Inside the Underwear Drawer

So I was thinking tonight that over the last couple of years I have managed to discuss an entire range of things on this blog.

Men, love, relationships, work, accessorising, hair removal, cats, dogs, horses, weight control (or lack there of) alcohol intake (or lack there of), hell, I think even my puppies have rated a mention a time or two, and I don’t mean the barking yapping kind.

But here’s something I’ve never dedicated a post to before. Underwear.

Sorry bout the left of centre idea, but my sister reminded me tonight (having learnt of my new love of aprons) that I once had a wardrobe just for my g-bangers. This is an exaggeration of course, wasn’t a wardrobe at all, was a mere cupboard / sideboard affair…. Joking.

I did once have 56 pairs of knickers though, and for the record they will actually fit into just a couple of drawers, and let’s face it, my knickers use to consist of a lot less material than they do now.

These days it’s all about the boy legs, the comfort bonds undies, or the big suck-my-tummy-in-tight versions,. I wore my big Bridget Jones undies to a wedding one night and TLOML (the love of my life remember, far out, don’t you folk pay any attention?) well the TLOML was mortified as when I sat down at one stage, my dress rode up a bit and you could see the long legged beige ‘I’m too old and fat to wear a fitted dress without this underwear’ show somewhere on my (rapidly aging and expanding) thigh.

Turns out he wasn’t embarrassed by the flash of thigh on show, poor deluded bloke still thinks they are perfectly acceptable (bless him and the horse he rode in on) but worried the world (well, anyone briefly glancing my way for around two seconds) saw that I had succumbed and wore such tasteless panties.

Actually whilst we are on the subject of knickers, does anyone else cringe when they hear the word ‘panty’. It’s wrong on so many varying levels, just because I say so.

So anyway, that was the last time I wore the Bridget Jones, after I shoe horned my way into them, which took about half an hour, I discovered it then takes an additional half hour to get them off . Needless to say, all but the most ardent lover would have given up by then, if they hadn’t have already been turned off by the mere sight.

These days I no longer have 56 pairs of knickers, I’m down to a mere 24 or so, its much more manageable, except for the fact as I mentioned, they are somewhat bulkier than the undies of my youth. In fact, in a few more years I may as well just wear a burka and be done with it. Now, moving on….

This leads me to bras. Does anyone wish to move on the bras now? I’m hoping not, cause I’m not quite ready to discuss them yet. That moment in Bras and Things where I discovered I was at least a D cup, still has me hyperventilating, nor have I worked out what to do with the numerous C Cup bras I still own, which for the record quite possibly match the underwear count.

Something I would like to know though is do men really admire underwear as much as I do? Now, TLOML is certainly a practical fella, so he doesn’t seem to even notice if it matches, has lace, cute prints, or merely holds my puppies up. (not the barking kind) On the bright side, I no longer feel the urge to stuff my drawers (the storage kind) with expensive, cutesy, pretty, seductive, or raunchy underwear.

Granted, I still have a lot of it, some fetishes never die we just merely learn to quash them down a bit, but the amount residing in there is more of a leftover from the old days and a reluctance to throw them out.

So that’s my knicker story, riveting wasn’t it?

The Big V..

Before I even begin I would like to aplogise for whatever may come out of my mouth (well fingers technically) tonight. For a start, I’m more than a little intoxicated following a bottle of champagne (is that just not a gift from the angels or what?), and am embarrassed to say still I’m staring goofily at flowers. (whilst quaffing the bottle of champers that was magically hiding in my fridge)

There are a few things you need to know about me and V Day. (actually, there are few things I shouldn’t tell you, but being pissed I’m bound to spill it to the world regardless)

Number one, when I wrote it had been four years since I got on with the 'Big V' I lied.

I know, shoot me down, why I thought four sounded better than seven I don’t know (is there EVER any method in my logic?) Call it vanity. Meh…. whatever. I’m drunk typing to a laptop, I’ve probably lost all street cred here anyway.

So it’s actually been seven years. Now don’t get me wrong. I haven’t been celibate all those years (tune out family) I just haven’t actually been seeing anyone over the actual V day, or spreading random acts of kindness with anyone that would think to send me anything, or that I would feel the need to send anything in return too either. (Last year was a corker though. See Valentines Day post a couple down) and I was determined I was going to ignore this holiday for the rest of my days.

This wasn’t hard really, as even in the past when I have been seeing people I really wasn’t hugely into the day. Call my cynical maybe, no, wait.... just call me honest. I really have been of the belief that it’s the little things that count.

From all my relationships (again, I lie, the handful that I would actually call relationships I mean) I have only ever been impressed by the little things. Someone looking after me when I’m ill, running a bath when they know I’ve had a rough day, taking a day off work to sit outside a doctors surgery….. that to me is romance. Not flowers or chocolate, or serenading love songs. (for the record though, as long as I live should you ever play a Celine Dion song near me I may be forced to charge at you with a sharp steak knife) but I digress, what I’m trying to say is, I suppose I’m not impressed easily.

Due to the fact I had been communicating daily with man henceforth known as “nice boy”, (shite, as I typed this I just spilt champagne in the bed....should nice boy know this, I’m pretty sure he would re-nig on the roses) (ps – is it just my drunken mind, -or would re-nig on the roses make just a super country song?) Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, so I’m communicating daily with nice boy, thinking how nice he was and how I would really like to smooch the bejesus out of him (once again, not sure who bejuses is, or why I threw it in there, but I’m sure somewhere in my pickled mind it’s a saying I’ve heard) soooo.

Where the hell was I again?

Oh yeah, smooching nice boy (PS how glad am I he doesn’t read this blog?) Anyway, um, yeah, I like him, didn’t know if he likes me (wait – edit – as a single male I have no doubt should I hit him up for it he would be interested – I have size c to d boobies and legs as long as my hair - which as we know covers my nipples - but I mean did he ‘like’ me, like me) (ps again, apologies for just sounding fifteen years old then)

I agonized over wether to send the nice boy a happy valentines message. Would he take it the wrong way, was it too soon, would he think I was some sort of bunny boiling freak etc.

Shite, having poured more champers, I now forget where I was going with this.

I think the bottom line was………I’m pretty wrapt, despite my cynicism (try typing that when you’re cut folks) that he actually thought to send me flowers.

Strangely (or perhaps not if you do a quick run down on the men I’ve dated over the years) I’ve never actually been sent flowers. I think it’s this point at what I’m chuffed at really. My sister (God bless her cottons socks, must dedicate a post to her soon) has been known to send me flowers, mainly because she knows no one else thinks to send them to me. (I know, trust me, if I could patent her I would, then everyone would get the truly top shelf sis I have)

Again, I’ve lost my train of thought sorry.

Let me refill my champagne.

Again.

Right. Flowers. I got. On the big V day.

Lets just cut a really long rambling story short shall we.

I don’t do V Day.

This year I did.

I’m wrapt with my flowers

Yes that’s pretty much it in a nutshell.

Will I celebrate next year? Who knows. I try not to look ahead.

I would like to add though that THANK GOODNESS I GOT FLOWERS otherwise, following sisters text this arvo I might well be drowning in drink right now. (oh wait, I’m doing that anyway. Right. Moving on)

Anyway, my five year old nephew (who has previously gone by the name of Cowboy according to him) came home from Kingergarden with a REAL valentines card. From his “girlfriend”. By all accounts they are as hot and heavy as two five year old can get. If he is starting to share his chips and popper at little lunch with her, Im going to call it love. So he gets a V day card from her (that was the sisters text that would have had me drowning in alcohol by the way)

I go seven fricking years and he gets one in his first year of school!

I know, where is the justice?

As a proud aunt I’d like to say though he did realize the error of his ways at not having a valentines card ready to return to her. (this talent of recognizing this will come in handy, say 25 years from now) In light of the fact he had nothing but his personality in return (though those that know Cowboy will know this should be more than enough) he searched for a gift. Nine year old sister (who bless her cotton socks too, seems to think I’m a pretty cool aunt, even regardless of the fact I don’t remember anyone birthday but my own and Jesus) happened to have an unwanted plastic bracelet from the showbag she got at the local show last weekend. Cowboy has decided this is the gift he will give his beloved.

Now that my friends….. is love.

I simply must leave you know (did I just hear sighs of relief?) to get back to my bottle of bubbles… I have roses I need to goofily smile at and a nice boy I need to ring.

Cheers, and happy fricking V Day to you all.

My Kind Of Love Song

Since I posted about Iris Dement a few entries back, I've keep hearing "what the hell were you talking about?" (although come to think of it, I keep hearing that anyway....I think I see a pattern forming here)

So I was thinking about what to give you. (no smart comments please)

I could have given you the sentimental "Our Town" (which hit it big commercially for a while there when it was featured as the very last song on the very last episode of Northern Exposure....I think I just showed my age then by the way)

Or I could have given you the sad and haunting "No Time To Cry", which makes me tear up everytime I hear it.

But...NUP! I give you this is instead, my favourite love song.

Why do I like it? It's quirky, it's offbeat, it's completly left of centre. But its love.

I suppose the song reflects that love isn't always chocolates and flowers and warbling Celine Dion songs.

This song....this song is me.

If I'd Have Only Known...

As the saying goes, life doesn't come with an instruction book.

Clearly if it did, there would be a number of things in it that pointed out the obvious 'fuck up and failures' that you should avoid throughout your life is you wish to get out unscathed, unhurt, unruffled and aghhh...sober. (pause while I refill my glass please)

So many things I wish I had known.

Things like, never throw out your clothing as at some stage they will be back in style - even the flouro gear if you believe Supre. (I would like to add though, as a rule of thumb...if you were young enough to wear it the first time round, chances are you are going to be too old to wear it on its revival)

Just on a side note on Supre, I'm not known to frequent this store (as we known from my love of cask wine, clearly Im a high quality girl) but recently I ventured in on the lure of cheap little $10 shorts. Long story short, was rather dismayed to find I had to go up to a medium in the shorts. Worse followed.....spying a fetching crochet type bikini (and surprisingly, that wasnt said sarcastically) I took it along for the ride to the change room. Folks, at five foot nine and weighing some 59 kilos I was a LARGE. But wait theres more, out come the steak knives, and with the steak knife twisting in my heart I then proceeded to discover I was an EXTRA LARGE in the fitted t-shirt I was eyeing of.

EXTRA LARGE.

Want me to say it again? Five foot nine (and a bit) 59 or so kilos (depending how bad my cravings for McDonalds Apple Pies have been that week) and I was an EXTRA LARGE. Yeah, Supre sure knows how to make a girl feel good.

Anywyay, I digress, (as I often do) where was I? Oh yes, things I wish I had known.

I wish I had known that all those men I have cried over weren't worth it. (because goodness knows, there always seem to be some other looser happy to treat me with disrespect to take their place)

I wish I had known that spending your youth wishing you would put on weight was wrong.....for once the universe listened and I cant scoff hot dogs for breakfast, lunch and dinner like the old days. Why the hell did I cry when people nicknamed me greyhound?

If I had only known that balls don't really turn blue (I can't believe I ever fell for that one either)
....and if I had only known that the last tequila is never going to be a good idea.

For the good of the future generation, in tommorows post I'm going to start writing a 'lifes little instruction book' to help them get by. Feel free to make suggestions.

For now though, I must run. Its 8.22pm and I'm at work drinking wine and have just had a really lovely chat with security about why I am still here and why hasn't anyone set the alarm code yet. I think I really bonded with them though, but sadly it they couldn't make it over for a drink.

It then took me approximatley (you try spell that sober for anyone laughing) twenty minutes of phone time to trawl though my emails and folders looking for a security password I didn't realise we had. I thought it was just a code, didn't know I needed a word as well!

If I'd have only known.

PS Here is the LARGE bikini.

(and though you may be wondering, now is not the time to try to explain what my medal was for)

Who's Wearing Their Cranky Pants?

That would be me. I'm wearing my cranky pants and don't you dare disagree with me!

See that dog above? That's a good representation of what I look like sitting at my desk at work right now. Okay, as we know (thanks to the below post) I don't have 'fur', but should you venture into my little nook of the office you will find yours truly with a very similar expression, and I'm likely to snap and snarl at you in the same way.

Having chose to detox this week (following the great two large pizzas and copious amounts of wine entry below) I was determined to not have a drink all week.

But what can I say, the office is driving me to it..... standy by for a drunken rave later on this evening. (If I haven't been sent to the pound by then)

Hair Removal Hell

Well after posting the 'Feels Like Home' entry below, I was feeling rather melancholy and blue so decided something needed to be done before you had yourself one rather depressing blog entry here instead of what you got.

Fueled by my cheap wine and thinking a treat was in order I decided Pizza was the obvious choice. There's my first mistake (actally, the cheap cask wine was probably my first mistake if the truth be told, the second being to sit and listen to sad songs whilst sharing wine time and choc chip muffins with the poodle, so by the time I got around to the pizza we were probably staring down the barrel of at least mistake number 3)

Anyway, pizza ordered. With the help of a coupon due to the 'extreme budgetting' I was attempting (coupon out of date, but I'm not known as being able to talk my way out of things for nothing.....scored two large pizzas at bargain price despite the deal being a month old) Come to think of it, seeing as I was doing 'extreme budgetting' I probably should have been doing wonderous things with marked down mince, but a domestic goddess I just wasn't feeling last night.

Of course, in my head I told myself two large pizzas and garlic bread should last me a good couple of days. So wasn't 'really' splurging if I got a few meals out of it.

There you go, another mistake.

I don't even know what number I'm up to.

The whole evening clearly just turns into one big mistake all around.

I ate the pizza pretty much in one sitting, though granted, the sitting was over an extended few hours. Two large pizzas. TWO. I know, I'm cringing too! They were thin and crispy base, if only that took away my guilt. Having managed to gain around 3 -4 kilos over christmas and new year I really should have known the pizza was a bad idea. I should also have known that I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL. Rule of thumb in my house is I can't actually let the bad food enter the premises. Once entered I loose my head and tend to eat it in one go. I can't help but wonder if I have an addictive personality, I rarely buy a block of chocolate for example, or packet of biscuits as once it's open it's goooooone with nothing but the wrapper, a few crumbs and a satisfied expression on my face left as the only evidence of what went on.

So there goes the pizza (and my quest for my previously flat stomach) and I sit there fretting over what I've done. As we know from here http://lifesnotalwaysbeautiful.blogspot.com/2007/11/great-weight-debate.html I'm sensitive about winging about my weight so quickly decided SOMETHING MUST BE DONE to get me out of this 'woe is me, Im feeling fat mood' (of course I feel fat I kept telling my stupid head.......I just ate two god dam LARGE pizzas, ie sixteen sliced of pepperoni and meatlovers bliss....was hardly going to feel like a Victoria's Secret model after that. But bah... my head is stupid at times and thinks the most unsatisfactory thoughts. I really despair of it)

Remembering the twenty bucks I had spent at some stage on some home salon wax I decided a bit of 'beautifying' would no doubt restore my mind to happiness. (I may have been feeling podgy, but I could at least feel podgy hair free) Now generally I have no fear of the beautician. I can chat my way through a brazillion and barely blink. Though I may not look like it, I harbour two tattoos and four body piercings and have been told on numerous occasions I have an excellent pain threshold (again, this alone must be worthy enough for another blog entry, as how I ended up that way is beyond me. I cry watching Man From Snowy River like the big girl that I am, but can walk into a body piercing place without even a drink to fortify me and feel nothing but a rush. Go figure)

Sculling more of my cheap cask wine I read the directions and thought was a breeze it would be. I was probably about two weeks overdue for a wax, but had been putting it off due to the Great Budget of 08. (I hated that budget before.....I really hate it now)

Heat the wax. Put on the powder (just like the professionals). Put on the wax, RIP. Yeah, not too bad, was merrily ripping away (in between wine glass refills) thinking how good was this. EASY! And I've saved money.......go me!!

Mentally high fiving myself I prepared for the..... how do we put it.... tender bits. I like to go all off you see. I'm a fan of smooth.

I could do this to myself, I really could (sculls drink again) At the beauticians she manages to do it in a few swift rips that hurt more than elsewhere and does at least make me pause in conversation while I intake my breath.

To do this to myself I can't describe the agony though. Maybe I didn't pull the um... 'area' tight enough. Maybe I didn't get the angle right (its a bit tricky around there, no wonder men practically need a GPS and road map to navigate) but OH MY LORDY. I know, I try not to take the big man above's name in vain, but I was praying for strength I tell you. The first rip was agony. I actually had a brief moment of panic as II realised I had happily slathered wax everywhere and couldn't actually get out of now ripping the rest off.

It took the remainder of the wine cask to get there.

I broke out in a cold sweat and cursed my blasted budget from here to the moon and back. I swore I would never do a home wax again. I wondered if I had actually removed bits of essential flesh at one stage. Yes, there was even blood. THIS CANNOT BE GOOD.

Finally it was done. I was a wreck. I felt like I'd been sent to war and come home wounded. I was bruised and battered. Just between you me and the gatepost, I was actually glad the area isn't actually being 'utilised to its full potential' currently as I think it's too tender to even contemplate right now.

Viewing the area (I know, I can't believe I wrote that either) it's not bad for a home job. I'm certainly smooth if nothing else. Shame about the slight shading of bruising. Was it worth the saving? NO. Especially if you consider I spent $12 in cask wine to do it, and about twenty on the home salon wax, and if I go to my beautician every four weeks its only forty dollars anyway for her to 'take it off'. And it barely hurts there compared to last nights agony.

Will I be attempting it again? NO. Although maybe its like childbirth and I'll have forgotten the experience in a few weeks? I'm actually only writing this blog to remind me what I went through should I ever be tempted to try a home job again.

So, I'm sorry to leave you with these bad mental visions. I will try dig up a cute picture shortly to get your mind of my um....slightly damaged area.

Just think of this post as a warning to you all.

Don't attempt home waxing, not a full on brazillion anyway.

Don't order two large pizzas for yourself, you'll probably only eat them all in one go and feel fat and foolish.

AND

Don't drink cheap cask wine. It makes you do bad bad things.

And now......your picture to get your mind off things. I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions.

Hairy Kitty

Smooth Pink Kitty

Drunk and Disorderly Behaviour

So I’m trying something new tonight. As we know I often write this blog while sharing a wine or a port with myself. Not sure why really, but the way some people have to have a beer when barbequing, or have a red with dinner, I find that having a drink with my laptop is pretty much a perfect date lately (and I don’t even have to bother getting dressed up for it)

But tonight I’ve ditched the wine glass and the port bottle, and am partaking of a refreshing beer instead. I’ll blame the heat, as usually the only time I tend to have a beer is after cutting the grass. (I do understand how weird that sounds, but beer just seems to go following a big effort pushing the mower around – the mower making me feel strangely blokey and manly and in need of a drink to match) So here I sit sipping on Hahn Super Dry (subtle name drop there, lets hope Hahn now google their product, see I’ve mentioned it and send me a free carton or two)

I’ve also come down sick. Again. AGAIN. Remember late last year, where I had two or three months suffering insomnia, then sick, then not quite recovering, going back to work, then getting sick again, but like, three or so times this went on? Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water I wake up with a head cold. Smack in the middle of summer.

I really did think it was safe to go back in the water too, and really tested this theory with a skinny dip at around the 1am mark earlier this week. It seemed like I great idea at the time, but then so did drinking my dads ‘mystery moonshine” (home made bottle of top strength brew – thanks Pa) on a school night. Mystery Moonshine probably being responsible for also thinking loseing all bikinis whilst in the pool would be a brilliant idea. Or doing swan dives in the moonlight, and handstands in the pool, sans bikini bottoms (you know just for the laugh and to see if we could see rudie bits)

Alcohol really does have a lot to answer for.

I’d stop, truly I would, if only it wasn’t having so much damn fun. I’m not condoning drinking by the way. Oh stuff it, it’s my blog, I’ll condone what I want. I’ve had some brilliant nights drunk, but then on the flip side I’ve had some really brilliant nights sober too. (and tragic / sad / heartbreaking / joyful / fun nights both with and without)

I’d love to tell you about many of my drunken exploits, but they may incriminate me. As it is I’m just lucky work has never tuned into my blog or I may find myself on the unemployment line (and back to drinking passion pop, which…just for those that didn’t know this bit of trivia, contains both fish and nut extracts. FISH EXTRACT. If you don’t believe me go check out a bottle. The fact I’ve recently discovered fish extract is part of passion pop is almost worthy of a blog enntry in its own right).

I’m also incredibly thankful that my parents don’t have net access anymore and therefore can’t tune into half the stuff that might turn their hair grey (er)

I recall fondly the night I got moved on from under the round-about in the main street for singing to the passing traffic (it was Christmas, Carollers can get away with it, why can’t I). Or the night I went to the local cop shop begging for a lift home as I feared my boyfriend at the time would be really angry if I rang, woke him up asked him to pick me up so drunk. (he was) Or the time I flagged down a cop car in a country town, with some stolen council witches hat, thinking it was a taxi cause I saw the pretty lights. (it definantly wasn’t a taxi, but thankfully, the coppers had a sense of humour. This is just as well as I hadn’t done a conventional flag down….. Id been making some really lude and rude gestures with the hats, then was up to wearing two of them like I had Madonna Boobies circa 1990’s by the time they pulled over to the gutter to speak to me. For the record, the cops ended up offering me a lift home, the younger one I learned was named Nick and was married but open to offers according to his good self. Naughy Nick.

I also did once get moved for laying down on the road doing my speed hump demonstration. I really used to excel at that. I was always deadly serious too. Like it was truly a talent no one else was blessed with (what the hell, I still believe I have a real talent for this)

I recall another time dancing in my socks in a paddock at about 6am, when I thought it was surely only about midnight, and just a really, really bright moonlight.

I’ve woken up in the back of the ute from my B&S days far too many times to remember, but thankfully, haven’t actually woken up with anyone I’ve ever regretted. (touch wood) I’ve had more hangovers than I care to remember too, and though I long to be able too, I just can’t bounce back again the next day like I use too.

Over the years I’ve gone from a hard core rum drinker, to a champagne quaffer. (I wish I knew how to spell that) So my tastes have probably improved, but I still drink like a fish and still can’t hold it to safe myself. Makes for an amusing night for everyone else though, inviting me to a party is like saving on an entertainment as I’m bound to be it

I had a huge Melbourne Cup day this year – especially considering I was at work for it (well for 45 mins in between trips to the handily placed pub opposite the office) I walked down the main street with a champagne bottle aloft, and ended up ending the night in a pub (different to the one I started in, with a different group too...I found new friends throughout the course of the day) and also completed the evening by ringing a friend and singing Elvis love songs to her. I’m not sure why, but I thought at the time she would really, truly appreciate my efforts (I like to think she did. It was quite a good rendition of Always on My Mind, I think I really nailed the chorus) I also remember expressing delight that some man I was talking to had actually referred to me by my name. I thought (in a state of great excitement) that this was SOME KIND OF SIGN, only to have him point out that I still had my staff name badge on. Again, how thankful am I work don’t read this blog? The same night before leaving, another friend had to go and fetch my fascinator from someone else head, (he was barely out of nappies but looked rather fetching in it) Apparently I had given it to him earlier. (I don’t believe this part of the story though, as it was one of my favorite fascinators and made especially to go with an outfit and had scored me a spot in the Fashions On The Field event twice).

And just a mere few nights ago I thought splashing naked in a pool would be good for me...and thus leading me to a head cold. I’ve decided I need to sleep more, drink less wine but more water, and feast on more veges and salads.

Or just go buy a good stock of Coldrel Cold and Flu capsules instead.

Anyway, my new years resolution is therefore the usual ‘be healthier, exercise more, blah blah blah’. I haven’t started yet of course, because everyone knows that January doesn’t count because you have too many events in there to even think about de-toxing. I’m on holidays for the first part for a start, then you have the post Christmas catch up drinks, Tamworth music festival (which is the only time I consider Muscat a breakfast food) Australia Day long weekend and then one last blow out with friends to discuss how you plan to start being 'good' come February 1st and need to have one more night eating and drinking what you want.

I’m usually good then, well good at least until the dreaded February 14th rolls around when I generally treat myself to a bottle of something good, and a fattening dinner as a gift to myself...because I obviously love me and need to let myself know that. I hope to surprise myself with a handmade card this year.

So come February 15th therefore, I promise I will start my new years resolution.

I plan to stay on it till at least the 16th , when I see have penciled in a road trip weekend to catch a band at the Tarago Pub. (if you have never been the this place, known as The Loaded Dog, its worth the drive. Anything goes at The Puppy) I can’t possibly not drink that weekend. Right.....so come March 1st, that’s D Day, I’m on the wagon.

I’ll stay on that wagon too, just you watch me. (thankfully, I see Easter is incredibly early this year so I have a good excuse to jump off that wagon just a few shorts weeks after I get on it).

Happy New Year Everyone. Make sure you don’t go breaking your New Years Resolution now you hear.

The Curse of The USB

I'm not sure if it's a chinaman I've run over, a ladder I've walked under or if a black cat has dared to cross my path, but I seem to be attracting bad luck lately. (this is at least a change from the unsuitable men I generally attract)

Not only am I sick again (you were about to hear about it in the post I had prepared - so maybe you should count yourself lucky with what I'm about to tell you)but recently I seem to have some sort of curse when it comes to USB sticks. The other night I wrote the Love, Pain and the Whole Crazy Thing post......in other words, I sat there pouring my heart and soul into my laptop and giving it my all......got to work amongst much excitment ready to finally update my blog........and snapped my USB stick off in the work computer. (before I got a chance to save the files)

Shrugs shoulders...oh well.

Managed to retrieve USB...... (with the tweezers as the port was at a bad angle and the little pieces of metal were clinging onto it like a barnacle to a boat - or for the romantic of you, like Tom Cruise clinging onto Katie) and realised in slight alarm I had also now lost a heap of photos I was transferring.

Shurgs shoulders.......oh well. (actually I said a lot of bad words, but as you may be under the impression I'm some sweet young thang I'll refrain from mentioning that I was calling the USB stick a cheap piece of shit amongst other things)

Borrowed a USB stick next. Forgive me if Im wrong, but don't all sticks go with all laptops??? My Laptop must have become coy or something, as it refused to accept that particular stick. It stuck to its standards, refused to copy to it, didn't want a bar of it let alone to trade files.

Maybe my laptop was just very health conscious and didn't want any old stick put in it??? Maybe it took offence to the fact it was a communal USB I had borrowed that everyone had thrown in somewhere and passed around and now I wanted it to have a go too?

Either way, Toshy (my laptop, Im not great with names, Toshy the Toshiiba being up there with Microwave I named Tiffany, for obvious reasons) Anyway, Toshy clearly has high morals and wasn't accepting it.

So I got another USB. Imation brand, complete with pretty blu lights and far more your boy next door type USB than the rough and tough tradesman type one I had just broken.

We have success.

We have love between Imation and Toshy. Imation lit up like christmas, flashing his lights upon insertion and Toshy happily agreed to share files. Bliss. (they seemed so well suited I think I might get a star sign reading done for them, I think it's going to be a long term relationship)

So anyway, on my big day off on Sunday I thought I'd sit down and play with Imation and Toshy, so I could bring you some more ramblings from the land of the crazy lady.

(for those that don't remember, I don't have net access at home so tap away at the laptop and then post it while I'm at work - work are yet to click onto this apparent disrespect and abuse of net privalages and I hope they never do)

So there we are on Sunday, having a fine time writing away, wrote two blogs with one being over two thousand words (can't I say some garbage when I want??!?)

Got to work this morning to discover I have left the USB stick at home. Or somewhere anyway. It's not in my handbag, its not in my car, I just hope I havent lost it in the carpark or someone will be having a good old laugh at me right about now if they are reading it. (or trying to find its owner to book them into AA as one of the post were some fond 'drunken moments I have had' type thing).

Maybe I'm paranoid, but the fact I keep having this USB trouble makes me think Im cursed and not meant to continue with this blog. As one who likes to buck the system now and then though, I'll continue posting just to annoy everyone.

I must run now, as I'm posting this 'direct to blog' borrowing fifteen minutes of works time (which I don't feel at all guilty about as I did more than an hours overtime on Saturday afternoon so surely fifteen minutes on the net can be forgiven)

So......... if anyone sees an imation USB stick, with pretty blue lights and mourning the loss of its new friend Toshy, please send it my way so I can reunite these lovebirds.

I'm Baaaaack.

Hold onto your hats folks, (and your grog, and even possibly your men) I'm back.

Following a brief stint down the south coast, then up the north coast (I know, I get around don't I) I am now back on deck. (or back on the chair at work at least, once again appearing busy and important and looking like its a right fluster of activity here in my corner)

Standby while I fill you in tonight on my recent escapades involving..well... what they usually involve. An overindulgence in unsuitable food, unsuitable drinks and unsuitable men.

The Claytons Post

This isnt a real post, its your Claytons variety. Its the post you have when you aren't having a post. Its the post you get when the writer is half cut following a boozy festive lunch and is trying desperatly hard to act sober at work.

My plan is simple, sound like I am busily tapping away on the keyboard and hard at work. My head is spinning, Im wishing more champagne would magically appear in my glass of water, and I give you this post warts and all, complete with any typos.

This afternoon (a mere three hours away) heralds the arrival of another christmas drinks event (I just decided to get in early). My office is located (MOST conveniently) opposite a pub. (I know.... someitmes the Universe just looks after me huh). Hark the drunken staff workers sing...........at times like this we love our job.

The Festive season (or the Pisstivity Season as I affectionatly call it) is my favourite time of year. Along with Melbourne Cup day (where I was drunk AND possibly very disorderly at work...as well as passing out fascinators to each staff member, even the balding ones) we seem to be able to sneak in behavior such as this without loosing our jobs.

Wishing to get a head start, a co-worker and I decided a glass of bubbles was in order to set us up nicely for 5pm drinks. This soon led to a bottle of bubbles(we are thrifty you see, works out much better financially to purchase a whole bottle) and soon led to us having a long lunch and coming back in here being startled at everyone elses sober demenour. No one seems to mind though, which is why I truly love Christmas. Not only can you wear red and green together (and not be laughed at), not only can you wear earings that flash, tinsel in your hair and antlers on your head if you so desire, but you can arrive back from lunch half cut, intent on doing nothing but annoy other staff all afternoon and no one turns a blind eye.

Yes, I truly love Christmas. Its food, its drink, its everything to excess which is how I occasionally love to live life.

I do have a serious post for you all somewhere, should I manage to locate my USB stick where I stored it last night, sadly, the USB eludes me right now, and is lost somewhere in the depths of my handbag. But like Christmas.......its coming.

Patience my friends, patience.

Now, where did I put the champagne????

What Happened to My Shoes?

Now I've told you all before I'm not very good with this whole blog thing. I'm surprised I've managed to get it this far. Some things still elude me (like how to list my favourite posts and rename all the links) and now I've gone and stuffed up my shoes as well. For anyone wondering about the shoes, I did say previously I'm an accesories girl, I thought the bright coloured shoes reflected nicely the sheer fabulousness (as we now know, fabulousness is one of my favourite words, Im working on getting it in the Macquarie Dictionary) of the ramblings on this blog.

But they seem to be dissapearing on me. Has anyone else noticed? I thought maybe it was just my PC it was doing it on (how I long for a a Mac by the way...) but as I type this I sit here in York Street Sydney at an internet Cafe, and still my shoes are dissapearing! I have reset it, reloaded it, and just can't get them back.

So excuse my shoes, if I was a horse I would be calling the farrier (blacksmith for the non horsey of you) for help. I've thrown a shoe and I'm going lame.

Now I'm about to hit post, but before I do let me explain that its Monday morning, but as Im a techno nuff nuff, I don't know how to change the time to reflect that. According to my blob its Sunday evening. Yeah, whatever.

Also, a big shout out to my brothers Co-Workers. I have heard some of them tune in daily for a fix of my intoxicating life so I wanted to say hello (and get the hell back to work!)

I'm off to go shoe shopping..........see you say, Wednesday.

Family Ties

Big Kev excitement in my little world this week, I’m off to stay with the Big T in the Big Smoke. (you can read about the Big T here http://lifesnotalwaysbeautiful.blogspot.com/2007/11/one-about-my-brother.html ) Such excitement as this small town girl hits the big shops. Sadly, work didn’t arrange my little jaunt in line with my pay days, so I won’t exactly be able to paint the town red while I’m there. More like shade in bits of it with a 2B pencil is all.

I’m not really a Sydney gal, overall I prefer the main strip of my pretty semi rural town to shop in, and often joke that I have trouble ‘crossing the bridge’. (no, not the Harbour Bridge, just the bridge that leads from my place to the rest of the world on the other side of the river). I find comfort in my local pubs (especially when they know you so well you score a free drink now and then), love to have a chat to local store owners, enjoy running into at least a few people every time I venture down the street, and since a Target Country opened at the end of the main road I rarely find a reason to venture anywhere offering more.

However, Sydney at Christmas is a sparkler.

I can’t wait to squiz at the Myer and David Jones City Store, and to wander through the QVB. I don’t actually know if I’ve ever bought anything in the Queen Vic come to think of it, but don’t I think it’s a beautiful building? And at Christmas, she just outdoes herself. So I can’t wait. (I better add seeing as work are sending me down that I intend to study hard during the day of course)

Whilst enjoying the delights of Syd-en-ey at Christmas, I will also be residing at Brother Teds, who lives pretty much in, if not quite the heart of the great city itself, then in some other major organ or blood vessel near by. We intend to drink a wine or two, waffle stories to each other and watch some sweet but obscure movies he always manages to find. (must have more patience in the video ezy than I). (edited to add........ of course he has more patience than I, I'm pretty well known for being the most impatient person in if not the world, then at least Australia)

Following this jaunt I return on the weekend for what is known as the Walker family Christmas. Now this tradition has been going on for so long I can’t actually remember a time without it. We Walkers are big into family. Big I tell you. Though we live scattered up and down the coast, we manage to keep in touch with aunts, uncles, cousins, and second cousins. No mean feat it appears according to friends who rarely see or hear from their distant relatives.

So come Saturday the family Christmas day is on. It generally involves copious amounts of food and drink, and what appears to be copious amounts of children and partners these days too. There always has to be someone to go against the trend, to buck the system, to stand alone though..........Not surprisingly, that’s always me.

I rock up single, and childless and generally empty handed. (I find it easier than buying a whole picnic for one person to just give someone some money and let me share theirs. I’m usually there for the drink factor anyway, not the food) This year the Big T happens to be flying solo too, so at least I won’t be the only one. Every year I dutifully express shock and delight at the growing children and give everyone the in a nutshell version of what I’ve been doing throughout the year. This is generally entirely fabricated to make me sound at least slightly interesting, but this year I can just hand out a blog address and tell them to knock themselves out.

We can generally count on a few things at the family Christmas day 1. That someone will get hurt (strangely, its generally the adults not the kids) 2. That at least half the attendees have overcatered (to make up for the few, like me, who undercater, or don’t cater at all – (I pack a mean cooler bag though) and that 3. Someone drinks to much. (Again, I stand out for this one too).

At some stage some well meaning relative will probably ask how I am, or “how are you really?”. Each year I consider thinking up alarming stories just to keep them happy (cause a 'fine thanks' never seems to suffice). This year I will probably invent a boyfriend, as most seem to think if someone is on the scene I really am fine. (Don't you love the way couples think singles must be just gagging for a partner???)

Often there is singing, and I also generally express envy over my younger cousins tan. I fear this year my second cousin who must now be eleven or so may have grown out of ponies, I really hope not, as she is the one kid I really look forward to sharing a conversation with, as she reminds me of the eleven year old me. (see, its all about me.....'how am I really though'?!)

We have had some memorable days over the year, at these events. Perhaps nothing quite as memorable as The Big Ts big break, when he swung wildly with the bat during a very drunken backyard cricket match and promptly smattered all the bones in his hand to smithereens. (What’s really amusing about this is that I had made him play cricket, fearing we were both too drunk for the spa just yet and needed to sober up). Anyway, with a wild miss hit he spun around, landed between bat and ground and sent us all into a panic as we realized none of us were sober enough to drive. Nabbing the possibly one sober cousin and borrowing a van, a bunch of us piled, drunk, raucous, barefoot, sunburned and overexcited into the vehicle to accompany him to the local hospital. Dr soon gave up on typing into the computer our answers to “have you had any alchohol in the last twelve hours" (the answer was long and extensive) shut up and merely trundled Brother Ted off to the plaster room. As we were all plastered (litereally) already, we found this hilarious. Twice we were asked to keep it down.

I took happy snaps on the camera phone, sister and I laughed till we cried, and brother by that time was in fairy land on a combination of painkillers and alcohol and possibly complete shock. (which made us laugh even more at the absolute gems he was coming out with)

Yes, the walker family Christmas never fails to deliver the goods. I await to see what this years brings with bated breath…….and a full esky ready to go.

Its Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.

I'd love to update you and post a new blog today, but I'm just not capable. (Not capable of anything near decent anyway)

I'm currently in recovery from the staff Christmas Party and busy trying to revive the brain cells that seem to have been either killed off, or are in a comotose state and not yet ready to fire again following the great event.

Here is the photographic evidence of my demise, and as this second shot was taken a good four hours prior to the end of the night, you may understand why today we have no witty or thought provoking entry for you.

We went from this...

To this.........

All within a very short time frame.

I blame champagne, I blame lack of sleep, I blame the staff that kept refilling my glass, I blame everyone but myself really.

So agh, yes. Stay tuned..............

Sheila the Wonder Gnome............And winners announcement!!!

Leaving me both shocked and stunned M.B.R.A.I.N http://www.blogger.com/profile/06024822415725982157 has come up with the correct Pick the Pub Answer!!! Huge round of applause please..........

I'm intriqued and impressed by his pub knowledge, as the 'Mando Pub' (also my old home town) is located in Mandurama NSW, and has a grand population of about 96 residents (so isn't exactly a well known place - it should be famous given time though, seeing as I used to reside there) In fact I used to joke about the Bright Lights of Madurama - all three of them - we had a pub, a general store and a servo. If you ever get to do a weekend drive though, be sure to head over the range to check it out, stopping for beers and photo opportunities as you go.

Today I also have to quickly add a photo of my new special friend - Sheila, the naked gnome. Every garden needs one of these, and if you want to track down one of her sisters I hear they live in the $2 bargain store in Oxford Street (though Sheila - being the quality she is - was worth close to $6)

So without further ado / adu / agadoo dooo dooo

I'll return tommorow, and to everyones despair...........yes folks, I feel a serious post brewing.

Pick The Pub....

I failed to mention in the below post (but maybe the eagle eyed of you have noticed) I HAVE LEARNT TO LINK. This excites me no end (it doesn't take much does it, for this the men in my life have been grateful) as I can stop telling people to 'scroll down' when I refer to a past post, which is just a polite way of saying go find it amongst the ramble yourself really.

So round of applause for me......... *bows down*. I have now conquered both pictures and linking. You should be excited too, as this opens up a whole world of opportunities for us.

To celebrate this, Im adding this small 'Pick the Pub quiz' (shut up all of you who know the answer, especially if you actually took this picture of me.. this is definently cheating)

Please email your answers and I'll announce the grand prize and winner. (which won't be up to the standard of prize I won at the 'Birthday BBQ that wasn't' yesterday (scroll down, I'm over linking already) because I won a fabulous (pic coming soon) naked garden gnome called Sheila, who sports the perkiest set of boobies I have seen in a long time. (in fact, Im rather jealous of Sheilas rack, I thought mine weren't bad at all till I clapped my eyes on hers)

Anyway, here we go...........Pick the Pub! As you can see its called the Royal and it's located somewhere in rural NSW. (Yep, that should narrow it down seeing as its Aussie Tradition to have a Royal in pretty much every rural town you go through. Its also tradition I stop at pretty much every pub in every town as I go through it, this makes for very long road trips)

Just Call Me Slacker

Due to what can only be described as me being a slackarse because of a variety of reasons (we will mainly blame a virus last week and of course...work, which continues to rudely interrupt my social schedule) I just haven't had a chance to entertain you all with snippets of my rivetting (cough / splutter / embaressed snigger) life.

To bring you briefly up to speed, there was me having the shits last thursday for a couple of days (literally folks... the toilet and I became best friends during this time, and Glen 20 shares probably raised dramatically), then a flurry of activity over the weekend involving work (again, sadly interrupting my social shedule) a lunch date, a talent quest, an election watch, a BBQ and a drink / supper date (come to think of it I didn't actually get to the supper part Sunday night, having a quick drink was the only energy I could sum up).

During this time I also had to cope with mourning over the loss of Johnny, and somehow squeeze in writing a letter to Channel Nine (who are in my bad books anyway following the great axing of Fanny Farm/McLeods Daughters - but we'll moan about that later) about their use of an exclamation mark in their 'Kevin Rudd Wins Election!' banner they had across the top of the screen throughout their coverage (you can read about it here also http://inanunquietmind.blogspot.com/2007/11/elect-shredder.html) I can't begin to tell you how much it annoyed me that exclamation mark. Actually I could, but I won't bore you like I possibly did the household I was in Saturday night. (no, I must say something, I just didn't think an exclamation mark was required, it was too "take that Johnny" for my liking). Anyway, so Johnny (who made me teary during his speech, but as a friend pointed out to me yesterday when I told her this, I also cry during Sex and The City - thus prooving I'm can tear up at things I really shoudn't) so Johnny is out and Kev is in. Big Kev exciting for his fans, but I'm still coming to grips with it all I'm afraid.

I also need to give a shout out to "the brilliant minded co-worker" I mentioned here http://lifesnotalwaysbeautiful.blogspot.com/2007/11/as-only-i-can-or-todays-looser-status.html as she is currently at home sick (which is making work quite unbearable as I have no one to snigger at our other co-workers with)

I also need to shout out (aren't I the noisy one today.....all this yelling) a belated happy birthday to my friend whose BBQ I attended on Sunday not knowing it was indeed a birthday BBQ. Knowing Pearla though (not her real name, must protect identities) I just assumed we were BBQ-ing to celebrate the fact it was Sunday. (she generally doesn't need an excuse to have people over to drink, often the fact its Sunday is more than enough for her)

Anyway, luckily no one seemed shocked I had forgotten (i'm well known for only knowing my own birth date, and maybe Jesus Christ's... everyones else eludes me) I was slightly embaressed upon logging on to facebook on returning home though, to discover I had actually RSVP'd to something called a 'birthday BBQ' a while ago and had forgotten all about it. (I didn't just manage to forget her birthday, I also clean forgot about the BBQ I had RSVP'd to as well till I spoke to her Sunday morning about 'unrelated matters'. More on that later)

And now I have to run............... I shall return later on today (nothing like building the suspense) to catch up on the 'random bits of dumbass info' about me for you all.

Where oh where has my little mind gone? Oh Where oh where can it be....

I’d like to report a robbery please. Actually, I think there has been some sort of mass theft happen as I have quite a few items that can’t be accounted for right now. Namely my sense of humour, my heart and my mind. The reason I think they have been stolen is that no matter how much I like to think so, my heart and my mind generally don’t see eye to eye, and one truly doubts they have run off together like a pair of lovestruck teenagers on Home and Away.

They rarely agree on anything, so I just can’t imagine them coming to the conclusion that a road trip with just them two might be a good idea. And if so, where the hell has ‘humour’ gone? Have they once again left him behind or did he take off when he heard the plans being made?

Turn sideways and that one just slips away from you, I have to keep a very tight rein on him. He reminds me of a toddler the way he bounces around one minute, but then take away his lollies and all hell breaks loose. ‘Humour’s older siblings, ‘mind’ and ‘heart’ do often try escape him. Sometimes I think they just want ‘humour’ to take a rest and shut up for once.

Now back to where the hell have they gone and who took off with who. Whilst ‘mind’ is bossy, and probably would have been the one to suggest it, if they are in fact on their way to Byron Bay in a combi van right now, ‘heart’ probably would be busily telling ‘mind’ he doesn’t’ know what he is talking about the entire trip, and is trying to head them back towards the south coast instead.

I’ve known them both for 33 years now, and only once I’ve managed to get them to agree to the one thing. And during the brief moments ‘heart’ and ‘mind’ stop squabbling, ‘humour’ generally pipes up and starts ribbing them and we all fall apart again. ‘Humour’ you see, is a bit of a larrikin and generally manages to ruin ‘heart’ and ‘minds’ best moments with inappropriate laughter. Like I said, he is a joy to have around, but such a child.

So where all three of them are right now I’m not entirely sure. I’m unclear if someone snuck in while I wasn’t paying attention and whipped them away from me, or if they have indeed banded together and taken off into the wild blue yonder.

Either way, if anyone sees a trio of ‘humour’, ‘mind’, and ‘heart’ flurrying around somewhere please bundle them up and head them towards this direction. While we are at it, I also seem to have lost the plot, so if you see a nice looking plot on the loose can you please grab it as it goes by. I’m happy to accept a new one, with any luck it will have a bit more direction and keep the other three in check.

To ‘heart’, ‘mind’ and ‘humour’ though, if you are reading this, please come back to me. I promise I will treat you better from now on……..

The Poodle Wears Prada

Have you ever had one of those nights, where you have fallen asleep utterly exhausted on the lounge, woken up stiff necked and bleary eyed (and generally with the TV still on E! Channel, which is not surprisingly the only news channel I watch) to then go ahead and wake yourself up all over again in a flurry of last minute chores and some hard core go to bed routine that you just can’t break? (well, if your idea of hard core is bringing in the washing, feeding the poodle and brushing your teeth – its nothing but erotica in my house folks) Anyway, I have done just that and now sit here wide awake after apparently fooling my body into thinking it was 7am (the morning routine is very similar you see, but we add doing our hair and practicing our smile into it).

Now before you get all clever on me (I’m the brainy one here, remembering I’m in the bottom 9% to ever sit the Coles Supermarkets exam) don’t get to thinking I’m sitting here awake at whatever time the post entry time above may actually tell you, and go believing me to be wingeing and moaning about being awake at approx 9.10pm. Due to my stand against the telephone companies (Scroll down, still haven’t learned to link posts – despite my winning style on the grocery store aptitude test) I don’t even have net access at home. To my employers utter dismay (and possible surprise when they read this) I regularly have to borrow both their time and broadband access to keep everyone riveted on my day to day life (thanks also goes to whoever in the world is rated above the 9% by chain stores, as they were obviously smart enough to invent the USB stick for me as well as doing a sterling job as a shelf packer – forgive me if I sound cynical, I guess I haven’t quite yet recovered from the Coles rejection email debacle)

So here I sit buzzing with life (sadly not literally), poodle as always (apart from a rather depressing post further down the page) by my side. For everyone’s viewing pleasure I thought I would throw in a photograph of her tonight………….excuse her big hair, she is a bit of a fan of the 80’s apparently.

I should probably add I don’t actually own this poodle, somewhere along the line she just adopted me somehow, and I became the proud surrogate mother to a dog that sports an array of clothing that would rival Carrie Bradshaw. (though she doesn’t have any stilettos, so that’s probably not a very good comparison) What I most like about this canine (apart from her toothy grin and beguiling eyes) is that in summer she gets quite the stylish hair do (courtesy of the Puppy Parlour Fluff and Fold) and teams her look with what I like to think of as her very own ugg boots (like a true slave to fashion – much like her big hair – she chooses to wear her legs covered when the rest of her is bare) She is the epitome of cutting edge style. It got me to thinking (something I clearly do far too much of) that as far as I know there isn’t actually a Vogue for Dogs, and maybe I could begin one for other fashion savvy puppies out there?

Speaking of fashion (we probably weren’t but it’s my blog and I’ll say what I want) I’d also like to speak out about this Emo kid look. I would like especially to speak out about skinny jeans on boys and men. What I’d like to say as I speak out I’m not actually sure, just that I DON”T LIKE IT ONE BIT. (nor have I seen it featured in Vogue, not once – for dogs, cats or otherwise) (Come to think of it – I also didn’t like the oversized jean look either – when are designers going to find a happy medium for the world of denim?)

I feel a bit better now I’ve had my say on all that. While we are here I think I would like to quickly speak out about oversized buttons and the return of the mullet too. You won’t find my (surrogate) poodle wearing any of it while I’m alive. (actually I take back the mullet part, her hair does tend to veer more towards the Billy Ray Cyrus look than we would both care to admit)

Moving on from fashion (we weren’t really moving anywhere but can I remind you again I’m the author of this rant) I would also like to speak out about the smell of moth balls, a majority of the men I’ve dated, and people who walk slowly in front of me.

I refuse to speak out against wine, as I’m partaking of one now (this makes approximately 98% of this entire blog written whilst under the influence of some kind – if not by alcohol than by my own melancholy – or at worst, both)

Before I leave you (I think I’ve spoken out enough for one night) I thought I would give you one last picture of the grey prancing powder puff who doesn’t answer to Jessica (at twelve years of age, she is a little slow in learning her name) who is looking not quite as full of Christmas cheer as I believe I was when I decided a poodle would indeed look fabulous in a pair of antlers.

And now……I’m off to try to get some sleep. See you say, Friday.

It's All About the Looks.............. (or) The Morning After)

Now words aren’t going to come easy to me tonight I’m afraid, thanks to the hangover from hell where I once again have only myself to blame.

I spent yesterday looking forward to drinking something sparkly in the sun at a friend’s house warming BBQ later that day. I therefore took myself off to the local bottlo in search of something suitable to refresh me (ignoring any advice from the staff as I went - of which I did regret later on) Bearing in mind it had to come in under budget (budget being as cheap as possible without actually resorting to passion pop) I was delighted to find a shelf of Omni wines and champagnes, all sporting labels with the magic $9.99. Yes folks we had found a winner. Perusing the shelf closer held even more suprises, as each range wore an array of pretty labels... Omni Blu, Omni Green, Omni Pink, the list went on.

Then I saw it, like love at first sight my heart skipped a beat....Omni Red. With its bright red vivid label, it would complete my summer BBQ outfit perfectly.

Now I’ll admit I am a bit of an accessories girl, and today’s look included a red and white spotted headband, red and white spotted thick wooden bangle, red ballet flats and a ducky little red handbag. 'Thank you Omni' I was thinking as I took it down from the shelf, for completing my outfit today. It was the perfect finishing touch.

So off I go with my matching bottle of wine (had no idea what it held, just that it was under ten dollars and looked a treat as I carried it in with its red label proudly on display) Its all about the look folks, and whilst I hadn’t gone so far as to purchase a bottle of grog based only on the colour of its label before, what harm could come to me?

Waking up the next morning...apparently a lot.

To take you back a step, on opening the bottle amongst great excitement and that satisfying swoosh and pop, it turns out it’s a sparkling shiraz. A red wine with fizz is fundamentally wrong on so many levels I’m not even sure where to begin. It was like the lovechild between a bottle of champagne and a bottle of merlot. Not only should those two have ever met, but they certainly shouldn’t have hooked up for a sly one and produced this offspring.

I bravely drank it in the sun, in a large plastic tumbler, with ice (if nothing else I'm classy - It had a head on it like a beer too I might add) Strangely (or perhaps not) no one else wished to partake in any, so it was up to me to finish the bottle. After about the third tumbler I was almost thinking maybe this strange new drink wasn’t that bad, but then after the third tumbler I was also thinking that maybe the kids present at the BBQ weren’t too bad either, and trust me, I don’t usually like kids.

So I drank my red bubbles, and mingled amongst the crowd. (Actually as I was the one and only solo person there....I didn’t so much as mingle with guests as such, it was more like walk up to each group and hang around them, and demand to be heard whether they wanted me there or not. I was intent on not looking a lonely (though well accessorized) girl with just myself and my bottle of strange liquid.

Not being very maternal I wasn’t sure what to do and say with all the kids around either, so I just kept right on drinking and poked the odd baby or child as it came past me. The fat babies are really good for poking I discovered.

Having completed my bottle with the red label, I then decided it was a grand idea to move onto rum. In fact, by then, everything really was quite grand in general. I can’t remember at what stage I ended up on the jumping castle, but that too was rather grand. There was apparently a small incident of an unhappy wife because it was her husband that had pushed me onto the jumping castle then threw himself on to it as well at the same time. (I was oblivious to the arguing wife here, as I was too busy rolling around the said castle and attempting to get myself off it – this task proved to much for my wine affected body, and I ended up needing assistance)

Anyway, sorted that out, more rum. More music, more rum. Told stories, more rum.

Bed time. Right, so of I toddle into the spare room and end up having my friend sort of hoist me onto the top bunk. (As she was pushing me up there from below, I was thankful I had decided to wear decent sized knickers that day)

Cue morning, cue bright sun. Cue me waking up on the top bunk in the kids room with the hangover from hell and a mental note to self to never drink sparkling shiraz again.

It took me hours to get vertical without my head feeling like my brain was still down there on the pillow writhing in agony. I laid there for a long time praying to God for a bacon sandwich to magically appear. My friend must have heard my silent pleas and promptly cooked breakfast. Mine promptly came back up again, along with the red bubbles who just refused to go away and kept threatening to return and say hello.

They so did not go with today’s outfit either.

So I’m signing off for the night, and if nothing else have learnt the importance that it’s not all about the looks after all.

(I’m also off to re-arrange the wine rack so there is no chance that the champagne bottles can run off with red wine bottles ever again)

Billy Goat Gruff

I’m in a quandry (actually I’m in bed but that’s another story altogether) about what exactly to post tonight.

I had a million things going on in my head, all jostling for attention at the forefront of my mind and demanding to be said, when I was rudely interrupted by a hair on my chinny chin chin.

During the middle of what was a no doubt riveting conversation between my good friend and I (her being the free web tarot card interpreter extraordinaire as discussed in earlier posts) I believe we were somewhere in a ground breaking conversation (or possibly yakking about our star sign) when I discovered somehow overnight I had sprouted a hair on my chinny chinny chin.

Feeling a little like billy goat gruff I promptly interrupted the conversation, took myself off to my bathroom mirror (the reflection not exactly being kind after four champagnes on an empty stomach) and spotted the offending hair. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I make out, but it was really almost at the stage of requiring hair product to tame it.

After the great plucking of 07, where I removed said hair off my chinny chin chin and cussed over the arrival of this new hair follicle, I got to thinking (I also got to drinking.... a wee drop being essential after shock and trauma) about the great hair debacle that accompanies ageing. We women bemoan the sudden onslaught of hairs on our chin, whilst our menfolk contend with hairs disappearing from their head, and in turn sprouting out their nose and ears. What is this phenomenon? (had the laptop not had spell-check I would have really stumbled over that last word. As it is, after partaking of these trauma relieving beverages I can’t actually pronounce the word at all)

Now that I have made the starling discovery of a hair on my chin, I’ve come to the conclusion I am officially of the older generation. I don’t recall ever reading an article in Cosmo or Cleo about how best to remove chin hair, so it’s obviously not an affliction affecting anyone still under the age of 30.

I’m now off to cancel my subscription to both these publications and track down information on the nearest bingo evening where I might mingle with those suffering like minded problems. (such as hair where it shouldn’t be and an in-ability to hold our drink)

Before I leave you though I must throw you todays point of worthless rubbish about me:

I once used to do a sterling impersonation of a speed hump. I have also demonstrated these speedhump capabilities on public roads following the influence of copious amounts of rum. Sadly, due to the ageing process (also responsible for chin hair) I don’t believe I am quite as long and thin as I used to be, and don’t make quite as convincing a speedhump as I did in my youth. It was a real talent at the time though and few could pull it off quite like my good self.