Winter Dryness

27 May


I decided to wait a little bit longer to post this week in the vain hope that something exciting might happen. It turns out all I did was turn champagne into champleasure, denounce sloths as tree pedophiles and then struggle through a hangover. No boys. No gossip. Nothing.

* You know, if I were as pathetic as you are, I would have killed myself ages ago. You should get on with it. *

However, I did manage some weird shit when I was drunk and walking home:

  • I made it rain with my old bus tickets that were taking up too much space in my wallet.
  • Not all of them were new.
  • Not all of them were bus tickets[1].
  • I burnt myself trying to smoke the wrong end of a cigarette.
  • I stole a bottle of milk from a crate outside of a café to take Snapchat selfies with.
  • I cut my arm while trying to pull leaves off a tree so I could use them as confetti on my walk home.
  • I decided to take pictures lying in the middle of the road.
  • I ate a box of crackers.
  • O.K. two boxes.
  • And I tried my hand at automatic writing[2].

* At least now I’m in my thirties I can hold my drink. *

Luckily sober me had left out some painkillers; vitamin c tablets and an electrolyte replacement drink on my bedside table.

* And injustice deliciously squared, Be prepared! *

Winter is coming and I couldn’t be more excited. The 3pm lie-ins, the scarves, the soups and the moment that pajamas becoming acceptable everyday wear; what’s not to love? What I can’t stand though is winter dryness. It’s just awful. My skin is drier than Susan Boyle’s snatch; you could literally use my elbows to carve a smile into Nicole Kidman’s wooden excuse for a face.

* This layout for the Winter Wonderland spread. Not wonderful yet. *

By some small miracle I’ve also managed to get out of my financial funk[3]. So I celebrated by buying tickets to see my favorite all-American bitch next door: Taylor Swift. I really hope she sits on my face and immortalizes our exchange in song form with a catchy title like “I Knew You Were A Cunning Linguist” or “Fingers Too”. Red could’ve been a very different album.

* Why should I listen to you, anyway? You’re a virgin who can’t drive. *

I was out for dinner the other night when someone aimed their fork and my plate and paused expectantly. I didn’t realize what was happening till they’d raped my delicious meal with their pointy saliva covered prongs. I can’t stand sharing food. If I wanted some of your meal I would have ordered the same thing as you instead of what I got. You should do the same. No, no. Please don’t offer me a taste of yours. Because we both know I’ll refuse. I also won’t be returning the offer. This isn’t sex; I’m not giving you something for nothing.

* Would you like another lick of my flavor bar? *

I started my new job this week. It turns out I’m a cerulean jumper away from being Andrea Sachs in The Devil Wears Prada. I parked his car, opened his mail, made coffee and felt generally out of my depth. I did manage to note that the bathroom soap smells pleasantly of marshmallows though. I suppose my trial shift didn’t exactly prepare me for the ins and outs of office life: we spent 3 hours at a fully catered lunch alcohol included. I suppose second impressions count less when there’s wine involved. Here’s hoping I find some Jimmy Choo’s in my size and befriend Stanley Tucci by Wednesday.

* Can you please spell “Gabbana”? *

I also had to sit through a tedious interaction with my brother. I try to avoid doing so at all costs because he’s a total narcissist. He requires constant validation and will go about getting it any way he can. Be it through putting people down or talking up his mediocre achievements. I mean honestly, what else would a 25 year old be doing joining a health club whose primary patrons are wealthy lawyers with a median age of 65. He’s clearly desperate to be labeled as youthful and intelligent by comparison the stupid git…unless of course he enjoys sharing steam rooms with older men. But everyone knows those gene’s wouldn’t fit his child bearing hips in a million years.

* And when I close my eyes, I see you for who you truly are, which is ug-lay. *

Lastly I’ve shed another couple of kilos but I think the diet is starting to mess with my brain. I’ve begun to see food everywhere and I’ve developed serious cravings for carbohydrates. If only I could feel as strongly for a human being as I do about carbs. Find me a human breadstick and I will eat them with love and regret nothing.

* It does not do to dwell on dreams, Harry, and forget to live. *

[1] Note to self: credit cards are important.

[2] By “automatic writing” I mean I went on intoxicated rant and the only intelligible things were “lovely jubbly” “made out with a rhinoceros” and “spring break forever”. What a waste of two pages.

* Wine is bottled poetry. *

[3] I’ve even paid my phone bill. Two and a half months later.



17 May

ImageIt’s official. Sex has become a chore and I don’t even care.

* I just wish I could start a relationship about twelve years in, when you really don’t have to try anymore, and you can just sit around together and goof on TV shows, and then go to bed without anybody trying any funny business. *

It all started when I had an adult sleepover with Mitch Buchannan.

Despite it ending on a high note where I thanked him walked him to the door and told him that he’s a high-end stripper for governors or athletes. The beginning, middle and the weird part in between where we showered in an extremely well lit hotel bathroom were not so great.

I think perhaps there had been too much build-up or maybe I was too drunk. Either way, checking out half way through so you can decide on tomorrow mornings room service selection is never a good sign.

It’s not that it was bad I suppose. I just didn’t care. I even found myself staring at his face and thinking. You have dimples. I don’t like dimples. Dimples are only acceptable for babies and Vicki Valentine.

* Tapa Tapa Tapa *

And now sex kind of seems like a game of Monopoly: Nobody knows the rules, it’s takes too long to set up and no one ever seems to win. So you put it away on a dark shelf and don’t touch it again until some dickhead who thinks he’s good at playing games whips it out. In a word: unsatisfying. In two: very unsatisfying.

* Do you feel the way you feel after the Risotto? *

I’ve subsequently come up with some general post-coital rules:

1) If I’m lying on my stomach please take the hint. I don’t want to spoon.

2) Please stay on your side of the bed.

3) Don’t steal my air with your loud mouth breathing and blow it back in my face all warm and devoid of oxygen.

4) Don’t stroke me with your feet.

5) Don’t cut off circulation to my limbs with your inconveniently placed ones.

6) Don’t sweat on me. Just stop all perspiration upon “completion”.

7) Please let me get at least 8 hours sleep.

8) Wake me up before you proceed with penetration, lest I press charges.

9) Don’t watch me while I sleep. If anything, do what I do and stare determinately at the ceiling until you pass out.

10) If I want to re-clothe prior to sleep, let me. Otherwise I will be making a lounge pant out of your skin.

11) Please refrain from touching my hair; I know where your hands have been.

12) Don’t try to Simba me.

13) Don’t tell me you love me. I heard you mid-coit; I just chose to ignore it.

14) Don’t ask if you can film or photograph me. As far as I’m concerned this is the equivalent of the nocturnal section at the zoo.

15) In fact, don’t talk at all.

16) Do clean up after yourself.

17) And feel free to leave. At any time.

* Did you ever wake up sober after a one night stand, and the person you’re next to is laying’ on your arm, and they’re so ugly, you’d rather chew off your arm then risk waking ’em? That’s coyote ugly *

Anyway I suppose it’s not all bad. I have lost 4kgs[1].

I also went for a job interview this week. It’s just for some office position where I can waltz around in a see-through top and fanny about with the press releases but being very inexperienced in an office environment I had a bit of a nervy-b. I spent half the time while I waited keeping my right hand dry for the imminent, firm, but not too strong, multiple pump handshake with eye contact. And the other half trying to think about what I was actually going to say to make me sound vaguely employable. Of course, my prospective employer arrives while I’m trying to subtly blow on my right hand to keep it dry while I attempt to check the time on my mobile phone which I’d stowed under my thigh, with my left; Yet another excellent first impression.

I honestly don’t know how I’m going to top it when I start on Tuesday.

* Neville, what the fuck is going on? She’s supposed to be sliding down the pole not climbing up it. *

Since downloading and watching the majority of The Wild Thornberrys I have noticed a couple of things:

1) Darwin is pretty much Eliza’s gay best friend. He gets dragged around everywhere, makes bitchy comments, supports her emotionally, keeps her secrets, wears a tank top and has a tumultuous relationship with food.

2) Donnie isn’t an adorable wild boy; he has a serious pervasive developmental disorder. He is on the autistic spectrum.

3) Drunken Reese Witherspoon and her husband would do a better job of dressing and raising those kids than Nigel and Marianne.

4) Eliza would be overhearing so much animal sex and death that Darwin should really have been named Freud.

5) To be honest Debbie is the only well rounded, and level headed individual. Her cynical and jaded outlook on life mirrors my own at 15.

6) Oh and Lacey Chabert who voices Eliza Thornberry is probably better known as Gretchen Wieners.

* They say you’re a homeschooled jungle freak who’s a less hot version of me. *

Yeah, that happened.

Finally I’m really looking forward to the day when we achieve complete marriage equality. Mostly so I can marry Daniel Radcliffe and make basilisk and wand jokes but also so that we can have TV shows like The Real Gay Housewives of San Francisco and show all those other bitches what real drama looks like.

* In case I don’t see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good night. *

[1] No I didn’t get a double mastectomy. But I did have miso soup, a handful of dark chocolate covered goji berries and a diet coke for dinner one night.

Bitch Bitch Bitch

9 May

ImageIt was only the day after a friend of mine was concerned I might be using this platform as motivation for unsavoury behaviour when a casual dinner turned into an evening of getting baked, listening to Primal Scream and wishing I were Eliza Thornberry.

* All adventurous women do. *

In amongst thinking I had permanently widened my brains synaptic gaps to the point where my neurons ended up like Thelma and Louise I jotted down a couple of observations:

  • I decided Adele looked like a giant lamp.
  • I imagined what it would be like to have udders for feet.
  • During a conversation I was convinced a friend was saying “haus” instead of “house”.
  • I spent about 4 minutes stroking my front teeth and purring.
  • I forgot how to swallow.
  • I came up with what I thought was a hilarious insult; “You smile like a toilet flushes. Full of shit.”
  • I kept repeating the word for credit card in Spanish; bare in mind I don’t speak Spanish.

And then I got the munchies and ruined my diet.

* I’m so hungry I could eat a whole zebra. *

It’s OK though because a couple of days later I got accepted into postgrad law, lined up an interview for a legal assistant position and seriously considered buying an eBay listing for the “Bruiser’s Bill” notebook used in Legally Blonde 2.

* Life is happening! *

I think I must have some underlying masochistic tendencies because I had brunch with the ex today of my own volition. I figured it was an acceptable meal to meet for because it isn’t really breakfast or lunch just like our friendship isn’t really fun or enjoyable. The thought that he’s probably the last person I’ll see naked is kind of depressing. It’s not so much that I dislike him it’s more that he reminds me of a time that I was really happy.  The fact that he was the source of that emotion and its subsequent overwhelming lack kinda pisses me off.

*Be quiet Tiffany. Be quiet! *

Since I’ve come this far I feel like I should try and persevere with the friendship and hope that in the end it will be worth it. I have a feeling it’ll be the emotional equivalent of blue balls but I might be genuinely surprised like that time the girls vagina spat out some dudes dismembered penis in Teeth.

* She needs to sort out her priorities! *

I get pretty annoyed when I’m hanging out with people who used to be fat and they get compliments on how skinny they’ve become. I feel like I deserve just as many compliments for staying slim. Just once I’d like someone to say, “wow you look fantastic! Not eating your body weight in brie is doing wonders for you!” Celebrate my sporadic exercise regime and average metabolic rate goddamnit!

* You’re so insecure you get jealous at babies for their soft skin! And for all the attention they get! *

Oh and to those people who volunteer for charities in their spare time: I’m really impressed you think about someone other than yourself for a couple of hours a week but please don’t rub it in my face at every social occasion. Seriously, get down off the cross bitch somebody could use the wood.

* Why any kid would want to be an orphan is beyond me. *

In other news I still haven’t paid my phone bill but I did manage to purchase a Mean Girls inspired sweatshirt and a ridiculously overpriced exercise tee. It’s not as though I need any special exercise equipment like a cup or a sports bra. I imagine the latter is a necessary item. Nobody wants to get a black eye while exerting themselves unless you’re in a relationship with Chris Brown or Ike Turner. Besides, it totally matched my shoes.

* Daddy, some people lost all their belongings. Don’t you think that includes athletic equipment? *

On a rather dubious side note I found out this week that women’s clothes button from left to right rather than right to left. Don’t worry; I’m not moonlighting as a drag queen, although if I did my drag name would have to be Queen Laqueefah. I just wanted to see if my mums 80’s knitted cardigan was a viable fashion choice. In the end I decided I’m probably better off wearing a vest made out of radioactive ovaries.

* My first day as a woman and I’m getting hot flashes. *

I have a theory about women and the wind. I believe there is a positive correlation between the levels of crazy that women exhibit on days where it is overly windy. Their behavior is erratic and their demeanor is curt at best. I put it down to the wind ruining their hair and getting all up in their nooks and crannies.

* Oh! My period! You’re all fired! *

Finally I have lost 1kg, which in the scheme of things is incidental so I shall continue with the diet but with one change: on my fasting days I have decided that the only calories I will consume will come from a wine glass.

* It’s your window to weight gain. *

I’m No One’s Wife

1 May

ImageI overheard a woman on the bus the other day saying she was sleeping with someone and it struck me how wholly inaccurate that statement was. We all know what she meant but I wanted to know when this became an acceptable way to say that two people are fucking and not dating. Don’t sully the beautiful calming happiness of sleep with the sweaty and uncomfortable throes of intercourse. Maybe it’s just my persistent dry spell but the whole concept of sugar coating the fact you are getting some is very irritating. Almost as much as the fact you are getting some at all you miserable dumpy cow.

* Can I get you guys anything? Some snacks? A condom? Let me know! Oh, God love ya.*

Really though, displays of affection have no place on public transport. It’s a moveable prison full of uncomfortable silences, overpowering body odor and invasions of personal space. I once saw a couple standing up halfway down the bus that thought that holding onto each other instead of the handrails provided was a good idea. Your love may hold you together but inertia will knock you down…and like the new prison bitch they fell harder than Kirstie Alley into a pile of cake.

* Some people swear they saw me push her in front of the bus. That was an even worse rumor. *

The relative certainty of gravitational forces in our world can be very satisfying until they start to pull your own love handles down about your middle. Which is why, in true Bridget fashion, I have started a diet.

* You wanna do something fun? You wanna go to Taco Bell? *

It’s the 5:2 Diet, the Feast or Famine Diet, The Alternate Day Diet, the Longevity Diet. Lets call a spade a spade and go with what it actually is: Intermittent Fasting. It was made popular by Dr. Michael J. Mosley in his documentary Eat, Fast & Live Longer. The proposed benefits are numerous and the principles are easy enough to follow. You can stick to your normal eating/exercise regime but factor in two consecutive or non-consecutive fasting days where you are on a restricted calorie diet.[1]

* I want to lose three pounds.*

Like most fad diets, it’s meteoric rise and the present lack of scientific evidence means that it is already being adopted by a nation desperate for any new and seemingly miraculous way to slim down. In Australia alone the fitness industry is worth more than $1.2 Billion dollars and with 63.4% of Australian aged 18 years and over considered obese or overweight, it’s little surprise that this diet is getting so much buzz.

*There are two kinds of evil people in this world. Those who do evil stuff and those who see evil stuff being done and don’t try to stop it. *

Anyway at the end of my first non-consecutive day of fasting this is where I stand.

Calorie Breakdown:

Two Scrambled Eggs = 160

One and a Half Slices of Ham = 69

½ Cup Tuna, 1 Tablespoon Red Onion, Curry Powder, 1 Cup Baby Spinach 1 Carrot = approx. 120

1 Duck Pancake = 200

1 Cup of Coffee = N.A. as is diuretic and reduces risk of diabetes, colon cancer and heart disease

1 Cup Miso Soup = 84 calories

3 glasses of champagne = N.A. as celebrating and conducive to productive writing

Total = 633

*Whatever, I’m getting cheese fries. *

In amongst my exercise related research I discovered a somewhat graphic term, the much sought after “Box Gap”. For a man new to this idea I was quite taken aback. Do women really want/need ITC (Inner Thigh Clearance)? Is it particularly flattering to see a little window of the horizon between women’s thighs? I mean not that I ever look there anyway but I don’t need that straddling my seaside vista. The ocean is fishy enough as it is. Either way the market is ripe for some classy workout videos:

*Say crack again. “Crack.” *

  1. Think Outside Your Box
  2. Box Your Way to a Foxy Box
  3. Box Attacks
  4. It’s Hip to be Square (Box)
  5. Ellen & Portia’s Box Bustin’ Workout[2]

* I’m sorry I called you a gap-toothed bitch. It’s not your fault you’re so gap-toothed. *

Sorry for all the Mean Girl references. It was our 9-year anniversary the other day. It was way back in 2004 when I discovered that to go anywhere in life you have to be hot, bitchy, possess a killer rack and be equip with a well-written inner monologue.

* I have this theory, that if you cut off all her hair she’d look like a British man. *

Speaking of British men I’ve decided I want to be the blog version One Direction. I totally have the chinos, baseball t-shirt and high-top combo for it. Plus I’m pasty as fuck so I could totally double for a Brit[3]. They make shit loads of money, spend the majority of their time looking good and hanging out with other hot boys. Living the dream.

Thank you Tina Fey.

* Is that the summation? *

[1] This is about 500 calories for women and 600 for men.

[2] * I guess it’s probably because I’ve got a big lesbian crush on you! Suck on that! *

[3] I’m about 90% sure Google has used my translucent excuse for an epidermis as a prototype for Google Glass.


26 Apr

ImageI am by no means mysophobic[1]; why just the other morning I ate a croissant that a previous patron nibbled and left on our table at a café. But what I cannot abide is the sharing of toiletries between members of a household, even if they are family.

* Oh no! Not in Big Momma’s house! *

Evidently my sister’s recent adoption of my razor is making me Amanda Bynes crazy. I don’t know what’s worse; the fact that I have used something on my face that has at one time or another high thighed my sister or that it seems to be strategically timed with visits from her boyfriend. I guess you could say she’s rubbing it in my face[2].

* Newman! *

I also got hit on this week by a beautician who took my friendly conversation during a state of undress as a go ahead to rest her hand on my bum for a rather protracted period of time. I didn’t mention it so she gave me a discount. I have subsequently added another job to my career path. It now reads:

1)    Get divorced (twice).

2)    Become a prostitute.

I had to remove “Be Maggie Smith” because I don’t have the cheekbones.

* Love you. Love everything about you. Thinking about being you for Halloween. *

Anyway without sounding like I have a thing for “damaged goods” or that I’m part of a self-fulfilling child of divorce prophecy where every relationship is doomed to fail. I have come to the realisation that bar one or two people I’ve dated, the rest have all had some serious underlying issues. Issues that I tried my hardest to help them deal with often at my own detriment. Then once they have achieved a state of normalcy they dump me[3]. I don’t want to be the one who brings people up to dateable level. I don’t want to be The Starter Boyfriend because Debra Messing terrifies me.

* Will find nice sensible boyfriend to go out with and not continue to form romantic attachments to any of the following alcoholics, workaholics, commitment-phobics peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits, or perverts. *

I don’t really like getting emotional; I don’t think anyone really does unless they’re on The Biggest Loser. It’s just so much easier to laugh and joke than address real issues. That’s why we have ice cream, retail therapy and anonymous blogs. Emotions are gross and I’m an even more unattractive crier than any of the vampires on True Blood.

* This is the first time I’ve ever seen you look ugly, and that makes me kinda happy. *

I have a couple of PostSecret style confessions to make:

1)    Sometimes I pour part of my wine into my bath because I think it will make me a youthful alcoholic.

2)    If I’m at home alone I’m in one of three outfits.

  1. Naked.
  2. Naked with bathrobe.
  3. Naked with cheese platter.

3)    I think cargo pants are the human equivalent of saddlebags. Saddlebags filled with the regret and rage that 35 years olds feel when they’re still living at home with their parents.

4)    I skip the first 10 minutes of Disney Pixar’s UP.

5)    My mother still cuts my hair.

6)    I narrate when I drive because I find it reassuring.

7)    I watch Embarrassing Bodies with my family.

8)    I once ran over a possum and didn’t stop.

9)    I will always tell people if they have lipstick on their snaggletooth.

10) I can’t touch cotton wool balls because they hurt my teeth.

11) I sometimes sit the other way round on the toilet for fun.

12) I only listen to “cool” music on the bus cause I’m worried people can hear through my headphones.

13) Urinals terrify me.

14) I have never kissed a guy while completely sober (except once we’re dating).

15) One of my exes tried to Simba me.

16) I think my cat understands me better than some people.

17) I own a replica of Snape’s wand from Harry Potter[4].

18) I believe in ghosts.

19) I’ve been cheated on twice.

20) When I was discussing a hypothetical situation where I have children with my friend, my offspring referred to me as “mummy”.

I guess I’m kind of weird…Oh well, I better get back to making my Snapchats into famous portraits and having a heart to heart with my good friend SavvyB (Sauvignon Blanc).

* Everybody loves me, and I intend to keep it that way. *

[1] Also known as germophobic or spermophobic. No joke. Sperm.

[2] Adding insult to injury tells she tells me out of the blue that she’s going on a holiday to the Whitsundays with her boyfriend and that I’m single and alone.

[3] I have never broken up with anyone I have always been the one who is broken up with. Half of which were over coffee in the morning while it’s raining so now I hesitate to combine those three things in any capacity of my life.

[4] Amongst other memorabilia including the Marauders Map, two Slytherin scarves, a Slytherin Beanie, a Deathly Hallows necklace, several Hogwarts badges and a signed copy of One Day in the Life of Daniel Radcliffe.

Age of Enlightenment

19 Apr

ImageThe closest I’ve ever come to enlightenment was when I shut my eyes during The Blue Planet narrated by David Attenborough and imagined myself riding a dolphin naked with Matt Bomer.

* How interesting. What a gripping life you do lead. *

Which is why, in an effort to reach an Alex Pettyfer filled nirvana; I have taken up bed yoga. No, that’s not some code for my non-existent yet strangely gymnastic sex life. It is as it sounds. Doing yoga from the comfort and warmth of your own bed. It’s pretty amazing. I don’t even have to get out of my pajamas and the only persons flatulence issues I have to deal with are my own.

*What are you doing? Horizontal running. *

It truly is the most fun a boy could have lying down that doesn’t involve chocolate.

* Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate! Aack! *

As a parenthesis to last week’s discussion of costume parties it turns out I didn’t go to “The Sound of Music” party after all. I ended up going out till 6am and requested Bette Davis Eyes at every club instead.

* Dance! Dance! Dance until you die! *

So short and punchy with my paragraphs this week! More like paralaughs aye, aye! And considering how well that pun went down I imagine it was paraplegic…and now I am feeling more judgment than the time I dressed as Walt Disney and the hosts’ parents thought I’d dressed as Hitler. I got a tiny slice of cake and no lolly bag. That, ladies and gentlemen, was the very last time I let my mother do my makeup.

* What on earth are you wearing? You look like a common prostitute. *

Come to think of it, that’s probably the root of my desire to please people for food-based rewards as well.

* Am enjoying a relationship with two men simultaneously. The first is called Ben, the other, Jerry. *

In other news I think I may have been struck down with a case of Slut Throat aka Glandular Fever. Perhaps it’s just my cyberchondria playing up but between Project Free TV, news searches for Kelly Clarkson and Facebook (I cant be bothered to type the Facebook URL into the address bar) medical symptoms seem to form the majority of my Google searches. And Google has pronounced me sick or already dead.

* I’m just one stomach flu away from my goal weight. *

To be fair I do have a slight tendency to overreact. I once called my friend who studies nursing in a complete panic complaining of chest pains and severe cramps. I had already decided I was having a heart attack and written a farewell note to my family and friends in my iPhone. He eventually managed to calm me down and asked me what I’d been doing and what I’d eaten that day. As it turns out eating 4 separate sandwiches then going for a run for the first time in 3 months is a good way to induce some pretty serious heartburn.

* I already feel like an idiot most of the time anyway – with or without a fireman’s pole. *

I suppose it’s just as well my phone got cut off today because I’ve just noticed a sinister looking mole that really should to be photographed and sent to all my friends studying medicine for evaluation. Maybe I’ll Snapchat it instead, give it some fangs or a sexy mohawk. Who knows, maybe even a little Hitler moustache.

* Welcome to Germany. Auf Wiedersehen, asshole. *

Why Are You Dressed So Scary?

12 Apr

ImageWhat could be a more disastrous Friday night than staying in and eating cold leftovers while watching Dante’s Peak? Oh right, choosing an outfit for your mother to wear on a date. A date that arrives 5 minutes early and requires you to entertain him. What a horrendous prom night role reversal!

* Oh somebody kill me please, somebody kill me please, I’m on my knees, pretty pretty please kill me *

I’ve spent the last couple of days reading Memoirs of a Geisha and I decided that I should try to adopt some of their principles like grace, poise and the ability to walk in ill-fitting shoes.

* Would you excuse me? I cut my foot before and my shoe is filling up with blood. *

So it is only right that I welcomed her date into our home, offered him some tea and a seat in our living room. What a well-mannered host! If only I could say that I was just as composed at a certain impromptu birthday dinner at my friends house earlier in the week.

At my request she cooked me a birthday stew! There was even wine and cake. What more could a boy want? Oh, perhaps an awkward, pointy triangle of sexual tension with Mitch Buchannon and her other housemate Ryan Atwood. As it turns out Mitch is a friend of someone else in the house who invited him over for tea. Immediately after my friend had just mentioned that Ryan is cute and totally available.

* Damn, damn, double damn! *

I even sat on my knees for 20 minutes and tried to make polite conversation while the house trolled for penis pictures on Grindr in order to create a “Wall of Dicks”; Another brilliant suggestion by yours truly. When the conversation came to a lull I had seconds, then thirds and by the time it came for everyone to go to bed I got a lift home with Mitch. Damn him and his quick, free and non-public transportation.

Don’t worry though; I managed to keep it together during the car ride. We even shared a delightfully awkward Voldermort hug…then sexting happened.

* Very bad start to the year. Have been seduced by informality of messaging medium into flirting with office scoundrel. *

I suppose I should have modeled myself on a better vocation rather than one made up of mysterious women who get completely over-dressed, encourage excessive drinking, and artfully manipulate wealthy men’s affections in order to become their mistress.

Speaking of getting overly dressed I’m supposed to attend a house party tomorrow night in some form of costume. Alas it’s not “Tarts and Vicars” themed but rather “The Sound of Music”. So short of wearing whiskers, a blue satin sash or a Hitler youth outfit I’m kind of stuck.

I do have a tendency to somewhat overdress at costume parties. I often find myself at the Cady Heron end of the spectrum. The worst part is I don’t normally know a lot of people at these parties so I think that a funny costume will be a good icebreaker.

So without further ado here are five examples to contrary:

  1. A Friend’s 21st birthday. The theme was “Black, White & Gold”. I interpreted that as an excuse to go as male Ke$ha. She raps (Black), she’s white trash (White) and likes to be covered in semen and roll in glitter (Gold). Everyone thought I was a stripper.
  2. Halloween 2011. I got changed in a quiet lane in the dark and sculled a few beers before turning up to the party in a Miss Trunchbull outfit. Now this would probably be fine if not slightly terrifying. But I also decided to bring with me a small doll with blonde pigtails and a box of chocolates that I would offer people only to deny them and scream loudly “Much too good for children!” I’d rather be locked in the chokey than talk to me.
  3. Halloween 2012. I got a taxi this time and just as well because I had inadvertently dressed in black face. I had purchased black paint, a giant sheet a single red helium balloon and a plastic pumpkin. I intended to be invisible from the neck up in the darkness after I’d painted my face and neck. I hoped I looked something like “The Ghost of Halloweens Past” Instead I looked like the ghost of Michael Jackson. Just as well my pumpkin doubled as bucket sized beer glass.
  4. A Friends’ combined 22nd Birthday. The theme was “Offensive”. I printed out an A3 sized picture of a “Blue Waffle” and hung it around my neck. Enough said.
  5. Halloween 2013. My friends and I have a plan to dress as euphemisms for vagina. Think George Bush masks, a box, a taco, a Venus flytrap, a gash, meat curtains, a wizards sleeve, a penis cozy – you get the idea.

For “The Sound of Music” 2013, I’m thinking a white shirt with this on it:

Maria =Image

Get it? It’s one of the Millennium Prize Problems from the Clay Mathematics Institute. I call it: “How do You Solve a Problem Like Maria”.

Look, at least it’s pretty innocuous if not marginally pretentious. Who knows, perhaps I’ll meet an attractive, smart yet bashful mathematician that’s into horrible puns and loves romantic comedies. I’m more likely, statistically speaking to scare the other guests and compensate by drinking too much. Forget “Adelweiss” it’s time Adelwine bitches.

* Better beware, be canny and careful, baby you’re on the brink.*