September 5, 2007 - Crikey moses....

Er...it appears to be September.

January 20, 2007 - Appynooyeah!

Gravity’s done its work and after three weeks I’ve rolled back down to the bottom of the country. I managed to do alarmingly little during my holiday, but I have come back looking decidedly indigenous which can only be a good thing in this national climate of multicultural magnanimity.

Highlights include:

·        Nominating myself as designated driver for NYE rather than wait two hours for a taxi. Someone at work once told me I was an 80 year old in a 20-something’s body. I think this proves their point.

·       Yet another stomach bug invasion. Fantastic for my summer figure, disastrous in all other aspects.  

·       Quality family time. I spend just enough time away from my parents each year to convince me I’m not forged from lunatic stock and there is a small chance my errant DNA may allow me to integrate into mainstream society. Three weeks rids me of such moronic notions.

·        Snorkelling with swarms and swarms of bastard jellyfish. Strong Belwas assured me they were of a genus that wouldn’t kill me in the most gruesome manner possible, and even nudged one with his foot to prove his point. I’ve never been one to trust men though.

·        Babies. All my schoolmates have sprouted live babies. I’ve never understood the point of babies. I already have something that drools, requires cleaning up after and is completely dependent on a bottle or myself in alternate shifts.

And now I’m back and all geared up for another 12 months work.

Does anyone have any vodka?

December 25, 2006 - Merry Christmas to all...

As of tomorrow, this blog (and the blogger, obviously) is on holidays for three weeks. Yes, I realise I frequently leave huge gaps between entries, but that's usually because I'm too drunk to see the keyboard I have more urgent matters to attend to. This time I have a legitimate excuse. I'll be in Cairns, turning a crispy shade of black and undergoing therapy for the mental anguish inflicted by another twelve months of Melbourne weather (seriously, 14 degrees and hail on Christmas day? Who the hell lives here voluntarily?!).

If anyone needs me...they can damn well wait until I get back.

December 13, 2006 - Whoops...

My father is fond of the phrase ‘a font of knowledge’, which for expediency he often shortens to ‘font’. To be referred to as a font is quite an accolade coming from Pa Inga.

Today one of our engineers supplied me with a particularly helpful piece of info about GST.   

“Gordon,” I chirped across our noisy office “you’re an absolute font!”

I was rewarded with an incredulous look and:

“What did you just call me?!”

I should probably enunciate better.

December 8, 2006 - Caution: Contains offensive material.

Two goldfish are in a tank.

One says to the other: "Do you know how to drive this thing?"

(I'm either on a much higher plane than the rest of the planet, or just a twit.) 

December 6, 2006 - Big Willy Style

A word on dichotomous males.

Strong Belwas is unequivocally bloke. Belwas likes V8’s, beer, turboed V8’s, smashing stuff, V8’s and tits. Belwas pumps iron, watches footy and wants a gun and a ute. The only way he could possibly be more male would be to sprout an extra testicle, which I believe he’ll do any day now – at which point I may just jump in front of a bus. 

There’s only one chink in his carefully cultivated bloke-armor: Belwas has a peculiar, insatiable reverence for Will Smith. He knows the lyrics to every single song from every single Will Smith album, and is completely incapable of listening passively – Belwas needs to gesticulate and rap along with all the enthusiasm of the badass nigga he is. (Belwas, to his perpetual disappointment was born white, but I try not to draw attention to the fact).

While I’m all for men expressing themselves, there’s something mightily incongruous about six foot of muscle bound, tattooed Belwas busting a move to “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit’ It” in a public setting. Or any setting.

Frankly, I’d prefer it if he just wore my underwear.  

December 1, 2006 - Professionalism 101

I’ve had a hellish week. The flu coupled with a truly horrifying stomach bug has left me feeling fashionably emaciated but dangerously short of electrolytes. Our GM and our receptionist have both left our company in the last couple of weeks, which means I now have two and a half jobs and half the body weight to tackle them with. Additionally, I work with the kind of intellectual vacuums who think the height of witticism is to cough mockingly while I sit at my desk hacking up chunks of lung and drowning in a flood of snotty tissues. Bastards.

Clients phoning the office this week may be forgiven for thinking they heard a hysterical female voice in the background, shrieking endearments such as “I hobe you all gontract lebrosy and your arbs and legs fall off and you habe to drag yourselbs aroud with your lips.”

Who says women can’t survive in a man’s world?

November 6, 2006 - Giddy-up baby.

There’s something about Spring Racing Carnival time in Melbourne that turns intelligent, rational women into raging, moronic twits.

There’s something in the air that compels a normally sensible girl to spend eight hours in direct sunlight watching ponies run in circles. She’ll wear little more than a hanky tied on with string, all the while thinking ‘wow, I’m like sooo gonna have a fantastic tan tomorrow!’ Of course she’ll wear a wide-brimmed hat, but contrary to the entire ‘hat’ concept, it’s of a flimsy, holey weave that attracts and concentrates UV rays. She’ll drink plenty of fluids to stay hydrated – namely Canadian Club, Cougar, beer and perhaps a splash of G & T for variety. She’ll stagger around all day in a pair of high heels that grind her spinal discs into powder, eat excessive quantities of salty, fat-laden snacks and bet hard-earned money on a horse because its name sounds like ‘Testicles’.

Then she’ll probably spend the next day moaning about sore feet and a sorer stomach, wondering why her purse is empty. She’ll rub various lotions into limbs that light up the room with an eerie red glow, and spend most of the day naked because clothing is an excruciating ordeal, and just looking at a bra makes her shoulders sting.

And she’ll tell everyone what a bloody fantastic day she had.

Yay for Melbourne Cup week! 

October 9, 2006 - Babies, Belwas and a whole lotta blood...

I don't know where two weeks just went. I suspect a large portion of it went into that temporal black hole some people call 'work'. I'm thinking of getting knocked up and retiring on the baby bonus. $3000 and free baby? How can you go wrong? Anyway, update time....

Strong Belwas, against all the laws of God and nature, successfully navigated through four weeks of sobriety. I was so impressed I immediately bought him a slab and packed him off on a four day fishing trip. I’m thinking of doing it more often – I had four whole days to loll around the house watching Fawlty Towers DVDs and dancing to Flashdance in my giant granny undies, while Belwas enjoyed some male bonding and relaxation (translation: he and his mate spent four days molesting the entire Eildon region with terrifying renditions of “500 Miles” performed at high volume at 3am).

One thing I’ve learnt is that a ‘fishing trip’ doesn’t necessarily involve the acquisition of fish. In fact, it need not involve any serious attempt to acquire fish at all. It’s all about how much beer one can consume without falling into the river or tearing off your ear with a badly cast lure. I’d even go so far as to say that a fishing trip ending with 10kg of fresh, juicy trout and 15 lobsters would still be considered a failure if there was beer remaining in the esky.  If this was 20,000 BC, I’d be a malnourished little cavewoman wishing someone else had clubbed me over the head.

Roadworks update: I’ll need to take a picture of the chaos our main road has become. It’s a 3 km obstacle course of witch’s hats (by witch’s hats I mean those plastic orange posts that are really difficult to knock over – I don’t know what the technical name is), digging machines, trucks and stupid little men in yellow vests. They’ve completely blocked off our turning lane, but fortunately there’s just enough room between the witch’s hats and ‘Danger - Keep Out’ signs for a Hyundai Accent to squeeze through. No one tells me where I can and can’t drive. Uh, except Citylink. 

This morning I drove to the end of the street and was confronted by a fluoro-clad man wielding a stop sign. Seven o’clock on a Monday morning, at the end of our quiet cul-de-sac, and a man waves a bloody stop sign at me? I did what any normal person would do and ran the jerk over. Then reversed over him again.

I gave blood today, in 5 minutes flat. The last time I went, a nurse explained to me what all the little numbers on the blood-sucking machine mean, while I nodded politely and tried really hard to avoid looking at the bag of my vital fluids sloshing on top of it. One of the numbers tells you how many milliliters per minute is gushing from your vein (it gives you a rough indication of how long you’ll take to die if the little timer doesn’t go off when your 450ml is up). This time round, I discovered that thrashing your arm around while the nurses aren’t looking can keep the number up around 80 ml/min, which means the whole horrible experience is over a lot sooner. I only do it for the free milkshake, pie, cake and cookies. And if I’m going to keep running people over, I should probably contribute something to the medical system.      

September 27, 2006 - Blame it on the...oh, wait.

Next month, I’m going to a 1920’s dress-up party.

I’m having trouble because I don’t exactly remember the 1920’s – I was either really drunk, or not born yet. The internet, in its wisdom, tells me the fashion at the time was ‘flappers’. If I had a list of words to describe everything my body shape isn’t, ‘flapper’ would be at the top of the list, waving a donut in my face.

I’m not sure where I’m going to leave my arse for the evening, but I’m hoping there’ll be a cloakroom.

September 22, 2006 - Blame it on the booty.

For the last few days I’ve been infested with song.

The song is Fergie’s ‘London Bridges’. My internal jukebox picked it up one morning and has had it on repeat for 5 days or so. I’ve been spending most of the day in the office muttering ‘I’m such a lady but I’m dancing like a ho-oooo’, which is bringing my professional credibility under scrutiny. I don’t even know what most of the lyrics mean – is London Bridge some sort of hip hop euphemism I’m not down wit’ yet? And since when does ‘floor’ rhyme with ‘low’? And how come every time you come around my London, London – ah, crap.

And while we’re talking about pop culture – I am sick to death of flicking on the telly of a Saturday morning and being confronted with an orgy of boob and backside. Why are so many talented female singers finding it necessary to resort to soft porn to sell their songs? Did Aretha Franklin have to writhe around in her delicates to make a buck? Did Suzie Quatro gyrate like a cracked-up St Kilda hooker? Personally, I’d rather not be forced to perform a gynaecological examination on Mariah Carey while I’m eating my Uncle Toby’s Plus. And I’d be happy to purchase Fergie’s ‘London London’ offering without the visual stimulus of her licking a palace guard. The entire music industry’s turned tacky and unoriginal, and my heart bleeds for the generation of young women who are growing up with a scrawny, under-dressed, over-produced, self-demeaning gaggle of pop skanks as role models.

Bring back the days of Madonna in a conical bra, Sophie B. Hawkins in flannel and the fat chick from Wilson Phillips.

Crikey, I must be getting old.

September 12, 2006 - Did someone say 'sucker'?

September 10, 2006 - What's Wrong With The World #23

In case you were starting to doubt the fact, a quick surf around Google Video will restore your faith in the utter stupidity of people in general. I’m not denying the fact that I also bounce around my living room to the Pussycat Dolls. It’s just I don’t consider it appropriate or necessary to inflict my gyrations on the entire world population.

Mindless blogging, on the other hand, is perfectly acceptable.

September 9, 2006 - No TV and no beer make Homer...

Seeing as ‘the other half’ is a tad too generic in terms of blog monickers, the bloke that I drag around introducing to people as ‘my boyfriend’ will henceforth be known as Strong Belwas.

Strong Belwas is a sideline character from George R. R. Martin’s monstrous A Song of Ice & Fire series.  He’s some kind of ebullient, exotic, posturing slave warrior who repeatedly refers to himself in the third person and tries to fight things - and if that’s not a flawless description of the other half, I’ll eat my dressing gown. (Incidentally, the fictional Strong Belwas is also a fat eunuch – but don’t mention that to my Belwas.)

Anyway, non-fictional Strong Belwas has sworn off alcohol for a month. Supposedly this will save him a few bucks, with the added bonus of cleansing and restoring his liver in time for the summer drinking season. Mind you, this is a man who pours beer on his breakfast cereal and can demolish a slab of Cougar in 45 seconds flat. I’m foreseeing a few of these moments in the next couple of weeks...   

August 28, 2006 - All dads bright and beautiful....

In the spirit of the upcoming father’s day I thought I'd share a few gems from the veritable peat bog goldmine of information my father has imparted to me over the years. The following morsels of wisdom have stood me in good stead throughout my adult life:

Biology
The bacteria which causes pulpy kidney in sheep is clostridium welchii type D. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve been thankful to know that.

Crime Scene Investigation

The ‘arrows’ in tractor tyre prints point the opposite direction to which the tractor was travelling when it made the prints. Unless, of course, the tractor was reversing at the time.

General knowledge
Tractor tyres are full of water. (Dad knows lots about tractors.)

Darwinism
Long toes are evolutionally preferable to short toes as they grip the planet to better effect, thus preventing one from being hurled off into space. Presumably, the dinosaurs had an insufficient toe-length to height ratio.

Road Safety
Keeping your eye on the white line on the edge of the road will stop you being blinded by oncoming headlights when driving at night.

Medicine
A quiet rum and coke on the beach will cure anything that ails you except the common cold, which can be cured with a handful of zinc tablets.

Self Improvement
You’re never too old to change your eating habits, to learn to fly a Boeing 747 or to watch Rage. However, you can be too old to tolerate idiots, children, tourists, doctors, neighbours, council workers, bad movies and trips interstate.

Life Coaching

Take responsibility for your mistakes. To a small degree, this encompasses shortcomings in one’s own offspring. A very, very small degree. Offspring may not claim alcoholism, drug abuse or mathematical incompetence as a genetic predisposition.

Cars
Never buy a Land Rover.

Repairs & maintenance
If it can’t be mended with Araldite or fish oil, it’s probably time to get rid of it. This includes one’s own anatomy.

State Law
The classification ‘protected species’ becomes null and void the instant said species ventures uninvited into a human dwelling.

Feminism
Generally, women fall into two categories: “She’d be no bloody good on a farm” or “Geez, she’d be good on a farm”. This goes a long way to explaining my skewed views about femininity.

Yay for cool dads!