My Socks Are Wet

Still Alive...But My Soul Has Been Destroyed By Facebook

2007-12-12T14:59:00.000+11:00

Three months without a post, hey? It's not the longest absence in the history of blogging but it is quite a stretch for this poor little blog. Thanks to Jacob for his 'lame' comment which coerced me back to the old keyboard (he's way too young for me, and totally uninterested in women but that doesn't mean I can't have an inappropriate cyber crush on the boy. That's what the internet is for!).

So, I promise I will have an actual post up by the end of the weekend, if I can drag myself away from Facebook and work long enough to write one. Working in retail at Christmas time: it's a wonder I can even form coherent sentences, let along entire paragraphs. What a blessed invention caffeine is.

Crushing

2007-09-05T21:21:00.000+10:00

You know what I hate? That feeling you get in your stomach when you have a crush on someone and all indications are that they like you too but it's all up in the air and nothing has really been officially said except for a Jager-bomb fuelled confession on Saturday night. And then all week you can't concentrate and you keep getting distracted by looking at the pictures on their Myspace and wondering about the hidden meanings behind every single interaction you have with them. And you're supposed to be doing something for uni which is due tomorrow but all of a sudden your degree is far less important than the possibility of seeing him this weekend. And your ears start to prick up whenever a sappy ballad comes on the radio as you imagine what your life would be like if finally you had a proper, healthy relationship with someone who makes your heart flutter whenever he's around.

Yeah, that feeling doesn't make me excited or optimistic. It fills me with anxiety and makes me unable to eat. It's awful. I'm nervous, I'm scatter-brained, I'm totally on edge. I hate not being in control, it makes me feel so vulnerable.

But Summer Heights High is on so that will abate my angst for a time. I so heart Mr. G.

When The Feeling's Gone And You Can't Go On

2007-08-25T23:22:00.000+10:00

Yes, yes, I'm blogging on a Saturday night. But for a very good reason. Five minutes ago I had my pants around my ankles and was very much enjoying myself with a younger lad who was (I thought) hell-bent on satisfying me. Apparently not.

He left.

Halfway through.

He's not coming back.

What the fuck is that all about?

How tragic at sex am I that the guy leaves before the good bit and doesn't return?

I'm going to be a lonely spinster after all... it's what my mother always told me.

Won't SOMEBODY have some sex with me?

Why Have A Secret Blog If You Aren't Going To Bitch About People On It?

2007-08-18T16:13:00.000+10:00

Note: this is long, boring and poorly written. Go here instead, to be entertained an informed by an enthusiastic dinosaur.

Ok, you might have read my reaction to my best friend splitting up with her boyfriend here. Back then I was all ‘Single girls are gonna rock out with our cocks out and paint this goddamn town red, foshizzle!!!’ Or something. But, as time has passed the initial relief of not having to put up with the boyfriend dramas has worn off. And the resentment of what I put up with for two and a half years is really starting to sink in.

Things were going pretty well until a few weeks when one of my lovely gal pals hosted a party. Much alcohol and merriment ensued, excellent barbequed food was consumed, drinking games enjoyed, there was a pav (a party isn’t really a party unless there’s a pavlova), some charming boys attended, and I got the chance to catch up with some long lost buddies from high school. All good. However, when one particular male friend was leaving, I was encouraged by my friend Teagan (by this stage, very drunk) and Annie (my best friend, had not been drinking) to follow him and kiss him. Basically, I’ve had a bit of history with this guy but currently I’m not at all interested in him and I told my friends this, thinking that would be the end of it. They continued to push, saying ‘kiss him, just do it’ and when I said ‘I’m capable of making my own decisions and I don’t want to’ they still wouldn’t relent. Then Annie gives me a verbal slap in the face by saying ‘Well, I’m not going to listen to you whinging tomorrow about how much you regret not kissing him.’

That cut like a knife. For two reasons:

Firstly, it suggests that I am incapable of making my own decisions and would be immediately remorseful that I didn’t stick my tongue down his throat like I was told to. Newsflash: I’m entitled to pash or not pash whomever I choose. If I say I don’t want to mack someone, then chances are I don’t want to mack them. End of story. Your peer pressure and ‘kiss him, go on KISS HIM’ are reminiscent of 14 year-olds behind the bus stop after school. We’re adults now, move on.

Secondly, and most importantly, even if I did regret it the next day, the one person I should be able to count on to listen to my whinging is my best friend. For fuxake, I listened to her dramas for years. Years. And she wasn’t prepared to give me One. Fucking. Day. So I told her what I thought of that. And we had a huge, public fight. Yep, classy, I know, but I wasn’t just going to let that one go. In the end she started crying and, much like a man, I cannot deal with tears. They unnerve me and make me lose my fighting spirit. So we made an uneasy truce and skolled cheap wine to forget about it.

But I guess the whole situation was indicative of what our friendship has become, and what I feel like I’ve become to her. I’m being taken for granted. And it fucking hurts. But I probably should have seen it coming. It follows the pattern of the way our friendship changed when she hooked up with her man. Suddenly I became the fall-back plan. Boyfriend away for the weekend? No worries, I’ll hang out with Mel instead. Had a massive fight and ‘broken up’? I’ll see if Mel wants to take me out and cheer me up. Oh, hang on, we just got back together… sorry Mel, I’ll have to give the shenanigans a miss this weekend, Shane and I are going to do couple stuff.

It was a recurring theme and I really should have nipped it in the bud sooner. But I have other friends, awesome friends who were always happy to drink and dance and cause trouble with me so I just started spending a lot more time with them. And having a lot more fun. In fact, a large part of the reason why I’m moving next weekend is to be closer to them so we can involve ourselves in even more debauchery. These girls love me, I know that for sure, and I’ve never felt like I was a contingency plan to them. They want to hang out with me because I’m twelve kinds of awesome not because the person they really want to be spending time with is unavailable.

So I’m starting to realise that Annie’s new singledom isn’t going to be as great as I initially thought. See, she wants all my time now. As is often the case with long time pals, we have a lot of mutual friends and the last few weekends have been heavy on parties and social occasions involving our wider circle of friends. Consequently, we have been spending a lot of time together. And I desperately want my distance. But she doesn’t want to spend a weekend alone (she hasn’t spent any time by herself since the break-up) because she doesn’t want to be reminded that the single life can be lonely. Well, tough shit sweetheart. The single life IS lonely at times. Sometimes it’s lonely and depressing and confidence crushing. I’m not going to constantly entertain her so that she doesn’t have to open her eyes and see the reality of her decision.

Selfish as it sounds, I want to keep my friends and our mutual friends separate. When I go out with my posse of girls I don’t want to feel obligated to invite her. If she doesn’t have anything to do that Saturday night, too bad. It’s not my job to fill in all the time she used to spend with her man. I cultivated my own friendships in that time and there’s no way I would give them up just because she’s bored or lonely. It’s not that I’m trying to be spiteful, I’m not motivated by thoughts like ‘she ditched me, now that she’s single I’m going to do the same to her’, it’s more a case of wanting to feel appreciated and gravitating towards the people who make me feel the best about myself.

Annie and I have been friends for ten years so I don’t think it’s just going to fall to pieces, but there was definitely a shift when she entered what Cosmo would call ‘The Boyfriend Cave’ (fuck you Cosmo and your fucking dating catchphrases) and that can’t be repaired by saying ‘hey, I’m single now, lets go back to the way we were’. Like I said, I have a lot of resentment towards her because she really hurt me and fucked me over on a lot of occasions. She ditched my Mum’s 50^th party at the last minute because she and Shane got back together and he wanted to go camping that night. So they went camping. She fought with him via phone every single day on our girly road trip earlier this year. Including my birthday. The same thing happened at the festival we went to for New Years Eve. And practically every night we were out together. Fun, hey?

Writing it all down makes me feel like a total sucker for putting up with her shit for so long. I think any sane person would have cut their losses and ended the friendship a long time ago. I guess deep down inside I hold this hope that things will return to the way they used to be and everything will be puppy dogs and rainbows again. But that isn’t going to happen. And it makes me sad.

A Post In Dot Points

2007-08-17T09:44:00.000+10:00

Hey Mel, way to neglect your poor fledgling blog. I have been exceptionally slack with my posting of late, but I shall endeavour to update more regularly. It's funny, I always have so much that I think 'I've gotta blog about that' and then when I actually sit down in front of the computer I think 'actually, that's probably not funny/interesting to anybody except me'. But now I think 'fuck it, most blogs aren't funny or interesting anyway'. Except of course, all the blogs I read. So on with the post:

You might remember that I reluctantly joined MySpace a while back? Now I've also become one of the schmucks on Facebook. It's ok though, Facebook is cool. By far the best thing about it is the unexpectedly awesome groups you can join. Some of the groups I rushed to join include 'The Big Mazungo is a complete SAVAGE', 'Good grammar is hot', Where I come from, we believe in a thing called "The Courtesy Wave"', and my personal favourite, the obscenely politically incorrect 'The dolphin from Seaquest DSV told Jonathon Brandis to do it'. Oh Darwin, you were an evil, evil beast.

I've finally found a new place to live in, unfortunately I will be sharing with three other girls. This has me slightly concerned, as I grew up with brothers and have never lived with more than one other female at a time. I'm hoping that my unhealthy obsession with cricket won't have me labeled as the 'house lesbian' and cause everyone to shift awkwardly whenever I sit next to them on the couch. And I should probably give up my penchant for wrestling in spilled condiments on the kitchen floor. It's becoming increasingly obvious that others don't enjoy it anywhere near as much as I do.

Of course, I am not a lesbian, I'm a red-blooded woman who is very attracted to men. But recently when offered the chance to have a threesome with two guys that I have known since high school I was quite turned off. Partly it's because I've always thought threesomes involving 2 guys were strange (are they going to touch each other? are they secretly gay and just wanted to get naked together in a more acceptable situation?) but also because these two guys are both very well endowed and the thought of those two penises coming at me from all angles was slightly frightening. Needless to say, I went home by myself that night.

Have you ever wondered what the stuff inside a glow stick tastes like? Neither have I but after an unfortunate mishap at work, where I displayed the true depths of my idiocy, I now know that it takes quite disgusting and will turn your saliva neon orange (or whatever colour the glow stick you bite happens to be). For several minutes I panicked and wondered if I could the chemicals inside would slowly seep into my body and leave me dead by morning, but you'll be happy to know that despite a red face and an unenviable reputation as 'the girl who eats glow sticks' I am perfectly fine.

I'm far more proud of my reputation as Grammar Nazi though. I've always been a stickler for grammar and pronunciation but lately I have taken it to extremes. I interrupted a friend in the middle of him explaining the details of his break-up (yes, another freaking break-up) to let him know that he should have said 'Louisa and I' not 'Louisa and me'. Insensitive, much? But somebody has to do it. The English language is being raped left, right and center, and nobody seems concerned at all. Don't even get me started on the prevalence of the word 'random'. *shudder* Anytime someone can't be fucked searching the recesses of their mind for an appropriate adjective they just use 'random'. That word doesn't actually convey any emotion or description, you're not giving me any details people! I'm thinking about carrying a little pocket thesaurus in my handbag to thrust in people's faces whenever they seem to be having trouble. It might not win me a lot of friends but at least I'll be happy. (Note: use of random as a noun is perfectly fine eg. pashed a random, caught venereal disease from a random etc.)

Under the heading of 'stupidest decisions I've ever made' I've committed myself to training for, and completing, a freaking marathon. I don't know what possessed me to set a goal like that, I don't normally set goals at all let alone ones that could leave me in hospital on a drip for several days. It's not completely out of the blue, I do run, and I recently completed a 15km race with little trouble. So, stupidly I decided I could run almost 3 times that far.... and then told all my friends and family that I wanted to do a marathon. And once it's been said, there's no backing out. But I've decided that when I finish it, I'm rewarding myself with a tattoo. I've considered getting one for ages but wanted it to represent something I went through, either an achievement or a loss, so that it's more than just a tramp stamp. But yes, expect updates on the training and please give me moral support, I need all the helpful words I can get.

Ok, that was longer than I had anticipated for my 'comeback' post (I'm so John Farnhamesque) but at least it got the ball rolling. I have some major bitching that I can't do in real life, so stay tuned for that, probably over the weekend.

All Was Well?

2007-07-24T17:35:00.000+10:00

I finished the book yesterday. I thought it was a bit meh to be honest. Some of the early content (at the Dursley home) which was quite touching, could really have been followed up later instead of that horrible, wet, overindulgent epilogue. To my mind a more appropriate epilogue would have focused on six months to a year down the track to see the immediate effects of the final battle in terms of the casualties, and the restoring of order back into Hogwarts and the Ministry of magic. Also, I wanted to know about elves and goblins. Were they integrated more successfully into the wizarding world after the realisation that their mistreatment was a costly mistake in many ways? Does anybody else care about this or am the lone voice of dissent?

I didn't think that many of the deaths were handled well. Only two of them really affected me, both of these deaths were non-human. The only other time I cried was when Harry, with his zombie posse, bravely marched into the forest to meet his fate. I was prepared to give this book all my tears but I don't think it really deserved them.

More importantly, do y'all think Ms. Rowling has had some work done? Like a LOT of work done? That's definitely a different nose. And she looks much more youthful now than in the older photo. Maybe she should spend some of her dosh fixing her teeth though; I've never seen a picture of her actually smiling. I'm guessing she's got some hideous English chompers hidden away in there. Or she's terribly unhappy. I still think it's the bad teeth.

Three Unrelated Things

2007-07-19T18:09:00.000+10:00

Why are my Uni holidays going for so long? It is quite perplexing. Most of my friends at other Unis went back on Monday, some are going back this coming Monday but I am a lady of leisure until the 30^th. I’m really not utilising the freedom though, instead I’m spending my days working, and trawling share accommodation websites trying to find a new place to live. Hooray for responsibilities.

So I’ve just finished watching the whole first series of Torchwood, courtesy of a sci-fi obsessed mother and her propensity to foist DVDs upon me, and can I just say – Phwoar! That show is a definite case for there being more man-on-man action on TV. Captain Jack getting it on with his man-servant Ianto? Hawt. Captain Jack getting it on with Captain Jack? Uber hawt. God I’m hoping that John Barrowman and David Tennant pash in the current series of Doctor Who. That would likely leave me sexually fulfilled for the rest of eternity. Note: I may be more starved of human contact than I previously realised.

And in a most unfortunate turn of events, despite my overwhelming desire to lock myself in my bedroom this weekend and read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows from cover to cover, I am required instead to work, and to placate my friends by attending various birthdays and going-away parties. Who organises a party to coincide with the release of the new Harry Potter book? Hello! That’s akin to holding your wedding on AFL Grand Final day or your funeral on the same day as the Melbourne Cup. My time would be far better spent reading about the new wondrous events in Harry’s world, and secretly imagining myself as the meat in a Daniel Radcliffe/Sean Biggerstaff sandwich. (Biggerstaff played Oliver Wood in the early movies. He is terribly attractive, has a sexy Scottish accent, and, let’s face it, a name that promises so very much.)
But I am forced to postpone the book until Monday, by which time some fuckwit will have spoiled the ending by telling me that Harry impregnates Ginny before dying, thus leaving another child wizard to grow up fatherless and resentful, ensuring Rowling has enough teenage angst to fill another seven books. She’s a clever one, that J.K.

In conclusion: men kissing other men - good. Friends who deny me the immediate pleasure of learning Harry’s fate - bad. Wasting precious holiday time doing mundane tasks - utterly depressing.

Dumped And Dumped On

2007-07-11T15:28:00.000+10:00

It’s a very well known fact that I hate my best friend’s boyfriend. Maybe hate is too strong a word to use, but for a long time I’ve disliked him and held the opinion that she could do much better. Many of our other friends aren’t keen on him either which has led my bestie to keep her friends and her boyfriend completely separate by not inviting him to social events or doing ‘coupley’ things just with him. Tres annoying for all concerned.

More annoying still is that they are one of those ‘on-off’ couples. Everybody knows a couple like this. They’ll tell you they’ve broken up, you’ll come over with Kleenex and tim tams, hold their hand while they cry, make numerous cups of tea (and later, strawberry daiquiris), and convince them that life goes on, all shall be well again, let’s go out and pash some hot nerds etc etc. Then a week later you get a phone call saying ‘we got back together, it’s going to be so much better this time, we’ve spoken about what needs to change and we’re both going to make more effort blah blah blah’. Repeat ad nauseum.

I’ve done the break-up dance with this particular friend more times than I care to remember. And each time it becomes more fake and more forced and more like I’m following a routine than actually caring. Because it’s hard to care when you know that inevitably they’re going to get back together, especially for someone as cynical as me. My snide comments and total lack of empathy were definitely not helping the situation. It actually got so bad that in the last few months she has stopped telling me that they’ve ‘broken up’ because we both know it’s a charade and it was really putting a strain on our friendship.

Obviously after ten years of friendship we weren’t going to throw it all away over a boy, but things have definitely changed between us lately . See, nobody ever calls their best friend and says ‘I just had the best conversation with my boyfriend, he’s so wonderful and makes me so happy, he said x number of good things about me, let’s spend an hour talking about how great he is.’ That never happens. But what does happen (with alarming frequency) are the calls which say ‘we just had a huge fight, he’s such an arsehole, he called me x number of derogatory names, I’m just going to cry down the phone line while you listen awkwardly and try to comfort me.’ So while I’m sure at times he made her happy, he also made her really miserable and it’s that side of the relationship that I was always bombarded with. Thus I’ve really been hoping that she would come to her senses and make a permanent break from him.

And, after a conversation I had with her last night, it appears that she has done just that. Three weeks ago in fact, which sets a new record for the longest time any of their break ups has lasted. (Notice that she waited three weeks to tell me, just in case she changed her mind) But what is really different this time is the reason behind the split. Not another fight, but a reasonable, well thought-out decision that she wants to be more independent and stand on her own two feet again. Amen to that, sister.

It’s definitely a trend I’ve noticed lately. In the last six months I have watched most of my close friends go through relationship break-ups. And they've all been for similar sort of reasons. Being single is suddenly desirable again. This heartens me. I adore being single and it’s so much more fun when you have a posse of independent women to party with, without having to worry about fielding text messages from irate boyfriends all night. Time for us to find some hot nerds to pash, methinks!

Also what do you call ‘taking a dump on somebody’s chest’? I don’t ask for me, it’s just that an increasing number of people are finding their way to this site by googling that. I always assumed that it was just called ‘taking a dump on somebody’s chest’ but if there is a specific name for it I’d love to be able to help out my new friends in the USA. Heaven forbid they used the wrong terminology when asking a paramour if they would like to take a dump or be on the receiving end of a dump. That’s the kind of thing that will make you the laughing stock of the schoolyard. Kids can be cruel sometimes.

Myspace. My Shame.

2007-06-27T22:56:00.000+10:00

I hate myspace. I really do. Bear that in mind when I tell you that as of yesterday I am a fully fledged myspace member. It’s the same old story – a lot of my friends have got it, they’ve been pestering me to get it, ultimately I am a sheep and decided that if all my ‘super cool’ friends are hooked up to it then it can’t be all bad. And truth be told, it’s not all bad.

Sure, some of the backgrounds rape my eyes and make me never want to view a computer screen again and I’m quite sure I’m far too educated and pedantic about spelling and grammar to ever subscribe to Da WaY dA kIdZ R tAlKiN DeSe DaYz BrUvVa but it seems a fairly convenient way to keep in touch with friends who have moved interstate or are travelling. Still, it feels like I have sold a large portion of my soul to the illiteracy devil and I may live to regret it.

The worst thing about it is how freaking addictive that shit is. Obviously I want my space to reflect how fabulous and cool I am so I have spent a fair bit of time editing my profile so that any lovely stranger who happens to view it will want to be my friend, thus allowing me to decline them because only losers accept requests from strangers. It’s not about the numbers with me, I really hate those people who accept every single request in a vain attempt to appear popular. They are usually the same girls whose profile pictures display an alarming amount of vagina for such a public forum. Sharpen up ladies, you can earn money flashing your bits on the web, stop giving it away for free.

I'm certain I will get sick of it soon enough, but until then I am ashamed to say that I am mildly converted. Sigh. Why must I crave peer acceptance so much?

Whispering Sweet Nothings

2007-06-18T17:19:00.000+10:00

I have no voice. When I try to speak, the best I can muster is a pathetic little whisper. Predictably it’s my own fault. I spent the better part of Saturday night yelling at a loathsome fellow, desperate to get my point of view across. My point of view was that he was a misogynistic cunt. In the end I told him ‘you’re a misogynistic cunt.’ Turns out folks don’t like being described thus by a shouty little brunette with a belly full of Pure Blonde. He got mad. His mates got involved. I had to explain to them what misogynistic meant. But, lovely boys that they were, they agreed that their friend epitomised the definition of misogynist that I had given them and were quick to assure me that he was not representative of the greater male population. I was appeased enough to stop yelling but the damage to my vocal chords was well and truly done.

I continued my night of revelry with little regard for my weakened voice, but waking for a 9am start at work on Sunday had me wishing I’d at least had the prudence to pop a Strepsil or two before I went to bed. Five hours of serving customers later, I was tired, hoarse and deeply regretting the previous night’s indulgence. Today it has progressed to the point where I am completely devoid of speech.

Effectively I was rendered mute by an idiotic Neanderthal with antiquated views on women’s place in society. Ironically it’s just what he would have wanted – his entire argument centred around the fact that as a woman I am not entitled to express an opinion, and now, simply because of my desire to express an opinion, I am physically unable to.

And the whole argument took place in a corner of the bar decorated by a naked female mannequin with a lampshade over her head. Symbolic, no?

It's Easier To Pash A Stranger In A Dark Corner

2007-06-03T20:29:00.000+10:00

Isn’t it funny how some things that really shouldn’t affect you can leave you in an absolute bewildered mess? And so it was this weekend when I found out that one of my closest friends has ended her relationship with her boyfriend of four years.

What you need to know about these two is that they were the perfect couple. Not perfect as in ‘matching sweaters, spoon feeding each other chocolate fondue while making cooing noises’ but that kind of awesome chilled-out love that you can be in the presence of for days and not feel sickened by it. Even the staunch commitment-phobe in me sometimes felt a little itching in my bones when I saw the way they interacted with each other. It was a beautiful, equal, respectful relationship and I was dead certain they were going to get married. My best friend and I, self obsessed wenches that we are, even decided that we were to be bridesmaids at said hypothetical nuptials. Perhaps we contributed to the break up because the reason appears to be my friends reluctance to take the next step (i.e. move in together, get engaged) and the pressure of expectation from everybody else who assumed that would be the natural progression of the relationship.

My friend and I have not yet had a chance to speak (the news was passed on by my best friend who strongly suggested I wait for J to call me as she’s not really keen to talk about it yet) but I’m really dreading the conversation. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since I found out. That kind of raw emotion and heartbreak has never been my specialty. I deal better in lewd jokes and pop culture references. Neither of which are going to come in handy when consoling someone who has just ended a seemingly perfect relationship.

To me it confirms what I’ve always believed - commitment is bad. The heartache that they are going through right now could have been avoided if they hadn’t embarked on the relationship in the first place. My friend was able to commit for such a long time but when it came to the crunch she saw a different future for herself than the one her boyfriend was offering. That’s why I don’t have relationships – why start something if you know it’s going to end, and the ending is going to provide you with unbearable pain? I know it’s a hideously cynical attitude to have (and explaining it to my mother caused her to adopt an expression that was equal parts horrified and piteous) but I feel that for me it’s the only option at the moment.

I am indeed a jaded, disillusioned young woman. But I just put the winning bid on a ‘Burt Reynolds – God Amongst Men’ t-shirt on eBay so I suppose it's not all bad news.

Call Me Anytime

2007-05-31T14:43:00.000+10:00

I pride myself on being a straight-up, tell-it-like-it-is kind of person, particularly in the hideous interactions of Singledom. Generally if I'm not interested in you and you ask for my number I will politely inform you that I'm not keen. Occasionally, after imbibing a pint or two of vodka, my response will be less than comely and my friends and I will mock you mercilessly for the remainder of the night, thereby quashing your last ounce of confidence and leave you vowing never to speak to another female again. Come on, it's character building.

However, sometimes neither of the above responses are appropriate for the situation. Sometimes, and it pains me to say this, I give out a fake number. Not quite as cruel as giving the rejection number (0419 317 446 if you're ever in need) but still a cop-out and not something I feel particularly good about doing.

Fortunately I've had a fail-safe fake number for years. It was the first mobile number I ever had, until my phone was stolen when I was 17. No worries, I called Telstra, they cancelled the number, I got a shiny new phone and with it, a new number. Sorted.

So I've always had that first number imprinted on my brain and have no trouble rattling it off to hapless boys in bars, safe in the knowledge that it is a disconnected number and therefore nobody else will be fielding my phone calls. I'm quite considerate like that.

You can see where this is headed can't you?

That's right, as was recently brought to my attention, apparently Telstra don't cancel numbers forever, just for a couple of years. As my number was disconnected more than five years ago, it's safe to say that it's been back in circulation for some time. So instead of my spurned lovers reaching 'your call could not be connected...' they are in fact reaching Tim from TLC Tech Services.

While I can't help but feel bad that Tim has acted as my dating secretary for the past few years, he does seem like a most personable fellow and I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I continued to give out his number as infrequently as I already do. I mean, if he gets people calling him and asking for Mel he just tells them that she must have a similar phone number because he occasionally gets her calls. So the rejected boys won't be thinking 'that scrag gave me a false number, she led me on, I hate women, woe is me etc etc' but 'that lovely girl really wanted me to call her but her beer-addled brain must have transposed a couple of the digits of her number, never mind, plenty more fish etc etc'.

End result: I'm still a sweet lass and he's still a chick-pulling dynamo.

I figure everybody wins.

Except maybe Tim.

Don't Trust Tara Reid

2007-05-27T21:47:00.000+10:00

I’ve had no internet access for over a week. It totally blows. Dodo should be legally obliged to change their advertising jingle from ‘internet that flies’ to ‘internet that suddenly becomes extinct when you have two weeks left of uni and a shitload of work due that you’ve left till the last minute.’ Seriously, don’t ever switch to Dodo. I’m saving you time and money by telling you this now. Who are you gonna listen to - me or Tara Reid? I have the distinct advantage of being able to count to ten so I guess it's not really a fair contest but that's never bothered me in the past.

Now that I’m back online, however, the essays have been procrastinated even further as I catch up on all my favourite blogs and the other joys of the internet that I have so sorely missed. I spent an embarrassingly large chunk of the day anxiously waiting for the last three episodes of Lost to download so I can finally watch that cliff-hanger final, even though I suspect nothing will be revealed and I will quietly contemplate not watching it next season because, in all likelihood, they’re never going to explain the mysteries of the island. But I know deep down inside that when next season rolls around I’ll eat up whatever crap they dish out, if only to see Sayid’s perfect body for another 23 episodes.

So as a follow-up of sorts to my last post, I saw a magnificently shaggy fellow when I was out and about this week. In fact, he looked disarmingly similar to the delightful Daniel Kitson. Upon remarking this to the lad, he admitted he did not know of Mr Kitson which forced me to explain that Daniel Kitson was the greatest human being in the known universe (I may have been a leetle bit drunk) and that this doppelganger would view the world in a different way once he ‘found’ Kitson. He agreed to look him up. Another Thursday night crisis averted.

‘Save Ferris’ t-shirts are way cooler than ‘Vote For Pedro’ don’t y’all agree? The whole Napoleon Dynamite thing has been done to death and now the cold, rotting corpse is being raped. Just move on already people, it’s 2007. Were there no t-shirt worthy quotes from Norbit?

Finally, a little tip for every cover band in the world - please don't perform any Radiohead songs. It's embarrassing for you, it's painful for us, and I'm sure Thom Yorke, if he were in the audience, would be the first to glass you. Go back through your Hunters And Collectors' discography, I'm sure there's something in there that you can get your limited vocal range around. We'd all be most grateful.

Things I Wish Would Fuck Right Off: Man Cleavage

2007-05-16T19:54:00.000+10:00

Remember the halcyon days when men were rugged, hirsute, and could fell a tree with naught but a single axe-stroke, all the while drinking a VB and keeping an eye on the cricket?

No?

Then you, like me, have probably done most of your dating in this curious new era, known as the 21^st century. It’s a time of wonderful equal opportunity, where women can pay for their own dinner and men can buy their own cosmetics at the Clinique counter.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m happy to pay for my own dinner, hell, I’m happy to pay for my date’s meal as well, if that’s the way he wants to roll, however I am categorically opposed to dating someone who has a VIP discount card at Clinique. Thus, I have been rendered somewhat dateless in recent times as I slowly come to realise that the ‘men’ of today are neither hirsute nor burly and only drink, ahem, boutique beer.

I've worked out that my major issue with the opposite sex comes in the form of men’s fashion. Specifically those horrid v-neck, button down vest things, which Ben Cousins has kindly agreed to model for you (pending a blood test):

Where the fuck did these come from and why aren’t they going away? Personally I blame Industrie, the company that's also responsible for those popped-collar polo shirts that we’ve all been seeing in epidemic proportions for the past couple of years. You know the ones, they have Industrie emblazoned on the bottom of the collar so if, heaven forbid, you wear it folded down, people won’t be able to see the brand and know that you paid 80 bucks to be a walking billboard. And really, what’s more important – comfort and style, or letting everybody know that you’re a wanker? At least it helps me weed out the boys who will never get to see me naked.

But I digress. Look at the above picture please. You will notice, dear reader, that Benny’s v-neck reveals a rather pleasant smattering of chest hair. It must be noted, however, that this is not the default setting for such a garment. No, these vests must expose a torso that has been manscaped to within an inch of its life. Either wax it, pluck it or depilate it, the method you choose matters not, just get that freaking hair off your chest boys. Men aren’t supposed to have body hair, aiight? That's only suitable for Serbian Eurovision contestants.

Seriously, check it out next time you’re in an establishment frequented by young trendsetters. I will give you an iron-clad guarantee that you will see more inches of man cleavage than woman cleavage. Easily. Take a measuring tape. Get some stats. Touch some smooth male chests. And if by chance you happen to see a shaggy bloke with an axe, please send him my way.

Wasn't She In Indigeridoo?

2007-05-13T21:51:00.000+10:00

Check this out.

Winner of Eurovision 2007, from Serbia, Marija Serfovic:

Chinese Musical Theatre Group member, and scientist Ricky Wong:

ZOMG! It's the same person!!!

Let's just hope she has no desire to pull on the Cathy Freeman bodysuit.

Midnight Blogging Is For Losers

2007-05-13T00:33:00.000+10:00

Here's a helpful hint for all you gentlemen-folk out there - when two girls are on a dance floor saying they will recreate any dance move you do with your friend, walk away and return to a simpler life of beer-drinking and admiring each others freshly waxed chests.

I just got home from a bar, and there were a couple of guys who fully simulated oral sex with each other and touched each other up, just so my friend and I would copy them (we were having a 'dance off' of sorts).

Two girls gyrating against each other? Totally acceptable.

Two guys doing the same thing? Wrong on so many levels.

Just no. I don't want to be in that situation again. Please, men of Australia, do not degrade yourself for a few cheap thrills. There are ladies out there willing to do these things for free. Find those girls and be done. Leave me to gyrate like a madwoman to 'Dancing On The Ceiling.'

Why am I going to venues that still play that song? I wonder the same thing myself. Le sigh.

Also, what to do if you think a friend has inadvertently discovered your online identity? Maybe I was drunker than I realised but I'm pretty sure I gave the game away. Help, I can't let my friends know I'm an uber nerd!!!

Ribena Got Pwnd!

2007-05-08T18:56:00.000+10:00

How much are we all loving those new damage control ads for Ribena?

My favourite part - 'I'm sorry you all thought that Ribena had four times more vitamin C than orange juice. It was never our intention that you would think that, even though we said it in every single commercial and featured diagrams in a clever attempt to convince you.'

Oh, the craziness of the Australian public. We misunderstand everything, don't we?

Break Me Off A Piece Of That

2007-05-06T23:10:00.000+10:00

Dear Jesus,

Being a committed atheist and all (if my Nana and Pa ever see that they will surely disown me), we haven't spoken since the request for more open bars on Good Friday (incidentally, I did find a happening venue that night, cheers for that ) but I wish to thank you for the creation of one Ioan Gruffudd who, before tonight was distinctly off my radar.

Maybe it's the vodka talking, but hot diggity he is one sexy man!!!

Once again Jesus, thank you for the select few sexy English, and thank you Logie awards for bringing him to the people of OzStraya.

Kind Regards,

Mel.

Play The Music Already

2007-05-06T20:10:00.000+10:00

Fark!!! I totally forgot to send in my all important sms vote for the Gold Logie winner. Hopefully that one vote won’t be the difference between a McLeod’s girl winning and losing. The guilt would haunt me for life.

The Logies are abhorrent aren’t they? Tonight I have decided to ensure my enjoyment by drinking every time the phrase ‘night of nights’ or ‘spectacular’ is used. Doubtless someone will have to carry me semi-comatose to my bed at night’s end. I shall endeavour to remain lucid until I witness the shenanigans from the Chaser boys but I can't make any promises.

Last year I had the good fortune of being out in the city on Logies evening. The Gods of fate were surely smiling on me that night, as I happened to be walking through the Crown Casino foyer (where I had parked in the car park, obviously I cracked a window for the baby) at the exact time the ‘stars’ were making their triumphant exits from the ceremony. Did I hear you say JACKPOT? I near wet myself with excitement. Five minutes later I was first-hand witness to Cornelia Francis AKA Morague from Home and Away AKA host of The Weakest Link tumbling headfirst down the escalator, literally so drunk she couldn’t hold herself up. They turned of the escalator, attended to her, and a couple of minutes later she stood again to tumultuous applause. She walked past me, her eyes unable to focus, fell again, this time my friend caught her before she hit the ground, and was escorted out of the premises.

THAT is what the Logies is all about, my friends. Drink until you pass out. I know I'm going to.

Where's Gibbo?

2007-05-02T16:16:00.000+10:00

Why is Agro co-hosting Perfect Match? Is this a recent development or have I been neglecting late night/early morning TV for far too long? Why do people even still go on Perfect Match? Don't they know they could have a complete stranger sniff their undies on Shopping For Love?

I Said I'd Get A Friggin Taxi!

2007-05-01T21:34:00.000+10:00

I adore catching taxis. Or, more accurately, I adore taxi drivers. I love that even though their job involves so much interaction with people, very few drivers have any social skills and many lack a basic understanding of the English language. I love that even though they are employed to drive you safely from point A to point B, very few drivers have any driving skills and many lack a basic understanding of the road rules.

Having both a licence and a car, my opportunities to catch cabs are limited to when I am having a night out and intend to drink my body weight in vodka. But I have come to learn that this is when taxi drivers are at their most awesome. You can make them take you to Macca’s drive-through to help ‘soak up’ said vodka. You can talk to them about anything and they have to listen. You can request a change of radio station and they must comply, or else suffer the wrath of an irritated drunkard.

My favourite taxi experience involved a cabbie turning off the meter halfway back to my house in return for my friend and I listening to his self-penned song. It. Was. Woeful. He was basically rapping to a backing tape about going out one night and losing his car and keys. It was all I could do not to snort with laughter when he asked our opinion. But bearing in mind that it was for a cheap cab fee, we told him it was great and that he should send it into JJJ Unearthed. To this day I wonder if he did and what sort of response they gave him.

On two occasions taxi drivers have given me their mobile numbers. The first was a driver who wanted me to come to his pool party (WTF? Was I wearing a sign saying ‘please rape and murder me’?) and the second was a cabbie who wanted my friends and I to call him for a lift home so he could do burnouts for us. We punished his stupidity by pranking him at 3am after every night out for the next few months. Juvenile, I agree, but immensely satisfying all the same.

And thus endeth the lesson on why I adore taxi drivers.

*the title of this post came from a TAC ad a few years ago about the dangers of drink-driving at Christmas time etc. etc. Not a funny subject matter at all but for some reason that quote amused me and I use it, at least once, whenever I call a cab. Sad but true.

My World Cup Confession

2007-04-30T20:03:00.000+10:00

Despite being a self-confessed cricket tragic, I haven't blogged about the Cricket World Cup at all. There are two reasons for this:

1. My dedication to updating this blog has been feeble at best.

2. The whole tournament has been about as interesting as an episode of Ready Steady Cook. One without the French guy.

Now, I'm pretty easily entertained as far as sports go. I’ve been known to spend an entire day flicking through the sport channels on Foxtel and watching everything from snooker to American Football. The only thing that doesn't do it for me is motor sport.

For some reason though, this World Cup was different. Maybe it was the time difference, maybe it was the substandard conditions in the West Indies, maybe it was the fact that Australia never looked like being challenged, maybe it was general apathy, but my interest was not captured.

I think mostly I wanted some reward for staying up all night to watch the Aussies. An Australian team on the ropes and fighting back is much more engrossing than an Australian team clinically disposing of the opposition. Don’t get me wrong, I love the fact that Australia pantsed every other team but it just doesn’t make for interesting enough viewing to keep me away from my bed at 3am.

Do not fear though, dear reader, I am confident I shall recover from my malaise in time for the Twenty20 World Championship in September. I can almost taste the excitement.

Where To Buy My Inebriants And Cigarettes?

2007-04-26T17:49:00.000+10:00

A new shop has opened up in the main street of my backwater town.

It's called 'Smokes and Grog'.

Seriously.

That is the actual name of the store.

I know, right?

A bunch of school kids were hanging around the front of it as I went passed today, obviously under the assumption that one's level of coolness increases with their proximity to such an establishment. Or maybe they just wanted someone to buy them smokes and grog. I, however, wasn't going to be the one to do it. We all remember how that ended last time...

But despite the cheap, tacky frontage of this store I had to give props to the fact that it isn't sugar-coating anything. No marketing genius has spent hours thinking up a fancy name or something with a pun in it. Marketers love their puns don't they?

When I was in NSW earlier this year I saw a shop called 'Shoes and Things'. Next door was 'Jeans and Things'. I did wonder why all the 'things' couldn't have been incorporated into their own shop, but hey, who am I to question an obviously tried and tested technique.

So, I wonder, should this brilliant idea of self-explanatory shop names be applied everywhere?

Supre would become 'Trashy Teen Clothes In Sizes You Will Never Fit Into'.

Boost would be 'Sugar In A Cup'.

The Reject Shop would be, erm, 'The Reject Shop'...

All surf shops would fall under the banner of 'Overpriced Casual Wear Sold By A Painfully Cool Sales Assistant Who Would Rather Dig Out Their Own Eyeballs With A Plastic Spoon Than Offer You Any Service'.

This may be the way of the future, my friends.

Uni Is A Waste Of Money

2007-04-12T15:49:00.000+10:00

I have this theory that the only people who ever actually learn anything while at uni are those who are studying something meaningful like medicine or law. For the rest of us it's just a way to pass the time while we damage our livers and think about the scary world of 9-5 work.

Case in point - I have been on my Easter Break from uni for exactly 7 days and in that time I have learned:

- 'casually' visiting (read: cyber-stalking) an ex-boyfriends myspace page is never a good idea. Seeing a bunch of happy snaps of your ex and his new girl? Not fun.

- getting a bocce set for Easter is way cooler than getting chocolate. And less fattening.

- people who tell you that paintball doesn't hurt are lying!!! I have a tennis-ball sized bruise on my leg and a lump on my head and both of them brought tears to my eyes. Not wussy girl tears mind you, but the automatic-response-to-pain tears. You know the ones.

- Chas Licciardello is the sexiest man on the face of the earth. No question about it.

- bidding for ridiculous things on eBay is way too easy when you've had a few tequila, lime and sodas. There should be a 1am curfew on that site to protect pathetic drunk girls from waking up with a huge hangover and payment owing on 'stunning vintage polka-dot satin jumpsuit.'

- fairy bread is as popular at 21st parties as it is at 4-year-old birthday parties. Maybe even more so.

- seeing comments on your pitifully maintained blog after a month of absence is strangely heartwarming. Thanks guys, you made me wanna post again.

(I know, I know, making lists is the poor-man's version of writing an actual blog post but it's damn simple and I figure if I take baby steps then this whole blogging thing won't seem so daunting. Right?)

Anyway, the point is that a week away from uni and I have learned seven valuable life lessons, all of which are more useful than anything I've been taught in four-and-a-half years of tertiary education.

And they all came without a massive HECS debt. Learning for free, such a novel concept.

Camel Foot

2007-02-28T17:14:00.000+11:00

Is it possible that a woman can not be aware that her pants are creating major camel-toe action?

At uni today there was a girl who had the most obvious case of it I've ever seen. Her choice of outfit? Tight, pale blue tracksuit pants. It was awful. Not only were her lips visible but the entire outline of her vagina was prominent through her pants. I swear, I could have drawn a diagram of her muchacha, such was the detail of this particular camel-toe. And she was standing in front of a packed lecture hall seemingly oblivious to the mumbler she was displaying.

It bothered me to think that she wasn't aware of it and would be walking around like that all day. Because nobody is going to point that out to you. I will tell someone if their tag's hanging out, if they have lipstick on their teeth, boogers poking out of their nose, any of life's little faux pas but there is no way I am letting some girl know that 200 people have just seen her camel toe, or in this case her whole camel foot. There's just no way.

Some Daughters Do Have 'Em

2007-02-25T20:14:00.000+11:00

Things my parents said this week that sent me into fits of uncontrollable laughter:

My Mum, after getting advice about our temperamental air-conditioner, casually remarked 'well that's interesting, apparently you're supposed to keep your flaps open to help the air circulate.'

I had tears running down my face. Tears.

Not to be outdone, my Dad asked an acquaintance, who runs a carpet cleaning business, 'you wouldn't want to be sucking too much carpet in this heat, would you?'

At the age of 22 surely I should be able to hear the words flaps and carpet without needing to leave the room and compose myself?

Maybe I'll work on that...

2007-02-15T10:24:00.000+11:00

Bah! Why is Blogger such an arsehole to me? I set my time code perfectly yet it's telling me I published the V-Day post on the 13th. Granted, I am technologically retarded but I thought this shit would be easy. Type some words, hit publish, done. Lucky I don't have a readership or they would be mocking me mercilessly...

V-Day

2007-02-13T17:40:00.000+11:00

Valentines Day, huh? All the commercial bullshit aside, the thing that shits me most about this day is other people's reaction when I tell them I'm not doing anything special.

'But doesn't it upset you to be single on Valentine's Day?'

Fuck you too. Doesn't it upset you that all the fire burnt out of your relationship long ago and the only time you and your partner are romantic with each other is one day of the year, when you exchange tacky, thoughtless gifts and have routine, passionless sex?

For me being alone on Valentine's Day is exactly the same as being alone on the 364 other days of the year when I'm single. Except that I bought new underwear so I will look totally hot when I have sex with myself tonight.

I might even spoon with myself afterwards.

Allan Border Medal

2007-02-06T18:10:00.000+11:00

Ah, the Allan Border Medal. Cricket's night of nights. I do have a life so I wasn't home to watch it. However, I recorded it and watched it today. Yes I know that falls into the 'no life' category but dammit, let me pretend.

Predictably Ricky Ponting won every award he was eligible for, perhaps the reason why I was unable to find a betting agency that was offering any odds.

The frocks were an immense let down. Nothing was particularly hideous (besides the cobalt sheet Lara Bingle draped around herself on the way out the door) but nothing was spectacular either. At least the footballers wives at the Brownlow give us something to talk about. But last night there was not a diamante g-string, nor stray boob in sight.

The awards ceremony itself dragged on and involved a lot of patting oneself on the back. But I guess, having won every trophy in international cricket the smugness is warranted. The tribute to Richie Benaud was outstanding, as was the man himself. When Richie talks, you shut the fuck up and listen. It's just the way it is.

Other than that, it was a feast of vacuous blonde partners, awkward banter between players and hosts, and gratuitous shots of Eddie McGuire front and centre, enjoying some hard earned time off from his demanding job of running the network during non-ratings period.

I have a blog

2007-02-05T15:39:00.000+11:00

So!!! I have finally joined the technological minions and created myself a blog. I really enjoy reading other people's blogs and I have this delusion that I will be one of those witty/coherent bloggers who have readers who comment and care. However, it is far more likely that I will evacuate random contents of my brain onto this page and passers-by will shudder in horror at the fact that I am apparently a functioning member of society.

I find myself frightfully amusing and although you probably won't, maybe you should stick around in the hopes that I will get my blogging mojo happening and regale you with witty observations. Be prepared for constant mention of the cricket too - it's an obsession, nay, disease of mine.

Some minor details - I'm a student, working part-time in customer service, thus I think 90% of the Australian public are retarded or arseholes or both. But not you. I think you're ace.

Cheers,
Mel