Evil Ann & the Role of Doom.

I had just come back from performing a play in Stratford, followed directly by a lengthy work Christmas party of bowling and karaoke. I knew that the following day (a Monday, famous for it's '-itis') I would be working from 6:30 to 5:30, which would involve some extra catering and a big group for breakfast. So I asked myself, do I really really want to go to an audition afterwards? I hadn't even had time to look over the play or practice a New York accent (where it's set. Although, I sometimes just do that for fun). I also found the particular theatre where it was being held to be a little daunting, having previously been told there, in front of all the other auditionees, that I didn't have the part and could leave! The thing about these auditions, though, is that you definitely don't tend to get roles if you don't even attend. I know, it's dumb. So, I gave myself a good kick in the nuts when I got home at 10pm on Sunday night, and packed a bag of clothes to change into after work from where I would drive straight to the theatre.

Monday was just as evil as I expected. I learned that little old church ladies (who comprised the big booking) are fueled by monster breakfasts, and after working against the clock to fill the fridge for the day, I slaved away in the kitchen to satisfy all-consuming bellies at odds with their charitable nature; our chief food hand was lost to the catering cause which she managed to finish right on collection time; and godless children were the final scoop of ice cream in our Sarah Conner aprons. My jaw actually dropped when I saw the state of the lounge once finally vacated by a pack of brats and their unapologetic parents. Every cushion had been upturned and there seemed to have been some sort of experiment to see how far you can spread a croissant. At another table, a little girl dictated to her mother what she would eat and when they would leave, letting her off with the warning "I am not angry! If you say that one more time, I'll never talk to you again! Then you'll have no one to talk to! You're silly! You're always yelling at me!" Really, kid? Doesn't sound like that from here!

Needless to say, I worked my bacon-scented butt off and by the end of day, I even managed to gather a trickle of sweat between my imaginary boobs. I fluffed about (so to speak) in the staff toilet, giving myself a good-as-new (*thumbs up, crazed smiley face*) wipe down with a moist towelette before heading out, with my American accent training cd blaring, to hunt down and kill my dinner. Regretfully, I went from some pre-murdered chicken at Red Rooster. I was directed to the peri-peri wrap when I asked for a healthy suggestion, and I'm pretty sure that's what made me almost poop my pants and/or vomit for the remainder of what turned out to be a very, very long night... (All I had left to wear after my weekend away were super tight jeans which did nothing to help my belly, and by the end of the night I felt as though I had sunburn on my hips from where I'd been pulling them up and down in the toilet!)

As one of the first to arrive at the theatre, I took the piles of script labelled with my characters of interest and sat down to study them. After reading the first page in one pile, I realised the every other page was the same and that I was only supposed to take one sheet! I managed to return the piles unnoticed, whilst listening to the other girls ponder the mystery of the missing sheets and their miraculous reappearance. It was a relief, at least, when I watched a score of other people go on to make the exact same mistake.

I watched my competition come through the door, my heart sinking at the arrival of my arch-nemesis (a-n.. Let's call her Ann. Without an e. Ha!). Ann is clearly a regular of that theatre and scooped the role out from under us all at the last audition (because it couldn't have been from my lack of talent, right?!). Based on the script extracts I'd read, I was pleased when I realised Ann at least didn't physically suit the lead female. Her suitability for the remaining role, though, was yet to be seen.
I also saw a prime candidate for the lead male, strutting about. He just looked the typical choice for the role and I thought, I bet he gets cast.

Despite my promptness, the director elected to audition all the boys first, leaving us girls to wait for 2 hours. Wow. Wish I'd known that pre towelette shower and peri peri wrap. Although there were scenes in which the girls could be utilised, we were left to sit in the foyer while boy read off boy (and maybe ate off each other and read lullabies. Who knows what they were doing in there?!). Not to worry, such is the actor's life and I came prepared with a good book. I was also entertained by a normal-enough looking lad who took a seat beside me and started cracking his knuckles and neck (I'm pretty sure, in a bid to impress me. Mmm, the sounds of bones and cartilage. Hot). I'd seen him kicking the door earlier and even as he sat beside me, he received a text which incited, "You are kidding me. I fucking knew it!" and some more storming about.
I also made conversation with the lady manning (or.. ladying) the foyer, who informed me that the director's mother had just died. Possibly not the best thing to learn at that moment since, in one of the audition scenes, my character holds a seance to contact her dead mother. Awkward...

After those lonely, hungry, crazed hours had passed, it was finally the girls' time to shine. Unlike the boys, we were all lumped in together due to the sudden shortage of time (where did the hours go?). When the director asked for a volunteer, however, everyone was silent (having decided time no longer exists). I for one was keen to get my pants off (by getting home!) and announced, "Yeeeah, I'll have a crack." The girls laughed at my 'wisecrack', not realising I'd accidentally slipped into the ocker accent I must mock a little too regularly.
When all who were interested tried out for this secondary role, one woman had to leave but was assured by the director, "I can tell you now, you've got the part." Not exactly a confidence booster for all who were left to try out for the final, lead role! The lead male, also cast moments before, was asked to read off us remaining desperados, and who walks in but the typical lead I'd spotted in the foyer. He proved a talented actor, but I still felt smug for having picked it (and enjoyed an evil chuckle on the inside as I stroked my internal mustache. Wait...). With little left to lose, when my time came, I felt I gave a unique performance, even stepping in to embrace the lead when all the other girls had played it coy. My main man congratulated me with a "Well done!" and a high five, sharing a laugh over the "Yeea-ah!" that was my excited response. Now if that ain't on-stage chemistry, then my name's not.. Wotcha-ma-call-it.
My only remaining obstacle was Ann who, as she hadn't read for the previous role, was surely hiding some cunning cards up her sleeve (like a dirty, rotten cheat! She probably had some spiders up there, too. And.. disease). Waiting with bated breath, I exhaled with relief the moment Ann opened her mouth and proved she wasn't suited for the role. I knew without a doubt that a night away from my knitting and the chess club was worthwhile - I was going home with the part!

The auditionees were asked to wait in the foyer while the jury reached a verdict. I lowered my gaze, lest they see my pride at what everyone knew - I had freakin' smashed it, mate. When the director finally joined us and asked Ann to accompany him back to the theatre, I admit my certainty wavered, but I realised that he must be breaking the loss to her gently. The director reappeared, Annless (she must've taken it hard! That's what she said), and told us Ann had got the part. Now, you may have already gathered that result from my blog title, but for me...:

*BBBRRRRRAAAIIIINNNN EEEXXXPPPLLOOOOOSSSSIIOOONNNN!!!!!!!!!!*

My heart sunk as can only that of someone who still believes life's fair. The lead male had joked while we waited about giving us the director's number to abuse him, and when he mentioned it again, the director asked, "For a couch audition?" Yes, that is the most horribly degrading thing you could say at this crushing moment.

Back in the car, the clock stuck 10:30 and I felt like having a little sob. But, if I took the rejection of every audition to heart, I'd soon be singing, "Nobody likes me" and eating worms, so I used the brief moment of privacy on the drive home for an uplifting karaoke session (which, in my mind, made up for inflicting my alcohol-affected, out-of-tune voice on my workmates the night before).


Although this particular theatre has now endeavoured to crush my spirit more than once (like, twice!), I am gonna keep hitting those bitches up until they grow accustomed to my ugly mug and cast me. There will come a time when resident Ann and I are best buds, singing and laughing together in a field of daisies. But, until that day, she will be known as stinky, role-stealing, EEVVVILL ANN... (a.k.a. Spider lady.)

Movin' On Up.

Clayton, Clayton, Clayton. Birthplace of Charles Manson, home to the world's largest rat and boasting the country's biggest insane asylum. On a warm day, it's nothing but thick, tip breeze as you stroll past concrete lawns adorned with fountains and eagles. It's a place where you can really make a difference, by kicking a buck to a bum or putting out a car fire. Oftentimes, the Greeks congregate on street corners, speaking in their language to one another as they stare at you and point (presumably asking, "How are you? Do you speak Greek?"). Heck, I even personally birthed and buried 10 children in old Clayton town. Despite all these things (or perhaps because of them. I always get those confused), about a month ago now, Ben and I decided to make a skip and a jump over to Glen Iris.

We'd been looking to move for a while, but gave up on attending inspections that were often during work hours and were always disappointing. Our mate Adam invited us to his place in Glen Iris one night, asking, "Do you guys want this joint? I'm leaving." We answered, "Heck, yes, mo fo!" and the rest is history. How do you like that for Life working in our favour, little bitch that she is?

Prior to living with Ben, I'd always been in furnished share houses and had no experience moving bulky items. I found packing to be an overwhelming task (but then, I find getting out of bed overwhelming) and still had some untouched cupboards come moving day. I’d been a dainty moron with the packing earlier in the week, slotting items into boxes that fit into perfect spaces. This practice became laughable when time was of the essence and I began boxing any which-what together: the hot iron and my bedspread; the cutlery and the toilet brush, etc, etc.
True to her Taurusian nature, Ben's mum Kerry was like a bull at a gate and helped me to clear out those last final areas in no time. Kerry's efficiency did result in her throwing out the first rose Ben ever gave me, however, which I'd preserved for 10 years and, to be honest, had imagined showing our children! Feeling terrible for the mistake, she then secretly asked Ben to buy me another rose, signifying our new start in Glen Iris (which he simply told me about, instead of doing. Close enough, I guess).

Our friends Tony and Duwey also loaned a hand (suckerrrrs!). Gratitude alone prevented me from opening my mouth when Duwey sat down in my antique chair mid-move to eat his bowl of tomatoey pasta!
Duwey and I were clearly the macho men of the group, going for the coffee table when we saw the moving truck arrive. We couldn’t understand, though, why John proceeded to park the truck on the neighbour's naturestrip, and when an Indian man (looking very unlike my father-in-law) jumped out of the driver’s seat, we were relieved we hadn't donated the coffee table as a housewarming gift! Crazy timing, eh?

Another unexpected, confusing arrival was a man who'd seen our house advertised on the net for an open inspection. Our damn real estate agent, who had been unexpectedly lovely when we gave notice to vacate, had reverted to his true nature in the final week of our tenancy, arranging inspections when he'd promised he wouldn't. The poor visitor was very surprised to find us mid-move and I regarded him like a spider, in that he was more afraid of us than we were of him! So, after allowing him a quick tour, I caught him with a glass and sheet of paper and popped him back outside.

When the physical side of the move was almost over and I was making one of my final trips to the new house, I ran into our next-door-neighbour to be. He hesitated a moment before approaching and introducing himself (awww, Glen Irisians are so nice!). After flashing my most retarded 'I-want-you-to-like-me!' smile and muttering a weary hello, I took a moment to assess what would've been his first impression: I was wearing my ugliest clothes that I didn't care about getting dirty (which they did, as did any protruding flesh), I smelled like shit and my hair was in a mental frizz from the steamy bathroom scrub I'd just undertaken at the old joint. Awesome. Haven't seen much of that neighbour since!
Aside from scaring the neighbours, our Glen Iris experience has been utterly dreamy. I don't wanna sound snobbish, but living here makes me way better than you. I have stairs (that I invent fun ways to go up and down. Such as tripping) and a drawer for plates! (That's totes rich people, right there. And if the upper-class don't say 'totes', they do now, bitches.) Walking around the neighbourhood, it's nothin' but tree swings and beautiful gardens, some sporting cute signs that read, "To the person who eats a mandarin here every day, this garden is not your rubbish bin!" (Seriously...) When we saw a giant net around a big tree, we figured, "Wow, this neighbourhood's so perfect, they don't even let leaves fall into people's yards!" We were later told the net's for possums (and that we're idiots).

Ben was the first to visit our local supermarket, returning home with stars in his eyes and stories about fresh vegies resting on beds of ice. It was apparently a little more impressive than our previous supermarket which was run and frequented by booger eating mutants. For the first week or so after the move, I spent my days at work and my nights unpacking and began to feel a bit cabinfeverish. The cats and I were like a secret dungeon family, relying on Ben for tales of the outside world (oh, to see this magical supermarket for ourselves!). Whereas I quickly came to relish in our new home and area, however, the cats took a little longer to get acquainted. As Ben pointed out, they were initially strays who came from the outside world and had to get used to indoor living. It was interesting, then, to see that work in reverse at the new house. They were first released indoors and made sure they were familiar with everything before exploring outside. Whenever I opened a cupboard, they reacted like ladies for whom I'd opened a door, stepping inside with all but a verbal, "Why, thank you." They had also never used stairs, before, or a cat door (another brilliant feature of the new joint!). I'd only ever seen cats jump through those doors with ease, so it was funny to watch Mal and Dee cautiously press their faces against their door before sliding out like slugs. They are now jumping through very gracefully, whenever they care to take a break from sleeping, which they do just as well and as frequently as they did in Clayton.


We are all very happy and comfortable in our new home, and if the good life begins to make us feel hollow inside, there's a clinic just down the road that treats 'depression, anxiety and traquilliser dependency.' Ah, let the gin and tonic sessions begin!

*Whilst Mally's now bounding up and down the stairs, Princess Dee still takes them one at a time.

*We've finally got room for all our glasses! Most of these were gifts. Our friends must think we like wine...

Pulling Faces at Children (and Other Fun Things to Do In Gladstone).

*The bride with her proud cousin.

Ben and I recently wondered, what town can we visit where there's absolutely nothing to see or do? We simultaneously answered, "Gladstone, Qld!", high-fived eachother and, with a wink and a cheesy grin, hauled our butts up there for a week. The occasion was actually Ben's cousin Laura's wedding, which was a lovely event held nearby, and I honestly enjoyed myself (and did a worryingly good job of) lazing about for the remainder of the trip.


Having grown up with a brother and two male cousins she considers brothers, Laura is undoubtedly a tomboy. She can hold her own, has a renowned preference for black and the only girlish dresses I've seen her begrudgingly wear are those in childhood pictures. It was a very special sight then last Saturday, when her proud father presented her in a pure white dress with a long train and a sweetheart neckline. The dress beautifully contrasted her jet black hair which was pinned back (also a rare sight) to reveal diamond earrings and necklace.The bridesmaids were dressed in black, but this fell under the clever guise of a 'black & white' theme (and they did look fantastic).

Clouds had loomed overhead as we awaited Laura's arrival at the outdoor ceremony, typically releasing showers the moment she appeared. Laura's lack of vanity ironically gave her the feminine edge over the other ladies who threw grace to the wind to hold purses over heads and sulk over ruined do's (some of us even running [like a girl] for cover.. Even though my goddamn hair was ruined the second the rain touched it!). As with all backwards superstitions, it is apparently good luck to have rain on the bride and sun on the coffin. Someone retorted, "If you've got sun on your coffin, I'd say it's a little too late. How many people have sat up and said, 'Well, that was good luck, then!'?" Good point.

When we met Laura as a married woman, we were relieved to find that the tomboy was still somewhere under all that prissy fabric. She lifted her dress to show off a very impressive pair of black, studded heels. I would never have imagined shoes like those under a wedding dress, but they suited her to a tee. When I saw her afterwards at the reception with a cigar hanging out of her mouth, the picture was complete. Coolest.. bride.. ever. (Cos smoking's cool. Duh.)
Another cool dude I met at the wedding was Laura's grandfather. Pointing to Ben, he proudly admitted, "I used to feed him beer with a teaspoon!" So, he's the one who started it all! Between that and Ben's grandmother letting him drink the froth of her beers as a child, he never stood a chance. At the reception, Ben had naturally downed a few beers by the time dessert was served. He freely declared his tiramisu to be "a bunch of bullshit!" (No offence, tiramisu, he just doesn't like dessert.) We were seated with Ben's uncle Dean, who is always inspired by Ben's energy and gains a little more courage in his presence. So, when Dean's wife Margo asked if he himself would like to try the tiramisu, she was a little surprised when he boldly replied, "No way, Margo. It's a bunch of bullshit!"

I think the person who had more booze than us all though, was a poor young woman who was left to stumble about, knocking things off the balcony and wearing her black dress up around her navel. I'm the sort of person who enjoys pulling faces at kids when their parents aren't looking (try it! They love it), so when the boozy girl approached me with the most dirty look on her face, I pulled a silly face back out of habit. She reacted with surprise and confusion and I realised she mustn't have registered her own her rude expression earlier. She hadn't been playing the Funny Face Game at all! Oh, well, I doubt she'll remember.

With the wedding all wrapped up at Drunk O'clock, we spent a few more days in Gladdy with the in-laws. Aside from John pinching my book and Kerry taking my tampons from the shopping, announcing "I'll just put these mints in the cupboard" (which, by her embarrassed expression afterwards, I know was only due to her poor eye sight) we had a lovely time together. Perhaps to make up for the tampon incident, as well as suiting John's book-stealing agenda, Kerry heard I like jigsaw puzzles and dug one out of the linen closet. I saw the sissy fairy picture on the box and sighed, "That'll have to do." About an hour or so into it, however, I was fully engrossed, slugging back a beer as I fiercely constructed little fairy faces. And boy, were those bitches tricky! I have worked on many a jigsaw, and I can tell you that nothing's been harder than that damn main fairy's big pink dress. Argh, all the pieces looked the same! So, those sweet little fairies I'd initially scoffed at had the last laugh. I did finish the puzzle, though, (at 1am on the last night.. I would not be defeated!) so I won. *Sticks out tongue.*

The slow pace of life in Gladstone also allowed me to make some amazing discoveries. Like, when you accidentally put Chinese 5 spice on your porridge instead of cinnamon, it doesn't taste too bad; ducks still swim around at night (which we noticed on an evening walk and is actually quite eerie. As Ben said, "There's something unsavoury about a boy flying his kite at night)?; and when you wear a swimming cap, goggles and earplugs in the pool, the facial claustrophobia results in your sudden fear that someone plopped (heheh.. 'plopped') a crocodile into the pool - that honestly went through my mind and I had to keep checking there wasn't one behind me. Don't tell anybody I'm crazy!!


I'm not one for horrifically hot weather, but at this time of year in Queensland, it was just hot enough in the middle of the day to produce a light sweat (the stink of which you'd have to deal with for the remainder of the day if you were out, which was irritating at worst). What I did suffer with were the bright mornings which rendered sleep-ins impossible. I resolved to buy an eye-mask which I sought at almost every store in the main shopping complex. Oddly, though, the only shop that sold them in this land of the sun was Bras-n-things, which stocked a sickly, pink satin mask covered in frills, with Do Not Disturb written across it in diamantes. I practically laughed at the shop girl when she showed me, giving her a stuck up, "thanks, but no thanks!" before shaking my arse from side to side as I left with my nose in the air. I was pretty desperate for sleep, though, and when every other shop turned me down, I returned to Bras-n-things with my tail between my legs. Upon it's second inspection, the mask looked even more ridiculous, and I just couldn't bring myself to buy it. My last option was a chemist across the road, which luckily sold plain masks (and at a quarter of the price), thank Christ!

Just as I had pre-judged the fairy puzzle, I had expected to be bored in Gladstone, but thoroughly enjoyed myself. The moment we returned to fast-paced Melbs, so did all my worries, planning and chores. I will endeavour (unsuccessfully, I'm sure, but it's a nice thought) to switch-off and go with the flow a little more in my regular life, which was my rare accomplishment in the sleepy town of Gladstone. (Having all of my cooking and washing taken care of may have had something to do with it. Thanks, Kerry! Oh, and another special thanks to our friend Jo; she minded our cats while we were away, and they apparently brought lizards inside, vomited on the carpet and slept on her head. I swear they're normally good. Well, sometimes.)

Rosie's How To Make a Shelf with No Tools and No Brains.

1. On your walk home from the gym, pick up a plank of wood from outside a cafe where you later intend to ask for Christmas work, and hope they don't see you.
2. The plank is far too long for the space (even though it is only slightly longer than the too-short piece you hopped out of your car and [inaccurately..] measured like a psycho in the previous evening). After remeasuring, ineffectively, painstakingly take to it with a pruning saw.
3. Return to the space. The plank still doesn't fit, so take 100 hours to trim a little more off.
4. Repeat (seriously).
5. Since it turns out the plank has no magical floating abilities and will not hold itself up, return to the cafe wood pile. If anybody sees you, pretend to be a tree (finally - my acting training comes in handy!). Grab a drawer which, upon dismantling, will presumably have evenly measured, flat sides for propping up shelf.
6. Discover drawer sides have protruding bolts that cannot be extricated (without further crumbling shitty wood), and so try to 'drill' matching holes in shelf. With a screw. And a screwdriver. Realise this is ridiculous and try not to repeat in blog.
7. Saw slits either side of plank and slot in the stupid bolt wood. Aha! Perfect.
8. Return to space with assembled shelf and discover it still doesn't fit. What?! The space seems to shrink the further you go in. What is this? Alice in Wonderland.. land?! Smash a few things in a rage (like your other perfectly good furniture. And your husband) and return outside with the shelf.
9. Try ONE LAST FUCKING TIME to saw off the perfect amount of shelf with your pruning tool. Take several breaks to stare out into space, wondering what your recently deceased agriculturalist uncle would think of your misuse of the saw, as well as your pathetic attempt to prune back some bushes just yonder (again with the wrong tools. Which also somehow resulted in the breaking of a shovel...). Consider giving up after all this time and taking that well overdue post-gym shower, then remember that Stupidity is your middle name and proceed.
10. Try damn shelf in bullshit space again.. and it fits! It also sags in the middle and is too weak to hold all you intended, but you can bake my bottom into biscuits if you think I'm going to find a third prop.
Voila!

Cupcakes Keep Falling on My Head.

When Ben and I recently moved from old Stink Town (pronounced "Clay-ton") to a more well-to-do area, I became concerned for my fitness upon finding that the local gym's abundance of massage chairs was matched by its shortage of weight machines.
The cardio room in this land of leisure was equally unencouraging, the well-groomed ladies of the treadmills accomplishing no more than a light trot as their flawless skin refused to sweat. Now, I wouldn't call myself competitive, but when the opportunity airises to prove that I'm better than someone (which, as science has shown, can only be ascertained through a match in physical strength), I like to give them a royal thrashing before their family and friends, then parade about wearing their head as a hat. The good ol' girls of Clayton, who aren't afraid to give the treadmill the grunty pounding it deserves, were thus a little more inspiring to run amongst (I say that as though we were a herd of buffalo and, indeed, 'cardio' in Clayton was allocated to a paddock where we were sent to flatten out the land in exchange for our membership. Some of the girls didn't make it. I say they were better off).

With all the fine dining around here to grow fat upon and the fact it's safe enough to walk around at a leisurely pace (not to mention it rains the most delicious cupcakes and lemonade), I wondered, how do the fine folk of this strange land remain so svelte? WELL.. I got my answer at 11am on Sunday morning when I rocked up for Zumba (that's right, it's another dance blog. Ha!). Having come from a class of old women and one fat dude, run by dead-eyed dance school drop-outs (barring Renata, our beloved fill-in), I was accustomed to being the most co-ordinated dancer. Unlike my classmates, I still had all my original limbs (even my glass eye wasn't a hindrance!). This new, fancy pants class (no fancy pants, no entry) was made-up of fit, young women (except for one old dude. There's always one!) who didn't have to be told by a disillusioned teacher after they failed to follow the choreography once more, "Ok.. Just do whatever's comfortable." In fact, in this parallel universe, I was the slow one. I know, right? Crazy.

My new teacher (whose name I failed to catch but is probably something exotic, like.. Ann) is one of those high-energy, cheeky, fun-loving chicks you wish you could be. And since that's impossible (believe me, no matter how many of these women I skin, it's just not the same), you'd settle for being her best mate. She even resembled the personal trainer from Biggest Loser, Michelle Bridges, and certainly sported the same work ethic. In fact, it probably was her. Definitely.

By around 20 minutes into this class, I could feel all the calories from a fast food and booze diet typical of moving house (yes.. that's why) being exorcised, the little demons visibly flying from my body. (Or, it may have been sweat.) When Michelle/Ann tied back her hair at this point, put on wrist bands and warned, "Now we're really gonna work," I realised, however, that the hardest workout I'd had in weeks was only the warm-up... As is the way, just when I thought I couldn't go any harder, I pushed through the pain barrier and entered a state of euphoria. You know, like right before you drown.

At this rate, if I go to Zumba 3-4 times a week (which I won't), I shall soon have the figure of a 5 year old boy, which is every grown woman's dream.

Signed in Blood.

When our friend visited from WA, recently, she thought there'd be no feeling more welcoming than getting jabbed by needles in front of a crowd. Ever supporters of public torture (oh, to have lived in the time of hangings!) we trotted our dainty, untarnished arses off to the Tattoo Expo to lend our support.
Having just painted my nails before we left, I needed Ben's help pulling up my pants (decided it was a 'pants up' occasion). I was also scolded for eating my badly timed, ginormous ice cream like an unco 5 year old as we raced through the expo foyer, and reminded that I'd be in big trouble if I came home tattooed (missy!). My infantalisation now complete, I felt a little out of place in a room where facial peircings and zombie make-up were the norm. I saw one chick with pierced cheeks. Cheeks, people! Right where you'd find two rosy spots, in a perfect (cartoon) world.

We also learned, Duwey kindly demonstrating as reciprocant, that it is customary among tattooed folk to physically place someone where you would like them to be instead of saying 'excuse me'! - We placed ourselves further from the doorway after that, venturing into the darkness... As usual, Ben and I had entered a sea of black clothing in our wanky, typical married-couple matching white tees and light denim shorts. Painting my nails proved a smart use of time, though, (when is it ever not?) my choice of gaudy-yellow blending nicely with the bright overtones of the very popular pin-up girl look of the day. If we were sniffed out as plain-skinned spies, I could hold my nails up like 10 little badges and exclaim, "See? I'm one of you! Spare us! (Take Duwey - He said he wants the works!)"

Ever driven by the belief that the world revolves around me, however, I remained conscious of our reverse-freakism, and began fancying that the tattoed folk classed us non-tatters as 'cleanskins.' Good Catholic girl that I am, I knew better than to view this virginal skin as a source of shame. Rather, it was a coveted commodity deserving only of the highest bidder. We strutted about with our wares(bending over to flash uninked butt cracks.. Pulling shirts over heads to scratch spotless bellies), each artist looking upon us as the blank canvas fit for their next masterpiece, hoping that their needle will be the one. Or, they could play it cool like Amber's artist who, when she tried to introduce us, told her he was too busy and to bring us back later. Okay!

Put back in our place of insignificance thusly and moving on, there were some interesting sights to see. One big baldy was having the back of his head worked on and I watched with smug amusement as he tried to hide his pain, revealed only in the subtle tensing of his feet and shoulders. Now, I've never been tattoed, but I'm pretty sure I could take 50 needles to the head without even flinching (whilst swallowing glass AND breathing fire). So, obviously I'm better than that guy.

Another point of interest was the quarantine style glass box wherein Dr Rev had been 'blood painting.' This guy really 'pours himself into his work' (haw, haw), using his own blood to create portraits that are actually quite impressive beyond the gimmick. The use of the blood from the background inward adds a gripping intensity to the artwork, seeming to encapsulate each subject in a world of pain. Dr Rev had been working directly from the vein that day, and had slipped out for a rest when we passed his stall. The effect of that empty box was like evidence of some unethical experiment, straight from Rise of the Planet of the Apes; it was fitting then that the fresh piece on display was that of an ape, with a pained look in his eyes.

Or, if fine art ain't your thang, perhaps a skate deck imprinted with some lovely naked ladies, puckering vaginas and all. (I'm pretty vaginas don't do that, although I guess that'd make it easier...). On the way out, we also passed a cock-rock themed t-shirt stall which sold hats with flaps to complete the look. As I wondered why these particular hat flaps were ridiculously long, the stall guy popped his head out to reveal a long, lustruous mullet closely resembling the product itself. Question answered!


The remainder of the day was spent in getting back to our good, Christian, cleanskin roots. We skipped on over to DFO to find a couch for our new, fancy pants townhouse (all the while holding hands, singing Taylor Swift, riding white horses and eating cupcakes).


Please note: Many animals were harmed in the making of this blog, but only because it helps me concentrate. I do however, apologize if I have hurt, broken or spilled red wine on the feelings of friends. Amber's tats are quite rockin (and change with her environment like camouflage, which is cool). Well worth the public torture. Her artist was also very friendly when we finally had the honour. Ben may not be as bossy as I make out. There are some nights when he doesn't even beat me! I call them Treat Nights. And, for the record, I never claimed that 'tattoed folk' are the race responsible for 9/11 (although, it is a known fact).

Last Friday Night.

Last Friday night, I went out for dinner with friends, proving in the process that when you ride with me, baby, even an ordinary event can become extraordinary. “I’ll show you…” [Opens the gate to Jurassic Park.]

We’d arranged to meet at the Glen, as had several thousand other people (well, they were meeting THEIR mates. Jo’s really not that popular). We gave the parking lot a once-over and decided that since we hadn’t succeeded in finding a park right away, we should quit (an attitude I recommend for all fields of life), settling instead for a space down a dark alley in front of an abandoned construction site. Prime, brutha.
The hike back to the Glen was long and arduous. We climbed many mountains and crossed many freeways, the latter made easier by pushing the homeless out into the traffic. Needless to say (as I am not one to complain or exaggerate), by the time we reached our destination we’d worked up quite an appetite and could probably give a few starving nations a lesson in hunger. Our minds and endurance weakened thus, and knowing only that we wanted “some kind of.. Asian”, we naturally piled into the first suitable-looking joint that would admit us.

It was clear from the beginning that we’d found an anomaly among restaurants, the menu providing the first sign of danger. I am personally a fan of a simple menu, being that less choices help prompt a decision (a handy tactic for the hungry). Sure, sometimes you’ll have 3 or 4 pages, making life a little harder but still manageable. This restaurant, I kid you not, thought variety the spice of life, and spread our options out over about, ooh.. forty pages! If the amount of food wasn’t confusing enough, the restaurant was also having an identity crisis and allowed us to choose from every kind of food in the wooorld. The menu was divided into different cultures, including “Western” for the miscellaneous (heaven forbid they miss anything). You could have nachos, pasta, a steak sandwich, lobster (you know, if you were suddenly feeling a bit fancy at this Frankenstein establishment), eel, crocodile… As well as the mishmash of cuisine, there were so many damn animals to choose from that we fancied the restaurant was keeping a mini-zoo out back!

When we ask the waitress to explain “chiffon” sauce, simply for the assurance that it wasn’t shredded material (hell, they had everything else) we were surprised when she gave an answer. Although, I imagine the only prerequisite for that job was to sit a 50 page quiz on the menu alone, and damn your service skills. Unconvinced all the same that the cook could do a decent job of every meal, I went for what I assumed would be a “safe”, healthy option and ordered chicken teriyaki (or, item 2028, as Jo pointed out!). We had also ordered entrees, so when a plate of fatty chicken steak arrived, devoid of vegies and splattered with bottled sauce, I hoped it was one of those and not my meal. ‘Twas in vain. Not that we fared much better with the entrees. We had forgone an order of rice paper rolls for a “similar” dish that the waitress recommended. Apparently, rice paper rolls and deep fried.. something can be easily confused. How did you pass your menu quiz, woman?!

Ben and Jo did ok with their meals (smug little bastards), but Duwey ordered a terrible pasta dish and was aiming to drown out the flavour when he requested some chilli. With a look of disgust, the passing waiter raised his hand as an insistence for patience, and disappeared without a word. When he returned (which was also to our anstonishment!), he slammed down the chilli and again stormed off in silence. So sorry to trouble you, sir! I guess he was wise to your game, Duwey.

Although the meal was a disaster, we miscellaneous Westerners (plus one) couldn’t help but laugh. The clincher was when Ben finished his cup of tea and found a short, curly hair at the bottom. I’m glad he could look at the bright side of that one! We weren’t having so much fun, however, that we were willing to take our chances with dessert (of which the choices were also plentiful, of course) and moved on to a regular café. My effort to be “healthy” was thrown to the wind in my state of delirium and, intending only to order a coffee, I found myself sitting before a fat slice of lemon tart and a moccacino. It appeared magically, so the calories don’t count.

The laughs did continue at the next venue, but you should never tickle my funny bone in public - The night ended on me humping the air in imitation of my friends having sex, as you do. I blame the magic sugar.

(Oh, and we also did all that stuff in the Katy Perry song. I wouldn't want to mislead you.)

What Happens in Ararat Stays on this Page.

Ah, the life of a travelling actress. Depending on nothing but your suitcase and script; having no time for friends or the simple pleasures in life; never knowing where your next meal will come from or whether you'll have a bed, come dark; just hoping that it's worthwhile when you bare you soul for the world to see, night after gin-fueled night... (Actually, I've only performed in about 4 festivals in my entire life, but it sounded more interesting when I said all that other stuff. Or, 'lied.' Stay tuned for more amazing embellishments.)

Last weekend, the gang and I took our 'little one-act that could,' Fur Better Or Worse, to Ararat. The play is about two lesbians and a cat, and we all GET IT ONNN. No, no, we don't.. But you can imagine if we did, right? The play is actually good, family fun and we've managed to nab a few awards, thus far. Look, I don't want to boast, or anything, but we are pretty much the best theatre team.. in the world.

The first step in crushing all the other plays with our award-winning amazingness, was a road trip down to good ol' Ratty (that's what the locals call it. Well, I would, if I lived there. Which, having visited once, now, I pretty much am). It's an understatement to say that I'm not a fan of navigation, especially when it comes to unfamiliar areas. As my alternative to driving was to sit on our set couch in the back of a windowless van (well, it has one window. A dumb one), I finally decided I valued my pathetic existence and hit the road with multiple, intricate, hand-drawn maps and my husband's promise of a GPS for my next present.

My first stop was for the collection of my castmate James (a.k.a. Catman), which, although the closest point in the journey, somehow inspired my most detailed map. I studied the whole of Hawthorn vigorously, determining which points of entry would be most likely for a terrorist attack, and where I would go from James' house if I was craving some bandaids and a carton of milk (I assume his place lacks such necessities. [Yes, I crave bandaids]). Despite my weeks of research, and keeping my eyes peeled for the final turnoff, I began to feel uneasy when my estimated travel time of 25 minutes turned into 35. All hopes of turning-off were cruelly extinguished when I reached the end of Glenferrie Rd, the crescendo of my fears expressed through an unhappy-Rainman reenactment. When I was done rocking back and forth and chanting, "Always fly with Qantas, never crash," I strapped on a pair and successfully looked up an alternative route. But, the damage to my nerves was already done, setting the tone for the rest of the trip. James could only watch on in discomfort as I let go of the wheel to water my parched throat or to wipe the tears from my suddenly hayfeverish eyes (it was hayfever, I swear!). I was horribly paranoid we'd get lost, again, occasionally screaming in a 'Nam flashback style, "Is this the way?! Oh, god! - We'll never make it!!!"

It was only once we were a good distance along the Western Fwy that I thought it safe to stop for coffee and refuel my expended energy. Naturally, I made the common error in freeway-driving and passed a perfectly good stop, thinking, 'there'll be something again, soon.' A good while later, I was less fussy and made do with a BP, telling James, "All I want is something with caffeine. Everywhere has coffee nowadays, right? It's like a basic right for all humans, and animals, and rocks. Very, very tired rocks."
Now, is it just me, or do you think it was a horribly cruel act of that magical creature in the sky that when I strutted up to the BP coffee machine, I was faced with the sign, "Hot water only"? Hating myself all the while, I nevertheless asked the attendant the kind of question that kills me in my cafe job: "So, like... Can you only get hot water, or something?" The sweet, old, ocker girl out in the middle of Whoop Whoop had the patience of a saint, wanting to please the stuck-up Melbournite (she'd heard they were prone to explosive rage), and came out of her bulletproof cage to "give it a try, anyway, eh?" She looked more relieved than me when the machine spluttered out half a cup of coffee-like substance, so that I was sorry to ask for some milk to add to the long black it had produced instead of a cappuccino. Her profuse apologies and offer to refund my money (all $2.50 of it!) only added to my feelings of bastardness as I scrambled back to the car to enjoy my luke-warm beverage (turns out the machine wasn't producing 'hot water', afterall!). Well, I did say that caffeine was all I needed, so.. guess I got what I wanted! I should be grateful I didn't walk out of there with only a jar of instant and a straw.
(Also, I twice walked in on little girls in the BP bathroom. Not once, twice! Little shits used all the toilet paper, though, so now who's the bastard?! Should've flushed their heads. Oh, nevermind, there's more paper sitting on top of the sanitary disposal unit. Mmm.. hygienic).

Back on the road, James and I passed up many appealing opportunites, like hiking up the Grampians or panning for gold at Sovereign Hill. We even considered setting up shop and living quiet lives in a small town, a welcome alternative to that last, treacherous leg of our journey. But, we pressed on, both of us knowing the people of Ararat awaited us - nay, needed us - to brighten their sad little lives (and that love is a battlefield).


The show went down without a hitch, except for when I decided to stare into space instead of saying my last line. It was my new interpretation. We also hoped the play's reference to Skippy wouldn't aggravate our adjudicator, Ken James, who no longer wished to discuss his involvement in the series! It was apparently a non-issue, as we picked up awards for Best Comedy award and an Encouragement for James (keep working on it, little buddy. Almost there!) The truth is, the crowds absolutely love James' portrayal of a cat. In fact, he was so convincing in Ararat that one guy told him afterwards, "I've got 2 female cats I'd like you to meet." Pretty sure that's illegal, mate! And not quite the kind of.. 'cat' a man hopes to attract..


Later that evening, we sought our thrills in ye olde country pube, where the recommended special was a granny smith cider called, Dirty Granny, and the bargirl put her slowness down to 'drinking all day.' No worries, love. Bottoms up. We sat outside, gathering around the warmth of Aynslie's cigarettes and sharing the type of hearty laughter that can be fed only by post-performance air. We also shared some more personal stories that I will respectfully keep to myself. I don't think the gang will minding me repeating the one secret we found we had in common, though: It just so happens that, come nightfall.. we are all masked avengers. This became apparent when we simultaneously sighted the bat signal and tried slipping off into the toilets and phonebooth to change into our costumes. Awkward...


The next day, James bravely became my passenger once more, risking his life for the chance to return home. After spending over 24 hours cooped-up together, by this point, we didn't speak and could barely stand the sight of each other. Even our scents, which became concentrated in such a confined space, made the other gag. I'm only joking! I had a great time with you all, Laura, James and Ayns, and I look forward to the next trip, if you can handle me.

Spinning in Horror.

Boy, was I wrong when I claimed that spin classes at my gym got easier as the week nights progressed. Going along to the Tuesday night class, this week, I expected nothing more challenging than a medium-level workout, being that Monday nights reek of Tour de France aspirations and Wednesdays are for invalids (and me. I usually fake a limp as I walk in). What I hadn't counted on was the fiery little woman instructing, who I will now forever know as.. The Spin Nazi. What she lacked in size, she made up with terrifying intensity. Her top heavy body looked built for taking and dishing a punch and even without a mic, she managed to fill the room with her Lleyton Hewitt style, "C'MMMON!"


Although on time, the class was already well underway when I arrived (Interesting that the regulars knew to show up early, no?) and I was left to take a star-pupil spot in the front row. I realised why the front was so undesirable when we warmed up with a standing sprint and I breezed into my dainty, boppy pedalling; the Nazi gave a clear look of disgust over my style (later to be replaced with the more direct command "FASTER!!!") and I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore.


As the Australian Idol judges insist, song choice is everything. Whilst your regular instructors like to throw in the odd sadistic track like, Highway to Hell (tell me about it..), Spin Nazi's choices were truly disturbing. She hit us up with Addicted to Love early into the piece, so that we were left to visualise Robert Palmer's slinky women swaying with ease as we, on the other hand, strained against adequate resistance to match our pedalling with the slow bass line. Mere sweating and grunting does not sexy make.
Apparently, I even grunt daintily, though, and when I pushed through the pain to go "HARDER!" in obeyance of my master, I felt a twang in my butt and waited for something to snap (and not just the nose [let's hope that's all it was] of the guy sitting behind me, who was somehow way too close!).

The Nazi's next move, confirming her Nazidom definitively, was to take down the clock, flashing me a cheeky smile as she did so (being that I'm a chief culprit of clock-watching. Or, as I like to call it, 'when-can-I-get-the-fuck-out-of-here-ing'). I wondered, if I was to take her over my bike and spank her now, would that add the sexiness we were lacking earlier?

The moment that more passive mode of escapism was removed, our eyes all moved to the door. We watched the merry and free passers-by with longing, for we knew, "I was once like you!" Those pedalling close enough to the windows wrote "Help me!" in the sweat induced fog. But, it was to no avail. We soon became immersed in our slog until pedalling was all we knew. In fact, without a clock, who's to say how long we were there? I'm convinced that in our hard-working trance, we were all shipped off to Thailand and used as slave-labour for several months. We were forced to generate power by pedalling in factories, then returned to our bikes none the wiser.

No, it so happened that my seat in the front came in handy, as I was able to sneak a look at the flattened clock every time we got into a standing pedal. Naturally, the Nazi was running us overtime, and just as I decided I'd be leaving at the scheduled moment, she pulled out this little chestnut: "The next number will be a competition between the boys and the girls." Dammit! She knew my weakness: feminism. And proving I'm better than everybody. (Naturally, I won. And those that I didn't beat, I beat down later in the parking lot).


By the time our 45 minute class had turned into an hour and I'd lost all feeling in my body, I waddled out of there with all the other stunned fools who had just paid to be subjected to unspeakable torture. It's ok, though. I unwound when I got home with a nice, warm cry in a nice, cold shower. Ahhh....

10 Reasons I Should Be Dead.

1). When mum was just 2 months along with me, she got into an horrific car accident. A nurse who related her injuries to a doctor friend was told that such an early foetus would just naturally abort. Much to people's shock and dismay, however, I hung in there, plotting my future achievement of world domination. (Stage 1, Annoying the Entire Population, is already well underway. I started with my mother's recovery, as her pain medication was restricted due to her pregnancy, and I'm proud to say that I've been giving her a headache ever since.)
2). My older sister was not so pleased that I made it and sat on my head in protest. She herself was only 1 and a half at the time, so there's no need to beat her up for my sake. A few empty death threats will suffice.
3). When I was around 3, some older girls said it would be funny if I ran out on the road in front of cars. Sounded good to me. The first driver was very unimpressed, but decided not to kill me. She stopped  her car and flew out in a rage, asking if I understood the dangers. "You could have been strawberry jam! They'd have to scrape you off the road!" I was very intrigued by the image of becoming jam and getting scooped up by a giant eggflip, but decided to save my death for the less predictable future. Maybe I could become a Curly Wurly, somehow.
4). My sis and I got into strife one day when dad left us alone in the car while he ran into a mate's house. We hopped into the front seats to watch the clouds roll by through the windscreen, quickly noting the optical illusion that the car itself was moving. Due to our having knocked the gearstick climbing over, however, we finally realised this was no illusion. As the car rolled very slowly toward a gate (behind which barked a Doberman, hungry for little girls) we stayed in the car, screaming in our wait for the gentle collision which we knew would spark a movie-style explosion. We'd be forced to drag our charred bodies from the vehicle (against our father's instruction!) and live out our final moments as dog food. Luckily, Dad heard our cries and liked us (or his car, at least) enough to prevent this meaty fate.
5). Horses have occasionally tried to kill me. We had a very arrogant bay, Casey, who was above being ridden. Every time I'd trot him down the hill, he'd pigroot back to the top and drag me under the low-hanging cypress trees, trying to scrape me off his back.
We also horse-sat an evil little mare who repeatedly threw me off in one riding session. (Luckily, she was almost classed as a pony, so there wasn't far to fall. I was still tough, though, dammit!) After perhaps my 3rd time eating dirt, I decided my mother's literal policy of 'always getting back on the horse' could go to hell. Mum was so insistent with this rule that she once tried to enforce it with my teary sister, before it was pointed out that Bec's bone was sticking out of her arm! She did feel guilty over that one, though. A little.
6). One time, a giant anvil fell on my head. (There may be some phony reasons in this list. See if you can spot them!)
7). At the age of 10, my friend and I found a black snake near my house. Quickly weighing up the sensible options, we went with putting it in a bucket and frightening our mothers. Whereas my friend's mum was furious, mine was oddly unfazed. She never did seem to mind me playing in the long grass.. In fact, she'd sometimes cover me in honey and leave me in the forest, but I always followed those darned breadcrumbs back home.
8). When my mother left me home alone one day (needing more proof that I shouldn't be left to my own devices), I realised that if I climbed the wood pile and gave myself one final boost of strength, I could get on top of the shed. I grew quickly bored once up there, however, and realised that there was no gentle version of a 'boost' with which to get back down. So, like all intelligent folk, I jumped off. It hurt a lot, but, "Ta-da!" No death!
9). I have almost died of embarrassment on many occasions. And laughed my head off. Literally.
10). Ninjas.

In light of all these stories, and the fact I've never broken any bones, I hope you've reached the only logical conclusion: I am a superhero and should not be messed with. Stayed tuned and submissive for my world domination.

Why I'd Like to be an Elderly English Gentleman.

It may become apparent after spending a little time with me (assuming you first overcome the horror of my appearance and my excruciating attempts at conversation), that I behave somewhat like an elderly male. This includes such qualities as my partiality for dad jokes, my abuse of dated terms, such as 'pish posh' and 'poppycock', and my vigilant daily partaking in a sherry and enima at 4 pm, sharp. Being only a young, spritely woman of 21 (ahem...), my thus unfitting nature can actually be explained in the telling of the tale of my grandfather's influence.

My Grandfather had a lot of shoes to fill. Our Grandmother suffered a stroke as she was walking us to the park one day (we sure could be trying!), and left the scene shortly thereafter; our Nonno died as he lived - in a fight (though, I personally looked forward to the fleeting visits of this intimidating man, who would consistently produce little packets of smarties from his trenchcoat); and the only toys to be found at my Nonna's were the cold, hard, collectable dolls in her immaculate collection. Also.. we were scared of her warty kisses!

Whilst we three olive-skinned brats (then, at least. My British complexion kicked in when I actually started caring about a tan, which I can now only find in a bottle) were too much trouble for some, our well-to-do Grandfather showed us endless love and patience. That's not to say he never gave us a good whooping, but I can assure you we had it coming, and you can bet your bottoms I'll be belting my own kids, by crikey! (Starting from their first word, as we all know their speaking will only lead to swearing. Little fucks.)

Now, you may be thinking at this point (as other jerk kids used to comment when I was kid [that's right, you're a jerk, now. Woh, what happened?!]), "You call your Pa, 'Grandfather'? That's a bit formal.." (which I imagine you'd say in a very jerk tone). But, I can assure you the term was borne of affection. Mum began calling her dad "Father" after reading some ridiculously romantic Russian novel as a girl, in which the heroine did the like. When my older sister mimicked this (ahahaa.. Dum dum) and called him father, also, the quick fix was to extend it to Grandfather, which was used with familiarity and sweetness thereafter.
Less sweetly, (and unbeknownst to him) he also went by Grand'farter'. His poor hearing and our cheekiness led to this invention, which we thought was of utmost genius and hilarity, at the time. 2 years ago. Nooo, we were kids! We were less successful in abusing his deafness when we were misbehaving in the car and he'd tell us to be quiet, however; He'd catch us continuing to whisper in the rear view mirror and blast, "I can see your lips moving!" Seems his vision was fine!

Our Great Gran was also terribly deaf and, as she lived til 101, suffered some memory trouble. When Gran asked Mum a question, she would shout her answer to no avail, then try writing it down. By the time Gran was done reading, though, she couldn't recall the conversation and looked at Mum like she was a complete nincompoop for handing her an irrelevant note!
Thanks to these deaf old dears I'm now in the habit of speaking face-on and loudly (lips exaggerated to show word formation) to anyone over the age of 60, who tend to respond with a look that says, "I'm old, not stupid."

Our final term of endearment for Grandfather was 'Gramps', which we lifted straight from Back to the Future and he took in his stride like a champ. We thought it very fitting that among our many caravaning adventures with Gramps was a trip to the Grampians.
Caravaning was a huge part of the Grandfather experience. We kids had many a night's sleep contested by the rumble of a little heater set on a stifling full-bore, jazz tunes left to bumble away from the 'wireless,' and Grandfather's van-shaking snore, which I imagine resembled the same brassy depth and volume produced from his euphonium back in his band days. I am grateful for all those trips we took, though. Grandfather's love of Australia (reflected in his quick-draw of a camera or binoculars, and his inability to pass any look-out without stopping) and his wonderful grandchildren (self-evident) produced many a picture of my ugly mug spoiling some fine Aussie backdrop. Gramps partook in his own share of photos, which showcase his old man pose of one foot stepping onto a bench or the like, an elbow on the knee and a slight lean forward. You show 'em, Gramps, another pretty hill conquered! (In fact, as he never let his emphysema hold him back on boardwalks or a hike, I suppose that credit is due!) I was also lucky to live the childish dream of having a million Rosellas, typical caravan park residents, feed from atop my head. Some burrowed through to my brain and I contracted many incurable bird diseases, but it was still worth the pain.

Although Grandfather treated us to these trips, he was careful not to spoil us in other ways. Whilst we were guaranteed a yes after pushing through the first two no's from my mother, Grandfather never budged on his stance that lollies rot your teeth. He'd occasionally wiggle forth his falsies to prove this point (to our delight), nevermind the fact that he and my Grandmother had their teeth replaced only as a popular cosmetic procedure back in the day. We were placated by an endless supply of biscuits and ice cream to which we could help ourselves at any time. I knew better than to point our this hypocrisy and, although I no longer like biscuits, full-access to those overstuffed jars is a fond childhood memory. In fact, when my own grandchildren come to visit (that's right, I have grandkids. I'm incredibly youthful) I will be sure to provide the same service. And if they don't like biscuits either, they will be forced to eat them until they do, by golly (so that one day, they can blog about my biscuit jars, and so on and so forth).

Gramps tried expanding our little lolly-obsessed minds, where he could.
He blew the jelly beans right out of my brain when he set a complex math problem ending in 'x0', allowing me to work out some of the initial components before revealing it was a complete waste of time (which is actually a fine analogy for my life. Full circle).
Grandfather taught me how to spell 'friend', and I don't mean that as a cheesy line. I peeked at the word (or, 'cheated', as some may say) when he gave me a spelling test one night. He was so proud that I knew about 'i before e' (except after c!), however, that I discovered guilt as a wonderful motivator for learning and always remembered it since.


Finally, I would say that Grandfather's best quality was his wicked sense of humour (which you may say he passed down to a certain member of the family. *Ahem. AHEMMM!* Sorry, furball. I take my role as cat mama very seriously). I remember when I remarked on the handiness of a little travel shower cap I saw at his house. He asked, "Want one for yourself? All you have to do is book in for surgery at the hospital. Then, after your stay, they give you one of those at no cost." That easy, huh?
My family is very stuffy when it comes to expressing affection. As opposed to the more clear cut hug and kiss approach, we hide our mushy feelings by taking the time to come up with some horribly witty bit of derogation. Grandfather was fairly sick for at least as long as I knew him (I have that effect). When he found his emphysema overwhelming and needed a rest, he'd complain to my mum, "I think I'm dying, Daughter" and she'd say, "Well, hurry up, then." I'm sure you had to be there, but it was their favourite comedy routine, Mum's remark always met with a breathless chuckle from Gramps.

So, with that upbringing in mind, the next time that I flip you the bird or tell you to kiss my arse, just think of my Grandfather and know that I love you. (Not quite the 'British gentleman' conclusion set out in my contention, but it'll do. Now, on your way. *Flips the bird*.)

How I Came to Sleep in My Mother's Bed on Mothers' Day.

Went down to the old girl's house for Mothers' Day, as you do. When it came to sleeping arrangements, Ben and I were shown to the queen size bed in the bungalow, where there was already one black spider making itself at home through the open window, and the air was 90% ice. We recalled sharing a single bed in our early days, and thought we'd take our chances comfort-wise on the bottom bunk in my sister's room, being that I already had a cold and thought less cold air would be suitable (and happen to find minimal spiders an ideal sleeping condition). In fact, we decided, it would be utterly adorable and most certainly cosy.

So, about an hour into our being twisted together like pretzels, I questioned how the hell we'd ever managed to nocturnally cohabit such a teeny space. (Although, the fact Ben's muscles now burst out of the shirts he used to wear should've sounded alarm bells). Not one for snuggling, I quickly grew boiling hot, and fidgeted around removing pajama pants, a sock.. My wig. Ben's undies (what? I was bored). I was clearly disturbing my co-sleeper, in any case, but what finally drove me to the brink was an indistinguishable, repetitive thudding sound somewhere in the house that grew into a very loud banging. Wig, sock and pj's went back on (I kept Ben's knickers as a trophy), and I whisked up a blanket to find a new sleeping space.

I sourced the banging to a demonic shower with an unworldly dripping volume, stumbled across a sleeping bag (score) and, once I had climbed over / cleared unpredictable items typical of my mother's house (such as a ladder..?), settled down on the floor of the lounge room. My brother had the couch and upon hearing me enter even lit my way with his phone (helpful for the ladder clearing). Things were looking up.
  By waking Johnny, though, so did I wake his chest infection, and the poor bastard's blood-curdling death rattle ensued. Just like when you're stuck in traffic and you wonder whether to change lanes, though, I was relieved not to have changed rooms when (20 minutes later..) the coughing subsided. With a cold of my own, I discovered that lying on my back (the most comfortable floor-sleeping position) sent a continual stream of snot down my throat. I turned onto my.. "child-bearing" hips, thus discombobulating my spine, but nevertheless began to drift into a soundless dreamland... But, while some of us like such quiet and oh, I dunno, SLEEPING during the night, do you know what other people like doing?: TEXTING MY BROTHER! ARRRGH!!! The lounge had served me poorly and was added to the list of places I'd like to explode (maybe, or maybe not giving Johnny time to evacuate) as I packed my sorry, tired arse up and returned to Belle's room.

I squished down in the narrow floor space between the bed and a pile of clothes, where I was kept alert by the fear of Ben stepping on me in the night, or Belle jumping on my head from the top bunk in the morning (due to either their not knowing I was there, or the simple fact that I'm an evil bitch who deserves it). The room was considerably colder than the warm lounge where sicko Johnny had possession of the only heater (an oddly rare device in freezing cold Fish Creek), so I rested the sleeping bag over my face like a frigging grub in a cocoon and tried not to think about the potentially grimy journey it had endured prior to my finding it in the middle of the floor (and why it was full of Nerf bullets...). I had again reached an acceptable condition for sleep when my step-father's alarm clock reminded me that he's a dairy farmer (Yay!) and then, once he'd left for work, a rooster told me it was dawn!!! Thanks, thoughtful bird!!!!!!!! Ah, the country.. How's the serenity?

I basically laid awake until 7 am when my mother rose, her consciousness signalled by a smoker's cough which joined in beautiful unison with my brother's chesty baritone (both usually followed by a puff of ventolin [and the lighting up of more cigarettes. Ah, just what the doctor ordered]). I could hear them talking (probably about what an amazing night sleep they'd gotten and how lame it would be to be lying on the floor right now. Bastards!) and considered joining them when it dawned on me, "Geoff's out of bed. Mum's up. Free bed!" Not leaving my sleeping bag, I shuffled down to the kitchen in cocooned grub form (although I didn't morph into a fucking butterfly later, I can tell you that) and literally begged the pathetic words: "Mama, can I sleep in your bed?" (At least it was on Mothers' Day. I'm sure my vulnerability was a precious gift). And there I slept in my mummy's bed for a brief but gratifying 2 hours, before heading back out into the world to tackle more bullshit, and to inflict tenfold of my own.

Remembering Dave, one year on.

For Dave’s anniversary (Feb 27), I’d like to share some of my own fondest and funniest memories and impressions.

My first impression of Dave was actually as a scary older brother of a school friend, who he dealt with roughly for sitting in his chair one day when I came over to play. Mel and I retaliated by sticking lumps of clay onto his skate ramp, which was probably cleared by the rain before he was even inclined to use it (especially since he had no idea what I was talking about when I inquired as to its vengeful effects, years later). But, take that, Dave! Yeah… You’ll know not to mess with us again, when we’re kids (?)

I next took note of Dave in the latter stage of his Goth phase, when he wore long hair, black nails and a KILT to school. Being that this followed Braveheart’s release, it might not have been such an odd look if we weren’t living in a small country town, where you get teased for doing, oh, I don’t know.. ANYTHING differently. Dave somehow carried it off, however, which only reinforces what I always tell my girlfriends: You can get away with wearing any dress you like, as long as you wear it with confidence.

I got to know the quintessential (backward cap, white tee wearing) Dave, however, as of 2001, when I first moved to Melbourne and had the good fortune of becoming his housemate. My friend Vanessa came with me to scope out the house and I remember her warning him, “Rosie’s crazy. Are you crazy?” When he answered with a short, unimpressed, “No,” I knew I’d already screwed up my sister’s instructions, “Don’t act like a weirdo and embarrass me!”

Whilst Dave and I had little interaction on that first day, he did introduce me to my future husband who was visiting at the time, which is kinda important.

From his initial, “Welcome to my humble abode,” Dave made me feel right at home, even insisting I take my pick from his impressive collection of videos (remember those?) to watch in his room any time he was out. With such a considerate nature, it didn’t seem at all unusual then when he began calling by my bedroom in the evenings to simply sit on the bed with me, as sweetly as a girlfriend, and ask, How was uni? Was I settling in ok? Oh, and were there any boys I liked? I answered such seemingly innocent questions openly, never suspecting that my feelings for the hot guy at Taekwondo were all the while being directly reported to Dave’s best mate, Benjamin John! (That’s what he gets called when he’s in trouble.) Whilst my most intimate feelings were freely (and widely, for all we know!) dispensed, Ben had sworn Dave to secrecy over his own. Dave did such a good job that when he told my sister he had a friend who liked me (technically not breaking his vow..), Bec and I ran through who it could be, not once picking poor Ben!

When the secret finally was unveiled and I was still enamoured with martial arts boy, it was nevertheless sneaky Dave I looked to for advice. Expecting a run down of his mate’s selling points, Dave instead took a moment to consider his answer: “You know, Rose, Ben’s my friend, but so are you. And I say that until you make a decision, keep 'em both on a leash.” Ben and I obviously ended up getting married, so I guess I react well to reverse psychology!

Dave always took credit for getting us together and we liked to tease him and say we would’ve managed on our own. But he really did play a big part, he and Mads even chaperoning us on double dates when we were shy, young dickheads (leading to the inevitable creation of the unstoppable forces, Mave and Bosie), and for that I am eternally grateful.

Once, when Ben abandoned me for a spell (to visit his family, I think. What a jerk!), Dave and Mads invited me to intrude on their romantic picnic and scuba-diving. We went out to a quiet little beach on the Peninsula and broke Turkish bread over dip for our ‘nutritious’ pre-workout lunch. I was a bit nervous, as I’d never really gone scuba-diving and was also terrified of vicious sea-monsters (like seaweed), so Dave took my hand as we walked out, like a big brother.

It wasn’t the most amazing adventure (the water was choppy and all I really saw was murkiness [filled with killer seaweed though, no doubt..]), but it was a really lovely day and is a fond little memory of mine. It was also the day, after years of knowing me, that Dave and Mads discovered my hair is actually curly, being that it dried naturally back in the car. I remember their shock, as though they’d collected the wrong girl from the beach. “Uh-oh, we’re gonna be in the shit with Ben for losing Rosie!” Or rewarded? Not sure what they’d agreed upon, there.

One lonely Christmas eve, when I had somehow scored the job of staying at home to cat-sit (Ben was AGAIN visiting his family. What is that, twice in 5 years, now? They’re SO demanding), Dave came to the rescue and kept me company online. I asked what pressies he’d received for his recent birthday, and he raved on about this new fancy mouse that had replaced his old one and cost a fortune. Not ‘clicking’ at all, my mind went straight to a furry rodent, which was very confusing because, as I told him, “You have a mouse? I don’t even remember your OLD mouse! And why did it cost so much?”

This was met with a hearty, “HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” (he really rubbed it in) and I immediately realised my mistake.

He did turn my misery to cheer with ease that night, though, even if the funniest moment was due to my idiocy (which is terribly surprising…).

Thanks to Dave, I now also can’t hear the title CSI Miami without laughing. We were playing Charades and Dave came up with this insanely intricate rhyme to help us guess the show. He was certain as hell we’d get it but instead ended up doubled over in laughter when Ben, Melody and I all looked at each other, confused, repeating, “Sea-breast-eye-my-fam-bee. See-breast-eye-my-fam-bee.. What does it all mean?!” Oh, Dave.. You wasted your brains on a pack of dumbasses, that day.

Dave was one of the most thoughtful, considerate men I’ve ever met. He used to ask how you were, as you do, but then follow it up with, “How are you, REALLY?” Ben and I used to repeat this privately in mockery, of course (heheheh), amused that he would overanalyse such a customary greeting, but I think it says a lot about his genuine nature; he wanted to mean everything he said.

He once told me that he liked the number 13 because it got a bad rap and was considered unlucky. He even cared about the feelings of a NUMBER, for Christsake! I don’t think you can top that in sweetness levels.

When such a bright force of life like Dave is yanked from the universe, you feel the void like a wrecking ball to the guts. But my life is so much richer because he was a part of it, and I am grateful to have had him for as long as we did.

I Think I'll Take a Swim.

http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/national/blokes-banned-from-dance-sister-dance-at-brunswick-town-hall/story-e6frf7l6-1226013934362

I read an article today about an all female dance party in Brunswick being awarded exemption from equal opportunity laws, which sparked fears of segregation in the community. There was also a recent, rejected bid by my local council for the funding of modesty curtains for female-only sessions at the Clayton swimming pool, which would additionally provide general privacy in the glass-walled community centre. Although both proposals would appeal to a wider range of women, the latter in particular was aimed at accommodating the Muslim community and was met with the attitude, "They've come to our country to reap its benefits, they should adapt to our ways." Does this mean renouncing their faith in order to take a swim?

Failing to accommodate religious requirements can only result in these women staying at home, which is the very segregation supposedly resented. Where special consideration is given to Muslims, people make the quick leap to a topsy turvy world in which, as predicted by Ratepayers Victoria president Jack Davis, “the next step [may] be buses only for various nationalities.” It seems there is little entertainment of the concept of shared power, but rather a misconception that by giving a minority a little power, we lose some of our own; that it will indeed lead to us becoming the minority and that ‘they’ will do unto ‘us’ as we have unto them.

In a country that boasts its multiculturalism, it is apparently the mostly white and/or Christian Australians who are promoting segregation, and not the newcomers. We should be encouraging those of other nationalities and religions to participate in our community, whilst allowing them the freedom to do so in adherence to their own beliefs. The fact they require our allowance at all is grossly indicative of where all the power currently lies.

Renata Returns.

My Zumba teaching wetdream, Renata, returned tonight, the ethereal being even delaying her grand entrance to stop and ask me the whereabouts of the loo. (At first, I feared she'd caught wind [heh, heh - 'wind'] of the vicious rumours that I need to pee every 5 seconds and therefore know the location of every toilet in every building [which I will neither confirm, nor deny], but I quickly realised, with utmost certainty, that it is because I am the chosen one. [I knew I'd join you in the ranks someday, Buffy]).

With lines like, "What, are we in church? I said, 'Are we READY?!!!'" (met, of course, with a roar in the affirmative from the drooling crowd) and "Are we getting warm? Would you even say.. we're getting HOT? Or is that just a constant state of being?", Renata is truly a woman after my own heart. Who else would have the delightful confidence to turn around mid-song and shake her shapely booty in our faces, or make us so comfortable as to follow her lead in an imaginary bull ride, our imaginary lassos / cowboy hats swinging in pursuit?
To this day, Renata is the only person who has told me to put a smile on my sour face and actually been graced with one, instead of my usual response of a knife to the eye (which I am undoubtedly always wielding on such occasions. ['On', or for? You decide]).

Some fool even had the audacity to approach my beloved mentor tonight, mid-routine, and inform her that a shoelace had come undone. Renny (I figure we're buds, so that's her nickname, now) nodded in acknowledgement, waiting for the song to finish before instructing the dimwit, "I was a professional dancer. If there's ever a wardrobe malfunction, even if your boobs are hanging out, you never stop to adjust it." Right on, Ren (it's getting shorter with our ever growing friendship), you tell that sucker. No one corrects the Ren! She is never at fault!

I sadly learned that this was the last session with our darling substitute, being that our skinny, cheesy Minnie Mouse returns from whatever dreamworld she's been living in, next week. I managed to muster the courage I'd lacked at our last encounter (though I was gushing like the lamest girl in the school [how I would be able to relate to such a character, I have no idea *Looks away. Starts scrawling in diary, fondly entitled "Theories as to Why Nobody Likes Me"*] approaching the most popular boy) to tell Old Ren (we've been friends for such a long time, now, we're pretty 'old' mates) that I've really enjoyed her classes and hope to see her again (for drinks, alone.. No! What? Dance class. Yes..). In my nervousness, however, I somehow adopted a Southern accent, so now I kinda hope I don't see her again, since I don't know how I'm gonna keep that up. Oh, god - what wicked web have I begun to weave? What if she looks up my name in the membership files (and why wouldn't she) and is disgusted to discover it doesn't match my accent?! I should change it to Ella Mae, just to be safe. Living the double life will be worth it, if it means living in the light of her heart.

But, that will be my problem to deal with. For now, I'll go, and let you all sleep (even though it's bedtime as I write, I assume that at whatever time you read this, you will be so satisfied by my meaty story that you'll be partial to a nap, as after a hearty meal. At least, that's how we do it in Texas). Bye, y'all!

It Happens in Threes.

Here are 3 of my interactions with jerks, today:

A lady ordered some coffees and when I gave her a table number (oh, you know, just so the person making coffee, who wasn't me, could FIND HER in the busy cafe!) she said, "We don't need that."
"Really? I wasn't aware that the fictional character of BUFFY SUMMERS had come to life and come to town, since she happens to be the only person in the world I both fear and love enough [and may have a secret lusting after which is frankly none of your business and doesn't support your case any to even have wondered about. Homophobe] to make special allowances for!!!!!!" I didn't actually say any of that, since it would result in my immediate firing; and perhaps she didn't know what I was thinking since I withdrew the number and brightly replied, "Sure, no problem!"; But if that lady happens to be psychic (and I think we can assume with some certainty that she is), well then! - She'd be getting QUITE the unpleasant mental message. Oh, Rosie.. You are a revenge-exacting MACHINE!

Another lady watched as I approached with her coffee later in the day and when I set it down, asked, "Have you hurt your leg?"
No! What the hell's that supposed to mean?! Between her and the random gym trainer who asked if I had an injury, I'm starting to wonder if I look like a total retard. ("STARTING?" you all ask. Shut up. Don't you know it's cruel to tease the disabled? On the other hand, this lady may not be psychic, but she definitely has an affliction of the mind, to put it nicely, so I didn't take it personally. Should I have? No, no I'm perfectly fine... *Hits head three times, turns in anti-clockwise circles*.)

Lastly, but not least in ickiness, the most disgusting man on the planet came to hassle us at the end of the day. I know I've complained about pervs before, but this one just oozes sleaze from every pore. Whenever I see his face I'm immediately gripped with the mental image of him anally-raping some poor hooker (he couldn't convince a regular broad so far as the bedroom, and you'd defs refuse a drink if he offered, so spiking would be out of the question) with gritted teeth, sweat upon his brow and madness in his eyes. This is also the loser who asked my younger workmate if she had an older sister from whom he might buy some booty (Ok, not quite in those words, but it was honestly implied!). Oh, and he once tried to entice my MALE workmate to do him some favour with, "I'll let you touch me." Ew! Shouldn't that be to punish him for NOT doing the favour?.
Anyhoo, I obviously got stuck serving this bum today, and extended to him to smallest level of courtesy required by my job, coupled with an obvious indifference so as not to encourage his uncontrollable bouts of sleaze. All the same, Sleazoid tells me, "I've been watching you for a year now and I've decided you have a very nice manner about you." Luckily, I found this too hilarious to show any obvious disgust and was actually at more risk of laughing in his face! How could he find me nice? I treat him the most coldly out of all my customers! If HE likes me, everyone else must wanna have my babies. I think he must interpret my coldness as being cordial, which is probably fortunate.

So.. You can tell a full moon's on the way, eh? Sure brings em out in droves.

War of the Roses.

A beautiful bunch of long-stemmed roses arrived at my work today, which were destined only (as per USUAL on every special occasion!) for the arms of my MALE workmate! As we, the large team of female workers, swooned over the sentimentality, I for one was also puking with jealousy (as you do. I also puke when I'm happy, sad, or a little bit excited. I'm going to carry on thinking that's perfectly regular); and it occured to me, isn't that the point? (The jealousy, not the puking.) It's interesting how even though we've all had a taste of loneliness and neglect, we still like to rub it in other people's faces when we've found true love (or some version thereof. Perhaps a circus strong man and a bearded lady who have acquired a liking for a little extra tent time together. It's all valid). Sure, you may try to write it off as wanting to share your happiness with the world, but WE ALL KNOW it's ROMANCE SHOWPONYINGGGG! Hell, I do it whenever I get the chance (or at least on the rare occasion when my black little heart feels the compulsion. By beating. Once. Ben's actually a very unlucky man who leads a sad little life, being married to me!).

I think it also stems from the belief that if you've done the hard yards to achieve something, then you've earned the right to flaunt it. Like, when you're stuck in a long queue and you watch all the bastards in front of you taking their sweet arsed time at the counter. Once it's your turn, however, you think, "I've done my time, maaaan. Now I can fuck around as much as I want, and you suckers can suffer as much as I did." (At least, that's what I think. I count out all my loose change, tell the store person [and anyone else who'll listen] stories about when I was in the war...)
Or, as another example, when you've waited for ages to use the toilet, so that when it's your turn, you leave the loo in an absolute MESS just to spite everyone who follows. NO, NO, NO! I'm only joking. (In fact, I'm kidding about most things, but I should probably make that one clear!)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to enjoy an amazing pasta cooked by my amazing husband, as we share a bottle of wine and look over our wedding photos like adorable sweet hearts. Then, afterwards, maybe I can score a little massage action. (Funny how all I ever want on special occasions is a massage, and Ben just wants.. A nice hot meal.. [That's what she said. Speaking of whom, if you happen to be a lonely heart on this sickeningly soppy day, I bet She'd be up for a bit of action. She is such a whore bag).

Ro's Excellent (Flood) Adventure.

B and I were catching a bite with Duwey on Warrigal, last night. We'd just finished up and were ready for our Boyz Nite In when the footpath outside the door heavily flooded from out of nowhere. It was quite surreal, actually. Surely not that much rain had been coming down and if it had, why the sudden gushing, hmm? Shouldn't there have been a gradual build-up (which there probably was, but as far as I'm concerned, if I don't notice it, it doesn't exist, for my eyes are all-seeing [and my fingers all powerful with zappy, wizard magic. I probably could've stopped the rain with my magics, in fact, but I didn't think it right to toy with natural forces])? Being an impatient lot, once the rain figured it couldn't tear up the footpath and aimed at a nice BMW (or some fancy-smanz bullshit car) on the curb instead (ooh, I wouldn't wanna try that motor, soon!) we figured it was time to swim home, and to risk our lives with some driving, and took off our shoes to immerse ourselves in gutter water. People were watching our great bravado (certainly not because they thought we were silly, but rather they admired and worshipped us) and we had a few laughs. I put my thongs down at one point to put back on and a lick of water tried to swipe em. But, I think of all the damage that occured, we can be thankful I wasn't wearing make-up to ruin because I did get quite drenched, and that would've been the greatest tragedy.
Driving out of the lot, we passed an adorable couple in matching outfits (which I'll assume, for their benefit, related to sport and not additional cutesie-ness). We watched in wonderment as the fella chose to take his shirt off in the downpour, but were moved to "Awwww"s and "Ahh"s when he then used it to protect his girlfriend's hair from the rain. Well, he tried to, at least, but since he was running behind the (already saturated..) girl and the rain was blanketing in from all directions, he mostly looked like a dumbass (and we laughed at him and threw our rubbish in his face as we passed. My rubbish was an anvil. He squished funny).

Back out on the road, road rules no longer applied and mayhem was king. (At least, that's what I tried to incite by swerving all over the place and driving through puddles, occasionally giving a pedestrian a love-tap. I kid, fools. I kid.) It is funny, though, how panic-stricken people become in these situations so that at a time where they should be driving more carefully, they let their stupid colours shine and drive live maniacs. It didn't help that pedestrians occasionally wove through the traffic like zombies. There was a car crash on our trip home. Cars were broken down, or simply stopped in the middle of the road for whatever reason (actually, it's sounding more and more like a zombie movie!).

A bunch of street urchins (or neighbourhood children. It was hard to tell in that rain. They were possibly large rodents who were unlodged from the sewer by the flooding, and had quickly learned to imitate humans. Well, some people aren't that different to rodents to begin with, right?) were standing on a street corner by a great puddle, beckoning for us to splash them as we passed. We didn't, of course, cos we fuckin hate kids. Well, more specifically, I didn't think it was worth splashing my motor simultaneously, but they were cuties.
Having said that, although we took the road pretty cautiously, we did drive through an unseen puddle at one point which gave off a large splash, resulting in a communal, "WEEEEEE!"  We're such predictable dickheads.

Anyway, end of a long, riveting story, we made it home (sorry to all who hoped I was writing this from beyond. But, those who know me even a little would know that I'm EXACTLY like a female MacGyver and can beat any odds), watched our stories and lived happily ever after. The end.

The Shittiest Day From Hell.

This is written in the space of 5 minutes, Jack Kerouac style (except, I'm fuelled by the speed and exhilaration of life, rather than a whole bunch of drugs), so pardon the French. Normally, I think swearing's fucked.

Right.
It all began at breakfast, as days are wont to do. The cafe was flat-chat the moment we opened the door. A moronic ho nevertheless ordered a cooked breakfast evidently before whisking a child (who seemed too old to be her own, so I'll fairly assume it was the daughter of the older, married man she must be banging) off to school. In the thick of the fray, the woman mentioned she was in a hurry, and that the 10 minutes I subsequently told her the breakfast would take, simply wouldn't do. Well, it must've been her bless'd butt's lucky day, cos I worked a miracle and served her sooner. But, for future reference, woman, in my experience, 10 minutes for breakfast isn't very shabby! Maybe next time, order toast, with a side of get fucked (in another cafe).

Next up, the Muffin Man.... I've got this damn take-away muffin I've swiftly zapped up that I'm trying to unload, right? I called out to everyone in sight and, suspecting it belonged to a particular real estate darling (aren't they just the nicest?!!) I called out to him and his buddy several times, then approached the friend (as the man in question angled his arse at me instead of his face, though it's hard to tell the two apart) and asked, "Did you or he order a muffin?" A definite no in response. And YET, 5 minutes later, arse face waltzes into my world and requests his muffin. I told him where to find it (on the bench, not up his butt, though I was tempted) and explained that I'd called out to him repeatedly and had even approached him, ensuring he acknowledged his idiocy! I know these jerks ignore me on purpose. I'm sure even my boss would've reacted the same. There's only so much guff you can take.

As the hits kept comin, I was losing patience throughout the day, and when an elderly lady laughed at the lunch I brought her, I lost my shit and actually asked, "What's so funny?" She explained that she was merely surprised at the size of the meal and didn't think she could get through it. Oh.. That's alright, then. Ahem. I made the gesture of slitting my throat, though, just so she knew not to try her laughing shit on me again. [To any colleagues reading this, I may have exaggerated this scene for entertainment purposes, so.. Let's not get me fired, eh?]

My goddamn nails which I'm trying to grow kept snapping off today for some reason, too, and I had to keep stopping what I was doing just to file them so they didn't catch on shit. And my $5 earrings (surprisingly) irritated the shit out of my ear lobes, but I kept shoving them the fuck in and telling my ears to take it like men.

Then, to cap off a perfect day, I was called into the boss's office for a meeting! This just entailed a lovely pep talk though and a wee pay rise. Aw... That was nice. Yeah, nah, that was good actually, yeah.

By the end of my shift, I was so wrecked that I flicked over into a state of delirium and was affected by uncontrollable giggling, which was kiind of funny. I had to be careful not to laugh in customers faces as they came in, though.

In a word, I think I can summarise the day with a simple, "ARRRRGGGHHHH!!!!" And I'll give you a hint - that wasn't a cry of lust.

Now, to go party with friends, who shall absorb the remainder of my rage. I'm sure they've done something to deserve it along the line. If not, I can always blame PMT, which it's safe to say that I have. Because I do. Thanks for reading about it, and being among my day's victims. Muhahahahaaa!!!