shorten my skirt and call me bridget (oops, i've already used this title before. my bad.)

so against my better judgment i have reluctantly agreed to be set up this weekend.

in the past i have always responded to such requests with a resounding "HELL NO!" and a witty, self-deprecating quip about not wanting to disappoint the poor, ignorant buggers.

but for some reason - perhaps boredom, perhaps temporary insanity, perhaps both - i said yes to this one.

having asked the important questions of my wannabe matchmaker - is he bald? is he ugly? is he a dirty liberal? - and having received a firm "HELL NO!" on all accounts, i thought, "what le fuck?".

also, i asked the all-knowing and hot-as-fuck ms fits if i should do it, and she said that i should. we both agreed that, if nothing else, it would make for good blogging fodder.

and thus it was settled.

so tomorrow some poor, lonely chump will be at a bbq at my sister's house hoping to meet the girl of his dreams, only to find a cynical, foul-mouthed blogger (ew!) with big boobs and a jaded heart.

i just hope he makes for good eye-candy, if nothing else.

*plans exit strategies*





(UPDATE: SET UP POSTPONED.

MATCHMAKER SICK. MATCHMAKER'S HUSBAND SICK. MATCHMAKER'S KIDS SICK.

MY HANGOVER AND I HAPPY.

WILL KEEP YOU POSTED ON FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS AS THEY OCCUR.)

i think its time to up my dosage

they say that laughter is the best medicine. and i agree with them, whoever the fuck they are.

my mother maintained a sense of humour throughout both her husband's and her own last days in this world.

indeed, the last thing she ever said to me was "i can still thump you, you know."

then again, i had just called her a "grub" for getting food on her nightgown. so i kinda deserved a thumping anyway.

so this morning i was doing some gardening with a dear old friend of my mother's. a friend who has been battling hiv for many years now. and he managed to make me laugh more than i have been able to in months.

as we were planting kangaroo paws (the flowers, not the actual paws of poor pawless kangaroos) in my mother's garden to make it look pretty for the pending auction, a mosquito bit him on the arm.

when he noticed what the cheeky little bugger was doing, he promptly flicked it away with his shovel.

then he said this to me:

"whenever a mosquito bites me i just think 'get aids and die, you greedy bastard!'"

i laughed so hard i almost cried.

then i imagined little mosquitoes flying around with tiny red ribbons raising awareness about aids in the mosquito community.

then i laughed some more.

i feel better today than i did yesterday.

the end.

light up the sky like a flame. fame.

when i was a kid i wanted to be famous. really, really famous. i wanted to be famous so badly that i couldn't possibly understand why anybody would not want to be famous.

at first i wanted to be a famous gymnast. next i wanted to be a famous dancer. then i wanted to be a famous actress. and last of all i wanted to be a famous writer/director of stage plays and motion pictures.

but now obscurity is my bitch and i am happy to be nestled within the safe and tender folds of her wide girth.

of course success would be nice. wealth is indeed appealing. but fame is no longer so desirable.

and then yesterday i was reading the 'good weekend' magazine from the saturday herald and i became sad.

i became sad because i realised that, due to my chosen path of anonymity, i will almost certainly never be interviewed by that publication, nor any other.

this is a pity, because i do so love to talk about myself. really i do. ask anyone i know. or see here for proof.

and therefore, in lieu of any possible chance that i will ever be interviewed by anybody other than prospective employers and investigating police officers, i have decided to interview myself.

sort of.

really i just stole the questions from a 'good weekend' interview of adam hill from 'spicks and specks'.

and then i answered said questions myself in an attempt to be both revelatory and entertaining.

but this is what happened instead:

my earliest memory is...not being able to sleep during naptime in preschool and wishing everybody would wake up so we could go play on the monkey bars.

at school i...once got suspended for drinking creme de menthe in science class.

i wish i'd never worn...a boob tube. if only i knew then what i know now.

my mother and father always told me...i was "like a butterfly, never sitting still for two seconds". they called me their "papillon".

i wish i had...told my father i loved him more often.

i wish i hadn't...let my mother see me cry for her.

my most humiliating moment was...getting suspended for drinking creme de menthe in science class.

my happiest moment was...meeting my beautiful nephew for the very first time.

at home i cook...only when its too late to order takeout.

my last meal would be...a middle-eastern feast with all my beloveds.

my favourite gadget is...penny. was she actually a gadget? she was his niece, right?

i'm very bad at...relaxing. and maths.

the book that changed my life is...'lolita'. and perhaps also 'the good fairies of new york'.

friends say i am...never going to make the hot sex with gael garcia bernal. naysayers, the lot of 'em.

perhaps i should have studied...forensic psychology.

i'm always being asked...my bra size.

if i wasn't me i'd like to be... happy and well-adjusted. with killer legs.

at the moment i'm watching...'how to start your own country', and 'entourage'. oh, adrian grenier, you make me feel funny in the giney.

my favourite work of art is...a painting the wonderful miss elmo did for my 21st birthday.

if i were a car i'd be...pretty damn useless. but at least i'd be colour-coordinated.

i often wonder...if i'll ever feel whole again.

end interview.

la nadine turns pro. in a conference way.

so some poor, misguided fools have asked me to speak at a conference in april.

i choose not to reveal the topic of the conference, lest any of you lurking fuckers end up attending said conference in some bizarre twist of fate worthy of a painfully dull gwyneth paltrow movie.

but let me just state that nobody is more shocked about my pending foray into the world of the professional conference speaker than i.

for starters i have no legitimate skills on which to advise others (other than, of course, 'how to make your boobs look like a dinner platter' and 'intermediate booty dancing for the middle-class white girl').

and secondly, i have never even been to a conference.

so how the fuck am i expected to deliver an informative and professional speech at one*?

and so this is where you come in, most wise and loyal of readers. i need YOUR help.

any advice on how to both inform and entertain without looking like a complete tool and ending up with an atomic wedgie at the hands of the cool kids would be MOST APPRECIATED.

please refrain from including any lame public speaking tips such as "picture the audience in their underwear" and "open with a joke". i tried those once before, and they just seemed inappropriate. then again, i was at a funeral.

*regrets*



so anyway, please leave your helpful hints in the comments section of this post.

oh, and don't forget to answer the most important question of all:

WHAT THE HELL AM I GOING TO WEAR?




*i imagine cutting out the swears would be a good start.

sigh-ku

valentine's is here
alone again am i, sigh
i think i'll rent 'clerks'

maybe the old guy just doesn't love freedom

tired of letting the troops in iraq have all the fun, united states vice president dick "fun bags" cheney has decided to get in on the shootin' action too.

cheney "accidentally" shot and injured a 78 year old man while on a hunting expedition in texas over the weekend.






















"i'm (vice) king of the world!"

reports of george w. bush and charlton heston hiding behind trees and yelling out "BULLSEYE!" have yet to be confirmed.

other reports that cheney hissed "that should have been you, pansy boy!" at dubbya, and then started frothing at the mouth, are said to be no more than hearsay.

and other, other reports that cheney was wearing women's underwear at the time of the shooting seem to have been entirely fabricated. by me.

fuck me dead with a semi-automatic if this isn't completely indicative of the incompetent redneck fucktards running the world the west the united states.

i can't wait to see the national rifle association defend this one. trigger-happy-but-not-in-any-way-homosexual wannabe cowboys that they are.

yee haw.









(also, the delectable miss tuppence has described most brilliantly on her blog how the ru486 debate is blurring the normal lines between good and evil in this country. READ IT NOW OR ELSE!)

optus. 'NO!'

as many of you know, my wonderful mother died last year.

i have no desire to wax emotional about that today, though.

instead i want to share with you a disturbing piece of mail i opened yesterday.

it was a promotional letter from optus, addressed to my mum, expressing the company's "regret" that she had "chosen to cancel her optus account" and hoping that she would "consider using their services once again in future".

HUH?!?

the woman died for fuck's sake! she did not "choose" to cancel anything!

and they have her death certificate and a letter from me on file to prove it.

but wait, it gets worse.

this was on the front page of the letter:
















and this was on the back:
















tasteless much?

and what's more, accompanying the above were pictures of talking birds with speech bubbles that read "are we there yet?" and "i think we should go back where we came from".

TALKING FUCKING BIRDS!




*inhales*




*exhales*




now, i'm sad to see my mother go too, and i'd REALLY FUCKING LOVE to have her back more than ANYTHING I'VE EVER WANTED EVER!

but this is the most insensitive administrative fuck-up since roy morgan research called THREE TIMES and asked if my DEAD father would like to do a survey on LIFESTYLE choices.




*inhales*




*exhales*




so i called optus customer service this morning and very calmly told them about how monumentally they'd fucked up and that if they don't take my mother's name off ALL their mailing lists RIGHT THE FUCK NOW, they would have my sister to deal with. and she's one scary bitch when she's angry.

so now i'll just wait patiently for my fruit basket to arrive.

hey, roy morgan sent me chocolates. surely optus owes me a mango or two.

puttin' the 'sex' in 'dyslexic'.

in the pre-dawn hours of last saturday morning i received a text message from a boy with whom i used to make the hot sex.

this is what it said:

"ift u wnt v bot gt to ftnj md".

WTF?!?

was he drunk? high? stoned?

had he fallen into a k-hole?

was he practicing his russian?

had he forgotten to turn on predictive text on his phone?

did he get dropped on his head as a baby, only to suffer the consequences 27 years later?

the possibilities were endless. ENDLESS!

and i was perplexed.

of course i got the gist of the text, not from decoding the "words", but rather due to my superior powers of deduction. ain't no boy ever texted me at 2am wanting a friendly cup of tea and a chat! especially not this particular boy.

also, several coherent text messages followed, leaving me with little doubt as to what the randy drunkard wanted*.

but i still had to know exactly what that first sms said. i'm annoying like that. cope.

so i texted the boy on saturday evening and asked him what the fuck he had been trying to say. but the lousy bastard never replied.

grrrrrr...

eventually however, with a little help from my friends, i finally figured it out. i think.

and now its your turn.

what do you think the text message says?

prizes** for the most imaginative guesses.





*they also left me kinda hot.

**and by 'prizes' i mean 'kudos'.

you always take a big bite, its such a gorgeous sight, to see you eat in the middle of the night...

hi my name is la nadine, and i like to listen to 'love song dedications' sometimes while driving along in my automobile.

sometimes i like to listen to it because I need to be reminded that love really does exist out there. especially for seemingly uneducated bogans with names that end in 'azza'. and prison inmates.

sometimes I like to listen to it for a bit of a chuckle, imagining richard "the love god" mercer in his little studio, spreading the love in his special, monotone way, while at the same time drawing devil horns and phalluses on magazine pictures of his contemporaries.

and sometimes I like to listen to it because i'm in the mood to sing along (loudly) to some good old fashioned power ballads while driving towards my empty, loveless bed.

"don't cry for me, blogosphere-ina..."

anyway, the other night I was listening to 'love song dedications' on my way to the video store doing something REALLY COOL and NOT IN ANY WAY LAME AT ALL, when I heard the love god reading out what is possibly the GREATEST LOVE LETTER OF ALL TIME!

now I don't remember the exact details of the letter, but it went something along the lines of this:

dear snuggle-bunny-woo-woo*,

when I met you at the PIE EATING COMPETITION, it was the happiest day of my life.

I will always remember the feeling I had the moment our eyes locked across the MEAT PIE TABLE.

I can't believe I have finally found a woman that can OUT-EAT ME AT EVERY MEAL.

you had me at "ten more please".

love baby-bubby-ya-ya.*

*names have been changed for legal reasons.

is this not absolute GOLD?

of course I am completely aware that this may have been the work of some bored teenagers/accountants/bloggers, and not actually the result of a real life fatty boomba love affair.

but I choose to believe in its truth nonetheless.

for if a couple of pie-eating carnies can find true happiness in this increasingly harsh and violent world, surely the rest of us have a chance of finding it too.

or at least I hope i do.

(n.b. the author has nothing at all against pie-eating carnies, nor does she find them to be incapable of love and happiness. in fact, some of her best friends are pie-eating carnies.)