who wants to be my bridesmaid?

the other day some of my girlfriends and i were discussing our possible future weddings (i'm neither for nor against the institution of marriage on principle). unfortunately we were not in our underwear having pillow fights and giving each other hickies, cause that would have made for a better story. and a damn good night.

so we were playing the 'if i were to get married now, my bridesmaids would be...' game. you know the one. i'm sure you've all played it. even you, sidebottom.

i realised that i would run into much difficulty were i to get hitched now, as i am like, so popular, and it would be hard to choose a few bridesmaids from my myriad of wonderful, HOT friends. not to mention all my male buddies who may take issue with wearing a dress and stilettos to watch me say "i do".

admittedly i need not concern myself too much with this matter as i currently have neither a groom nor any real prospects of such. but who knows when someone will up and pop the question. perhaps the schmitz. or perhaps stuart charles, the hot hott hottie tropfest finalist who made jizz come out of my nose last night just by standing on stage in all his hotness.

*drools*

*a lot*

anyway i have devised a reality tv show to help my plight in the future, should i ever find myself up the duff and opting to marry whichever useless slob impregnated me. because modern television has taught me that every problem can be solved through reality tv. and this is no exception. so without further adieu, here is my idea:

WHO WANTS TO BE MY BRIDESMAID?

here's how it works. take:

- 1 HOT groom;

- 11 of my bestest friends (gender non-specific);

- 1 actor who has been pretending to be a good friend for years;

- 1 vapid, mutton-dressed-as-lamb, charisma-challenged host;

- 3 judges: the tell-it-like-it-is hater, the sickly sweet mother-type, and the over-coiffed fool;

- 1 monotone voiceover with an air of dictatorial authority;

- 1 ubiquitous quiz master;

- 5 annoying homosexual men;

- A handful of d-grade celebrity has-beens;

- 1 corporate mogul gazillionaire who should be able to afford a better hairpiece;

- A team of cosmetic surgeons, dentists, stylists and trainers.

and put them all on an island far, far away from known civilisation. this could be kranki's island. or it could be somewhere that actually exists.

then run them through a series of tasks and transformations to fight it out for the ultimate glory of being one of my bridesmaids. this will include:

- going out on a date with my hottie groom and resisting his (false) sleazy advances. she who puts out must get out;

- working out whom among them is "the mole";

- competing against each other on live national television in the world's richest quiz show: 'who knows la nadine the best'?

- a series of outdoor challenges to prove their ability to survive the australian outback (in heels of course);

- letting the gay brigade invade their lives, trash their property and make them look like haggard drag queens;

- undergoing whatever cosmetic surgery i deem necessary to transorm them all from ugly losers into beautiful swans;

- developing an eating disorder and being hospitalised for exhaustion due to the mandatory diet and exersize regime developed especially for the show by mary-kate olsen (cocaine addiction optional);

- drunken karaoke talent show to be my wedding idol;

- pairing up with a d-grade celebrity to perform outdated dance routines to terrible music;

- weekly tribal ceremonies to vote each other off. the evicted contestant cuts a pink over-emboroidered bouffant dress to shreds as their parting symbol;

- wet tshirt contests, mud fights and jelly wrestling. of course.

the winners are also invited to join the cast of neighbours and to whore themselves out to various magazines and tabloid tv shows to expose "what really happened" on the island. then they are officially entered into the d-grade celeb database for appearances in the reality tv shows and celebrity tennis matches of the future.

so, who wants to be my bridesmaid?

and my groom for that matter?

let it fly in the breeze and get caught in the trees

someone i love very much times a gazillion billion is losing their hair to the cruel sea for the second time in a year.

this is upsetting them a great deal. me too for that matter. not so much because of the aesthetic disruption but more because of what it represents.

sickness. loss of control. mortality. certainty.

so i'm compiling a list of all the reasons why hair is dumb and totally unnecessary in the modern age.

here's what i got so far:

- having hair also means having bad hair days:



- haircare is a bitch. what with all the washing and drying and brushing and styling. but if you don't do these things you just end up looking like a rancid tree-hugging hippy freak:



- birds may mistake your hair for a nest:



- i'm told that lots of boys prefer their pussies shaved:



- you can get dandruff:



- or cooties:



- hair can be a fire hazard (but this can work to your advantage sometimes):



- sometimes gum gets caught in your hair and ruins your night of tub-thumping at the local gay disco:



- you may be stereotyped into a restrictive social category just because of the colour/style/length of your hair, such as "butch dyke" or "dumb blonde":



and so in conclusion...um...well...yeah...hair sux 4 eva.

me comprendes?

r.i.p lord randolph forphington III

lord randolph forphington III is dead.

he was fatally wounded yesterday by a bullet through the heart while dueling to defend my honour. his rival, alfred douglas-muffers, earl of twattington, an evil piece of filthy swine if i ever did encounter one, is also now deceased.

i have no words to describe the joy and laughter lord randolph forphington III has brought me in the past week, since he appeared in my inbox on valentines day proclaiming his undying love for me. no words at all.

and so instead i turn to dolly parton - philosopher, poet, goddess - to help me say my goodbye:

"I'm gonna miss you, I'm gonna miss you
You fought a good fight, may you rest in peace now
You've earned the right, you stood brave and tall
The ultimate price, i honour you now
Against the earl of twattington, you gave it all
And although I'm proud of all that you stood for
My selfish heart just wants you home
My heaving breasts are so proud of you
But I can't accept the fact that you're gone

And I'm gonna miss you
When the golden sun sinks slowly o'er the crest of yonder hill
I'm gonna miss you
When i check my emails and there are no words from you still
We never met, and yet i knew your wish to make me smile was true
Even though you're gone, my love lives on
And I, I'm gonna miss you"

farewell lord randy. thanks for the memories. oh, and the virtual necklace.

xox

*places a rose on the keyboard and cries a thousand tears*

curiosity ain't killed this cat yet

i love the term 'bi-curious'. one simple word that sums up the often complicated reality of straight people who like to dabble in nookie of the homosexual variety. its the "its not my favourite dish on the menu, but i still order it from time to time" lifestyle defense.

in the past i myself have had close encounters of the bi-curious kind. i think my curiosity has since been sated, but i must confess that i completely understand why straight boys like girls so much. they're fleshy, they moisturise and they cut their toenails (how totally not insalubrious of them). oh, and bonus points for squishy nipples.

but i don't think that the term has been adequately appropriated into the contemporary vernacular. not at all. in fact, i think that 'curious' should be affixed to any noun, verb or even adjective to imply sporadic engagement with any person, object, activity, feeling, animal, mineral or vegetable.

here are some examples based on my own raging curiosities:

heel-curious

i am, in essence, a dedicated boots wearer. but every now and then i decide to strap on some stilettos and walk like a one-legged retarded child for the night.

drug-curious

these days i say no to drugs more often than not. i'm moody and depressed enough when i'm sober. but then sometimes i find myself in a spa with four hot, naked people and am left with no choice but to grin and snort it.

pork-curious

having spent 5 years as a jewish vegetarian, i can still count on one hand the number of times i have consumed the other white meat. and boy were they tasty little piggies.

smile-curious

the next random stranger who says to me "smile sweetheart, it can't be that bad" is going to find out just how bad it really can be. in his groinal region.

"scott"-curious

"scott" thought he was my boyfriend. i was just "scott"-curious. it ended badly. sorry "scott".

see how fun and easy this is? why don't you give it a go? what are YOU curious about, huh?

like a pheasant with a bullet in its wing during shooting season

this is a shout out to lord randolph forphington III. i don't know who you really are, and for all i know you could be an axe-wielding, ass-raping bogan, but you have given me a reason to smile and that's rare as diamonds in my world these days.

you see blogreaders, lord randolph forphington III (or lrf3 as i have so lovingly nicknamed him) is my most recent web suitor. yes, thats right, most recent. i am, like, so popular among the socially challenged net-junkies of this world. not as popular as some people of course, but enough to keep life interesting.

but the thing about lord randolph forphington III that sets him apart from the others is that he is a SECRET ADMIRER. like in that great 80s movie starring one of my pre-teen crushes, c. thomas howell. but less cheesy. and hopefully with better hair.

so anyway, on valentines day i received an email from this self-proclaimed victorian aristocrat declaring himself an avid reader of my blog and a possible suitor for my love and affection. he also confessed his previous attempts to visualise my "apparently mammoth breasts" and his rampant desire to both see and touch them. and all this was written in a prose so flowing that i instantly forgave his sleazy overtures.

immediately i contacted several people whom i suspected to be feigning this mammary-obsessed victorian gentleman and asked them to fess up and admit it was them. but all of whom swore on their mother's underwear that they were not lord randolph forphington III. and so i remained puzzled. and REALLY turned on.

so i was left with no choice but to email lord randy back and thank him for his email and express my desire to know his true identity. which i did so promptly. and so the next day i arrived at work to another email, this one even better than the first. he praised me, quoted donne (a wonderful choice in poets by the way if you're reading this, lrf3) and assured me of his pure intentions - "to inject a little romance into your valentines day, in a pleasantly ridiculous way."

there is lady jizz all over my chair right now just thinking about his kind, sexy, literary hotness.

i spent yesterday evening wondering who this master of words was and what he looks like. due to his poncey moniker and the fact that he claims to be friends with "some jane austen woman", i am envisioning someone like this:



but i am hoping with all my randy, superficial might that he looks like this instead:



but it really doesn't matter what he looks like. because lord randolph forphington III, whoever the fuck he really is (and i will keep snooping until i find out), has made me feel all special and tingly and able to float outside my painful reality, even for just a few moments at a time.

thanks lrf III. you da man. or da woman. i guess i can't assume anything.

shorten my skirt and call me bridget

total number of cigarettes smoked today: 5 (not bad for a sunday)

units of alcohol consumed: 1 (outstanding)

calories ingested: who the fuck cares?

number of times thought about sex: about 57 (and counting)

number of times thought about the schmitz: 2 (well i was at the gaslight before)

number of times thought about sex with the schmitz: 0 (until just then. so i guess that makes it 1 now)

so many of you out there will find this hard to believe, but i have never once had a sweetheart on valentines day. to be perfectly honest i've never really had a sweetheart on any occasion to speak of. except maybe for those 2 months when i convinced myself that my "casual friend" really and truly loved me, despite his total ignorance to anything about me, including my name on occasion. hey, we've all been there. haven't we? please say we have.

now i know what you are thinking:

"how, how is it possible la nadine that you have never had a honey, what with your sparkling eyes, your dazzling wit and your whopping big cans?"

i know, its hard for me to believe too. but alas, it is the truth. would i lie to you? okay, so admittedly i lie to you all the time. sorry bout that. its for your own protection. but not this time. this time its straight up non-fiction all the way baby. except for the bit about my "sparkling eyes". its more of a dull stare really.

anyway valentines day for me is traditionally spent pretending not to care that i'm perennially single. i get all high-horsey and bra-burny and rant away to anyone who'll listen about how the whole thing is a big pile of commercial nonsense invented by hallmark so that their sales don't suffer a complete lull between those other meaningless money-grabbers, christmas and easter.

bitter much? i might as well just marry my cat now and get it over with.

but in all honesty i actually spend the whole day secretly hoping that i'll arrive home that night to a big bunch of roses and a declaration of love from an intelligent, funny, labour-voting, brunette hottie who wants nothing more than to cook my meals and kiss my neck for the rest of his life as we sail the world on his yacht and live off the earnings from his past life as a slashie (model/actor/writer/musician/chef/human rights activist/spy/astronaut/neurophysisist/cancer-curerer/fireman).

okay so i know i had a point lurking somewhere amongst the cat-marrying feminist and delusions of romantic grandeur. if only i could find it i'd share it with you.

oh yeah, valentines day. i do care. i know i shouldn't because i'm all snarky jizzwitch independent porn-lovin' woman. but i do.

there, i've admitted it. i'm la nadine and i'm a closet romantic. i'm the softest softie from softsville eva. I'M BRIDGET FUCKING JONES.

so go ahead, laugh NEAR me. laugh as close to me as you want. i can take it. i'm strong(ish). but for fuck's sake just don't laugh AT me. i just couldn't take that right now.

happy fucking valentines day everyone!

*runs off crying*

the good book

2005 has thus far been an eventful year. i have already had my heart trodden on, my world shattered and my seratonin realigned. and its not even passover yet. oi vey.

my constant state of hyperbolic trauma has me questioning a-go-go, throwing those usual queries out into the stratosphere that people tend to ask everyone and noone when they're having a run of bad luck. you know, questions like "what did i do to deserve this", "when will he be mine" and "why do i like wearing women's underwear?" (i know why i do, cause i'm a girl, but the question is why do YOU?).

but this time i am not content to leave my questions floating in the realm of the unknown. this time i want answers to my histroically rhetorical ponderings. this time i am turning to a higher counsel for guidance. this time i am consulting the book:



the book was given to me as a present years ago by my sister and her hubbykins when i was all stressy crazy-lady about my final high school exams. since then it has pretty much sat dormant on my bookshelf next to a 30 year old copy of 'the joy of sex' waiting for someone to open it and be enlightened. except for that day after the year 12 formal when everyone came back to my house to come down drink tea and someone spent 5 hours engrossed in "conversation" with it. drugs are bad, kiddies. choose vodka.

but today this hard-covered catechism lays dormant no longer. because today i am going to ask 'the book of answers' 3 big questions, the answers of which i will accept as binding gospel. and report back to you of course, cause sharing is caring. and i care for you. in a mates way. a hot naked mate.

these be the rules, as stated on the back of the book:

1. hold the closed book in your hand, on your lap, or on a table.

2. take 10 or 15 seconds to concentrate on on your questions. questions should be phrased closed-end. e.g. "is the job i'm applying for the right one?", "should i travel this weekend?" or "is it wrong to talk to your nipples?"

3. while visualising or speaking your question (one question at a time), place one hand palm down on the book's front cover and stroke the edge of the pages, back to front (wow, that's exactly what i did when i read 'the joy of sex').

4. when you sense the time is right, open the book and there will be your answer.

5. repeat the process for as many questions as you have.

okay, so i'm about to start. i am so stroking the pages of the book right now. in a mates way. a hot naked mate.

here goes:

- me: hey book, when, when will the badness end?
the book: the answer may come to you in another language.


- me: ¿oye libro, cuándo, cuándo la maldad terminará (two can play this game, bookie)?

the book: the answer is in your backyard (apparently the book doesn't speak spanish).


- me: does the schmitz want to have my babies?

the book: ask your mother.

i just checked my backyard for hot naked foreigners waiting to tell me when the badness will end. unfortunately all i found was a garden gnome and the neighbours' porcupine, neither of whom speak a foreign dialect (or any at all for that matter). but i think patience is of the essence when it comes to spiritual enlightenment. i'll check again tonight.

also, my mother has never heard of the schmitz, but she did tell me to read 'the joy of sex' again. especially the chapter on something called "reproduction".

does anyone else have any questions for the book?

and he loves iago too!

so on friday night i made the schmitz my bitch. cotton too, although i suspect that he's a bit anti-authority, and will need some disciplining before he's truly mine.

i was at the pub, drinking with andrew the boob-toucher, and i spied the schmitz sitting on a couch with a group of virile gel-junkies. after a moments pause and a gulp of vodka i threw caution to the wind (whatever the fuck that means) and knelt down beside the all-schmitzy one.

"the schmitz", i asked, trying to appear like the coolest cat from cooltown, while mentally acknowledging the reality that i was introducing myself to a guy i had been shamelessly cyber-stalking for months.

"yes?" he replied, looking at me like he'd just caught me fucking his mother.

"um...well...fuck me this embarrassing...um...i'm...well...i'm la nadine".

and as i prepared to stand up and run far, far away to a schmitz-free place where nobody knows my name, he grabbed me and kissed me and hugged me.

"you actually exist!" he said, still rubbing his chest against my cans.

"hey cotton, guess who this is. its nadine!" he then said, poking the other hottness in the ribs.

"woo hoo!" replied cotton, or something to that effect.

best. stalking climax. eva.

and so i spent the next few hours drinking and bonding with the fabulous writer boys, marveling over this crazy little thing called blog, and discovering a shared passion for punctuation (among other things).

suffice to say i was schmitzing the whole night long, and i think that if you happen upon taylor square anytime soon you can still see a trail of my lady-jizz extending from one pub to the next. or it could just be drunk man pee. hard to tell.

the schmitz and i even swapped digits and promised to meet up for a meal this week. whether or not that will happen is entirely up to sir schmitzalot. but hey, i have his number now. thus he only has himself to blame for any increased stalking activity on my behalf.

*presses redial*

silly boy.

spewin'

you know you're just another over-medicated middle-class trashwhore when:

- you're so hungover that you puke in your psychologist's garden in the middle of your fortnightly therapy session.

- you perform an emergency illegal uturn into oncoming traffic - endangering not just your own life but also that of daniel boud - so you can pull over and puke again in the gutter outside a morgue.

stay tuned for the 411 on why i was queen queasy this morning.

i'll give you one small clue: schmitz.

new crush

last night i hung out with the josh. the josh is my oldest male friend and he can finish almost any sentence i start. he is like the dawson to my joey, except with a smaller forehead and absolutely no desire to deflower me (i haven't had the heart to tell him that pacey beat him to it yet). oh, and i'm way cuter than that whiny, crooked-mouthed harlot joey potter anyway.

the josh and i like to play word games and watch tv together. some would call it lame, but we call it quality time. potato/potarto. anyway, we just finished season 7 of buffy and have now moved on to english comedies. i introduced him to the bittersweet orgasm that is 'the office' and he in turn gave me the gift of 'black books', a little known comedy about a drunk irish bookseller and his motley crew of minions. it takes a little while to get in to, but once you're in you'll be clinging to its womb and begging to stay in there for ever.

'black books' stars irish funny boy dylan moran. and even though he plays an angry alcoholic with no future and poor hygiene, i have fallen in deep, sordid, lady-jizz-all-over-the-josh's-bed, lust with him. but perhaps it is because he plays an angry alcoholic with no future and poor hygiene that i have fallen for him so. i'm fickle that way.

but then again it is a well documented fact that women go for men who are for some reason or another considered "bad" for them. kinda like all those crazy bitches who marry death row inmates. or like dating a taurean when you're a cancer. it is also common knowledge that talent can make the most hideous of beings appear as sexual demi-gods to the opposite sex. just look at owen wilson, a man with a nose more banged up than paris hitlon's giney, yet a man who remains the protagonist in many a maiden's dirty fantasy, including mine.

and dylan moran has OODLES of talent and a raw sexiness to his appearance, thus compelling me to dream of making the hot sex with him. writer, actor, comedian, hotness. this is him:



(nothing gets me going like a cigarette-enhanced rock-eistedfod pose)

and this is his wonderfully irish self-analysis:

"arsey is a very good description. i think i might put it on my tombstone."

*swoons*

mile high baby

plane travel will never cease to amaze me. i have yet to go on one flight during which i don't at some point think to myself:

"how the fuck is it possible that this huge-ass inanimate object can carry this many huge-assed people through the sky and not fall down?"

this is not to say that i am a neurotic flyer. nor that i myself have a huge ass for that matter.

sure sometimes i grab the armrest in fear during takeoff*. who doesn't? and i have also been known to clutch the thigh of the passenger next to me in more turbulent of travels, but only if he's young, hot and looking to join a certain airborn club with me**.

but honestly the majority of the time i am the calmest girl from calmsville eva. as long as i have a trashy mag to entertain me, a travel bud to bug, and/or a constant supply of mini vodka bottles, i am sated and smiling.

but the last plane i caught, on my way home from fantasy to reality, was NOT FUN.

it was delayed. it was storming like a bitch in a teacup. and there was a slimy business type sitting next to me who kept "accidentally" touching me. the bastard even somehow managed to rip my stocking. don't even bother asking how. i'm still confused myself. not to mention violated.

but there was one thing about this hellish journey that was worse than all of the aforementioned calamities. worse than the waiting. worse than the stormy turbulence. and yes, even worse than jack the ripper. this was something so bad that it made me tighten my grip on the armrest and consider death as a better alternative to spending one more fucking moment on that airborne virgin.

beloved blogreaders, this was a short flight. a flight of approximately 106 minutes from take-off to landing. a flight i have done a thousand times in both directions and will probably do a thousand and one times more. but it was a flight that will forever be burned in my memory for the simple reason that...

THEY FUCKING PLAYED DELTA GOODREM'S LATEST ALBUM FOR THE ENTIRE DURATION OF THE JOURNEY AND I DIDN'T HAVE ANY WAY OF BLOCKING OUT THE HORRIBLE NOISE.

its lucky i started back on the medication this week anyway cause otherwise i might have gone straight back into the "dark place" and never, ever reemerged.



*cause that will definitely prevent my bloody death in the event of a crash or explosion.

**unfortunately he's usually old, balding and looking at my tits instead.