looking for answers in all the wrong places

i just had a q & a session with my old pal 'the book of answers', during which i asked it:

"book, how is it possible that i have made it through almost seven years of university without sleeping with one of my professors or tutors? is this not what every young woman does when she goes to university? or is it possible that i have watched too many trashy american movies in my time?"

to which the book replied:

"well la nadine, you chose to undertake a degree at university in which 97% of the teaching staff are radical feminist lesbians, and the other 3% are old, british men. perhaps if you'd taken a less academic and female-oriented course, you may have got to make the hot sex with a tutor."

"oh, and you have most definitely watched too many trashy american movies in your time. read a fucking book already, for fuck's sake. this whole, whiny "i can't concentrate enough to read a book because my parents died and i have too much on my mind" bullshit is just getting old."

actually, it just said:

"don't be ridiculous".

but the rest was implied.

oh my gosh I cant believe how cute I look!

last night i attended a lovely (read: debaucherous) soiree in honour of the tamarama rock surfers' explosive 2006 theatre season.

it was a great night of drinking, dancing and shmoozing, which saw me finally telling my long-time crush - the unstoppable jake stone from the incredible bluejuice - that i want to marry him and have lots of lapsed jewish babies with him. i also explained the concept of carbs to him, as the poor boy has been plodding through life (gasp!) NOT KNOWING WHAT CARBS ARE!

can you imagine?

anyway, the point of this here post (other than general hungover ramblingness) is to share an interesting little tidbit with those of you loyal/bored enough to still be reading it. and that interesting little tidbit doth be:

last night somebody called me cute.

actually, she called me cute and then proceeded to inform several other partygoers of my apparent cuteness.

ME! CUTE! HA!

now i've been described in many ways in my time - usually involving either the words 'mad' and 'cans' or 'stupid' and 'bitch' - but never in my life has anybody called me "cute". well, at least not since i was, like, the cutest baby ever.

you see, i may not a butt-ugly hag, but i'm just not sure if "cute" fits my profile.

kittens are cute. babies are cute. teenage boys that resemble adam brody are cute (but off limits, sadly).

but me? i really don't think so.

i'm not saying this in order to get a zillion comments from people proclaiming my cuteness (a few would be nice, though). nor am i having a moment of low self-esteem worthy of an olsen twin. i'm simply saying that some people are cute and some people aren't, and i'm pretty damn sure i belong in the latter group.

but its an honour just to be nominated all the same.

next she'll be wanting my favourite dress and bestest bra

yesterday my grandmother asked me to buy her a pair of shoes just like the ones i was wearing.

which i promptly did. you don't say no to my nanna.

and so now my seventy seven year old grandmother and i have EXACTLY the same pair of shoes.

do you think this says more about my taste or hers?

and both times 'the divinyls' were playing in the background

reasons why my first pole dancing class reminded me somewhat of the first time i had sex:

- i was very, VERY sore, almost immediately after;

- the line "don't be afraid of the pole" was used more than once to calm my nerves;

- i giggled like a schoolgirl every time we tried a new move (except this time i was not actually a schoolgirl);

- both times i wished i'd done more sit-ups in the past;

- i felt simultaneously deeply embarrassed and incredibly invigorated;

- i left my boots on;

- i suffered from pole burn the next day.


*applies arnica*

*EVERYWHERE*

the word from el rickado # 1

following on from the runaway success of the 'reasons i love my beautician' series, i have decided to begin a new segment entitled 'the word from el rickado'.

in this mind-blowing new series from the creators of 'welcome to nadstown' (i.e. me), you will be sporadically presented with a glimpse into the incredible incite of my brother-in-law, el rickado.

this week el rickado says:

"cyclone larry: worst name for a cyclone ever".

should anyone have any particular topic they would like el rickado to comment on, please email me at nadstownATyahooDOTcom, or leave a comment here.

perhaps ms. fits could donate a dress to the cause?

yesterday the devastatingly handsome, mammary-obsessed will fop sent me an email alerting me to an adorable letter published in the age over the weekend.

this is what the letter said:

'when you go into shopping centres and you want to find pretty summer dresses, what do you find? nothing. well, almost nothing. i am 10 years old, and there are dresses for little children, but not for older children. i want only to wear dresses like those i wore when i was seven or eight - not grown-up clothes. i think the factories should make clothes for my age, too. there are hundreds of thousands of 10-year old girls in australia who very badly need dresses.

rachel owens, east kew.'

is this not the sweetest, albeit slightly misguided thing you've ever read*?

i think i love rachel owens, east kew.

i love her for her (or perhaps her mother's/father's/teacher's) use of punctuation.

i love her for her keen sense of fashion. dresses are the new jeans after all.

i love her for her creative, snappy discourse:

- "...what do you find? nothing."

i love her for her conviction, her zeal, her self-awareness:

- "...i want only to wear dresses like those i wore when i was seven or eight - not grown-up clothes."

and most of all i love her for her (perhaps misdirected) sense of charity:

- "there are hundreds of thousands of 10-year old girls in australia who very badly need dresses."

SOMEBODY CALL KOFI ANNAN! WE HAVE A HUMAN RIGHTS CRISIS ON OUR HANDS! SEND HELP, STAT!

imagine, hundreds and thousands of little australian girls having to wear skirts, or worse still, shorts (ew!) because akira isogawa has yet to realise the potential of the 10-year old niche dress market.

but really, all (bad) jokes aside, HOW CUTE IS THIS LETTER?

rachel owens, east kew, i heart you.

i just wish i could sew. then i would make miss rachel as many age-appropriate dresses as she could fit in her closet.

then again, if i could sew i'd probably be too busy making "pretty summer dresses" for myself instead of spending all my money on designer rags i really can't afford but simply MUST HAVE.

in fact, i think i'll go shopping right now. its been at least 2 days since i bought a new dress.

ciao.

x




*at least since reading about simon binks' ridiculous quest to blame others for the fact he is a complete cockhead.

but he seemed so into me when he had his hand up my skirt...

(disclaimer: the reason for the current technical dilemmas occurring on this here blog relate to daniel boud and his legion of groupies and wannabees who were taking up too much space on our server. that man is just too fucking hot right now for his own good. nadstown should be back to normal soon. but, for now, if you have any issues, take them up with the boud. otherwise: cope.)

dear greg behrendt and liz tuccillo,

hi guys.

*waves*

my name is la nadine and i'm writing to you as i find myself in a bit of a tiz about your book, 'he's just not that into you'.

you see one of my beloved girlfriend's recently read your little dating manifesto, and now bitch won't let me psychoanalyse the behaviour of any man i have any contact with because apparently the entire male population of the world is "just not that into me".

my ex-boyfriend who wanted "some space": just not that into me.

the guy i shagged last month who never called: just not that into me.

the guy from the coffee shop who once told me i had great eyes but hasn't even glanced in my direction since: JUST NOT THAT FUCKING INTO ME!

well, DER!

now don't get me wrong, i find the idea of the book to be most interesting and empowering indeed. and admittedly upon first hearing about it i found myself snapping my fingers, jolting my head and saying "amen sister child", as if i was in fact a member of the studio audience when you were interviewed by oprah.

and, of course, who hasn't wanted to grab one of their lovesick girlfriends/me by the designer collar and scream at her: "get a fucking clue, woman, he got married yesterday. TO YOUR SISTER, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"

but, as a perennial single woman i must ultimately find fault with the work or else find myself with nothing to talk about other than my breasts and/or what i had for breakfast*.

because if you take away my fundamental human right to (over)analyse every encounter i have with every male i see as a potential boyfriend/fuck-buddy/man-slave, then what is left to discuss over dinner with the girls? current affairs? politics?

BITCH, PLEASE!

you know we only talk about those things when we're done whining about the bastards who never called even though we gave them the blow jobs of their freakin' lives.

okay, that's a lie. not the bit about the amazing blow jobs. that shit's fo' real. just the bit about my friends and i being empty vessels. we're actually heaps learn-ed and well-read and political and stuff.

its just that we would like to continue bitching and moaning about the men (or women) in our lives as well as agonising over just when the beaze is going to fuck off so miss gillard can have her time to shine, etcetera.

and we damn well know deep down that the sorry bastard's who felt us up and never called "just aren't that into us". but where would the fun be in accepting that as gospel?

AND (hang in there, i'm almost done), of course we don't need a man to complete us. we are intelligent, ambitious, fun-loving creatures.

but, like, sex is fun, hey?

and so, i'm begging you, please recall your book from the bookstores of the world and replace it with something a little more single gal-friendly. may i suggest something along the lines of:

'if he says he'll call, wait until seven days have passed, then wait another seven days just in case, then give him until the end of the month, then tell yourself he's lost your number, then call him cause you're an independent woman and you don't need to wait for no man to call you, then when he doesn't answer tell yourself it is because he's being stalked by the mob and is screening all calls just in case, then start going to all the places you think he might be in the hope that you will run into him, then meet someone else when you're looking for him and repeat the entire process until you are old and alone or married and up-the-duff, then realise you don't need a man to complete you anyway because you are amazing, and you do amazing things'.

catchy, huh?

regards,



la nadine

x


*smoked salmon and avocado on rye, with capers and fresh lemon. drool.

Y'all Don't Even Know Nads. Y'ALL DON'T EVEN!

Hi, Jessculture here. You might remember me from such joint blogging ventures as "A Sexpo Day Expo...sé (Part I)" and the website ausculture.com.

I am guest posting on Nadstown today because the poor busty lass you've all learned to love and adore - she who goes by the name of La Nadine - is currently "incommunicado" and unable to fulfil her blogging commitments.

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED, JESS?

Oh, I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything.

Arriving in Melbourne yesterday afternoon, dear Nads spent a good sixteen hours in jolly spirits. She sang, she ate, she danced and yes - she may even have had her boobs jiggled by every gal's favourite Dannii Minogue enthusiast Will Fop.

In short, the bitch was in fine fucking form.

Cut to this afternoon. After a leisurely sleep in, La Nadine and I emerged from the boudoir* and decided to hit the internerd before a late, late breakfast.

That's when Nads noticed the following new comment on her blog.

if i was a bigotted little misogynist id call you an anglo skip whore.

but im too nice for that.

At first, it was just a twitch of the eye.

"Are you alright, Nads?" I asked in a gentle and concerned manner, as I am just that sort of caring person. What can I say, I'm a Pisces.

All she managed to stammer were the words "Anglo... how... with the... skippy whore no skippy... Middle Eastern\Polish jew... no cashy sex sex... bagel oi vey hummous hummous I want money..." before crumbling into a catatonic state.

No doubt the unfortunate woman's confusion as to why a post about a ridiculous Optus fuck up relating to her late mother could lead to an accusation of her being an "anglo skip whore" has led to A COMPLETE BREAKDOWN.

Therefore, I must sadly announce to her vast readership that until I can get the fragile woman I see in front of me - and as I bang away at the keyboard right now, I spy her on the other side of the room, cowering under a doona and rocking back and forth in a disturbing manner - back to her previous and thoroughly glorious mental state, she's going to be taking a bit of a "time out" from this blog. Clearly she needs answers regarding the "anglo skip whore" comment and until we find those answers for her, she remains merely a shell of her former self.

I mean, for fuck's. How typical of that lazy anglo skip whore. "Ooooh give me a holiday from my nerd schedule, I'm all perplexed and insane now". Whatevs. I want a drinking buddy and she'd better snap the hell out of it because I'm about to crack open the case of VICTORY BEER from The Empress Rock Trivia Night.


and thus ends this utterly daft - BUT ENDEARING - guest post as requested by my mistress of tit, ms la nadine.

PS: Should we organise AngloSkipWhoreAid? I can get Bob Geldof on the blower if needs be.

PPS: She may need your supportive comments and love. Or some fresh insults. I recommend "Slutfaced African American Paraplegic" if you're stuck.


*Not nearly as lez as it sounds. We're "housesitting". And plotting the eBaying of a certain blogging vixen's underwear whilst she's out frolicking the countryside. We're gonna make a mint.

ain't love grand?

last weekend i attended the wedding of a close friend's mother to her partner of many years.

the couple were generous enough to invite to the nuptials not just their own friends, but the friends of their children as well.

it was a truly wonderful wedding, held at the couple's holiday home in the central coast of new south wales, right on the glistening water.

and what's more, it was themed.

that's right bitches, this saturday past 200 or so well-wishers gussied up in their finest bollywood-style outfits (bright colours and shiny trinkets) and rocked out in woy woy bay like it was nineteen ninety fuckin' nine.

here are some notable things that happened at this most fucking awesome of weddings:

- i got very drunk;

- everybody else got very drunk;

- i flirted with reckless unabandon;

- i rambled at a poor, unassuming male friend of mine about how horny grief can make a person;

- i got hit on by a MIDDLE-AGED MARRIED MAN;

- i (think i) called jessculture at some ridiculous hour about really deep stuff;

- i booty-danced my way into the professional bollywood dancers' good graces;

- i took part in the BEST IMPROMPTU PHOTO SHOOT OF ALL TIME:

































- i cried a lot;

- i laughed a lot;

- i ate a lot;

- i wound up the night in a fancy hotel suite with my closest friends, watching three hot chicks wrestling and wishing i never had to go home.

i officially induct this wedding into the 'nadstown weddings hall of fame', where it rests happily alongside the nuptials of miss fleur and mr. bin bodman (photos here).

okay, i'm off to pick up miss gabi from the airport now. i will hug her and kiss her and fondle her until it gets awkward.

jealous?

you should be.

an apple in the hand saves nine

i returned to uni last week for the seventh (and hopefully final) year of my undergraduate double degree.

to be honest, after seven years of stopping and starting, i have about as much interest in finishing my degree as i do in getting tit-fucked by tony abbott. and i would rather be tit-fucked by kerry packer's corpse then ever let the federal minister for health anywhere near my breasts.

me comprendo?

but i promised my mother on her deathbed that i would graduate. and so graduate i will. i hope. unless someone else i love decides to get sick and die on me. again. for the third time.

aaaaanywaaaaay...

in a class last week, the tutor said something that actually got me thinking.

bizarre, i know.

she said that she had heard once that the combined wisdom of the world can be summed up in twenty cliches.

and - even though i have vowed to maim and/or kill the next person who tells me that what doesn't kill me will make me stronger - i wanna know just what those twenty cliches would be.

suggestions?

miss nude nadstown 2006

this morning i booked myself into pole dancing classes taught by an award-winning pole dancer and former 'miss nude australia'.

this afternoon i inspected an apartment that appeared to be occupied by an award-winning pole dancer and former 'miss nude australia'.

i deduced this from the prize ribbons and trophies on the mantel that read 'princess pole' and 'miss nude australia'.

and also from the BIG, SHINY FUCK-OFF POLE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LIVING ROOM!

coincidence much?

as you were.

and they control all the media in the whole wide world too.

i am currently playing tour guide to two hot young things from israel: my cousin and her lovely friend.

these sexy young ladies are fresh out of their compulsory army service and ready for some fun.

unfortunately for the horny males of this here sunburned country, they have boyfriends back home. hot boyfriends. with guns.

i have had a great time getting my tourist on with the girls over the past week, going to the aquarium, driving around the city at night and making like i too am seeing everything for the very first time.

i just love saying 'WOW!' a lot i guess.

as i have been showing the girls around sydney and introducing them to all things cultural and "now", i have been rather perturbed by some of the questions i've been asked upon mentioning that my guests hail from the land of the moist, green falafel.

three of those being:


- "are they alright?"

- "do they speak jewish?"

- "have they ever killed anyone?"


allow me to address these one by one:

1) "are they alright?" ('alright' said in a lowered, secretive tone)

"alright?" "ALRIGHT?" what the fuck does this mean?

if it is an enquiry as to the state of the girls' general well-being, i am happy to report that both are doing well and, apart from the odd mosquito bite have displayed no signs of ill health as far as i can tell.

if the question is some sort of juvenile probing into whether or not i am in the company of two "cool chicks", then let it be known that i would eat lunch with them in the cafeteria any day of the week. even if they wore sweat pants on a thursday.

and finally, if this is some veiled reference to the notion that all israelis are gun-slinging maniacs, maybe...oh, just fuck off.


2) "do they speak jewish?"

of course they fucking do. are you mental?

in fact, a typical exchange between the two girls goes something like this:

israeli girl a: "bagel bagel bagel schmuck seinfeld?"

israeli girl b: "oi vey sammy davis junior hummous i love money."


3) "have they ever killed anyone?"

not yet. keep up the stupid questions however...



give me strength.



epilogue:

this post is in no way intended to express my personal or political views about israel and its inhabitants.

that's best left to drunken dinner party discussions and heated arguments with my mother's friends.

i simply mean to express my frustration with the upsetting levels of cultural ignorance i have encountered in the past week. ignorance of a kind i have only experienced maybe twice before.

once being the time i told some poor git that i was moving to chile, only to be asked where exactly in spain that is (to which i replied "the extreme south").

and the other time being that when some random fucktard asked me if i myself "speak jewish".

OI FUCKING VEY!