Archive | February, 2013

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Snack After Midnight)

27 Feb


Midnight snacks are an essential part of any sleepover, drunken night out or end to a Nigella Lawson episode. And while it’s common to eat out of boredom or with the onset of winter, I would like to propose a new, highly nutritious model:

It is reasonable to suggest that any time after midnight is technically part of a new day. So, by extension, the “snacks” that we consume after the stroke of twelve are just a very early breakfast. They are also the perfect way to kick start my metabolism for the breakfast I won’t eat because cereal is boring and I ate all the bacon at midnight. A verifiable mealtime revolution! I will be thin and fight off bottom related largess.

You see, when you skip a meal, your body feeds off its fat stores. And if you skip enough, maybe your body will eat your ass. *

So I have a confession. I may have missed a few details about last weeks festival conquest who might have had an altercation with a vacuum cleaner that went for his jugular…what I’m trying to say with my ham-handed metaphor is that I’m a horrible, juvenile person who decided it would be hilarious to give him a hickey. Thinking in all likelihood I’d probably never see him again.

* You are a smelly pirate hooker! Why don’t you go back to you’re home on Whore Island? *

But as 6 degrees of separation and the fact that I am, out of some morbid curiosity allowed to continue with the freak show I call my life; that particular deed has came back to bite me.

My penchant for lists dictate I give it to you straight (ha!) and in bullet point form:

* It’s $500 for kissing, $10,000 for cuddling. End of list. *

  • Mr. Sheffield happens to play for a university sports team.
  • My brother’s girlfriend has a younger sister who also plays for that team.
  • At the subsequent practice, several remarks were directed towards said love bite.
  • My name was mentioned.
  • Shit got real.
  • I died.

* Apparently F.R. Leavis is coming. *

Hold the press! I just had a phone call from Mr. Sheffield.

I’m going to digress and you will sit there and you will like it!

We spent 20 minutes having a conversation that involved the words penchant and predilection. I even said how stupid it was that everyone seems to be so scared of talking on phones these days and that texts are so safe. Amazing! As the conversation was coming to a close and our date re-scheduled for Monday night. I was playing with my empty wine glass when I broke it. The rest of the conversation went a little something like this:

“Oh fuck, I just broke my wine glass”


“Not that I was drinking on a Wednesday by myself!”


“I-hope-you-have-a-good-weekend-I’ll-see-you-Monday-bye! FUCK”

Mazel tov bitches.

But wait, then what do I do? I immediately send him a friend request on Facebook.


Ok. Calm. No biggie. I like a mid-week drink. And hard “K” sounds. All I need now is the noughties equivalent of Mr. Darcy emerging from a lake. Which just so happens to be a combination of Cooper Nielson doing his butt buster routine in Center Stage and Daniel Craig coming out of the water in Casino Royale.

I’m going to put that shit on a loop, light up a cigarette and eat some goddamn Brie.

* Focker out! *


Never Have I Ever

21 Feb


This week I went on full-blown mini-break weekend holiday to a music festival on the central coast. 5 friends and I camped, drank and danced ourselves silly surrounded by strange festival folk. You know the type: weed smoking, moustache having, singlet loving, underground music enthusiasts that like to wear their own buttholes as necklaces.

* Not a single body that exists in nature, look at that. *

The one benefit of this particular scene was the availability of 3,4-methylenedioxy-methamphetamine. No, I didn’t end up in a Thai prison giving a Madge master class though I did end up somewhere quite unexpected.

* Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin. *

I decided before we went away that I needed a conquest or a rebound, whichever came first. And considering that the whole world of dating terrifies me perhaps finding a hobby might’ve been a better idea. Earlier in the week I considered “destroying men” but unfortunately I’m a couple of recently divorced women and a lesbian daughter shy of the First Wives Club.

How about knitting? Or pottery? Or menopause? Maybe not.

* Matchmaker, Matchmaker make me a match. Find me a find, catch me a catch. *

Pick up attempt No.1:

I noticed a guy next to the dance floor who seemed to have his own supply of various phallic shaped fruits. We shall call him B2. I would like to say beforehand that outside of a gay club setting (which as we know can be misleading anyway) it’s really hard to figure out who’s gay and who’s not; short of bringing up a dislike of female reproductive organs and putting your mouth on their mouth.

Anyway after striking up a conversation with B2, my friends and I relocate to our tent with his fruitiness in tow. During the conversation that follows it comes to light that:

a)    He juggles for a living.

b)    His mother’s in a cult.

c)     He’s straight.

I might’ve dodged a bullet on that one.

Pick up attempt No.2:

A few hours later I’m 6 inches deep in dubstep and breathing easy with my pride rekindled or forgotten in an alcoholic haze. I spot a silver party hat perched on a familiar face of a gentleman who shall call Mr. Sheffield. Mr. Sheffield just so happens to have dated one of my previous boyfriends who, as coincidence will have it, bumped into me that same afternoon. At the same festival. Fun!

I shout a few comments at him like  “Alec Baldwin is the Ryan Gosling of the 80’s” just to make sure it’s a thing and

* One thing led to another, and dot dot dot. *[1]

Cut to me 40 minutes later outside his tent imitating Beyoncé en pointe while he sings Halo. Thanks for this embarrassing display must go to Lena Dunham for making this an acceptable dance move and to Microsoft Word for autocorrecting my lack of accent on the e.

* I beat Meryl! *

Personal idiocy aside it turns out I may have scored a second date next week! I also scored an invite to my 5 year high-school reunion today and a text from my ex-boyfriend. One I don’t want to speak to and the other fills me with dread. I vowed never to go a high school reunion until I was rich and famous or married to someone rich and famous. Which is where the ex boyfriend or any boyfriend would’ve come in handy. I would introduce them as “Astronaut Mike Dexter”

* I have to go back into space, Liz. I hope you enjoyed the kissing, followed by my genuine interest in that T.V. dance competition. *


There are a lot of things I’ve done that I never thought I would do[2] and some that I wish I had never done in the first place[3]. But as they say variety is the spice of life.

*You say potato, I say vodka.*

Well, better dash. I have to write up a first date contract.

Must like Gouda and Harry Potter.

Apply within.

[1] While we’re on the subject of Mama Mia! I once famously said mid channel flick  “Oh, that’s Meryl Streep. She’s like gay Jesus.”

[2] Drugs, redheads, camping, sleeping with a woman (twice).

[3] All of my ex-boyfriends.

Relax Don’t Do It

14 Feb


I’m doing everything I can right now to relax. I’m in a bath filled with some foul smelling substance pretending to be rejuvenating bath oils with myrrh extract. I’ve finished Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason and half a bottle of Riesling. And despite my best efforts it’s just not working. I can’t relax because I have spent the majority of the day moving back into my mother’s house…on Valentines Day.

*Good God Lemon*

In case you were wondering the rest of my day was split between wishing that every women with flowers would get her period in a shark tank and making a list of things that would be infinitely harder with two people. The list so far:

  1. Pole-vaulting
  2. Hoola-hooping
  3. Drinking from a straw
  4. Monologues

Lists are hard.

The frightening reality that I’m now faced with is trying to maintain any sort of independence under my mother’s roof. A women who’s favourite activity is to make pointed suggestions but never actually asking me outright to do anything. Probably due to some residual divorce related guilt.

“The TV is very loud…your room’s a bit dirty…the garbage is getting full…what’s with the kitchen…your hair’s long…it’s seriously loud.”

* Nothing. Nothing. Not a thing, Cruella.*

Anyway it’s not all bad though I suppose. I do appreciate the fully stocked pantry and fridge, considering some of my recent meals. One of which included a slug of soy sauce and three packets of out of date snack sized Red Rock Deli chips.

*At times like this continuing with one’s life seems impossible and eating the entire contents of one’s fridge seems inevitable*

As far as potential suitors go, there have been several exciting developments. I had an adult dream about Alec Baldwin where I asked him to call me Lemon and I spent five whole minutes staring at a topless picture of Zac Efron while repeating the word “rig” over and over. Progress!

*He’s losing his mind…and I’m reaping all the benefits*

To be fair though, perhaps the reason that I dislike this day so much is because I have never dated anyone who shares my strangely John Hughesian sense of romance. After buying countless gifts, sending flowers and messy owl posts I really just want someone to do that for me.

It’s not jealously, ok maybe it is a little, but I think like everyone else I just want to be wanted…and for my decisions not to be decided for me by some stupid gaybie poster child. You fancy, flying fuck.

So for all of you out there who are lucky enough to have a husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, partner, whatever I am truly sorry you have to deal with the general public’s rage on February 14th just try to spread your sickening love out over the rest of the year, please.

*I don’t hate you because you’re fat, you’re fat because I hate you*

Well, from the bottom of my wine, Happy Valentines Day.

I love you Mum

The Other Side of Sadness

7 Feb


At day 9 of breakup I should be knee deep in the Kübler-Ross model somewhere between anger, depression and eating my feelings. Instead I find myself with an absence of any traumatic symptoms whatsoever. This is more than likely due to one of two reasons:

A recently adopted nightly regime of a bottle of wine, sleeping pills and a bath before bed (affectionately dubbed the “Virginia Woolf” model)


I’ve done exactly what it says in Women Who Love Men Too Much and completely detached from any emotion on the ovarian spectrum.[1]

Stage 1: Denial – In amongst this emotional fuckwittage I’ve tried to spend the days regaining some semblance of normality; starting with a trip to mothers house where I guilt tripped her into buying me some fancy new clothes. Proof that I’m totally fine.

* You’ll never get a boyfriend if you look like you’ve wandered out of Auschwitz *

Stage 2: Anger – My next act as a singleton other than finding an appropriate, private and offline outlet for my thoughts and feelings was to rectify the sad reality of sleeping alone. So, I decided to download The Hunger Games audiobook. As it turns out listening to violent slaughter before bed was strangely comforting.

Stage 3: Bargaining – My third port of call was a show of independence in the form of attending the cinema by myself. I’m a grown up. Look how well I’m doing! Do you think we can be friends?!…On the plus side I didn’t have to find anyone to fit in with my schedule and I could eat fistfuls of popcorn without fear of retribution.

*Remember, chew like you have a secret*

As a side note, movies are a horrible first date option for the following reasons:

  1. You have very little opportunity to talk and get to know the other party.
  2. You have to broach the awkward who pays for who dilemma immediately.
  3. There is an overwhelming pressure to kiss and subsequently miss any important plot details resulting in you having to pay to see the film again.
  4. You decide to try and impress them with your art-house leanings and take them to see Melancholia and it ends up that they are a manic depressive and have to leave the cinema in a wave of hysterical crying and you have to comfort them when all you really want to do was to finish the diet coke and half a box of maltesers that you left behind.

Stage 4: Depression –  It had been a pretty hard week so I figured it was time to call an emergency summit with urban family. As usual things got out of hand and I ended up at Stonewall where I spent the whole evening hitting on a guy who turned out to be straight. In hindsight the football jersey, sandshoes and the fact he hooked up with a woman right in front of me should have been a dead giveaway. I’m just no good at this.

* I despise guessing games *

Stage 5: Acceptance – This one might take a bit more time to get my head around what with Valentines Day around the corner and my overwhelming desire to fill peoples flowers with bees and cyanide. I’ll be fine. Eventually.

* Don’t worry, honey. Everything’s fine. We’re going to have a wonderful party. We’ve made Daddy such a nice cake. *

[1] The Ovarian Emotional Spectrum ranges from a flagrant desire to procreate to an irrational hatred of all things that aren’t sweet, sweet nourishing chocolate.

* LIAR! Throws chocolates at screen *