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!!!

Story of the Best Dance Instructor, EVER.

 When a 'lady of great proportion' took the place of my usual stick-thin zumba instructor tonight, I thought, "Here we go. It's gonna be a SLOW class tonight." (Hey, it's a reasonable assumption.) She was a loud, confident American woman named Renata who, contrary to my cold calculation, could shake it with the best of em and just so happened to rock.. my.. world.
Firstly, she abused the new swarm of teenage brats for their typical tendency to cluster in the back of of the class: "I know you all have magnets in your bras that make you stick to the wall, but you need to move your butts up here where I can see you!" Unfortunately, the teeny boppers loved her nevertheless and are bound to show for another round. (Stay outta my class, giggling, squealing fools who I was once like [and still am like, but I can't see how that's relevant] but no longer care for!)
Lady Renata had us screaming and grunting and kept such a straight face throughout her bold, thrusting routines that it was hard not to take it seriously, too. We gave it all we had, our faces ever-smiling to contrast her deadly expression, because we were having so much fun.
Despite her loud voice, Renata didn't need to speak, commanding instead with her body (which was, interestingly, much easier to trust and follow than the regular flimsy instructions, "Ok, girls, now in 1, 2, tee hee hee!"). This woman was so tough and awesome, her signature closing move was to slam her fists out to either side, as though crushing skulls. It was very tribal. She made my regular teacher, who also dances in cheesy musicals and almost certainly thinks she's living one, look like a girl scout trying to teach sex to hookers. She made us feel like goddess, amazon, champion women who laugh at men and their stupid weiners.
She even made the cool down fun by beginning it as another dance (the first move being a fuckin awesome Saturday Night Fever pointing pose!), and sneaking in some stretches. Wow...
Simply put, [CAUTION: the following line is DISGUSTING. You have been warned, so don't come bitching to me] Renata - I think I wanna have your fist babies. Ahahaha!

Nah, but seriously.. Respect, girlfriend. And thanks.