleman always dressed in a navy suit with his hair neatly coiffed. he walked up and down the bar strip selling his poems, handwritten on cards he'd decorated himself. he was so nice and grandfatherly that i couldn't help buying a few every time i saw him (this wasn't a problem as they cost about 30 cents each).

today i came across some of his poems in my desk drawer, and they made me smile, and so i thought i'd share his wisdom with you all.

la amistad es el perfume del amor

- friendship is the perfume of love

el amor es una enfermedad que necesita una cama

- love is a sickness that needs a bed

el amor nace en una mirada, vive en un beso, muere en una lágrima

- love is born in a look, lives in a kiss, dies in a tear

compartir las ideas, los recuerdos, la esperanza...(es la solución)

- sharing the ideas, the memories, the hope...(is the soution)


and my personal favourite:

nuestro partido debe ser financiado por el estado

- our party should be financed by the state


*kinda like a pastie, you uncultured heathens

**pisco is the national drink of peru and chile. and a principal cause of the open hostility between the neighbouring countries. no joke.