Last night, I went to cook a chicken dish. Earlier that day, I had seen the picture in a magazine and thought it looked fab. It had chicken and white wine and lemon zest and a hint of chilli and a few other gorgeous things. I had skimmed down the list of ingredients to make sure I had them all.
So about 7pm, I saunter into my kitchen to get the magnificent chicken dish underway.
Then I read step one.
"Combine first six ingredients, and marinate chicken in refrigerator overnight."
So I ordered pizza.
That will teach me to read the "method" not just the "ingredients".
Monday, 26 July 2010
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
WHAT WOMEN WANT
#1 Foreplay. It is not a privilege, it is a birthright.
#2 If you take us out to a fancy restaurant, don’t try and steer us away from the lobster.
#3 Less carry on about our power and sanctity as being lifegivers, and let’s get some reliable and affordable childcare.
#4 Equal work for equal pay. Look around you guys. Look at, say, Kevin, the brain-dead tosser in the cubicle next to you. You could shake Kevin because he is such a slack and worthless idiot. Now imagine making 30% less than Kevin.
#5 This one is very important. When you’re having sex with us, don’t ask “Who’s your daddy?” Even as a joke. It’s not funny.
#6 And while we’re on the subject of sex, don’t ask us if we’ve come. You’re a big boy Clouseau, you should be able to tell.
#7 A law passed that makes it compulsory for all over-the-hill rockstars to have women their own age in their videos.
#8 When our mouths move, pay attention. Words could be coming out. Words are kind of important.
#9 Don’t tell us how to merge and we won’t tell you how to ask for directions.
#10 When we catch you cheating on us, and we cut your dick off in your sleep, take it like a man.
So there you have it – we want equal pay, fair treatment, respect, patience, and a genuine effort at understanding who we really are.
And if that’s too much, how about a diamond the size of your head?
#2 If you take us out to a fancy restaurant, don’t try and steer us away from the lobster.
#3 Less carry on about our power and sanctity as being lifegivers, and let’s get some reliable and affordable childcare.
#4 Equal work for equal pay. Look around you guys. Look at, say, Kevin, the brain-dead tosser in the cubicle next to you. You could shake Kevin because he is such a slack and worthless idiot. Now imagine making 30% less than Kevin.
#5 This one is very important. When you’re having sex with us, don’t ask “Who’s your daddy?” Even as a joke. It’s not funny.
#6 And while we’re on the subject of sex, don’t ask us if we’ve come. You’re a big boy Clouseau, you should be able to tell.
#7 A law passed that makes it compulsory for all over-the-hill rockstars to have women their own age in their videos.
#8 When our mouths move, pay attention. Words could be coming out. Words are kind of important.
#9 Don’t tell us how to merge and we won’t tell you how to ask for directions.
#10 When we catch you cheating on us, and we cut your dick off in your sleep, take it like a man.
So there you have it – we want equal pay, fair treatment, respect, patience, and a genuine effort at understanding who we really are.
And if that’s too much, how about a diamond the size of your head?
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
THE WEEK I DECIDED TO DIET
Monday: The gig is up. Today is the day. I have beaten the hideous smoking beast into a suppurating mess. Now it is time to do the same to the mess that is my thighs. I've exceeded the feed limit too often.
The reasons I know this are:
1) Yesterday, for breakfast, I had a steak, cheese and bacon pie with tomato sauce and a jam and cream donut. One of those long ones, with the cinnamon sugar, like you got from the tuckshop in primary school. Then appallingly, whilst grocery shopping later that day, I bought some brie, rocket dip and rice crackers and started eating them in my car while driving home. No, there was no knife cutting that brie. Just my teeth sinking into the soft cheese. No, there was no scoop for that dip. Just my tongue licking it straight from the tub. I felt alternately like George Costanza (Seinfeld) and Miranda Hobbes (Sex and the City) who will be remembered for perpetuity for happily consuming food that they'd retrieved from their bin.
2) In desperation, and whilst on aforementioned grocery shopping trip, I purchased ten frozen Weight Watchers meals. Even though the taste of them is identical to eating crumbled polystyrene drenched in home-brand laundry liquid, , it will only add five points per serve to my thighs.
3) Since quitting smoking, I have been suffering from a self-diagnosed ailment I've identified as Post Idiomatic Smoking Stress Emergence Disorder (PISSED). Treatment for this illness is to attain an average daily consumption of one 750ml bottle of wine (red, white or combination). Now, I say average, because I might skip my medication on a Tuesday, only take half of it on a Wednesday or a Thursday but think nothing of having a triple dose on a Friday. So it averages out.
4) I injured my foot whilst suffering from PISSED and hence have not worn shoes for a few weeks, let alone heels. Being unable to wear heels means I can't hide a spare 5kg or so by elongating my body. No longer do people look at my arse as I go past because it looks great in heels. They look at it because they are wondering where I could possibly have misplaced my "wide load" sign. And the safety vehicle that accompanies such signage.
The reasons I know this are:1) Yesterday, for breakfast, I had a steak, cheese and bacon pie with tomato sauce and a jam and cream donut. One of those long ones, with the cinnamon sugar, like you got from the tuckshop in primary school. Then appallingly, whilst grocery shopping later that day, I bought some brie, rocket dip and rice crackers and started eating them in my car while driving home. No, there was no knife cutting that brie. Just my teeth sinking into the soft cheese. No, there was no scoop for that dip. Just my tongue licking it straight from the tub. I felt alternately like George Costanza (Seinfeld) and Miranda Hobbes (Sex and the City) who will be remembered for perpetuity for happily consuming food that they'd retrieved from their bin.
2) In desperation, and whilst on aforementioned grocery shopping trip, I purchased ten frozen Weight Watchers meals. Even though the taste of them is identical to eating crumbled polystyrene drenched in home-brand laundry liquid, , it will only add five points per serve to my thighs.
3) Since quitting smoking, I have been suffering from a self-diagnosed ailment I've identified as Post Idiomatic Smoking Stress Emergence Disorder (PISSED). Treatment for this illness is to attain an average daily consumption of one 750ml bottle of wine (red, white or combination). Now, I say average, because I might skip my medication on a Tuesday, only take half of it on a Wednesday or a Thursday but think nothing of having a triple dose on a Friday. So it averages out.
4) I injured my foot whilst suffering from PISSED and hence have not worn shoes for a few weeks, let alone heels. Being unable to wear heels means I can't hide a spare 5kg or so by elongating my body. No longer do people look at my arse as I go past because it looks great in heels. They look at it because they are wondering where I could possibly have misplaced my "wide load" sign. And the safety vehicle that accompanies such signage.
5) I paid a nutritionist $220 to devise a 12-week weight loss plan. She gave me a diet and some motivation, and made an appointment for the following week. I did nothing. Nothing at all. She rings me all the time. I screen her.
I arrived at work with a new determination and a home made salad. But the woman who leaves home to set the world on fire often needs to return home for some matches. My first mistake of the day was announcing to one and all via mass email that I was going to diet. This led to one and all being keen to know what I felt would be the secret to my success. Too lengthy to discuss via email, I deduced, so instead opted to gather my clan at my fave Italian joint, Pane e Vino, simply because everyone knew where it was.
It seemed a shame then not to have the linguine with chicken, spinach leaves, semi-dried tomatoes, mushrooms and a rosette sugo with a few glasses of wine. Gave it all away that night and had two slices of inch-thick fruit toast with lemon spread. Oh, and finished off that bottle of red from the weekend.
It's only Monday. And frankly my dears I don't give a damn. After all, tomorrow is another day. Cheers Scarlet.
Tuesday: It's freezing! I've been this cold in Europe, but never in BrisVegas. Usually we spend winter wearing our summer clothes with a cardigan. Perhaps climate change is an international conspiracy to get us to pay more tax. Who wants to eat bloody salad when it's 11 degrees!
But nobody wanted to do lunch. Got a few boring responses like "I've got work to do" and "It's too cold to go out". Someone even had the temerity to say "But we just did lunch yesterday". Interestingly no one mentioned that I was supposed to be dieting. Either my friends are very diplomatic or they know I'm full of shit.
So I ate yesterday's salad. How God must have laughed when He decided to make alfalfa non-fattening. Felt forced to pick up a toasted ham and cheese croissant on my way home, simply to alleviate my misery. And annoy God.
Wednesday: Nobody told me it was Alison's birthday. She's part of my team, but located on another floor. She was delighted when I brought her a couple of Shingle Inn cakes to celebrate. So was everybody else. The passionfruit one is so my favourite. I love birthdays.
Thursday: Meetings all morning at our regional premises. The secretary out there is a smart cookie. She rejects the Arnott's Family Assorted and gets these proper heavy chewy chocolate biscuits from this Bavarian bakery. You know, with oats and golden syrup and macadamias and white chocolate bits. I've always liked her.
The meetings were a bit rough. In this place, if you walk on water people will tell you it's only because you don't know how to swim. We kept our wits about us; fairly challenging with those yummy biscuits on the table.
But we really needed a spot of team bonding after that. The Boathouse restaurant at the Regatta Hotel wasn't too busy and had all its gas heaters working. Moroccan chicken skewers with an extra serve of peanut sauce, accompanied by a bottle or three of an Ingoldby Shiraz. It's a good thing that I'd thought this might happen. Which is why I didn't bother getting up ten minutes earlier this morning to make a salad and select a Weight Watchers meal.
Friday: Goodness me, is it Friday already? A ridiculous day to start a diet. Fluffed about at my desk for a while, then got on the net and looked up important things like memorable quotes from Sex and the City and recipes for chocolate cup cakes. And what's a Friday without a long lunch?
Saturday: Grocery shopping today. I don't know why I've written down that I need ten frozen Weight Watchers meals. There's still seven in my freezer ...
How can that be? I've been on a diet!
I arrived at work with a new determination and a home made salad. But the woman who leaves home to set the world on fire often needs to return home for some matches. My first mistake of the day was announcing to one and all via mass email that I was going to diet. This led to one and all being keen to know what I felt would be the secret to my success. Too lengthy to discuss via email, I deduced, so instead opted to gather my clan at my fave Italian joint, Pane e Vino, simply because everyone knew where it was.
It seemed a shame then not to have the linguine with chicken, spinach leaves, semi-dried tomatoes, mushrooms and a rosette sugo with a few glasses of wine. Gave it all away that night and had two slices of inch-thick fruit toast with lemon spread. Oh, and finished off that bottle of red from the weekend.
It's only Monday. And frankly my dears I don't give a damn. After all, tomorrow is another day. Cheers Scarlet.
Tuesday: It's freezing! I've been this cold in Europe, but never in BrisVegas. Usually we spend winter wearing our summer clothes with a cardigan. Perhaps climate change is an international conspiracy to get us to pay more tax. Who wants to eat bloody salad when it's 11 degrees!
But nobody wanted to do lunch. Got a few boring responses like "I've got work to do" and "It's too cold to go out". Someone even had the temerity to say "But we just did lunch yesterday". Interestingly no one mentioned that I was supposed to be dieting. Either my friends are very diplomatic or they know I'm full of shit.
So I ate yesterday's salad. How God must have laughed when He decided to make alfalfa non-fattening. Felt forced to pick up a toasted ham and cheese croissant on my way home, simply to alleviate my misery. And annoy God.Wednesday: Nobody told me it was Alison's birthday. She's part of my team, but located on another floor. She was delighted when I brought her a couple of Shingle Inn cakes to celebrate. So was everybody else. The passionfruit one is so my favourite. I love birthdays.
Thursday: Meetings all morning at our regional premises. The secretary out there is a smart cookie. She rejects the Arnott's Family Assorted and gets these proper heavy chewy chocolate biscuits from this Bavarian bakery. You know, with oats and golden syrup and macadamias and white chocolate bits. I've always liked her.
The meetings were a bit rough. In this place, if you walk on water people will tell you it's only because you don't know how to swim. We kept our wits about us; fairly challenging with those yummy biscuits on the table.
But we really needed a spot of team bonding after that. The Boathouse restaurant at the Regatta Hotel wasn't too busy and had all its gas heaters working. Moroccan chicken skewers with an extra serve of peanut sauce, accompanied by a bottle or three of an Ingoldby Shiraz. It's a good thing that I'd thought this might happen. Which is why I didn't bother getting up ten minutes earlier this morning to make a salad and select a Weight Watchers meal.
Friday: Goodness me, is it Friday already? A ridiculous day to start a diet. Fluffed about at my desk for a while, then got on the net and looked up important things like memorable quotes from Sex and the City and recipes for chocolate cup cakes. And what's a Friday without a long lunch?
Saturday: Grocery shopping today. I don't know why I've written down that I need ten frozen Weight Watchers meals. There's still seven in my freezer ...
How can that be? I've been on a diet!
Monday, 28 June 2010
HAD TO SHARE THIS...
A real man is a woman's best friend.
He will never stand her up and never let her down. He will reassure her when she feels insecure and comfort her after a bad day.
He will inspire her to do things she never thought she could do; to live without fear and forget regret. He will enable her to express her deepest emotions and give in to her most intimate desires. He will make sure she always feels as though she's the most beautiful woman in the room and will enable her to be the most confident, sexy, seductive, and invincible.
No wait... sorry... I'm thinking of wine. Never mind.
He will never stand her up and never let her down. He will reassure her when she feels insecure and comfort her after a bad day.
He will inspire her to do things she never thought she could do; to live without fear and forget regret. He will enable her to express her deepest emotions and give in to her most intimate desires. He will make sure she always feels as though she's the most beautiful woman in the room and will enable her to be the most confident, sexy, seductive, and invincible.
No wait... sorry... I'm thinking of wine. Never mind.
Friday, 25 June 2010
I'M GOING TO THE LOO, LOO, LOO
When you have to visit a public toilet, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the cubicle doors. Every cubicle is occupied.
Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the cubicle. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter, the wait has been so long you are about to wet your pants.
The dispenser for the modern 'seat covers' (invented by someone's Mum, no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your bag on the door hook, if there was one, so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your neck, (Mum would turn over in her grave if you put it on the floor) with your pants and assume "The Stance".
In this position, your aging, toneless, thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but having not taken time to wipe the seat or to lay toilet paper on it, you hold "The Stance".
To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser.
In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, "Dear, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have known there was no toilet paper." Your thighs shake more.
You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's still in your bag (the bag around your neck, that now you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same time). That would have to do, so you crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail.
Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work.
The door hits your bag, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest and you and your bag topple backward against the tank of the toilet.
"Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, while losing your footing altogether and sliding down directly onto the toilet seat. It is wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late.
Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because you never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.
You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear, 'You just don't know what kind of diseases you could get.
By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose against the inside of the bowl and spraying a fine mist of water that covers your bum and runs down your legs and into your shoes.
The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force and you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.
At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a sweet wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.
You can't figure out how to operate the taps with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting.
You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you needed it?)
You yank the paper from your shoe, plonk it in the woman's hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this".
As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and left the men's toilet. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long. And why is your bag hanging around your neck?"
This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with any public toilets. It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers that other commonly asked question about why women go to the toilets in pairs. It's so the other girl can hold the door, hang onto your bag and hand you Kleenex under the door.
Sunday, 6 June 2010
I'M LOSING MY MIND
I'm losing my mind. But that's ok. Because everything I need to know is on the internet.
Here's how I know. Take last Saturday. I woke up, I stripped the bed in readiness to wash the sheets.
I took the sheets to the laundry and on my way back, I saw the Saturday papers on the front driveway. It always delights me that someone has a good heart and a robust spirit to rise at midnight, wrap newspapers in clingfilm and drive around my suburb chucking them out a car window.
I'll get back to the laundry load, I think, just after I read the front page.
Walking back pick up the papers, I see that no one bothered to collect yesterday's mail. I open the letterbox and see the Ikea catalogue. I walk over to the outdoor setting and sit down to make plans for the Swedish-inspired minimalist lifestyle I aspire to.
As I open the catalogue, another letter falls out. It's from the gas company. I open it up, and notice that it is marked 'overdue'. Oh shit.
I get up from the outdoor table and head straight upstairs to the computer to log onto the internet to pay the gas bill. But when the internet starts up, it takes me straight to a news site and I start reading how three to four drinks a day can ruin your eyesight.
I panic and google optometrists in an attempt to make a booking for Monday to have my eyes checked. I wanted to write their number down and when looking for a pen, I noticed that there were two wine glasses on a book shelf in the hallway. How on earth did they end up on the book shelf, and not in the dishwasher?
I tried to remember what happened last night and then it struck me. I had been taking them to the kitchen, but had realised my bladder was doing an herculean effort to not burst its dam. So I dumped the glasses on the nearest flat surface and went to pee and then forgot about them.
Being a Virgo, I knew unequivocally they could not remain there and scooped them up and raced to the dishwasher. Which was clean, but full. So I started to unpack it.
Holding my favourite tea cup in my hand, I realised I hadn't made a cup of tea yet, so filled the kettle with fresh water and turned it on.
While waiting for it to boil, I looked out over the deck and noticed that the plants needed some water. I grabbed the watering can and began soaking the plants, admiring the blooming gardenias I had in matching tubs.
What a great idea, I suddenly thought - to cut a few and put them in shallow dishes around the house so the wonderful aroma that is characteristically gardenia would fill my home.
Back inside, I started looking for a pair of scissors when my cat swirls around my feet. Dear little thing, I think, patting her absently. She is probably looking for some food. I get her dry food from the top of the fridge, pick up her bowl, and notice it's still a bit dirty from her dinner the night before.
I head to the sink to give it a quick rinse when I notice steam rising out of the kettle and my longing for a cup of tea overtakes my desire to feed poor kitty cat.
I'm in the pantry getting out a tea bag when I notice the honey jar is sitting in a
sticky puddle. I wet the dishcloth to clean up the mess before the ants do. Oh well, while I'm here, I may as well do a bit of tidying and rearranging of food items.
It is then that I discover a box of tea light candles that I hadn't been able to find. Oh goodie! I can replenish the candles I keep on the dining room table. I walk to the dining room and find the remote control sitting forlornly on its walnut table top.
Not even bothering to wonder how it got there, I pick it up and take it to the living room to return it to its rightful place. Mmm, may as well see what's on TV while I'm here, don't you think?
Foxtel is playing Bridget Jones's Diary. Even though I own the DVD for both BJD one and two plus the books, I sit down to watch our favourite single gal (it used to be Carrie Bradshaw but she up and married Big!) run the gauntlet.
Halfway through I remember that a single gal-pal of mine went out with her new bloke last night and give her a call to see how it went. We chat for a while and agree to meet up for a quick lunch to dissect details and analyse the text message he sent her this morning (it read: Hi baby, had a great time last night, looking forward to seeing you again x).
Did he call her baby because he couldn't remember her name? Or was he simply being affectionate? Did he only want to see her again because she didn't sleep with him or is he really into her? Is a single kiss enough or should he have put two or three?
Home from lunch, I think a nice lie down for an hour is on the cards.
I walk into my bedroom and stare blankly at a bare mattress.
Where the hell are my sheets???
And then it all comes back to me: the sheets are sitting in a messy pile on the floor next to the washing machine. I have a gas bill that is overdue and still unpaid. My cat is hungry. The Ikea catalogue is still outside on the table. The dishwasher needs to be unpacked.
And I have officially lost my mind.
Whatever makes me tick obviously needs winding. Sure, I can soar like an eagle, but I have a lot of trouble with the landing.
And I still haven't had a cup of tea.
Here's how I know. Take last Saturday. I woke up, I stripped the bed in readiness to wash the sheets.I took the sheets to the laundry and on my way back, I saw the Saturday papers on the front driveway. It always delights me that someone has a good heart and a robust spirit to rise at midnight, wrap newspapers in clingfilm and drive around my suburb chucking them out a car window.
I'll get back to the laundry load, I think, just after I read the front page.
Walking back pick up the papers, I see that no one bothered to collect yesterday's mail. I open the letterbox and see the Ikea catalogue. I walk over to the outdoor setting and sit down to make plans for the Swedish-inspired minimalist lifestyle I aspire to.
As I open the catalogue, another letter falls out. It's from the gas company. I open it up, and notice that it is marked 'overdue'. Oh shit.
I get up from the outdoor table and head straight upstairs to the computer to log onto the internet to pay the gas bill. But when the internet starts up, it takes me straight to a news site and I start reading how three to four drinks a day can ruin your eyesight.
I panic and google optometrists in an attempt to make a booking for Monday to have my eyes checked. I wanted to write their number down and when looking for a pen, I noticed that there were two wine glasses on a book shelf in the hallway. How on earth did they end up on the book shelf, and not in the dishwasher?
I tried to remember what happened last night and then it struck me. I had been taking them to the kitchen, but had realised my bladder was doing an herculean effort to not burst its dam. So I dumped the glasses on the nearest flat surface and went to pee and then forgot about them.
Being a Virgo, I knew unequivocally they could not remain there and scooped them up and raced to the dishwasher. Which was clean, but full. So I started to unpack it.
Holding my favourite tea cup in my hand, I realised I hadn't made a cup of tea yet, so filled the kettle with fresh water and turned it on.
While waiting for it to boil, I looked out over the deck and noticed that the plants needed some water. I grabbed the watering can and began soaking the plants, admiring the blooming gardenias I had in matching tubs.
What a great idea, I suddenly thought - to cut a few and put them in shallow dishes around the house so the wonderful aroma that is characteristically gardenia would fill my home.
Back inside, I started looking for a pair of scissors when my cat swirls around my feet. Dear little thing, I think, patting her absently. She is probably looking for some food. I get her dry food from the top of the fridge, pick up her bowl, and notice it's still a bit dirty from her dinner the night before.
I head to the sink to give it a quick rinse when I notice steam rising out of the kettle and my longing for a cup of tea overtakes my desire to feed poor kitty cat.
I'm in the pantry getting out a tea bag when I notice the honey jar is sitting in a
sticky puddle. I wet the dishcloth to clean up the mess before the ants do. Oh well, while I'm here, I may as well do a bit of tidying and rearranging of food items.It is then that I discover a box of tea light candles that I hadn't been able to find. Oh goodie! I can replenish the candles I keep on the dining room table. I walk to the dining room and find the remote control sitting forlornly on its walnut table top.
Not even bothering to wonder how it got there, I pick it up and take it to the living room to return it to its rightful place. Mmm, may as well see what's on TV while I'm here, don't you think?
Foxtel is playing Bridget Jones's Diary. Even though I own the DVD for both BJD one and two plus the books, I sit down to watch our favourite single gal (it used to be Carrie Bradshaw but she up and married Big!) run the gauntlet.
Halfway through I remember that a single gal-pal of mine went out with her new bloke last night and give her a call to see how it went. We chat for a while and agree to meet up for a quick lunch to dissect details and analyse the text message he sent her this morning (it read: Hi baby, had a great time last night, looking forward to seeing you again x).
Did he call her baby because he couldn't remember her name? Or was he simply being affectionate? Did he only want to see her again because she didn't sleep with him or is he really into her? Is a single kiss enough or should he have put two or three?
Home from lunch, I think a nice lie down for an hour is on the cards.
I walk into my bedroom and stare blankly at a bare mattress.
Where the hell are my sheets???
And then it all comes back to me: the sheets are sitting in a messy pile on the floor next to the washing machine. I have a gas bill that is overdue and still unpaid. My cat is hungry. The Ikea catalogue is still outside on the table. The dishwasher needs to be unpacked.
And I have officially lost my mind.
Whatever makes me tick obviously needs winding. Sure, I can soar like an eagle, but I have a lot of trouble with the landing.
And I still haven't had a cup of tea.
Thursday, 3 June 2010
POP PSYCHOLOGY
Anyone who reckons that kids say the darndest things hasn't had a conversation with my father.
You know that saying "dad jokes"? Those irritating, repetitive comments made by fathers globally that are marked by two distinct features. They are not funny and they become less funny the more they are repeated.
Here's an example. You give dad a bottle of wine for Christmas and he shakes it saying, "I know, I know! It's a book!"
He looks at the roast that mum has just pulled out of the oven, casts a glance at the kids, picks the serving plate up and says, "I'm not sure what you lot are eating for dinner, but here's mine."
My dad is one of those dads. He indisputably believes he is funny. He has this repertoire of jokes which he has been repeating with appalling regularity.
Take Christmas Day lunch. My mother painstakingly bakes this plum pudding then goes about shoving all manner of imperial coinage into its centre. The task being that as we eat, we chorus over who scored a shilling and who got a sixpence. (Go figure.)
Not so for dad. He's eating away, aware that nobody is paying him the slightest bit of notice, when he starts this phoney coughing routine. After a few good snorts and the satisfaction of having grabbed everyone's attention, he makes a big production of pulling money from his mouth - except it's a $20 note not a 20 pence coin that he's carefully hidden in his hand.
He brought new meaning to Norman Lindsay's "The Magic Pudding". The wrong meaning.
It is interesting to note that as higher denominations were introduced by the government, so dad introduced them to us at the Christmas table. When the $100 note hit mainstream currency, we knew we only had to wait till Christmas to see it
We've also been through Bankcard, Mastercard, Visa, Platinum Amex, Diners, Medicare, Qantas Club, Fly Buys and more recently, the Seniors Card, all apparently excavated from dad's pudding. Along the way was a DJs card, Myer card, Harvey Norman card - exactly how many credit cards does my father have?
Every time we go over a speed bump in the car he hollers "oh, there go my false teeth". Every time we drive past a cemetery he comments "people are dying to get in there".
Once we were driving down a street like quite normal people when he pulled up suddenly. "What's the matter dad?" I foolishly asked. "There's an ant crossing."
Dads are biological necessities but social accidents. They're always getting excited about something. When I moved into my first flat (yes, it was a flat, not a townhouse, not an apartment, not a unit - but I was poor) I did the right thing and had mum and dad over for dinner.
Excited or what! He rang me every morning for a week to tell me that he was bringing my favourite bottle of bubbles (tragically, at the age of 19 it was Asti Riccadonna, don't hate me). He rang every afternoon for a week to tell me mum was making a lasagne to bring (tragically, at the age of 19, I couldn't cook and mum had to supply the food, don't hate me).
It's only dinner dad, I would placate, not an audience with Oprah.
Dads are also very good at being protective of their daughters. Sons don't bother them so much.
At the tender age of 16, my brother did not come home for two nights following a win in his soccer grand final. Now, this is 1979 in the Pre-Mobile Phone Era. Was dad worried?
But when I went to my school dances, dad would unashamedly walk into the hall 15 minutes before finishing time and come looking for me. Once, I was doing something naughty like having a fag in the loo or pashing a boy under a table, and heard my dad's voice over the speaker, "Bronwyn, this is your father, come home with me now please."
I would rather have been at work and heard Osama bin Laden's voice on the PA system saying, "This is your building security manager speaking."
Dads have patience. In the swimming pool, my father would stand astride about two metres from the pool edge for seemingly hours, so his three children in military order could dive in and swim between his legs.
I tried it once with my daughter when she was about six. I grew bored by the third dive even though I was holding my wine, and had to get her father to relieve me. Of course, as he was a dad, he was fittingly capable of remaining in that position all afternoon or until our young princess grew weary - whichever came first.
In my defence, I brought him a beer and the cricket score.
They also have a touch of Captain Obvious. One time dad rang me when I was in my doctor's waiting room. After telling him where I was he replied "so are you waiting to see the doctor?" Or when I hand him a cup of tea he says "is that for me?"
"No dad, it's for the guy next door. He sells vacuum cleaners for a living, listens to AM and is completely hairless but I'm attracted to him.
"Of course it's bloody well for you! "
Save the earth. Not only is it the only planet with chocolate, it's the only planet with dads.
Love you dad xxx
You know that saying "dad jokes"? Those irritating, repetitive comments made by fathers globally that are marked by two distinct features. They are not funny and they become less funny the more they are repeated.
Here's an example. You give dad a bottle of wine for Christmas and he shakes it saying, "I know, I know! It's a book!"
He looks at the roast that mum has just pulled out of the oven, casts a glance at the kids, picks the serving plate up and says, "I'm not sure what you lot are eating for dinner, but here's mine."
My dad is one of those dads. He indisputably believes he is funny. He has this repertoire of jokes which he has been repeating with appalling regularity.
Take Christmas Day lunch. My mother painstakingly bakes this plum pudding then goes about shoving all manner of imperial coinage into its centre. The task being that as we eat, we chorus over who scored a shilling and who got a sixpence. (Go figure.)
Not so for dad. He's eating away, aware that nobody is paying him the slightest bit of notice, when he starts this phoney coughing routine. After a few good snorts and the satisfaction of having grabbed everyone's attention, he makes a big production of pulling money from his mouth - except it's a $20 note not a 20 pence coin that he's carefully hidden in his hand.
He brought new meaning to Norman Lindsay's "The Magic Pudding". The wrong meaning.
It is interesting to note that as higher denominations were introduced by the government, so dad introduced them to us at the Christmas table. When the $100 note hit mainstream currency, we knew we only had to wait till Christmas to see it
We've also been through Bankcard, Mastercard, Visa, Platinum Amex, Diners, Medicare, Qantas Club, Fly Buys and more recently, the Seniors Card, all apparently excavated from dad's pudding. Along the way was a DJs card, Myer card, Harvey Norman card - exactly how many credit cards does my father have?
Every time we go over a speed bump in the car he hollers "oh, there go my false teeth". Every time we drive past a cemetery he comments "people are dying to get in there".
Once we were driving down a street like quite normal people when he pulled up suddenly. "What's the matter dad?" I foolishly asked. "There's an ant crossing."
Dads are biological necessities but social accidents. They're always getting excited about something. When I moved into my first flat (yes, it was a flat, not a townhouse, not an apartment, not a unit - but I was poor) I did the right thing and had mum and dad over for dinner.
Excited or what! He rang me every morning for a week to tell me that he was bringing my favourite bottle of bubbles (tragically, at the age of 19 it was Asti Riccadonna, don't hate me). He rang every afternoon for a week to tell me mum was making a lasagne to bring (tragically, at the age of 19, I couldn't cook and mum had to supply the food, don't hate me).
It's only dinner dad, I would placate, not an audience with Oprah.
Dads are also very good at being protective of their daughters. Sons don't bother them so much.
At the tender age of 16, my brother did not come home for two nights following a win in his soccer grand final. Now, this is 1979 in the Pre-Mobile Phone Era. Was dad worried?
But when I went to my school dances, dad would unashamedly walk into the hall 15 minutes before finishing time and come looking for me. Once, I was doing something naughty like having a fag in the loo or pashing a boy under a table, and heard my dad's voice over the speaker, "Bronwyn, this is your father, come home with me now please."
I would rather have been at work and heard Osama bin Laden's voice on the PA system saying, "This is your building security manager speaking."
Dads have patience. In the swimming pool, my father would stand astride about two metres from the pool edge for seemingly hours, so his three children in military order could dive in and swim between his legs.
I tried it once with my daughter when she was about six. I grew bored by the third dive even though I was holding my wine, and had to get her father to relieve me. Of course, as he was a dad, he was fittingly capable of remaining in that position all afternoon or until our young princess grew weary - whichever came first.
In my defence, I brought him a beer and the cricket score.
They also have a touch of Captain Obvious. One time dad rang me when I was in my doctor's waiting room. After telling him where I was he replied "so are you waiting to see the doctor?" Or when I hand him a cup of tea he says "is that for me?"
"No dad, it's for the guy next door. He sells vacuum cleaners for a living, listens to AM and is completely hairless but I'm attracted to him.
"Of course it's bloody well for you! "
Save the earth. Not only is it the only planet with chocolate, it's the only planet with dads.
Love you dad xxx
Monday, 31 May 2010
THE REALITY OF FAIRY TALES
Perhaps Cinderella had it right all along. To secure your handsome prince, you need - in this order - one mean step mother, two ugly step sisters, a fabulous pair of shoes and a party invite. Stage an intervention, dance like Ginger Rogers, flirt outrageously with the queen's son and pretend to lose a shoe.
Oh, and have an affinity for pumpkins.
The curious part in all this is that Cinderella knew nary a thing about her prince. Would he relegate her to the role of football wife each weekend? Would he always open the door for her, or did he only do it that one time to impress her? Did he fart in bed and clip his toenails when watching tv? Would he have a teeny tiny willy with absolutely no idea how to use it?
Yet, there she was, blithely happy to marry him; happy to clamber up behind him on his white steed and ride off into the stereotypical sunset. Interesting how happy endings always seem to occur at twilight. Unlike ones I'm more accustomed to which seem more likely to occur at 2am when the bar is calling last drinks.
We know they lived happily ever after. It says so in the book. It doesn't say that they had to go live with his mother while they saved for a home. Or that they ended up with three kids under four and were too exhausted at the end of the day to say hello to each other, much less share a kiss and a pony ride.
So perhaps we should stop berating Cinderella for not being pro-feminism; for not dating more; for not getting herself a decent education, taking out a mortgage and developing a network of friends.
She went to a party. She had a few drinks and met a bloke. He looked all right. He had a bit of money and a nice house. He clearly understood the close relationship women have with their shoes as he was so keen to make sure she got her missing one back.
So why doesn't the Cinderella theory work for me? Am I really just searching for a good looking bloke to cart me off on his horse or equivalent? What if I didn't like the suburb his castle was in? What if I preferred he go out to work each day to give me some peace instead of sitting in his counting house counting out his money and getting under my feet?
You see, he could be a prince, but if he's shorter than me, he doesn't get looked up, much less a look in. He could be a millionaire, but if he's got a million issues from his first marriage that he h
asn't addressed, all the money in the world won't make me stay. He could be the heir to Microsoft Systems but if his systems in bed are either micro or soft, he won't be doing any point and click with me.
How much of myself am I prepared to abandon to secure a relationship? And does that amount rise with each passing year? Is the set of goal posts that I once firmly concreted into the ground now being excavated so I can move them?
Or should I go to more parties with a pumpkin under my arm and the strap loose on my sandals?
Snow White didn't have it so bad either. Living in a house with seven gays would mean that you could talk at length about your "issues" and your "feelings" to an attentive audience. There would always be home-made pesto and a decent wedge of brie in the fridge. You could drink chardonnay all the time and not have to pretend it was a sav blanc.
The toilet seat would be down, the dishes washed up and you would never need to worry about your house-mates trying to cop a quick feel.
And then, just when you think you've done your dash and there's no hope whatsoever left, some spunk of a bloke pops along, wakes you up with a dirty big pash in front of all your friends and there it is.
If I lived with seven adorable gays, I'd never want to leave. One of my very best friends is gay and I never want him to leave. We holiday together, shop together, cook together. He very patiently listens to me rave on for extended periods of time. Once I did it while we flew all the way to Singapore. He just kept ordering more red whilst simultaneously nodding and saying "yes sweetie, of course you're right". It's fabulous.
Oh, and I'd never go near an apple again.
So does that mean relationships aren't all they're cracked up to be? When the theory is deconstructed, is it really trying to tell us to find more peace, contentment, happiness within ourselves first?
Once upon a time, a guy asked a girl "Will you marry me?" The girl said "no thank you."
Instead, the girl went shopping, dancing, had a great job, drank expensive wine, always had a clean house, cooked only when she felt like it, made her own decisions, never argued, read many books, didn't get fat, travelled the world, took many lovers, didn't save money, and had all the hot water to herself.
She went to the theatre, talked for hours with her girlfriends, laughed often, never watched sports, always looked fabulous and didn't own any of that scratchy lace underwear that gets stuck up your arse.
And she lived happily ever after.
The end.
Oh, and have an affinity for pumpkins.
The curious part in all this is that Cinderella knew nary a thing about her prince. Would he relegate her to the role of football wife each weekend? Would he always open the door for her, or did he only do it that one time to impress her? Did he fart in bed and clip his toenails when watching tv? Would he have a teeny tiny willy with absolutely no idea how to use it?Yet, there she was, blithely happy to marry him; happy to clamber up behind him on his white steed and ride off into the stereotypical sunset. Interesting how happy endings always seem to occur at twilight. Unlike ones I'm more accustomed to which seem more likely to occur at 2am when the bar is calling last drinks.
We know they lived happily ever after. It says so in the book. It doesn't say that they had to go live with his mother while they saved for a home. Or that they ended up with three kids under four and were too exhausted at the end of the day to say hello to each other, much less share a kiss and a pony ride.
So perhaps we should stop berating Cinderella for not being pro-feminism; for not dating more; for not getting herself a decent education, taking out a mortgage and developing a network of friends.
She went to a party. She had a few drinks and met a bloke. He looked all right. He had a bit of money and a nice house. He clearly understood the close relationship women have with their shoes as he was so keen to make sure she got her missing one back.
So why doesn't the Cinderella theory work for me? Am I really just searching for a good looking bloke to cart me off on his horse or equivalent? What if I didn't like the suburb his castle was in? What if I preferred he go out to work each day to give me some peace instead of sitting in his counting house counting out his money and getting under my feet?
You see, he could be a prince, but if he's shorter than me, he doesn't get looked up, much less a look in. He could be a millionaire, but if he's got a million issues from his first marriage that he h
asn't addressed, all the money in the world won't make me stay. He could be the heir to Microsoft Systems but if his systems in bed are either micro or soft, he won't be doing any point and click with me.How much of myself am I prepared to abandon to secure a relationship? And does that amount rise with each passing year? Is the set of goal posts that I once firmly concreted into the ground now being excavated so I can move them?
Or should I go to more parties with a pumpkin under my arm and the strap loose on my sandals?
Snow White didn't have it so bad either. Living in a house with seven gays would mean that you could talk at length about your "issues" and your "feelings" to an attentive audience. There would always be home-made pesto and a decent wedge of brie in the fridge. You could drink chardonnay all the time and not have to pretend it was a sav blanc.
The toilet seat would be down, the dishes washed up and you would never need to worry about your house-mates trying to cop a quick feel.
And then, just when you think you've done your dash and there's no hope whatsoever left, some spunk of a bloke pops along, wakes you up with a dirty big pash in front of all your friends and there it is.
If I lived with seven adorable gays, I'd never want to leave. One of my very best friends is gay and I never want him to leave. We holiday together, shop together, cook together. He very patiently listens to me rave on for extended periods of time. Once I did it while we flew all the way to Singapore. He just kept ordering more red whilst simultaneously nodding and saying "yes sweetie, of course you're right". It's fabulous.
Oh, and I'd never go near an apple again.
So does that mean relationships aren't all they're cracked up to be? When the theory is deconstructed, is it really trying to tell us to find more peace, contentment, happiness within ourselves first?
Once upon a time, a guy asked a girl "Will you marry me?" The girl said "no thank you."
Instead, the girl went shopping, dancing, had a great job, drank expensive wine, always had a clean house, cooked only when she felt like it, made her own decisions, never argued, read many books, didn't get fat, travelled the world, took many lovers, didn't save money, and had all the hot water to herself.
She went to the theatre, talked for hours with her girlfriends, laughed often, never watched sports, always looked fabulous and didn't own any of that scratchy lace underwear that gets stuck up your arse.
And she lived happily ever after.
The end.
Saturday, 29 May 2010
THE SECRETS TO STAYING YOUNG
The secret to staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly, sleep sufficiently, work industriously, worship faithfully, and lie constantly about your age.
Don't eat health foods, you need all the preservatives you can get.
Don't worry about avoiding temptation. The older you get, the more it avoids you.
And remember, age is strictly a case of mind over matter. If you don't mind, then it won't matter.
Don't eat health foods, you need all the preservatives you can get.
Don't worry about avoiding temptation. The older you get, the more it avoids you.
And remember, age is strictly a case of mind over matter. If you don't mind, then it won't matter.
Thursday, 27 May 2010
X AND Y
This one time, my fella was getting ready play touch. He hadn't played touch in goodness knows how many months. But it was a bloke thing, the guys were keen, there was beer at the end of it and, well, you know the rest.
He went to the back of his garage, got his sports bag and brought it back into the house. He unzipped it, looked perplexed at its contents, then stuck his nose right down into it for a smell.
"Eeeewwwwwwwwwwww!" was his resounding reaction. You see, it still contained the remnants of his last touch football game and, judging by his reaction, these remnants had evolved and taken on a life force of their own.
"Hey sweetie," he calls, "come over here and have a smell of this."
"You are disgusting," I said, not bothering to hit the pause button on Episode 4, Season 2 of Sex and the City. "And take that stinky bag out of the kitchen."
Undeterred, he ventured further into the house where the boys were waiting for him. "Hey fellas, you gotta have a smell of this!"
And I kid you not, one by one they all stuck their noses in the offending bag, all with similar reactions. And oh how they bonded over it.
Now, I won't even take my shoes off in the presence of anyone except my dog. But that's because I once found him getting cosy with a rat that had met a gruesome end in the corner of my yard. That dog is up for anything.
A visit to the lavatory is executed with military precision to ensure no observers. I am almost tempted to run a census of my immediate neighbourhood to gauge awareness levels and the number of open windows.
I shower at the gym to make my homecoming that little bit sweeter. I shy from morning kisses in case too many vinos from last night shine through.
That's the difference between women and men. He'll mow the lawn and come in all sweaty and filthy and think he's a contender for the next Lynx commercial. I haven't washed my hair since yesterday morning and don't like him smelling it when he cuddles me. "Ooh, get away from me, I stink."
To be fair, not all men are the same. I mean, they have different faces so the women can tell them apart. They don't see it as a beer gut; they see it as a fuel tank for a love machine.
This fellow has framed every rugby league jersey he's ever worn. In his defence he was a premier league player in his youth but for God's sake, he's in his mid-40s now! He once wanted me to move in with him but he made it clear that not one of those suckers were coming down from the walls to make way for my tastefully framed Renoir prints and hand-drawn charcoal sketches of the Trevi Fountain.
Just as I couldn't get him to relocate his New York Yankees yard glass or collection of poker chips from that time he played a hand in Las Vegas.
Needless to say I'm still living at my place.
Probably because when we were having these early co-habitating discussions, I went through his house and addressed his furniture like an airhostess does at the end each flight. Bye-bye. Bye-bye ...
The penis should never have its own name. Even less its own personality. This isn't Princess Diana and her marriage to Charlie. There aren't three people in this relationship thereby making it a bit crowded.
Maybe Ms Bobbitt lopped it off because she grew fractious about constant referrals to "Big John" or "Donald Pump". And if that was indeed the case, she has my instantaneous sympathy.
When I was growing up, my dad agonised each morning over what tie he should wear with his suit. He'd seek counsel from my mother and she'd reply with a flippant "the one in your left hand" whilst never averting her eyes from frying eggs and buttering toast.
I used to think that she was heartless, even mean. Until I got married. And realised that my husband was doing the same thing to me and I too was caught in the neck-wear decision vortex.
What would men be without women?
Scarce.
What would women be without men?
Fat.
He went to the back of his garage, got his sports bag and brought it back into the house. He unzipped it, looked perplexed at its contents, then stuck his nose right down into it for a smell.
"Eeeewwwwwwwwwwww!" was his resounding reaction. You see, it still contained the remnants of his last touch football game and, judging by his reaction, these remnants had evolved and taken on a life force of their own.
"Hey sweetie," he calls, "come over here and have a smell of this."
"You are disgusting," I said, not bothering to hit the pause button on Episode 4, Season 2 of Sex and the City. "And take that stinky bag out of the kitchen."
Undeterred, he ventured further into the house where the boys were waiting for him. "Hey fellas, you gotta have a smell of this!"
And I kid you not, one by one they all stuck their noses in the offending bag, all with similar reactions. And oh how they bonded over it.
Now, I won't even take my shoes off in the presence of anyone except my dog. But that's because I once found him getting cosy with a rat that had met a gruesome end in the corner of my yard. That dog is up for anything.
A visit to the lavatory is executed with military precision to ensure no observers. I am almost tempted to run a census of my immediate neighbourhood to gauge awareness levels and the number of open windows.
I shower at the gym to make my homecoming that little bit sweeter. I shy from morning kisses in case too many vinos from last night shine through.
That's the difference between women and men. He'll mow the lawn and come in all sweaty and filthy and think he's a contender for the next Lynx commercial. I haven't washed my hair since yesterday morning and don't like him smelling it when he cuddles me. "Ooh, get away from me, I stink."
To be fair, not all men are the same. I mean, they have different faces so the women can tell them apart. They don't see it as a beer gut; they see it as a fuel tank for a love machine.
This fellow has framed every rugby league jersey he's ever worn. In his defence he was a premier league player in his youth but for God's sake, he's in his mid-40s now! He once wanted me to move in with him but he made it clear that not one of those suckers were coming down from the walls to make way for my tastefully framed Renoir prints and hand-drawn charcoal sketches of the Trevi Fountain.
Just as I couldn't get him to relocate his New York Yankees yard glass or collection of poker chips from that time he played a hand in Las Vegas.
Needless to say I'm still living at my place.
Probably because when we were having these early co-habitating discussions, I went through his house and addressed his furniture like an airhostess does at the end each flight. Bye-bye. Bye-bye ...
The penis should never have its own name. Even less its own personality. This isn't Princess Diana and her marriage to Charlie. There aren't three people in this relationship thereby making it a bit crowded.
Maybe Ms Bobbitt lopped it off because she grew fractious about constant referrals to "Big John" or "Donald Pump". And if that was indeed the case, she has my instantaneous sympathy.
When I was growing up, my dad agonised each morning over what tie he should wear with his suit. He'd seek counsel from my mother and she'd reply with a flippant "the one in your left hand" whilst never averting her eyes from frying eggs and buttering toast.
I used to think that she was heartless, even mean. Until I got married. And realised that my husband was doing the same thing to me and I too was caught in the neck-wear decision vortex.
What would men be without women?
Scarce.
What would women be without men?
Fat.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
THIS IS DEFINITELY WHAT WOMEN THINK
This is an ACTUAL letter a woman in Texas, USA sent to Proctor and Gamble regarding its feminine products. She really gets rolling after the first paragraph.
Dear Mr Thatcher:
I have been a loyal user of your "Always" maxi-pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the Leak-Guard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts.
But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flex-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi-pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr Thatcher? Ever suffered from "the curse"? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month is starting right now As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call "an inbred hillbilly with knife skills." Isn't the human body amazing?
As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from "Aunt Flo." Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior.
You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy!
The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants...which brings me to the reason for my letter.
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words, "Have a Happy Period."
Are you fu**ing kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well...did it, James?
FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything "happy" about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.
For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi-pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like "Put Down the Hammer" or "Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong," or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bull sh*t. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.
Best,
Wendi Aarons
Austin, TX
Dear Mr Thatcher:
I have been a loyal user of your "Always" maxi-pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the Leak-Guard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts.
But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flex-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi-pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr Thatcher? Ever suffered from "the curse"? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month is starting right now As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call "an inbred hillbilly with knife skills." Isn't the human body amazing?
As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from "Aunt Flo." Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior.
You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy!
The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants...which brings me to the reason for my letter.
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words, "Have a Happy Period."
Are you fu**ing kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well...did it, James?
FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything "happy" about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.
For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi-pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like "Put Down the Hammer" or "Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong," or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bull sh*t. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.
Best,
Wendi Aarons
Austin, TX
Sunday, 23 May 2010
WAX ON, WAX OFF
It's like any form of female body hair is reviled these days. Viewed with immense disdain. A slight screwing up of the nose and an almost imperceptible shudder. Similar reaction to when I see, say, a dead cockroach on my kitchen floor or that Paris Hilton music video. Or when Lover Bloke asks me to get him another beer from the fridge.
Eeewwwwwwww.
Women have been shaving the hair off their legs for an eternity. Well, actually I don't know whether it is in fact an eternity, there's certainly no reference to it in the Bible, but let's just generalise and say quite a while.
I know there are some women who espouse more liberal views and enjoy a more hirsute look. And that's about choice. One woman's Matthew McConaughey is another woman's Kevin Rudd. Etc.
We shave it off from under our arms. How else can we be expected to grace the beaches, bars and boulevards of south east Queensland in our fabulous Escada singlets and Lorna Jane gear with under arm fuzz. Unthinkable.
The face is an entire stand-alone episode. A postcode if you will. Correct eyebrow shape and definition is a facial must. Ignoring your eyebrows is like ignoring a 75% off all stock sale at Tiffany's-it's something that you just don't do.
Women will shell out $50 without hesitation to get the perfect eyebrow shape. Eyebrow salons now account for over half of this country's GDP. Sydney eyebrow doyen Sharon-Lee Hamilton is worshipped globally. Even my adored Princess Mary popped into her parlour for a reshape last time she was in the harbour city.
A hairless top lip is also essential. No woman needs to resemble a walrus, even if it is that time of the month. I was holidaying at Coolangatta earlier this year and popped out for a top lip wax, as you do. The beautician was telling me that every three months she actually waxes the entire bottom half of her face. Now that's commitment.
And so it has come to pass that the area our mothers told us to stay away from, the one we later found out is reserved for bedroom romps and birthing babies, is under scrutiny.
Let's not beat around the bush. If you're not sporting a Brazilian you're no sport at all. And so somehow I ended up in a salon with my knickers on the floor, my legs in the air and my modesty out the window.
My good friend Hot Wax, which to date had spent its time amusing my face had found a new playground. My playground. Mei, this tiny Chinese woman unapologetically splashed the wax around my mound, then had the temerity to not only rip it off, but to show me the offending strip. There's a few things in my life I'm not interested in seeing and that's one of them.
Let me tell you about the rip. It goes like this. Turn up the music and let it rrrriiippppppppppp. Apparently it is customary for the waxer to throw your legs over their shoulder or ask you to moon them so they can get the strays. Without even asking me out for a drink first.
The pain was like nothing I have experienced. Well apart from that time I broke my foot and was in plaster for eight weeks. I told everyone that it was dark, the stairs were slippery and the strap on my sandal was a bit loose. The truth is I was pissed off my nut and forgot that walking down stairs involves the careful placement of one foot in front of the other. A simple mistake that anybody could make.
Or the first time I went to a sushi restaurant and thought the wasabi was avocado. And I really love avocado.
The worst part was knowing that the searing pain wasn't going to happen just once, or, at the worst, twice. The whole rrrriiiiipppppppping process was going to continue, over and over and over, until the dear thing was bald.
I felt comfortable in letting loose with a few expletives because Mei, bless her, didn't appreciate compound English words. I'm not sure if f*** is a universally interpreted word or whether each dialect has its own derivative, but I didn't care. I let them rip. Or should I say rrrriiiiipppppppp.
Eeewwwwwwww.
Women have been shaving the hair off their legs for an eternity. Well, actually I don't know whether it is in fact an eternity, there's certainly no reference to it in the Bible, but let's just generalise and say quite a while.
I know there are some women who espouse more liberal views and enjoy a more hirsute look. And that's about choice. One woman's Matthew McConaughey is another woman's Kevin Rudd. Etc.
We shave it off from under our arms. How else can we be expected to grace the beaches, bars and boulevards of south east Queensland in our fabulous Escada singlets and Lorna Jane gear with under arm fuzz. Unthinkable.
The face is an entire stand-alone episode. A postcode if you will. Correct eyebrow shape and definition is a facial must. Ignoring your eyebrows is like ignoring a 75% off all stock sale at Tiffany's-it's something that you just don't do.
Women will shell out $50 without hesitation to get the perfect eyebrow shape. Eyebrow salons now account for over half of this country's GDP. Sydney eyebrow doyen Sharon-Lee Hamilton is worshipped globally. Even my adored Princess Mary popped into her parlour for a reshape last time she was in the harbour city.
A hairless top lip is also essential. No woman needs to resemble a walrus, even if it is that time of the month. I was holidaying at Coolangatta earlier this year and popped out for a top lip wax, as you do. The beautician was telling me that every three months she actually waxes the entire bottom half of her face. Now that's commitment.
And so it has come to pass that the area our mothers told us to stay away from, the one we later found out is reserved for bedroom romps and birthing babies, is under scrutiny.
Let's not beat around the bush. If you're not sporting a Brazilian you're no sport at all. And so somehow I ended up in a salon with my knickers on the floor, my legs in the air and my modesty out the window.
My good friend Hot Wax, which to date had spent its time amusing my face had found a new playground. My playground. Mei, this tiny Chinese woman unapologetically splashed the wax around my mound, then had the temerity to not only rip it off, but to show me the offending strip. There's a few things in my life I'm not interested in seeing and that's one of them.
Let me tell you about the rip. It goes like this. Turn up the music and let it rrrriiippppppppppp. Apparently it is customary for the waxer to throw your legs over their shoulder or ask you to moon them so they can get the strays. Without even asking me out for a drink first.
The pain was like nothing I have experienced. Well apart from that time I broke my foot and was in plaster for eight weeks. I told everyone that it was dark, the stairs were slippery and the strap on my sandal was a bit loose. The truth is I was pissed off my nut and forgot that walking down stairs involves the careful placement of one foot in front of the other. A simple mistake that anybody could make.
Or the first time I went to a sushi restaurant and thought the wasabi was avocado. And I really love avocado.
The worst part was knowing that the searing pain wasn't going to happen just once, or, at the worst, twice. The whole rrrriiiiipppppppping process was going to continue, over and over and over, until the dear thing was bald.
I felt comfortable in letting loose with a few expletives because Mei, bless her, didn't appreciate compound English words. I'm not sure if f*** is a universally interpreted word or whether each dialect has its own derivative, but I didn't care. I let them rip. Or should I say rrrriiiiipppppppp.
Friday, 21 May 2010
THESE ARE A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS
Book: “e” by Matt Beaumont, a novel which consists entirely of emails sent by the staff of one advertising office in London. Read it twice a year. Still laugh.
Cheese: Fromage D'affinois, a French double-cream soft cheese made from cow's milk. This has more fat than Roseanne. It would be more slimming if you ate Santa for breakfast with a side of Miss Piggy. Who cares. Eat away!
Wine: Astrolabe Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc (white) Taylor’s Promised Land Cabernet Merlot (red). Now these are not expensive continental wines. They are readily accessible at your local Dan's or BWS. Which is why I love them. I get to drink good wine, and I can have three for the price of one. Sounds fair to me.
Suburb: New Farm, Brisbane, Queensland. Enough said.
Shoes: Urban Soul. Perhaps not my ultimately favourite shoe designer, but there are a few styles at the top that cause me to pivot on my stiletto heel. Don't mind a bit of Nine West, or a good Sachi. It's the heel that counts.
Nails: Scratchers Nail Studio, Queen Street Mall, Brisbane. Owner Jo May started doing my nails when she was a young thing working in Myer Beauty Salon circa 1994. She now has this juggernaut beauty business that does nails, toes, facials, waxing and spray tans, to name a few things. No she hasn't seen me nude. But one of her staff has. Let's not go there.
Person: Jade Elizabeth McClain (thank goodness I only had the one child, no room for competition here)
Musician: John Peter Farnham, forgive me, but it has been a 25 year love affair. Look, I know he's not everyone's cup of Bex and a good lie down - you think I don't read tabloids? But he's a fun Aussie bloke, good for a laugh, and sings ok as well. John, you have my vote honey.
Colour: Pink (like Barbie). No more words needed.
Restaurant: Pane e Vino, Albert Street, Brisbane (real Italian, made by Mamma)Found this foodie gemstone circa 1996 and have never left. My colleagues refer to it as my regional office. Owners Tony and Gino are on a first-name basis. Maybe because they're good St Laurance's boys, or they prepare the most exquisite Italian food in Brisbane, or that they are heartbreakingly good looking... If you need a place to sit, chill and eat without being hassled, get yourself there.
Thursday, 20 May 2010
WHEN BREAST IS NOT ALWAYS BEST
In a woman's life there are a few word couplings guaranteed to strike fear into her heart and mind; that cause her to rethink priorities and spend several long hours consumed with disbelief, fear, regret and anger. Let me try a few on for size for you.
Credit card ("surely I didn't spend so much?!") Root canal ("It's really going to hurt, isn't it") Hang over ("why did I drink all that champagne?") It's over ("I can't believe that creep broke up with me when I did so much for him!")
Or this one. Breast cancer.
Cancer is not particular about how it selects its victims. There's no protocol sheet or democratic voting system. It doesn't base its assessment on looks, age, wealth or how well you did in your Year 12 English exam. It pops on a blindfold, spins itself around and whoever it next touches it shrieks "you're it" and that's it. You’re it.
A few years ago, I had this persistent ache under my left arm, near the side of my breast. Not so bad that I needed analgesics, but bad enough that it caused concern. Of course I ignored it. Of course I said nary a word to anyone. And of course I worried and allowed my over active imagination to run riot.
I performed breast examinations almost hourly and each time drew the same conclusion - what exactly is a breast supposed to feel like? I mean, I've never felt another woman's breast, only my own, so I've nothing to compare it to. I had no idea how my breasts were meant to feel on a good day let alone a bad one.
Dear God, please forward breast manual at your earliest convenience.
I asked a few males what breasts feel like and felt like an idiot when they replied "they feel great". Doh.
It was nothing more than my fervent wish to avoid leaving my daughter motherless that led me to my doctor. She informed me that the pain under my arm was no more than muscular.
Then she went on to say that she was more concerned, however, about a small lump that was no where near the offending ache, and that it should be "checked out".
Hello Wesley Breast Clinic. Attire - unflattering wrap-around gown which conveniently comes in four sizes; large, larger, huge and tent. As much tea as you can drink and more magazines than bad outfits at the Oscars.
A mammogram is not an inspirational experience. Why not just lie down on the freeway and let cars drive over my breasts. Surely that would be more comfortable. I would not have thought it was physically possible to squash a breast to the thickness of a slice of bread. How wrong I can be.
It wasn't so much this constant squashing, and getting my boobs handled by a stranger and flopping them on to cold x-ray trays. It was more the insensitive design element of the machine. There's literally nowhere to put the rest of your body while your breast is being contorted. This machine puts your boob in a vice-like grip and it's up to you to put your body in some form of a holding pattern while the x-ray is taken. My face was jammed up against hard perspex casing, my arms were draped on sharp corners of the machine, I'm naked from the waist up and the door to the room is open.
Hello, I'm in hell.
Did a man design this? Who's designing the machine that checks testicles for cancer? I want to be part of that creative team.
I also had to have a biopsy. "Oh it's a very simple procedure," the medical attendant assured me. I'm still trying to figure out how inserting a six inch needle directly into my breast is simple, but clearly that's how it's viewed. And I got to pay for the privilege. They even accepted Visa.
Fortunately the upshot was a cancer-free result. Just some sort of fatty tissue mass sort of thing. Whatever that is. All I knew was that there was no cancer.
The thing is, fabulous women like Kylie Minogue and Olivia NJ can fall prey to the lecherous destroying tentacles of cancer. So what are the odds for average women like you and me who day to day go about doing our jobs, raising our kids, loving our men and paying back our credit cards?
Statistics say one in eight women will get breast cancer. If you have seven girlfriends who are cancer-free, go to the doctor now.
Credit card ("surely I didn't spend so much?!") Root canal ("It's really going to hurt, isn't it") Hang over ("why did I drink all that champagne?") It's over ("I can't believe that creep broke up with me when I did so much for him!")
Or this one. Breast cancer.
Cancer is not particular about how it selects its victims. There's no protocol sheet or democratic voting system. It doesn't base its assessment on looks, age, wealth or how well you did in your Year 12 English exam. It pops on a blindfold, spins itself around and whoever it next touches it shrieks "you're it" and that's it. You’re it.
A few years ago, I had this persistent ache under my left arm, near the side of my breast. Not so bad that I needed analgesics, but bad enough that it caused concern. Of course I ignored it. Of course I said nary a word to anyone. And of course I worried and allowed my over active imagination to run riot.
I performed breast examinations almost hourly and each time drew the same conclusion - what exactly is a breast supposed to feel like? I mean, I've never felt another woman's breast, only my own, so I've nothing to compare it to. I had no idea how my breasts were meant to feel on a good day let alone a bad one.
Dear God, please forward breast manual at your earliest convenience.
I asked a few males what breasts feel like and felt like an idiot when they replied "they feel great". Doh.
It was nothing more than my fervent wish to avoid leaving my daughter motherless that led me to my doctor. She informed me that the pain under my arm was no more than muscular.
Then she went on to say that she was more concerned, however, about a small lump that was no where near the offending ache, and that it should be "checked out".
Hello Wesley Breast Clinic. Attire - unflattering wrap-around gown which conveniently comes in four sizes; large, larger, huge and tent. As much tea as you can drink and more magazines than bad outfits at the Oscars.
A mammogram is not an inspirational experience. Why not just lie down on the freeway and let cars drive over my breasts. Surely that would be more comfortable. I would not have thought it was physically possible to squash a breast to the thickness of a slice of bread. How wrong I can be.
It wasn't so much this constant squashing, and getting my boobs handled by a stranger and flopping them on to cold x-ray trays. It was more the insensitive design element of the machine. There's literally nowhere to put the rest of your body while your breast is being contorted. This machine puts your boob in a vice-like grip and it's up to you to put your body in some form of a holding pattern while the x-ray is taken. My face was jammed up against hard perspex casing, my arms were draped on sharp corners of the machine, I'm naked from the waist up and the door to the room is open.
Hello, I'm in hell.
Did a man design this? Who's designing the machine that checks testicles for cancer? I want to be part of that creative team.
I also had to have a biopsy. "Oh it's a very simple procedure," the medical attendant assured me. I'm still trying to figure out how inserting a six inch needle directly into my breast is simple, but clearly that's how it's viewed. And I got to pay for the privilege. They even accepted Visa.
Fortunately the upshot was a cancer-free result. Just some sort of fatty tissue mass sort of thing. Whatever that is. All I knew was that there was no cancer.
The thing is, fabulous women like Kylie Minogue and Olivia NJ can fall prey to the lecherous destroying tentacles of cancer. So what are the odds for average women like you and me who day to day go about doing our jobs, raising our kids, loving our men and paying back our credit cards?
Statistics say one in eight women will get breast cancer. If you have seven girlfriends who are cancer-free, go to the doctor now.
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
GYM JAMS
It is well documented that for every mile that you jog, you add one minute to your life. This enables you, at age 85, to spend an additional five months in a nursing home at $5,000 per month.
That’s ok by me. I don't jog, it makes the ice jump right out of my glass. In fact, I don’t exercise much at all. Exercise wouldn’t be a problem for me if I had a different body to do it with. And if God meant us to touch our toes, he would have put them further up our body. If it wasn’t for car parks, I don’t think I’d walk at all.
Books on exercise sell by the thousands. And there's a reason for this. It's a lot easier to read than it is to exercise.
But I know I need to exercise. So I got together with some girlfriends to lament my platitudes over a restorative plate of gnocchi boscaiola (extra cream in the sauce thanks), garlic bread (double serve, do you mind?), house red (actually we'll just get a bottle, much easier), and lattes (do you do them in a mug?)
Jane started. "I've got to exercise. I rang up yesterday to hire a treadmill. Great idea, doncha think? I was going to put it right in front of the television. That way I can watch The Biggest Loser and exercise! The one I saw advertised even had a drink holder. I don't think it was for a wine glass, I think it was for a bottle of water, but you can't be too sure. I'll get them to confirm that.
"Anyway, get this, I rang them up, and they don't have any left. None. No exercise bikes either. No cross trainers, whatever the hell that is, a float for the Mardi Gras in Sydney perhaps? I could get a fitball but I'd have to inflate it myself," she said as she drew back on her cigarette.
Collective panic set in around the table. Clearly we weren't the only ones desperately seeking absolution for our orange-peel thighs. The questions started. Did she ring other hire places? Were they out of stock too? What about going on a waiting list? How much are they to buy? Have you checked eBay?
"What if we join a gym?" I ventured, adding yet more Parmesan to my meal whilst deliberating whether I'd have caramel or butterscotch sauce on my sticky date pudding. "You know, ask for a corporate membership, government levy discount, personal trainers, stuff like that? Thanks doll, I'd love some more red."
Sounded fab, except for one problem - commitment. I can't commit to a dinner service pattern. Or a long distance mobile phone carrier. Or a man. How am I supposed to commit to a gym?
Gyms across Australia make their annual budget from women like me. They join a gym, sign up for a year and elect the premium membership package.
Then they forget to go. Forget that the key factor is actually visiting the establishment and moving about in some form on the equipment. These people are known as gym-donors. The bread and full-fat butter of the gym industry. They hand over money without setting foot in the place. They keep the wheels turning but never get on the bike.
"I know, we'll just go walking. It's free, it's available 24/7, and we can go for as long or as short as we want." Sighs could collectively be heard. Easy solution to a complex problem.
Ok," I said, feeling very zealous and motivated. "We'll start tomorrow at lunch time. We'll meet outside my building at 12 and walk around the City Gardens."
"Lunch tomorrow's no good for me," said one of the group. "I'm meeting my mother for coffee."
"And I've got a meeting that will go till 2," said another.
"No worries," I said, steadfastly holding on to a mental picture of me in togs once winter was over. "What about after work?"
I'm meeting someone for drinks."
"I've got to pick up the kids early
And so it goes.
I can't say for sure whether that walking group will ever convene, or if any of us will ever get to that gym, but I can say one thing for sure. Come this time next year, we'll still be talking about it. How do I know? I've already booked the table and asked the restaurant to open a bottle of red.
That’s ok by me. I don't jog, it makes the ice jump right out of my glass. In fact, I don’t exercise much at all. Exercise wouldn’t be a problem for me if I had a different body to do it with. And if God meant us to touch our toes, he would have put them further up our body. If it wasn’t for car parks, I don’t think I’d walk at all.
Books on exercise sell by the thousands. And there's a reason for this. It's a lot easier to read than it is to exercise.
But I know I need to exercise. So I got together with some girlfriends to lament my platitudes over a restorative plate of gnocchi boscaiola (extra cream in the sauce thanks), garlic bread (double serve, do you mind?), house red (actually we'll just get a bottle, much easier), and lattes (do you do them in a mug?)
Jane started. "I've got to exercise. I rang up yesterday to hire a treadmill. Great idea, doncha think? I was going to put it right in front of the television. That way I can watch The Biggest Loser and exercise! The one I saw advertised even had a drink holder. I don't think it was for a wine glass, I think it was for a bottle of water, but you can't be too sure. I'll get them to confirm that.
"Anyway, get this, I rang them up, and they don't have any left. None. No exercise bikes either. No cross trainers, whatever the hell that is, a float for the Mardi Gras in Sydney perhaps? I could get a fitball but I'd have to inflate it myself," she said as she drew back on her cigarette.
Collective panic set in around the table. Clearly we weren't the only ones desperately seeking absolution for our orange-peel thighs. The questions started. Did she ring other hire places? Were they out of stock too? What about going on a waiting list? How much are they to buy? Have you checked eBay?
"What if we join a gym?" I ventured, adding yet more Parmesan to my meal whilst deliberating whether I'd have caramel or butterscotch sauce on my sticky date pudding. "You know, ask for a corporate membership, government levy discount, personal trainers, stuff like that? Thanks doll, I'd love some more red."
Sounded fab, except for one problem - commitment. I can't commit to a dinner service pattern. Or a long distance mobile phone carrier. Or a man. How am I supposed to commit to a gym?
Gyms across Australia make their annual budget from women like me. They join a gym, sign up for a year and elect the premium membership package.
Then they forget to go. Forget that the key factor is actually visiting the establishment and moving about in some form on the equipment. These people are known as gym-donors. The bread and full-fat butter of the gym industry. They hand over money without setting foot in the place. They keep the wheels turning but never get on the bike.
"I know, we'll just go walking. It's free, it's available 24/7, and we can go for as long or as short as we want." Sighs could collectively be heard. Easy solution to a complex problem.
Ok," I said, feeling very zealous and motivated. "We'll start tomorrow at lunch time. We'll meet outside my building at 12 and walk around the City Gardens."
"Lunch tomorrow's no good for me," said one of the group. "I'm meeting my mother for coffee."
"And I've got a meeting that will go till 2," said another.
"No worries," I said, steadfastly holding on to a mental picture of me in togs once winter was over. "What about after work?"
I'm meeting someone for drinks."
"I've got to pick up the kids early
And so it goes.
I can't say for sure whether that walking group will ever convene, or if any of us will ever get to that gym, but I can say one thing for sure. Come this time next year, we'll still be talking about it. How do I know? I've already booked the table and asked the restaurant to open a bottle of red.
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