The end of August. Already. Could I BE any slacker? (and could I be MORE sick of “Friends” reruns than I AM right NOW? Let us give thanks to Channel 9, for the bounteous craptitude you pour upon us; with no Olympics to watch, I must retreat to the Internet for solace.)
And the Olympics. Whilst driving to work the other day, I was flicking rapidly between radio stations (what, you don’t think I’m going to just sit there and listen to Nickelback without at least trying to avoid it, do you?) No matter where I went on this particular morning, every announcer made the point of stating that Australia had won no medals in Athens overnight. Then they complained. Smugly. Whilst sitting on their portly radio-announcer arses. Myself, being from a very small country with very few medals, vented my spleen at the radio: SUCK IT UP, YOU WHINY GITS. (Note to self: wipe spleen from radio faceplate.) New Zealand won five medals total; three of them gold. I think this is brilliant. I can name all the medalists, their sports and will recognise their faces once they begin to try to sell things on television ads; all this and I don’t even live there. Australia runs their list of 49 medalists in very small print up the TV screen, and concentrates solely on the Godlike Swimmers and the Disgraced but Saucy Rowing Minxes.
…although in all fairness I think everyone has been concentrating on the Rowing Minxes. Everybody loves a Rowing Minx. Or eight.
So I am lying on the couch typing this. Well actually, if I am completely honest, I heaved myself up into a sitting position to type. Watching others perform strenuous athletic endeavours at the Olympics makes me tired. But! I digress (surprising, I know). I am able to do this due to my new eBay toy: my little 10″ laptop. I love this laptop. Have I mentioned I love this laptop? Mr. T has hooked up the wireless router and now I am mobile. Of course, I choose not to actually BE mobile: I collapse gratefully in front of the heater or snuggled on the couch. And how much better is this than sitting at the PC in the freezing cold end of the house? It is far, far preferable. And the laptop made it all possible. All hail the laptop! I salute you!
When I got bored with surfing the web tonight, I watched Cold Mountain. It was boring. And depressing. God, how depressing. And just when I thought I couldn’t take any more violence, I watched the deleted scenes and Natalie Portman’s baby died and she shot herself. Way to round it off in an upbeat manner, people. Although I did like Renee Zellweger in it. Which is interesting, considering I very much disliked her in Chicago, due entirely to her skeletal frame. My eyes were drawn magnetically to her scarily prominent ribs, which made it difficult to concentrate on the actual movie. Best looking person in that movie? Queen Latifah, hands down.
Tomorrow? The impressionist paintings exhibition at the NGV. Why? Mr. T is away tonight & Saturday. (Note to stalkers: he’s not really away, he’s hiding behind the front door ready to fuck your shit up.) (Note to non-stalkers: Yeah, so I get to do cultured things that usually bore him witless, and since he’s not here I won’t have to put up with him bleating, “It’s sucking my will to live!” and threatening to collapse on the floor from boredom. I’m looking forward to it.)
So I’m heading for bed last night after watching Australia lose the Tri-Nations (yes! yessss! If New Zealand can’t win, then Australia must lose!) and Mr. T is already fast asleep. So what if he’d spent the whole morning training; I will not listen to petty excuses. Anyway, I woke him up slightly as I came into the room. Not enough to actually rouse him, it seems; just enough to get him talking.
Mr. T: “Haarg … down the middle … so I said …”
Me: “Hee! You’re sleep-talking.”
Mr. T: “NO … wasn’t through morfl … cut your head off …”
Me: “OK. You have to WAKE UP NOW. You just threatened to cut my head off.”
Mr. T: “NOOOOO … cut the GOLD off …”
Me: “This is not helping. Wake up NOW. You are freaking me out.”
And of course he remembers none of it. I find it quite unnerving hearing people sleep-talk anyway; it always smacks of horror movies to me, the eerie lack of consciousness behind the words. But decapitation sleep-talking? Whole new level of bizarre.
Attempt to answer the questions as truthfully as possible. The first person to request/comment in the post for 5 questions is duly emailed another 5 you send. Little Jack Paulson failed to pass the questions on and got syphillis, scurvey and was killed by a freak Buffalo stampede during rush hour in downtown San Francisco.
Question 1: Despite the song, in my experience girls are not made of “sugar and spice and all things nice”. Suggest what you, as a girl, are really made of.
I must point out that, by definition, you as a male can never know the definitive composition of a girl. By attempting to watch and understand the girl, you as the observer are causing disturbances and become involved in the reaction. So, in essence, girls are made of boxes with cats inside. QED.
Question 2: Your and your boyfriend are trapped in an avalanche (Yes, I know you live in Melbourne but work with me here). You are forced to eat him. Suggest a suitable aperatife, main course of boyfriend, drink and dessert.
It is perfectly possible for us to be trapped in an avalanche, given our propensity for outdoor pursuits of the foolhardy variety. However I am obliged to point out that, since I am by far the smaller and weaker of the pair of us, I am exponentially more likely to be consumed. But assuming that Mr. T has been felled by a blow to the head or something, I would begin my dining with an aperitif of fresh snow, to cleanse my palate. Moving onto the main course, I believe I would dig deep for the liver (I hate liver, but Mr. T insists I try some every time he orders it, so I think he would appreciate the symbolism here). Dessert: wracking guilt, maybe followed by a little cartilage.
Question 3: Comet hurtling to Earth. You have 2 hours. What do you do?
I’m a comet? Cool. I guess I would flame awesomely, loom ever larger over the earth, then enter the atmosphere to slam instantaneously into the ground and vaporise everything in my path. Oh, and I’d totally fuck with the ionosphere, too.
Question 4: You can any superpower. Name it, and do you use it for good or for awesome?
I think I’d go for flight. Which is ironic (don’t you think?), considering I come from the Spiritual Home of the Bungee and yet would never attempt one. Those people are all fucking mad. I’m just sayin’.
Question 5: Australians – Excellent wine makers and Cricket Players or deluded, beer swilling ex-convicts?
Australians are not in my good graces at the moment, due to a trifling event called the Tri-Nations. (South Africans either, so watch yourself.) So I’m going with the beer-swilling convicts. Also, I am hating the Australian medal count already – they barely bother to count the silvers and bronzes. It’s gold or nothing. Show offs.
Questions courtesy of Dark
Unforgivable tardiness in responding due to me, sadly
Thing to Note #1:
Urg. Food overload. I am walking with a slight list to starboard at the moment – all the meat I have eaten over the past few weeks has lodged itself directly under my spleen, and is decomposing malevolently.
Thing to Note #2:
In a related event, I have returned to the gym. I know they’re disappointed. The receptionist looked at me sadly, as if to say: we were making so much money out of you. And now you have to turn up and befoul the pool with your human body. Wouldn’t you rather remove yourself from our sight, and continue to pay us large amounts of guilt money?
Thing to Note #3:
I am entirely sick of mopping the kitchen floor. Would the DOG who keeps taking RUN-UPS from the courtyard, LEAPING through the back door and SLIDING 3 metres across the kitchen tiles, please take the time to wipe his damn paws before he does so? No? Then I will SHUT THE DOOR, mister, and don’t come crying to me when you come crashing through the glass …. hang on, I may have to rethink this.
Thing to Note #4:
Mr. T: “This chopping board is $60.”
Me: “What’s it made out of? People?”
Mr. T: “GOLD-PLATED people.”
“The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time”, Mark Haddon.
To myself, singing every random phrase in the style of TMBG’s “Particle Man”. (“Going to work, going to work. Triangle man hates going to work…”) I realise this is annoying but the truth is I CANNOT STOP.
The Black Dog’s toy destruction method: First he goes for their eyes. Then their ears. Then he rips into their soft underbellies, to pull out reams of polyester stuffing. Nature, red in tooth and claw.
Meeeat. So much meat. Will it ever end?
Firefox. I have become Firefox’s bitch. I don’t mind saying that it’s the tiniest bit pathetic.
The green things are spring onions. The little brown onion-like things are shallots. I don’t care if the whole of Australia thinks these are both called shallots. You are ALL WRONG. It wouldn’t be the first time.