Tag Archives: thought

Swimming with sharks, in vodka and shit.

So it looks like curlers, bra and undies may be the highlight of the night.

Context? Let me bring you up-to-date with whiplash speed. It’s 9pm on Saturday night and I agreed to go to drinks with a girl from work. (First mistake? You decide.)

Actually, it’s landmark birthday drinks for her boyfriend’s basketball mate and needless to say, I’ve never met these sporting aficionados. I’m already flying blind (in more ways than one), and. The girl is Sidewinder. You may consider this a Three Degrees of ‘what the fuck am I thinking? I must be desperate for a night out’ Kevin Bacon kinda … whatever.

I probably should give you greater context or insight, or whatever the kids are on these days, but. I’m sitting in my undies, listening to Wham, drinking vodka, soda and fresh limes, so.

See, I like to prepare for a night out by getting my George Michael on and booty dancing around the lounge room. (What?) Sidewinder says I’m meeting her at 9.30pm, so I work backwards and by 9pm – the face is made up, the hair in curlers and George Michael is peakin’ (like that’s never happened before). Though, the rest of me looks like a paper doll afore you’ve carefully folded an outfit upon it. (That goes on as I go out the door, see.)

Also, it’s probably accurate to note that I have a two-hour window where I look kick-ass and after that, I’m waning like a supermodel in high wind (even that might be ambitious).

Timing is everything, people.

Sidewinder sends me a text at 9.01pm: “Oh, hey! Change of motherfucken plans! Meet you later. Like, much later, you early-peaking loser. No worries if you’re in curlers & undies ready to go. Allow me to fuck with your supermodel window. Whatev’s, it’s not like it matters, yo!”

Or something to that (non-vodka) effect. I paraphrase.

So here I sit. Three sheets to the Mae West. My vodka Too Funky and taking effect whilst I watch my august window fade into the distance like the hopes and dreams of an errant child.

“Sorry, kid. You peaked early, what can I say.” (Loser.)

Story of my. The moment when I am in glorium, my hair flowing in the, my eyelashes curling like the toes of a leading-Hollywood-actress in the throes of any requisite rom-com finale, I remain unseen. Then. When the Lead is ready to run across an airport for me, the apparent-epitome of true love, where am I? Oh yeah! Asleep and dreamin’, that’s where.

Real life. It bites like an ant in your most intimate proverbial.

But, wait. What is this (at 10pm)? A text from Sidewinder, behold! The fucken hoe is ready. Let the curlers release and the night exult. And in the immortal words of Buddy Ackerman:

Avoid women directors. They ovulate.
Do you have any idea what that does to a three month shoot?

It’s frikkin freezing, Mr Bigglesworth.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

The first time I heard about man boobs was on DeGrassi Junior High: “Dad? Kids at school say I’ve got boy boobs!” (Crying) “It’s alright son, it’s gonna be o-kay.

Today, I stubbornly refused to flag down a bus I actually wanted to catch. I have no explanation for this, except that I didn’t want to appear needy.

Sometimes, I wonder how good I’d be in a hostage situation. I hope I’d MacGyver myself outta that puppy but in truth, I’d probably fall apart as if hearing the news Bea Arthur was dead.

I find it odd when people announce intimate details to the room at large: “Guess what everybody? I’ve been diagnosed as clinically obese!” Good to know, fatty.

What’s with the guy who gets on the lift and spends the whole ride watching you? It’s a drive-by stalking and I won’t stand for it.

Wind makes me angry. After venturing out for lunch today, I looked like Keith Richards after an aggressive handshake.

I hate people who follow me. I don’t care if you’re going the same way. Fuck off.

Sometimes my back is so painful, it feels like it’s gonna throw a Christopher Reeve. I wonder if I could ask the chiro to give me a Jennifer Grey evaluation?

I’m training myself to stop raising my eyebrows, it’s my version of Botox.

Keep the change, you filthy animal.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

Sometimes I find myself eating like The Kid in Dick Tracy. As I was never an orphan starved of love or food, I have no explanation for this.

I had a nightmare last night where men were trying to kill me, but I was saved by the motherlovin’ Olsen twins. I awoke with a shout, like an old man the moment he steps into a cold bath.

I hate supermarkets. Why is it, when someone walks behind a shopping trolley, they suddenly start moving like a granny who just crapped her shorts? It’s a military exercise, people. Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!

Cockroaches piss me off with their audacity. If they walk around in front of me, it’s like. Dude. I’m right here.

How do movie stars stay pretty when crying their eyes out? When I ball, my nostrils quiver like a virgin on prom night and my eyes swell like over-cooked conchiglie. How ya like them apples, McConaughey?

I hate people who exit an elevator like they’re landing on the moon, all wonderment and caution. What the frik?

Never trust a man with a moustache. It’s possible Hitler ruined it for everyone but I’m sorry, you either look like an evil dictator or a 70s porn star. The only exception to this rule is Magnum PI. Learn to deal.

You people make my ass twitch.

I’m not a morning person. As in, waking up for me is like emerging from a heavy coma. I envy morning people, they walk in the light. Their Saturday mornings seem happy places, filled with productive hours and morning papers; their Mondays a time to exchange Disney anecdotes about their light-filled weekends. Barf.

I, on the other hand, exist in the shadows and come Monday morning, am like Darth Vader with an atomic wedgie. This morning, I arose like a zombie fresh from the grave, arms akimbo. I fought the fight of the alarm clock and lost, as I always do. Spent five minutes negotiating with myself as to whether I could chuck a sickie (the answer came back, no); then zombie-walked myself into the wall / bathroom / work.

In morning mode, I’m a pastey version of The Incredible Hulk (or as the French say, l’incroyable hulk); my communication a series of grunts which could also double as morse code for bears. Brows sit low over wolflike eyes as I skulk into work, hoping to go unnoticed. Unfortunately, I remain stubbornly visible and the sing-song chorus of “morning!” is my cue to smile (as if my undies aren’t riding up my proverbial ass). It’s all I can do not to declare war with a return wedgie and shout, “cram it up your cram hole!”

Now is probably a good time to mention that while I may be a (relatively) young woman, at heart, I’m a curmudgeonly old coot whose bones ache. He barks at idiots that step on his toes, doesn’t like reaching first base with strangers on the bus, and hates chit-chat. He says things like, “you people make my ass twitch” and “that makes my ovaries want to commit suicide” because yes, he’s somewhat gender-rebellious.

There’s no arguing with him because he’s old and set in his ways. He paid his dues and if he wants to wear underwear up to his teeth, he bloody-well will. I’m fond of the codger, but sometimes feel that he hijacked my youth. When the other kids were getting drunk and living out their rebellions, I was doing homework and arguing the philosophies of life.

Ultimately, there are things you can change about yourself, and others you just have to wear, like an atomic wedgie only a Death Star can produce. The coot and his incarnations come under the skid mark that no bleach can effect. Nothing for it but to ride the geriatric wave.

Musty is my memory of Madonna.

A woman got on the bus today, bringing my teen memories of Madonna with her.

Specifically, sitting on the beach at high-school camp, complete with circa 1989 Ray Bans and hot-pink Walkman, blasting Cherish on repeat (which unfortunately meant rewinding the tape every few minutes). Dave, a blond boy with legs longer than spaghetti, sat across from me, trying to flirt me out from behind my dark glasses. But true to thirteen-year-angst form, I used them to shield against his too-bright attentions.

How this woman accosted my memories I don’t know, being an 80-year-old Chinese woman. I think I would’ve remembered a Mrs Mayagi in my childhood. Her smell, if you have a strong constitution, was musty. I don’t know what’s more tragic – that I had to sit next to this smell (uh, woman) for ten blocks, or that my memories were well musty. Probably the latter.

Her must (ewww) sends me back to a time of big hair, flirtations and teen trauma (a stretch-marked version of adult trauma) – like a tangle that takes an hour to unknot. As crucial to this memory is another song, Poison by Alice Cooper. Someone had blasted it from their ghetto non-stop all three days of camp and as a result, I’ve always been fond of it (can one be fond of Alice Cooper?) (a word ordinarily reserved for that guy who’ll never be more than a friend) (which, come to think of it, would be an apt description of withered Alice).

The dorm hall was divided between the male and female, with the strictest instructions that. No-one. Under any circumstances. Cross over into Foreign Territory.

I stood on the boundary line – the outlaw with one foot in Mexico and the other in California. Boy Comanches loitered on the other side, “areeba areeba!”

Let the flirting begin.

I recall donning my brand new pyjamas and prancing to be seen. I was on the off-ramp of being the New Girl, and had gained momentum by the time camp rolled around. It was about as good as it got (at that school, certainly) (which unfortunately, was the one that stuck).

Where the musty smell comes in, I do not know. But it exits the bus then, taking the Comanches and Madonna with her. I’m left with the feeling of watching a Polaroid in reverse, the picture fading before my eyes.

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