The Original Mel Show

Do you ever get the feeling that maybe your life is like The Truman Show? Or am I just a little bit self obsessed?

Mr Cheatum walked past my desk the other week. I didn’t know he was Mr Cheatum until one of the other secretaries told me. On the same day I managed to get stuck in the lift with him. He was taller than me, with sandy blonde curly hair cropped close to the scalp.

I was at a client Xmas function the other night. One of the other secretaries suddenly warned everyone that Mr Cheatum had arrived. I asked her to point him out to me. She pointed out a shorter (at least, shorter than me) tanned man with wavy grey hair.

I think they have replaced the bit part actors in The Original Mel Show in the vain hope I won’t notice. But I have. You can’t fool me.

And if I am just a pawn in The Original Mel Show, I’d just like to ask the producers why they feel a love interest isn’t very important for the storyline. Even Jim Carey got Lara Linney…

Drink. Drunk. The Difference is Me.

I have developed a fabulous new talent. It’s hard to explain, so I might demonstrate by way of examples.

Example One

Imagine a big party at my mate’s place, way out west. The Panel didn’t really want to go, but I managed to convince them it was a good idea. One of the Panel drove an was the designated driver. I walk in to the party and immediately get handed a joint and a beer. After a few more beers, this scene takes place:

”I maintain that Valentino is still in with a chance to win the GP this year. I think his psychological games are starting to affect Haydo”
Original_Mel finishes her can of VB
”Unnnnnggaaarrr fffffnnnneeeeeeerrggle nahhhhhhhhh. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz” (being the sound of me falling asleep in a plastic garden chair in the middle of the party).

Total alcohol drunk – seven beers

Example Two

Imagine a party at bestie’s house. Everyone was there, and the beer was a flowing. So was the food. My bestie’s step-mum’s wonderful, wonderful food. The following scene takes place:

“I would like to discuss the inhumane and frankly revolting sport that is bull fighting.”
Original_Mel finishes her glass of wine
“Fffffnnnneeeeeeerrggle nahhhhhhhhh nnnnnggaaarrr. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz” (being the sound of me falling asleep in the back yard against the fence).

Total alcohol drunk – three glasses of sangria, five glasses of wine

Example Three

Imagine a dinner party at a friend’s house. The food and wine was great. The conversation was entertaining. The following scene takes place:

“So, let’s discuss the geopolitical ramifications of the war on terror and how it affects international travel.”
Original_Mel finishes her glass of wine
“Nnnnnggaaarrr uuunahhhhhhhhh fffffnnnneeeeeeerrggle. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz” (being the sound of me falling asleep on the table).

Total alcohol drunk – one caprioska, three g&ts, two or three glasses of wine

Example Four

Imagine a massive party at a friend’s house. The party was full of people I had never met before, and even a few cute boys I may or may not have been flirting outrageously with. The following scene takes place:

“Tell me about your travels through Russia. I plan on spending some time in St Petersburg and Moscow for a while next year.”
Original_Mel finishes her glass of punch
“Uuunahhhhhhhhh nnnnggaaarrr fffffnnnneeeeeeerrggle. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz” (being the sound of me falling asleep sitting on the ground).

Throwing my guts up in the toilet in my mate’s ensuite and passing out on the floor (luckily it’s hidden behind her walk in wardrobe and no one knew about it) was also a featured theme in this example.

Total alcohol drunk – four glasses of punch, two glasses of rosé, interspersed with water to prevent such an event taking place

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This is not good. I used to be able to drink for Australia. I am a member of the 100 club*, for crying out loud! I thought that the more alcohol you drank, the higher your tolerance got. Apparently this is a lie. My body suddenly decides enough is enough, and goes into total shutdown mode. A tiny part if my brain thinks “you should maybe have a glass of water, and call a taxi”. But that part is overruled by the large part which says “sleep… now… here… zzzzzzzzz”.

I am unimpressed. And, given two of these examples took place over this past weekend, I also have the horrors. Stupid alcohol.


*For those not acquainted with some skanky backpacker clubs, to become a member of the 100 club you have to drink a shot of beer every minute for 100 minutes. Sounds easy but you can’t leave the table (even to pee), spewing is grounds for instant dismissal, and passing out is as well. It’s actually much harder than it sounds.

A Day in the Life

Trouble forming English sentences. Point form easier:

• I am about to join the ranks of people with two jobs. To save money for th UK, and try and pay off at least a little bit of my credit cards, I have got myself a second job (I think). Thanks to my mate's dad, I appear to be about to join the world of travel. Original Mel - mild mannered legal secretary by week day, masked travel agent by weekends / nights. Either I plan way in advance or I am insane. Or maybe both.


• My non-diet is working. I have lost 10 kilos in six weeks. Must not acknowledge it as a diet though, otherwise my body will crave chocolate (haven't had ANY in six weeks), doner kebabs or lemon and poppyseed muffins.


• Coopers Green is my Xmas beer I have decided. It is refreshing, tasty, and vegetarian! Love it.


• My new Boonie and Beefy dolls rock. I hope they start talking when the Ashes start. I don't really like cricket, but I want my Boonie talking already!


• Yesterday was really hot. My office was like a fridge. Why can't they ever get building temperature right? I bet today we'll be dying of heat exhaustion.


• My mother had a work car last night, and needed me to collect my dad cause she can't drive at night. I don't care how daggy you all say a Toyota Camry is, they are damned comfy cars to drive. Much comfier than the various Porsches and Ferraris one of my old clients used to drive me about in. Stupid penis extension cars they were.


• I got sent a scratchie by my real estate agent for my one year flat purchase anniversary. I won a free scratchie. Then I won another free scratchie. And another. This went on until I had scratched seven free scratchies! Is this a record? I would have prefered to win $25,000, to be honest with you. Or even just $10.

That's all. As you were.

Why I Love My Trahmo Friends...

I got a phone call from my friend yesterday morning I just have to share. Please don’t tell her. It went something like this:

Original Mel: Hello
Original Elle: *sounding rough as guts* I need your help.
Original Mel: Man, you sound awful
Original Elle: What did I do last night? I have vague recollections and I really, really need your help working out what I did. Please.
Original Mel: I don’t know. I left you at Original Belle’s house. I was only there for maybe an hour.
Original Elle: How drunk was I? And what was I doing?
Original Mel: You seemed fine. You were talking to[Original Cell’s older brother]. Why?
Original Elle: My last memory is talking to you in the backyard, and you handing me another beer.
Original Mel: *pause* That was just before I left. How is that bad?
Original Elle: *longer pause* My next memory is me nude. *really long pause* In [Original Belle’s brother]’s room. *in a very little voice* With [Original Cell’s older brother].
Original Mel: *laughs uncontrollably, until Original Elle gets the shits and hangs up.

It's so good to have friends who do dodgier things than me!

Midgets, Monkeys and Poking Rhinos with Javelins

I recently posted about my celebrity crushes I should be ashamed of, but am not. I actually left one out. Which, at first, I thought was a little bad and wrong of me. But then I realised that the reason I left him off the list was because it’s not a crush. I am in lurve…

…with Ross Noble.

I love him. LOVE him. I do not care that he has hair that makes him look a bit like a sheep dog. I do not care that he has a massive snorter. Because he is the funniest man on the face of this planet. He’s funnier than a fart in a spacesuit. Funnier than someone falling over. Funnier than that time a girl at school was making a speech in assembly and she said “orgasm” instead of “organism”, and had to be corrected by the principal.

My love for Ross stems from the fact he is a hilarious, completely random man. He’s really quite brilliant, in a warped kind of way. I went to the first and the last show he did when he was in Sydney earlier this year. Yes I’m tragic. I also may have been in the second row for both shows, and staring dreamily up at the stage when not wetting myself laughing. But anyway, two shows not four nights apart.

They were both completely different. We’re talking about live shows that go for over 2 hours here. Okay, maybe he told three or four of the same stories at both shows. But the other one hour and forty minutes had different material. And both shows were hilarious. I can’t actually express just how hilarious they were. You know how he’s funny when you see him on tv? Well he is about a million times funnier live. He goes off on amazingly hilarious tangents for every story he tells, and he’s just great.

I just bought his latest dvd, Randomist. I am possibly terribly sad and preordered it from England - who can say? But I will say, it is fucking hilarious. Seriously people, it is four discs of pure hilarity. The man is a pure, unadulterated genius.

However, the scary part of my love is that when I took a friend with me to see him, she walked out at the end of the show and said "I know why you like him so much. He reminds me of your ex-boyfriend. Very much, in fact. He even dances like him". I disagree. My ex has dirty blonde hair, not black.

So anyway. Ross, I love you. Which can only lead to heartbreak, since you’re married and all. At least you showed the good sense to marry an Aussie girl.

________________________________

I am also just going to gratuitously link to this YouTube video. Apparently Ross caught someone in the audience of one of his shows videoing him on their mobile, deleted it and recorded this instead. God I love him, and his purple shirt:

Update

I am dropping my aunt at the airport in half an hour. My cousin? Who the fuck knows. But at least it’s one down, one to go.

Thank fuck.

I'm Confuthed Are You?

It has been driving me nuts. I was stuck behind this car yesterday in traffic for about an hour and I cannot, for the life of me, work out what the hell the number plate means. All suggestions welcome:

*

I just don’t get it. All I could think was – AMAZING for a dyslexic? Or his name is Matt Zeen or something? I’m lost.



*Obviously it was a NSW number plate, not Californian. I just couldn’t generate one online easily for NSW.

PS. In shock news, my aunt and cousin are talking about staying for another week. If anyone out there could manufacture a crisis to send them back to northern Queensland, I would appreciate it.

Dear David,

I just can’t keep it to myself any more. I need to be honest with you. For the sake of us.

I think I’m falling out of love with you.

I have thought long and hard about why I might be feeling this way. What has made me question my love? Why would I, after over ten years of loyalty, suddenly start to drift away? What would make me rethink us? And then I realised, and it all became clear.

Because Bones is the biggest pile of shit I have ever watched in my life, and that includes the 3 hours I’m never getting back from watching Stars Wars II Attack of the Clones.

I’ve tried. I really have. I watched the pilot episode with great trepidation. It sucked beyond the telling of it. I was so upset I skipped the next few episodes. Then I watched another episode. Also sucksville. Then two weeks ago, when I was a little bit pissed, I watched two whole episodes in a row. Dear Lord, I never knew that such by the numbers writing existed. It would be less obvious if, when the bad guys walked on screen, a big flashing sign saying BAD GUY HERE – PLEASE ACT AS THOUGH YOU HAVEN’T NOTICED.

And last week – dear Lord, how can the writers make money counterfeiting, murder and drug running so very, very dull? I just cannot watch tonight’s, or in fact another episode ever again, for fear of throwing something heavy at my tv in rage.

Not only is it poorly written, but could Emily Deschanel be any less charismatic? It’s such a shame. Her sister Zooey is both beautiful and talented. Emily, on the other hand, is wooden and has all the charisma of a David Jones mannequin. And not even those annoying ones in the windows this year that actually sing.

I once read one of Kathy Reichs’ books about Dr Brennan. Did you, before you signed up for the role David? I don’t think so, because if you had you would have realised that her books are also a pile of rubbish. She should stick with being a forensic anthropologist, and leave the writing to writers. It’s just such a disappointment that you are one of the main characters in such a steaming heap of dung.

You’re a very good looking man, David. You het up the screen (and our pants) as Angel for 8 years – 3 with Buffy, 5 on your own. You have such lovely, muscled arms. You have abs we could grate cheese on. You can smoulder like it’s a national sport. Just writing about how hot you are is making me a little excited. And yet…Bones? Why David, why?

So David, unless you can redeem yourself by starring in something with even the vaguest semblance of coolness, I may have to stop loving you for a while. At least, until Bones either improves or gets axed.

I’m so sorry David. I love you. But I need to respect myself.

I’ll miss you,


Original Mel

Happy Families

My aunt is in Sydney this week.

This is not good. I really, really don’t like my aunt. I know you’re meant to love family no matter what, but my aunt is a bitch. She is my mother’s only sister, and the only family we have in Australia, so mum feels obliged to be nice to her. But I cannot stand her.

Here’s an example. My parents have been together for 30-odd years (emphasis on the odd). My aunt didn’t like my father when mum met him – he was a blue collar worker and thus not marriage material. She was awful to dad. And dad stuck around. 30-odd years later, you’d think she would have calmed down a little bit. But no. She’s still horrid to him. Get a life, woman.

So since my aunt is in Sydney it means I get to spend excessive “quality time” deflecting some of her anger. It’s only Wednesday and already it’s such fun. Last night I got a (drunken) lecture about why I’m wasting my life studying, and how I should assist my mother more around the house. When I pointed out that I don’t live at home, and still help mum more than my baby brother does, her response was (and I swear to God I am not making this shit up) “But he’s a boy, it’s not his job to help around the house”.

I’m also apparently wasting my best childbearing years by “insisting” on having a career (yeah, okay, we haven’t told her I’ve dropped out of the whole lawyer thing), and then was told the only men who will want to marry me when I’m “old and desperate” are divorcees with emotional problems, no money and children who will hate me.

Just to add insult to injury, my cousin is also turning up today. My cousin who, in my aunt’s eyes, can do no wrong, despite being a spoiled brat of a 24 year old who can’t hold a job and whose parents pay his rent. Oh, and who set fire to his own apartment by mistake when drunk / stoned. Golden child, as you can tell.

On the plus side, my mother is eternally grateful that I am being such a friggen awesome daughter by taking many, many bullets for the team, that I have almost convinced her to give me lots of money / presents. And possibly never make me attend another God awful Xmas family lunch ever again.

Only five more days of this massive ego boost. Why can’t we choose our families? Why, why, WHY?

I was rushing back to the office yesterday after delivering something for my boss when I got stopped by some pain in the arse charity collector who wanted my name, address, bank account details, first born, etc.

I was nice. I was not rude. I simply kept walking and said "Sorry, can't stop. I have to get back to work." Simple. Not "fuck off you money grabbing bastards who spoil the streets and annoy the shit out of us regular folk simply trying to go about our daily lives", which was what my brain wanted me to say.

Of course, it wasn't that simple. She started following me. And then said one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard spring forth from the mouths of this annoying profession:

"Some people in this world aren't lucky enought to have jobs."

It took all the strength I had not to reply with "Well maybe the lazy bastards should get a job instead of whining about how hungry they are. God helps those who help themselves".

I'd like to find the person that came up with the concept of charity workers harassing you on the streets, and slowly torture them into insanity. Possibly whilst wearing a giant koala suit, just to really freak them out.

I am so excited

I just ordered my talking Boony and Beefy dolls online. I am so very excited. I've always wanted a Boony doll. A bloke I used to work with had one on his computer at work, and every now and then the little feller would ask for a beer. It was awesome.

So, when I discovered this year you can buy Boony and Beefy, I made my little bro, who works part time at Liquorland, bring home two VB cases so I could get me some. And here they come!

It's not wrong for a girl to be this excited about a Boony doll, just in case you were wondering. I like to think it's actually quite endearing.

What Will I Do When I Grow Up?

I made a bit of a decision this week. I have been sitting in my deserted corridor at work, with nothing to do except make a few coffees and photocopy a couple of thousand reams of paper, so I have plenty of time to think about what the fuck I am doing with myself at the moment. Largely my answer is along the lines of “I have no fucking idea”.

As you can see, its a short contemplation of my life / future / career.

So anyway, I came to a decision about my life this week. And I choose to share it with you all here. I decided that, come next June, if there is nothing keeping me in Australia (i.e. a job, a bloke, an unplanned pregnancy being the top three), then I’m fucking off to the UK.

I have a British passport, thanks to dad being a pom and all. So this means I can stay in the UK, or actually Europe, for as long as I want. I lived in Scotland for a year after I finished school, but I’ve never really done the whole UK-experience thing. I’ve always planned to, but now for the first time in my life there isn’t really anything to stop me.

Well, aside from my Masters degree. But fuck that, really. As my aunt said to me at Xmas last year, “No man will marry a woman with more degrees than him”. Thanks Aunty J. Feminism has come such a long way.

But it’s a bit of a scary thought. All of my friends who have done the whole UK thing are older than me, and have been there and come back already. So basically, the grand total of people I know in the UK are my chav cousin and her son; my married cousin, who’s 10 years older than me; my ex-boyfriend, and his girlfriend, who live in the same small village in Scotland as I left them 8 years ago; my nan; my chav uncle and aunt; a girl I worked with in a law firm for three weeks four years ago, who still emails me her “trip updates”; and a guy my bestie used to work with. I might need to make some pommie friends before I head off. Because, unless there’s something to keep me here, I’m not rethinking this decision. Well, I don’t think I am. Who can say?

Pain and Agony

I am in pain. Massive fucking prescription painkiller strength pain. The kind of pain where you think maybe taking a blunt instrument to your head would be good as at least whilst unconscious you wouldn’t feel any more pain.

I totally fucked my leg at the gym yesterday. It was very classy. I was doing my usual 20 minute jog cool down thing. My leg went ker-pow, I went down like a virgin who believes oral sex doesn’t count, and then lay on the treadmill for a while grasping my leg whilst the poor gym attendants tried to make sure I wasn’t going to sue them.

Stupid leg. When I was at school I was mad keen for netball. Sadly I was also good at it. Which meant I had to play it a lot. Which meant my knees and ankles were fucked at an early age. This particular leg has the less fucked ankle, hence when I run I overcompensate. And apparently put this leg under massive strain. As I discovered yesterday.

Pain and agony. Completely overshadowed the embarrassment of falling over on a treadmill. Because I thought my leg was going to have to be chopped off there and then.

Of course, instead I just had to ride my motorbike home from the gym. Which usually takes me 5 to 10 minutes, depending upon the traffic on Parramatta Road. It took me 35 minutes yesterday. I had to keep stopping to massage some feeling back into my leg. It would have been fine if it was my right leg, as that’s just used for the back brake (which I don’t really use). But no. It was my gear shifting leg. Ever tried riding home on Parramatta Road using mainly first gear? Great fun for all involved.

Now I am lying on the couch, and my entire apartment stinks of Deep Heat. And somehow I have to hobble to the train station and into work.

Did I mention the pain and agony I’m in? Maybe I’ve torn something and can call in a sickie.

Maybe Better

I have an exam today.

That’s right. Having an exam today means that I was the only person in Sydney, possibly Australia, who wasn’t getting shitfaced watching the Melbourne Cup yesterday. Well, aside from alcoholics, who had emergency AA meetings at venues far from pubs. And those who are "on the wagon".

So, for a completely new experience, I stayed sober. I went home and “studied” (translation: cleaned my apartment, watched Neighbours, folded my laundry, stared at my textbook for all of five minutes, painted my toenails). I didn’t even have my usual evening beer / glass of wine / vodka.

And then, at 8.45pm, I got the telephone call I was half expecting all afternoon. The annual telephone call from my horribly drunk friend, K.

Every year, without fail, K’s big corporate employer has a Melbourne Cup lunch at Randwick. Every year, without fail, K signs herself up to go. Every year, without fail, K drinks way too much, snogs some boring actuary, loses her hat, falls asleep on the bus and calls me from a pub in the city, crying her heart out about how she’s going to die alone and/or needs a lift home.

Every year, without fail, I am also drunker than a stag on his bucks night, and am usually too pissed to offer any advice better than “K, to snare a man you must be direct. Ask him if he fancies a fuck”, before I make a pass at someone entirely inappropriate and then fall over.

This year was different. I was sober. I was able to tell her to keep away from really, really, really boring actuaries. I was able to calm her and tell her she wasn’t going to die alone and be found three weeks later half eaten by alsatians. I was able to (and here’s the shock) go to her house, collect her car and drive her and her drunken friends home.

It was only once I got back to my place, with her car, that I realised - I was K’s bitch for the evening.

Next year I plan on returning to previous form and giving her bad advice about men , before falling over. Or maybe after.

Understanding Girl Talk

Scene: Inner city restaurant, Monday early evening

Characters: Two very good female friends, both single. One may be your loveable Original Mel, one may not. Both of them went out separately on Friday and Saturday nights, and have met to provide a weekend wrap up.

One: I met a boy on Saturday night.
Translation: I shagged a random on Saturday night.

Two: Really? Where did you meet him?
Translation: Oh God. Were you even sober enough to recall where you were at the time?

One: At the pub. The [insert name of inner west drinking establishment]in fact.
Translation: I’m not really sure, but I do recall being at The [insert name of inner west drinking establishment] at some point.

Two: So, what’s his name?
Translation: I’m going to quiz you about how much you recall about him until you admit he was a one night stand.

One: [takes a sip of coffee] Brian*.
Translation: Give me a second to try and remember. His name might have been Brian. Or Barry. Or something with a B. Actually, maybe it began with a D. David? Darcy? Maybe Damien…

Two: What is he like? What does he do??
Translation: You may have dodged that bullet, but I know your wily ways, young lady. I can ask questions all night.

One: Maybe I should have asked him to submit a resume for your approval! He was pretty hilarious, and works in advertising but isn’t a wanker.
Translation: Maybe I shouldn’t have been quite so drunk. I recall laughing a lot, but I think he was a bit of a wanker. I needed a shag, though. And I have no idea what he does.

Two: And was their sparkage?
Translation: Did you take him back to yours, or did he seem too dodgy to be left near your valuables?

One: I think there was sparkage.
Translation: I took him back to mine. But I think he may have been a little dodgy. Oh god, I wish I could remember.

Two: What does he look like?
Translation: How bad did the two of you look Sunday morning when you woke up?

One: Tall-ish. Dark hair. Glasses. Not average looking, but not Brad Pitt. A happy medium. And he had a great tattoo on his shoulder.
Translation: I woke up staring at a man’s back with a tattoo on it. I assessed his, uh, assets as he went to the bathroom first thing in the morning. As I was racking my brain trying to think of his name.

Two: So, did you give him your number?
Translation: Are you going to shag him again?

One: [Pause] Possibly...
Translation: No.

Two: Wait, when you said “met”, did you really mean “shag”?
Translation: You’re not going to confess unless I ask you flat out, are you?

One: Maybe.
Translation: Well duh.

Two: So, was he any good?
Translation: Do you remember any of it?

One: A lady never kisses and tells.
Translation: I have only a very sketchy recollection and am having trouble piecing it all together.

Two: You demon!
Translation: Bitch! Well, I spose you hadn’t had a shag in longer than me.

One: That’s me. A demon.
Translation: I am never drinking again.

End scene.

I’ll leave you to decide which young lady you thing I may or may not be.


* names provided have been changed to protect the innocent.

I Need Supervision

So on Friday night, after a few more drinks, Mex and I decided to relocate to a new drinking establishment. A much classier drinking establishment. Quite a bit down the road from where we started.

We had a few beers under our belt by then. And the only food consumed was a few of ActonB’s chips and a couple of W’s wedges. So, I may have been pretty pissed. And wearing really high heels. Never a good combination.

As we stalked from one drinking establishment to another, I sort of kind of maybe fell over. In front of a crowded restaurant. Spilling the contents of my handbag everywhere. And making a dick of myself. I quickly recovered my composure, gathered the contents of my handbag and the few shreds of dignity I had left, and continued on my merry way.

Mex asked if I was okay. I said I was fine. She asked again. Still fine. We continued drinking. Eventually, even more pissed, I went home and collapsed into my bed.

On Saturday morning, with a particularly special hangover, I awoke to find my knee throbbing. And a little lumpy. Turns out, when I fell I did this to myself:

Okay, that picture captures my pyjamas better than my knee, but basically I now have a very large, very red, very grazed lump on my knee.

This, at the end of a day where:

1. I got something on the front of my skirt from the train, which I couldn’t get off;
2. I got something powdery and white on my black top during acupuncture;
3. I got off the bus at Newtown and discovered I had been wandering round with a big smudge of mascara halfway up my temple; and
4. I was wearing white shoes after Labour Day.

I just shouldn’t be allowed out without supervision.

Gonna Have You Nekkid by the End of this Song

I'm watching Video Hits hungover as hell this morning, and I decide I need to see this “wardrobe malfunction” Axle had at the Arias which lead to him quitting / getting sacked from my dream job (well, number two after being a reporter for New Weekly). Here it is folks:

I just can’t work out what exactly he was on that made getting his dick out on stage a good idea. Or even why Jabba felt the need to start talking about Axle’s dick in the first place. Or just how it could be so cold under all those bright lights….

Since I’m posting videos, I also found this one of John Mayer on Video Shits last week. Possibly the world’s least charismatic “performer” (and I use that term loosely). Those of you there on Friday night will recall my distaste for Mr Mayer’s music, and after this interview, my distaste for him:

I also like the way the Video Hits researchers can’t even read a cd booklet. They were fucking up all over the shop last week.

Maybe Axle should have blamed them for his “wardrobe malfunction”.

An Alcoholic's Tale

I like a bit of a drink when I get home from work of an evening. I realise that this may make me sound like an alcoholic, but I do. I like a nice glass of wine, or a glass of vodka and tonic, or even a cooling ale to take the edge off after a day in the office. Sure, sometimes it turns into two, or three, or a whole bottle, but that’s only when I have had a particularly crap day. Or my train was late. Or it’s a day that ends with “Y”.

And I have recently discovered a much nicer way of drinking my selected poison of an evening.

My favourite beverage is a nice vodka and tonic. And I have found that a martini glass makes me feel a bit like a Bond girl, as I am regally reclining on my lounge of an evening, sipping my V&T. Except without James Bond making single entendres and trying to woo me into bed, sadly. Oh, and without the evening gown, grace or poise of a Bond girl. Otherwise though, unmistakeable.

In fact, even beer tastes better from a martini glass. Don’t laugh, it was the only glass clean and I felt like being a bit different, alright?!

So here’s my tip to you. Even if you’re just drinking a nice glass of water, or if you prefer a cosmopolitan, everything tastes better in a martini glass.

Oh, and if you know James Bond (but not the new Daniel Craig one), or someone like him, give him my address.

I had a shocking realisation yesterday. I have become a girl. Eugh!

Let me backtrack. I was out on my lunch break, and I found this pair of shoes that I need for a friend’s 21st party. I am more a "beer swilling, talk about sex, dinner at Hooters sounds like fun" kind of girl than your "go shopping, complain about boys leaving the toilet seat up, psycho hose beast" kind of girl. But when it comes to shoes, I am pathetic. I love them. I have mentioned this before and choose not to justify myself, just accept it okay?

So anyway, I found these amazing shoes. And given I have a 21st to attend in a couple of weeks, I need these shoes to complete my (as yet not chosen) outfit. The store had my size, they looked great, so I grabbed them. It was at the counter that the unprecedented happened.

For the first time ever in my entire life, my credit card was rejected, because it is maxed out. I have never maxed a credit card before. I have gotten very close, but I have this whole issue with debt and hate owing anyone money, especially the banks (getting a mortgage was the worst experience of my life for that reason). But, what with quitting my job and all, I have been juggling finances recently, apparently very badly.

Anyway, my card was rejected at the counter. You may think that this would cause me embarrassment. You may think that I would rethink the purchase of these shoes. You may think I decided there and then to make a budget and actually stick to it.

You would be wrong.

Instead, cool as you like, I pull out my emergency credit card, and pay for the shoes on that card instead. It was accepted as it was not maxed, due to being only for emergencies and all.

It wasn’t until I was walking back to my office, footloose and fancy free, swinging my new shoes in the wind, that I realised I have become one of those women. And that made me more upset than my card being rejected.

What's the Trick Part, Anyway?

I got home later than usual last night, and had just collapsed on the couch with a beer, when there was a knock at the door. I live in a security building and my buzzer hadn’t gone off, so I figured it was one of my neighbours warning me about a party they’re about to have (invite please?) or asking me to sign a petition about the local methadone clinic (it’s been here since I was a kid, if you don’t like it move elsewhere).

So I slouch over to the door, beer in hand, and peek through the peephole thing. It’s a woman I don’t recognise. Maybe the illusive woman from apartment 10? I open the door…

And am greeted by a rousing chorus of TRICK OR TREAT - more from the woman (we’ll call her Mrs Mum) than the six or so kids with her. In full costume.

I too was hit by friggen Halloween. Do anyone but the Yanks celebrate it? I recall a few Halloweens celebrated in my time. A great one in Scotland, where the kids didn’t go trick or treating but everyone went to parties. I remember snogging a particularly attractive vampire who it turned out worked with my boyfriend (oops). And another Halloween party at the house of this English guy we met at a music festival, where I spaded him all evening only to snog him just before his girlfriend walked into the party after finishing her shift at the local pub (he failed to mention her the previous times we’d hung out). Or the time… actually, to much heartbreak in my Halloween stories, I just realised.

So I must have drifted off reminiscing about prior Halloween, because Mrs Mum gets a bit arsey. “Ahem, they said trick or treat”.

Oh righto. Being a bit light on the food front, the conversation went something like this:

OMel: Oh, sorry. Trick.

Mrs Mum: What?

OMel: I said, trick Show me a trick.

Mrs Mum: What are you talking about?

OMel: They gave me a choice – trick or treat. I want to see a trick.

Mrs Mum: (Hissing) These are children. Show a little community spirit! All they want are some lollies! (And I’m thinking - what the fuck does Halloween have to do with my community?)

OMel: I get that. But I don’t have any. I’m Australian, not American. I don’t do Halloween.

Mrs Mum: (By this stage the kids are wandering upstairs to visit my other neighbours. But not Mrs Mum.) Well, anything will do! It’s the spirit that’s important. (And I’m thinking – back the fuck off, psycho spirit woman)

OMel: Sure. But I don’t have any food.

Mrs Mum: (Really disproportionately angry now) Look, an apple or something would be fine! They are trick or treating after all…

OMel: (And by now I had the shits) Lady, I have six beers in my fridge, maybe a couple of emergency ciggies somewhere, and possibly, if I look real hard through my jacket pockets, an old, stale joint. You want me to give those to these kids? Really??

Mrs Mum: Well, I’m sure the school will be pleased to know such community spirited people live across the road! I hope you’re proud of yourself!

Without a word of a lie! At this point she stomped upstairs to harass my neighbours for their friggen food.

I spent the rest of the night with the curtains drawn and the lights off, ignoring any more knocks at the door. I mean, Halloween! Why not just sign ourselves up to become the fifty-first bloody state already and pledge our allegiance to the flag of America and the republic for which it stands?!? Or maybe I could be overreacting, since it appears psychos live in my neighbourhood and have been breeding. That might also be it.

And I couldn’t find those stale joints. Which was a shame, as I really could have use them to take the edge off.