Find me a door…

I had to do this test today. Like anyone with any brains at all I try to avoid tests. Why? Because tests are pukeable. For example the Trade Practices test at work is beyond puekable. It’s all about ethics. I’m 45 years of age. I’m not about to learn ethics now for god sake. It’s too late for me. Bad behaviour is a way of life for me now. Thankfully, due to said badness, I have worked out how to cheat on this ethics test. No, you’re right. It’s probably not ethical but did I mention the bit about me being bad?

Anyway, the test I did today at the gym has a lovely name. Its call the skin fold test. There’s no way you can cheat on that sucker. It’s all about pulling at your flab with these pinchers and measuring the density of said flab. Lovely. This is when you find out if all that running up hill, boxing, lifting weights, jumping (I hate jumping – it’s the boob issue), lunging, squatting, losing oxygen flow, aches, pains, sweating buckets and profusely swearing at the gym has all been worth it.

So Hugh – my trainer - and I went into this little room and measured my fat. I have to say I like a man who can make a woman feel totally at ease with her body in a situation like that. I say we clone Hugh. One for every woman. He’s adorable – young – but adorable. Anyway, after picking up layers of my fat with his pinchers and some quick calculations Hugh was beyond happy. Actually I think he was happier than me if his dance of joy was anything to go by. I have lost 15% body fat. I’m happy with that. I worked for that. I deserve that.

Hugh instantly wanted to take a picture of the two of us together to put on the wall at the gym as I was his only client who had lost that much fat. I am all arse kicking muscle. Anyway, I declined the photo for now. Why? Nah, I’m not vain. I am what I am but at that point I had spent an hour sweating heavily with Hugh and my hair was plastered to my skull, my face was red and my shirt was drenched with sweat. “You’re such a girly-girl,” he said. Yeah – what of it? So I have promised Hugh we will have a photo on the board. I’m not into photos per se but I realize it’s more important to him than me as it shows other people how he can torture, I mean train people, into achieving.

So, I’m pretty kick-a-door-in damn fit. I have the steel toe capped boots at work…just got to find me a door to kick in.

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Questions…

- can you eat cereal three nights in a row for dinner? How healthy is that?
- what's the world record for people asking me about the bruise on my forehead? Was I drunk? No, just plain clumsy.
- why did I continuously pick up and lift over my head, and then throw down hard, a 10 kg ball just because Hugh (trainer) said it was a good thing to do? Would I jump off a cliff if he told me to?
- is pain from exercise really good for you?
- is losing weight worth it? Do I need muscle? What happens if I lose all my beloved cellulite? Is there counselling for that?
- will the weight find me once more?
-why is it when you go to the bottlo (liquor store) that they always ask me if I want my purchases cold? Do I look like I need a drink that badly?
- why do they always look scared when you ask a shop assistant that question?
- and what wine do you serve with cereal?
- if green vegetables are good for you then why can’t we have green chocolate?
- how many naked book cover requests can you send in before the cover gods go “duh -stop it already - we know what you want.”
- how many times can I drive my editor insane with typos?
- and what's with her obsession with frogs? What’s that about?
- why is it screaming children are always in the supermarket after work? Isn’t there a law about children rampaging and terrorizing single people?
- how many times do I have to say no before someone gets it?
- how many gazillion lotto tickets do you have to buy before the lotto gods stop laughing at you and let you win?
- why is it the hooks on your bra give way at the most inopportune moment?
- why do we even have breasts?
- why can't men have breasts instead?
-…and cellulite?
-…why can’t they have periods too?
- If I have hardly any petrol in the car is that a good reason to call in sick?
- why do smokers stand in the sunlight fagging away (smoking) and then comment how fresh the air is outside? How can they tell what fresh is?
- why can you always sleep at your desk during the day at work but not in you bed at night?
- how come the person you work with eats rubbish all day but he falls apart in horror if you eat a snack can of healthy tuna?
- why is the woman in the picture above standing as she is? What is she selling? Why doesn’t she straighten up?
- Oh why, why, why Delilah?

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Ah, love...

Riiiiight...

AN INDONESIAN cannibal is seeking love, promising his people-eating days are over.
Sumanto, currently residing in rural Central Java, was jailed after he dug up an old woman's body for a "cheap and tasty meal".
"She was delicious," he told AFP from his room at a Muslim mental rehabilitation centre in rural Central Java.
"I love meat... all types of meat as long as it's cooked. But I don't eat people anymore."
But after a lengthy stint in prison, the former farmer now longs for the taste of love.
"What is love? How can I describe it when I've never experienced it, never tasted it?"
http://www.news.com.au/story/0,27574,25808245-401,00.html

Okay – I read this and I suddenly pictured dozens of romance writers banging out a story on their keyboards about cannibal love. We always jump on a new theme or idea. We’ve had zombie romance and every shape-shifter know to man, Neanderthals, gargoyles, robots, mermaids and god-knows-what-else falling in love. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if someone is feverishly writing a cannibal romance right now.

So, this would be the plot of my cannibal romance book – our hero, the reformed cannibal, is working as a chef. He does this due to his love of meat. Our heroine is a waitress. She has a fear of condiments – other than that – she’s a hell of a waitress. One busy night at the restaurant, she rushes into the kitchen with multiple plates, slides on a patch of grease on the floor and falls down. The half empty plates she is carrying, are covered with the remnants of French mustard and a particularly nice garlic vinaigrette salad. They crash onto her breasts and stomach as she is sprawled onto the floor. She screams due to her condiment fear and rips open her blouse to clear the offending spices away. Our hero, the cannibal, races to her aid. He stands for a moment smacking his lips in thought as he salivates over her luscious, spice covered flesh. What does he do? How is he tempted? What will she allow? Will he cure her condiment fear for good? Will there be a ‘help wanted’ sign for a waitress in the restaurant window tomorrow? Oh the culinary tension…

Welcome to…

… the sailors of the USS Essex who landed in my hometown of Brizzie. We’re a sleepy little hollow where the native have some odd quirks but we’re basically harmless. And Dr Phil is here next week. I can’t see a bunch of Aussies spilling their guts on all their personal problems without several dozen alcoholic beverages first….

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So I killed him…

Who? Rodney. Huh? Rodney the toe rag who upset the heroine in the current book I’m writing. Yeah, I don’t mind telling you he’s dead because he’s not at all integral to the plot – in fact he was just a name I used to explain something about the heroine. He was only a few sentences until I got the idea to kill him. Actually, a friend passed the idea on. She suggested murdering a character could be cathartic – that it could help me take my mind off something. She was right. I felt so much better after I killed Rodney.

On yesterday’s post I mentioned that I was having trouble writing romance – that I likened it to an illness or a commodity and that I had to snap out of that way of thinking due to the whole writing-of-romance-books-thing that I do. Anyway, that all came about due to these dumb arsed feelings I had over someone. I am pretty much over him – he’s more like this annoying thought in the back of my mind. You know when you want to confront someone and yell at them for making you feel horrible – it would prove nothing – because they wouldn’t get it but it would give you a chance to yell loudly and that’s always good. So when the idea came up to kill someone in the book, I thought straight a way of Rodney. He is a piece of pus who made my heroine feel bad about herself and made her cry. At first he was just a reason, then he became a target. I have to admit I really enjoyed killing Rodney.

While I do not condone killing real life, flesh and blood people, I admit to wantonly killing my fictitious character of Rodney for my own benefit. It was symbolic. Rodney had to die so I could move on. Rest in peace Rodney….or in this case pieces…

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Romance? Meh…

I’m finding it really hard at the moment to write romance. I’m writing all around it and skipping the lovey-dovey bits. Why? Because I don’t believe in romance at the moment. That the concept of romance and everyone wanting to be in love exists – okay – sure – I get that. People like to do silly things. And let’s face it, how would we sell greeting cards, flowers and movies without the romance thing? Like yesterday’s blog on sex and prostitution, romance is a big seller. Get rid of the idea of romance and that would crush part of the global economy. That people are happy and blindly in love I understand. It’s like the common cold, we all get over it eventually or we prolong it and do something dumb like move in together or get married til’ death do us part. Scary stuff romance, huh? And is there a point to romance other than the economy and germs? Well…nah, I don’t believe so.

That’s my dilemma. I currently see romance as a commodity or an illness that affects your brain. Yes, bad ju-ju for a romance writer because the heroine can’t send the hero back with a sticker on his head asking for a refund when she’s sick of him nor can she buy an elixir that cures her from wanting him…besides if there was one of those you just know it would be fattening. And there is no way she can avoid the hero for most of the book just because she worked out he never understood her and that his agenda and hers were incompatible. It would make the book awkward. You’re supposed to get them together and keep them together no matter what dumb stuff they do to each other. That’s you’re job as a writer. But then – that’s romance for you – real or written – it’s awkward. Never mind – I’ll find my romance mojo soon…must be here somewhere….maybe in my sock drawer…

So – Monday once more. The plan of action today…ignore all work phone calls particularly those from a certain number…well, why make the day any harder? My excuse? Oh, I didn’t realize you rang. You rang two dozen times? Oh dear…was it important? I’m sure you coped…you’re so big and strong and smart…yes, when all else fails rely on bullshite to maintain sanity.

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Call me madam…

"If I was to make my living as a madam, I could not be concerned either with the rightness or wrongness of prostitution," she wrote, "considered either from a moral or criminological standpoint. I had to look at it simply as a part of life, which exists today as it existed yesterday... The operation of any business in contingent on the law of supply and demand, and if there were no customers, there certainly would be no whorehouses. Prostitution exists because men are willing to pay for sexual gratification, and whatever men are willing to pay for, someone will provide."-- Polly Adler – read more about this fascinating woman on the link below.
http://www.dorothyparker.com/dot32.htm

A friend…let’s call her Alix… and I were discussing if we couldn’t win the lotto, our dream sequence, but were given the choice to pick any job to do, which job would we choose? I must point out that ‘world domination’ was ruled out as an unacceptable choice. We both wanted that position but neither wanted to fight the other for it…yet. Alix likes horses so she wanted to own a stable of them and race them for big $$. Me? I’d like to run a brothel.

Why a brothel? They have fascinated me from the moment I read Polly Adler’s “A House Is Not A Home” as a kid and then Sidney Biddle Barrow’s “Mayflower Madam.” These women saw a business opportunity and took a chance on running a brothel. And you can be as moralistic as you like but we all know prostitution has been around forever and it’s a business. Sex is a business. Writing erotic romance is a business. If you do it by choice and free will, then I would suggest you are selling sex as a working girl does. It’s about catering to a need. People want to have sex and read about sex – ipso fact- it’s a business – pure and simple and there’s nothing wrong with that if you do it because you choose to.

I’m very good with managing money hence the reason I would be good at running a brothel. And men? Men are easy to work out when it comes to sex. Women are more complicated. We want quality not quantity. So catering to men is not hard. It’s the whole in and out thing with them. So, it’s all about selling them what they want. And let’s not forget customer service. I’ve been doing that for years. I can deal with the most aggressive to the most passive customer. I have been screamed at, threatened, cried on, flashed and propositioned. There ain’t nothing that can shock me any more. I would be a fantastic Madam.

So yeah, if I got a chance I would run a brothel. I have the business sense, life experience and imagination. Hmm…’should look into that….

I love this song...just because...

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Kicking arse…

I arced up (got cranky) the other day at the way a male sales person spoke to one of my female colleagues in the office. He was so rude and dismissive to her that I could not sit at my desk and listen to it. So, I fronted him over it. I am not genetically inclined to stand by or in this case sit by and say nothing while someone bullies another and makes 'em cry. Oh hell god damn no. I waded in and told him that it was unacceptable to treat anyone in this manner that he needed to pull his head in and have some basic courtesy when dealing with others. I added that just because he wanted something now, yelling at or belittling someone did not make it happen. I indicated that he was coming across as a complete prick. He was shocked. I tend to do that to people when I open my mouth. He said no one else had ever said that to him and certainly not those he was ‘supposedly’ upsetting. No ’supposedly’ sunshine. You were upsetting. I pointed out that tears were generally a pretty good indication someone was not happy and that nervous, shy, scared people rarely confront a bully.

He called me today to apologise. We had a long talk today about men and women and life and judging someone before speaking. No, you’re correct - none of us get it right but we should at least try to think at least 5 seconds before we speak. He asked what he should do. I said ‘apologise to the woman/women you upset.’ What about you he said? I pointed out that he didn’t upset me. He pissed me off. That was different. I also added that we both knew if he tried that crap on me I would shove it right back in his face. His response was ‘yeah I know.’ He’s not a bad guy. Everyone is under the pump in the current economic climate. I get he is stressed. Just don’t take it out on someone weaker.

Another colleague in a northern office sent me this to remind me of something. Yeah, you’ve probably seen it before but I think we need to have it reinforced to us every so often.

“Women are like apples on trees. The best ones are at the top of the tree. Most men don’t want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they sometimes take the apples from the ground that aren’t as good, but easy. The apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they’re amazing. They just have to wait for the right man to come along, the one who is brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.”

So, don’t settle, work on forgetting the one who won’t climb and know that you’re amazing.

And why the Johnny Depp picture? No reason other than he’s quite lovely.

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Hey stupid…

I have a habit of overdoing things and running myself into the ground without even realizing I am at the point of doing it. I tend to consider myself invincible. No, really I am. But my body told me otherwise today with a classic ‘hey stupid’ alarm. I knew it was aching and I knew I was tired but suddenly I felt this massive wave of weariness and nausea hit me brick wall style. I dragged my arse home from work, thankfully Patrick, my car, knows the way - and I slept for 4 hours - in the middle of the day!!! I never do that. It’s outrageous! Part of me considers it a huge waste of time. The things I could have done in that time. Anyway, I live to fight another day and have re-generated enough to run myself back into the ground once more.

After I got up from sleeping –bizarro world – I started to read a book. I don’t do that enough any more. Anyway, I gave up on it by the third chapter. Why? Because I don’t want to read about some heroine with ‘porcelain skin’, a waist ‘a man’s hand can span and meet’, an ‘air of elegance that only the most beautiful women have,’ and the ‘face of an angel’ Oh fuck - seriously? Who is this broad? Not even Barbie is all that. This author wrote very well, but I’m a real woman and I want to read about real women – flaws and all. Yes, sure romance books are all about fantasy but the heroine was too ‘fantastical’ for me. I was scared the hero was going to break her in half, get tried for her murder and then end up in a jail cell with prison tattooist Bubba who becomes his boyfriend. I say to avoid a jail sentence for the hero - get some meat on the heroine’s bones, teach her to swear and send her off to deal with real life stuff like work and home and family and let’s see how porcelain that skin remains. Great writing…unbelievable heroine.

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Arses…

When I was travelling overseas, a fellow traveler, a male, said to me that he could pick an Aussie woman out of a crowd just because of the shape of her arse. Huh. Granted, he was drunk at the time he made this grand pronouncement and possibly I was a tad legless myself but it’s a comment that always stuck in my mind and I’m sorry I forgot to ask him why he had that theory.

But I digress, last Sunday I wrote a blog with the title ‘pointy penises in pink panties.’ It was an experiment which, judging by the emails I received, confused quite a few people. That’s always fun. The reason I used that title was all to do with body parts - specifically bottoms, arses, bums, derrieres. Confused? No doubt.

The Monday before that I wrote a blog on assumptions. I called it ‘Ass - u – me’ - you know, the old saying of “when you assume you make an ass out of you and me.” Anyway, I was quite agog at the hits this assumption blog received. It was just my usual rambling post so I couldn’t work out why I had all these extra readers - it was great - thank you for staying on and reading - then it occurred to me. It was all to do with the 'ass' in the title. As for the ‘U’ and ‘me’? One can only surmise that would refer to what one could do with an ass.

Anyway I wrote the Penis/panties blog title to test my theory on body parts in the title affecting readership. I did get a similar response but slightly less new hits. I believe this indicates the arses are more popular than penises. No, it’s not conclusive and yes, the experiment was half-arsed…pardon the pun.

And something fascinatingly bizarre…

THE attempted armed robbery of a Russian hairdresser became a three-day sex ordeal for the would-be thief, leaving him with torn genitals and a Viagra hangover.

IT website The Register reports the man, known as Viktor, tried to rob the hairdresser in the town of Meshchovsk.

The owner, 28-year-old Olga, agreed to hand over the takings but as she was giving him the money, used her karate skills to knock him to the ground and tie him up with a hairdryer cord.

She then locked him in the storeroom and told colleagues she’d call the police.

However, she instead stripped him and cuffed him to a heater with a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs. She then fed him Viagra and raped him several times over the next four days.

When finally released, Viktor went first to hospital for treatment for his torn frenulum, and then reported Olga to the police. When she was arrested, Olga reported him for robbery.

“What a bastard,” she complained. “Yes, we had sex a couple of times. But I’ve bought him new jeans, gave him food and even gave him 1000 roubles when he left.”

Viktor admitted she had fed him well.

http://www.news.com.au/story/0,27574,25819498-401,00.html

I especially like the last line…

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Shattered...

Back tomorrow - have a good day.

*****************************

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Sooky la la…

Do you think we are less tough than we used to be? I ask this because of late it seems to me that so many people are whining about…

- Things not being fair
- They’re not the favourite
- Everyone else gets stuff but they don’t
- They’re being picked on.
- They are the only one without money.
- It’s a conspiracy against only them.

To this I say – stop being a sooky la la. What is a sooky la la? Well, ‘sook’ is a cry baby and la-la…well…I’m sure someone thought it sounded good with sooky.

Anyway – fairness. Fuck all is fair in life and if you haven’t worked that out yet then you’re in trouble. You’re not the favourite? Is anyone? How do you know? Other people get stuff? Well, stop whinging and go and get stuff too. Don’t wait for someone to hand it to you because they probably won’t. Picked on? Seriously, any adult that tells me this is no adult. No money? Yep, the world economy sucks. Everyone is in the same leaky boat. Everyone, unless they’re a blonde heiress, has to budget for stuff that happens or didn’t happen when it was expected to. We all do that. Conspiracy against you? Only in your mind.

I cannot fathom why some people think they are worse off than others and have to tell you how ‘terrible’ their life is without realising they are speaking to another human being with the same problems. Where has the fortitude gone? Why aren’t we girding our loins and getting on with life? Why are we whining about things that ‘should’ have happened and haven’t? I don’t understand it. Has your life ever run smooth? Have you been handed everything you wanted? Nope - me neither. You deal, you move on and you grit your teeth. You take a hit - you toughen up. You don’t instantly hate because you cannot have.

So stop the onset of sooky la la…it’s tiring and you’re not Robinson Crusoe.

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Frigging, rat-faced, crapacious Monday….

It’s @#$*!%^ groundhog day again. Monday – such an amazingly pukeable day. It’s the start of a whole, stupid dumb week with no hope in sight. Yes, I have a problem with Mondays. No, I don’t expect to get over it any time soon. If I get a crack at ruling the world I swear on a packet of Tim Tams no more Mondays….they will be forbidden and never spoken of.

Whinge, bitch, moan…dragging feet to office….

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Pointy penises in pink panties….

I know – you’re thinking why the above title? What does that have to do with the flying pig picture? Is she out of her mind? Frequently – but there is method in my madness and no, I haven’t been dressing men in pink, frilly knickers…hmmm…now there’s a thought…anyway, the title is an experiment. I’ll tell you about it soon.

But really, other than the penis in pink panties experiment, there is, at this moment, nothing to report. The flying pig you ask? You know that expression “if wishes had wings pigs would fly?” I have one wish I need granted – the power to forget someone - and if I see a flying pig right now I may just believe in miracles.

So until next time, I’ll leave you with this song…one of my faves…and really who does know? Stuffed if I do.



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Sniper cook...

Nothing much happening here…just another Saturday in Oz. Doing the laundry, cleaning, writing and making pumpkin soup. Yes, I have mentioned several times on this blog I don’t like to cook. I find it pukeable. But its winter here and I thought “I want pumpkin soup.” But not just any half-arsed soup. Cans of soup are okay for convenience but I want my kick arse pumpkin soup. No, I’m not one of those authors who have a recipe page. If I did it would be “go to freezer – pull out frozen meal – squint at instructions on packet - nuke for the required time in the microwave.” I can cook. I’m quite good at it but it’s not something I like doing. Cook and people will always expect it. Have take-away menus and people will expect that instead. So I’ll be making pumpkin soup. What’s in it? It depends on my mood. As grandma Elsie used to say, with a wink, everything but my fingernails.

I used to work with this woman called…um, er…Marlene. She was a sniper cook. What I mean by this is she would target someone at work, like my best friend Katie, and bring in all sorts of food for her to try. Marlene is a great cook. The problem is Marlene expects favours after you eat her food. I warned Katie this. I had been there and done that. Unlike Katie I worked all this out before I even had a bite. Some things are just not right are they? Anyway, Katie just thought Marlene was being kind…nuh-uh. After so much food, Marlene wanted Kylie to do things for her. Drive me here…drive me there. Go shopping for me in your lunch hour. Give me this. Give me that. Marlene was and probably still is a psychopath. The one time I denied her the food come on, she went off her head (nutso). Katie said ‘what do I do?’ Remember Nancy Reagan’s ‘Just say no’ campaign with drugs? Yeah, Marlene the psycho-chef needed to be told that. Once told, she hated you.

So food – it brings us together – it divides us. It’s the frozen goodness that makes microwave sellers happy or the oh-my-god moment when you just have to break down and make pumpkin soup because no other bugger makes it like you do. Cooking is pukeable but necessary when all else fails….and once every six months is okay.

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As weeks go…

TGIF it’s Friday morning in OZ as I write this before work. It’s been a weird arsed week. Nice things have happened, crap things have happened and just boring things that have required me jabbing a fork into my leg to stay awake.

All week I have been virtually asleep at my desk – I make no apologies. It’s been as boring as all get out – then suddenly – I’m thrust in charge for a couple of days. Talk about throwing you out of sync. It absolutely stuffs up my 'me' time at work - you know writing, gossiping, reading personal stuff and paying my own bills. Quite rude to do that to me. Note to self – stop looking responsible. Add to that 'T' the receptionist has gone on hols so her jobs have been split between all of us - when I say all - I mean those who can cross the road by themselves. Its scary how many people at work are about as useful as chocolate fireguards. Now that is a look I should cultivate.

I have been given the dangerous task of the mail. How is it dangerous? Ever used a franking machine? Oh hard. I hate anything that requires thought at work. I swear I am in constant danger of franking my fingers and sending them to China. For those without knowledge of said beastie, you have to punch numbers in and weigh things to ascertain the correct postage. How do I know it's correct? No bloody idea. Then you feed envelopes through the slot thingo which grabs the letters real fast and stamps them. Okay – so some stamps – maybe 87% - are upside down and on the back of the envelope and some letters are a little mangled. But they’re done. You wanted mail? You got mail. I’m blaming the post office if it’s all a tad messy.

Nice things that happened out of the blue – compliments from people I barely know about how kick arse I am looking. I even got flowers. Aww…it made me take a second look at myself in the mirror. Maybe this gym lark is working out even though it’s killing me. News is I can now lie on my back and lift 100kilos (220lbs) into the air. How is this good? Stuffed if I know. ‘Not like you can take that talent on TV and showcase it is it? And, to make things difficult, now when I stand like a hooker (genetic disposition see previous blog) my trainer is making me do squats – push ups no longer - to teach me not to do it. I had to do 150 squats last night…frigging hell…do not stand like a hooker… do not stand like a hooker…do not stand like a hooker…

Add the staggering amount of bills that have arrived in the mail, the bathroom renovation quote from hell, illegal office supplies sent through the post by Ethel and having to spray the storeroom with possum preventative without gassing myself at the same time and it’s been…well….you know, now that I think about it…chaos, pain, mayhem, dumb stuff, boredom…it’s actually been a pretty normal week for me.

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Where is the love?

I have to tell you I am quite relieved that the Viagra email snipers have found my email address once more. I was a little upset because I felt they no longer cared about my penis. Okay - yes – sure, I don’t have a penis but the thing is I was feeling a little left out. You know you get inundated with crap email telling you how much they care about your length and width – and then nothing. They disappear. Where’s the caring and sharing gone? But now they’re back and their offers are so whizz-bang exciting that I only wish I had an appendage I could try the “miracle penis thickening pills,” the “power in your hands exercises” (seems you don’t need a partner for that one) and “make her yours cream” on. I reckon if you have to go that far, it’s a dead cert she was never going to be yours.

Since we’re on the subject…

Scientists find 'world's oldest willy'

Australian scientists have confirmed the oldest penis-like structure in an ancient fish specimen.

We were surprised because it's so big," she says. "We were expecting something smaller."

http://au.news.yahoo.com/a/-/newshome/5724099

Hmmm…isn’t that last sentence usually said the other way around?

Nope, size does not matter. It’s all about heart and imagination. Go be imaginative and dazzle someone with whatever equipment you have.

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Oh push off…

I have this terrible habit that is killing me. The worst part of it is it's a habit I've had since I was a kid. In fact all Jones women have the same habit. I see it in all the family photos. I never realized how bad this habit was until someone pointed it out to me. Now I’m paying for it and it hurts to go cold turkey and not do what I normally do. Add to that, there is an ongoing crap penalty if I do not break this habit.

What is this terrible Jones family curse? I have a habit of putting all my weight on one leg when standing - usually my left – then some on my right leg - then I swing my left hip out to the side and put my hands on hips. No, I didn't think it was so bad but my trainer Hugh says it is because I am displacing my weight incorrectly. I gave him my standard eye roll and too-bad-so-sad-who-gives-a-rat’s-behind look. His response - apparently for my own good – ‘can’t work it out how it is yet - he makes me do ten push ups every time I stand in my habitual manner. I frigging hate push ups. I have girl arms - not boy arms - and it's killing me. Sure, I'm getting good at them but they are pukeable to do. And yes, it's easy to say 'well don't stand that way' but it's traditional for Jones women. It's like saying don't flout authority, don't eat Tim Tams, don’t be bossy, don't buy junk that clutters your home. It's just what we do. We stand with attitude.

And you’re probably asking 'how' he makes me do push ups. He guilts me into it. First he tried – “do you want one leg more muscular than the other?” This got just a shoulder shrug from me. Care factor? Zip. Now he's says "if you’re not up to the incredibly simple challenge of changing your life by correcting the way you stand….." Bastard. I can’t ignore a challenge or a dare.

I forsee many more push ups in my future. I blame the first Jones woman for passing on the genetic tendency to stand like a hooker.

I’m also here today talking about Fear of Being...

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Bright. Shiny. Objects.

Oh lordy, I had the concentration of a drunken gnat at work – any bright, shiny object diverted my attention – and everything required way too much thought. What’s that about? Why ask me hard work questions? I don’t know the answers. I’m the woman who decided it was too hard to buy paint for the bedroom and settled on buying low-fat yoghurt and flowers instead. What do I know? Okay, sure, technically I should have known something at work but you have to be in the mood to be knowledgeable and not be swayed by bright shiny objects. Hmmm….Bright. Shiny. Objects. Pretty.

I think this song sums up the day for me. It was just my dumb day…and yeah, maybe I have a few of those…



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Ass – u – me

Assumptions allow the best in life to pass you by -- John Sales

Recently someone made an assumption about me that was so wrong. He was under the impression that anyone who wrote erotic romance was some wild sex craved woman who lived only for sexual gratification. Uh huh…he was disappointed but hey, life goes on. Why do you think we make such assumptions?

Why do we think overweight people are lazy? Nine times out of ten they’re not and they could run rings around a thinner person. Why do we think a thinner person is lucky because they are slim? Many times there’s a story behind the lack of weight that’s not a happy one. Why do we believe a beautiful woman is bound to have men falling at her feet? A lot of real beauties don’t because they can be found intimidating. In the same token, someone you or I may consider unattractive is not necessary so. No one can assume what is attractive can they? It’s not like you can physically look into someone’s mind and see beauty.

A charming man, in small bursts, may seem like the ideal lover but when dealing with him on a one to one basis for an hour or more, is not necessarily as charming as you assumed him to be and maybe that superficial layer is something he hides behind. I’ve often noticed the biggest man in the gym cannot lift the weight I can. I can’t assume body mass equals strength. Heart and endurance is more important. And what about the tough man who cries? Is he less of a tough guy because we assume men like this keep everything inside and forge on regardless? Should we assume the loudest person is the most correct? Is the quietest the least interested?

What I am meandering on about is I reckon we make a lot of assumptions based on what we want to believe or need to feel. There’s something in us that wants to see a picture, a person and make a decision that neatly places that person into a nicely boxed up category so we feel safer and more in control. It’s got nothing to do with the actual person. I reckon most of the time we get it completely wrong with our assumptions and we miss out on knowing some amazing people.

You must stick to your conviction, but be ready to abandon your assumptions -- Denis Waitley

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The Dolores dilemma…

In a new quest to change shake up my life and chi and karma and all those spiritual/new age thingies, I decided to rearrange the furniture in the house in a sort of half arsed feng shui way. Head slap. What a task that was. My bedroom alone took forever. I have the heaviest furniture - most of it dates back to the 1930’s – and dust – where the hell did all the dust come from? I don’t understand how dust gets under things because in theory if you cover something with a bed or a fainting lounge – don’t get me started on how heavy and awkward that is – then how does dust get under it? Hmmm?

Then there’s Dolores – see picture. I bought Dolores when I was 13. She is a 1960’s dressmaker mannequin. I don’t say ‘dummy’ because I feel Dolores may consider that negative. Isn’t she stylish? She’s dressed in a 1960’s Thai silk beaded dress and my hand embroidered 1920’s robe that I also bought when I was 13. Yes, I was odd back then too. Anyway, once I rearranged the bedroom, I realized there was nowhere for Dolores to stand and look glamorously stoic, as she does. What a conundrum. For the moment Dolores is standing in the middle of the bedroom until inspiration strikes me or I walk into her in the middle of the night…whichever comes first.

So, as I sorted through stuff I found really useful things on my bedside table like 1930’s opera glasses, a tin toy taxi, a dish of Anzac badges, three pens that wouldn’t work, a plastic fish, a collection of earrings and an unopened box of coloured condoms. As I have sworn off men, I was contemplating what to do with the condoms. I found these uses on the internet –

1. Hair tie
2. Slip 'er over a payphone to avoid "NASTY" germs
3. Bathing cap (if you stretch it in the right manner)
4. Neat travel case for your toothbrush
5. Wet suit for a ferret
6. Finger puppets
7. Travel size shampoo and conditioner holders
8. Use it to store that urine sample next time you go to the doc for a checkup
9. Latex toe warmers
10. Stuff, and use to stop drafts under doors
11. Fill with rocks and use to as a weapon in a crisis situation
12. Makeshift sandbags in the event of a flood
13. To keep candles dry when camping
14. To quickly fill water pistols
15. Change purse
http://www.tasgreetings.com/condom.htm

I’m liking the wet suit for a ferret thing. Now, I just got to find me a ferret….

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Oh yes…yes…yes…

So, I had to haul arse to work extra early this morning to check the company bank statement to see if a cheque had gone rubber. Now, I deal with money and cheques everyday and I knew the cheque was okay. It had passed the number of days for rubberbility…ok, maybe not a real word but that thing is I knew it was good. Enter man with power struggle issues. He wanted to leave it one more day I think to prove me wrong. Whatever. I sighed, rolled my eyes and wrote yesterday’s blog about men wanting to throw cars into trees. Anyway, naturally when I got in to work this morning – early – the cheque had not bounced. Well duh – told you so. I told who I had about the cheque and what they could do with it and then I wandered over to the café and got my normal extra strong, large skinny latte. There I was offered in a whisper and a furtive look the opportunity of ‘an orgasm.’ I looked at my watch and thought - sure – why not – I’m up for an orgasm.

I was then handed a spoon and told to dig in. My god – they were right. It was an orgasm and suddenly 6:55am was looking pretty damn good. We oohh and ahhh and declared there was no way a man could possibly compete. What was it? Luscious-arse-widening-but-who-gives-a-fuck-cheesecake. I was seduced and forced – no really, I’m pretty sure I was forced – to eat it. And – let’s face it, there is no answer but ‘yes’ when someone’s asks you to taste test something. Actually, I’m pretty lucky – I get offered all sorts of things to try at the café before anyone else – and cheesecake before 7am is indeed orgasmic. And oh, yeah, I eventually went back to work with a smile on my face. Seriously, eat cheesecake before 7am and there is really no reason you need a man….except if you want to put a car in a tree of course…they’re good at that.

I love this song – I hear it all the time at the gym...and oh hey – I’ve taken up kick boxing. I like it a lot. And this song - it’s not the slightest bit weak or submissive. It’s all about power and every woman has it…and it if you don’t there’s always cheesecake baby.

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Head desk...head desk....

Can you imagine a world without men? No crime and lots of happy fat women. ~Attributed to both Marion Smith and Nicole Hollander

I am getting to the point at work where I’m truly beginning to think if I do not grow a penis or invest in a strap on, I am never going to be taken seriously. At 45, I still do not understand why a penis – a lump of flesh that is most of the time completely ridiculous and useless to a woman – rules. It’s a cosmic joke and if I have to roll my eyes one more time at the inanity of men I swear I am going to go blind. Breathe in…slam head against desk…breathe out.

You may have seen this before, a friend sent me it today…I think it sums things up nicely in the real world…men just don’t get it.

A woman and a man are involved in a car accident on a snowy, cold Monday morning; it's a bad one.... Both of their cars are totally demolished, but amazingly neither of them is hurt. God works in mysterious ways.

After they crawl out of their cars, the man is yelling about women drivers.The woman says, 'So, you're a man. That's interesting. I'm a woman. Wow, just look at our cars! There's nothing left, but we're unhurt. This must be a sign from God that we should be friends and live in peace for the rest of our days.'

Flattered, the man replies, 'Oh yes, I agree completely, this must be a sign from God! But you're still at fault...women shouldn't be allowed to drive.

'The woman continues, 'And look at this, here's another miracle. My car is completely demolished but this bottle of wine didn't break. Surely God wants us to drink this wine and celebrate our good fortune.'

She hands the bottle to the man.The man nods his head in agreement, opens it and drinks half the bottle and then hands it back to the woman.

The woman takes the bottle, puts the cap back on and hands it back to the man.

The man asks, 'Aren't you having any?'

The woman replies, 'No. I think I'll just wait for the police....'

******************************

So, I have made a definite decision. When I want to put my car into a tree I will definitely rely on a man to do it.

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So, I’m lying naked…

…but for my undies, getting a deep tissue massage to sort out my tight, knotty shoulders and back and there’s a knock at the door to the massage room. The masseuse and I had been having a good old chin wag (talk) about anything and everything and we look at each other. She’s confused because no one ever disrupts a massage session. And me? Well the whole naked thing makes me feel a little vulnerable when someone unknown wants to come into the room. Call me crazy – but there it is. Anyway she opens the door a smidge and I hear this voice I know very well yell out ‘make it hard! Make her hurt. Amarinda likes it hard! The harder the better. She loves pain!’ It was my personal trainer, the lovely Hugh, come to torture me during a peaceful massage. Isn’t he sweet? Crazy but sweet. Some people automatically make you smile don’t they? I laughed my arse off and told him to piss off. I happen to know he has a massage on Friday. Hmmm…what ever shall I do to him? The masseuse said to me “Now everyone will wonder what the hell is going on it here.” As my Grandma Elsie used to say ‘Let ‘em wonder.’

Update on vampire watch – see previous blog. No vampires have crossed my path. It’s just a matter of time though…

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Goal one: - sleep with a vampire…

I was sitting at work today thinking about various things - oh crap no, not work stuff – personal stuff - and it hit me. I need to do something to shake my life up. I need a change of direction, karma or chi or some other new age philosophy to get out of this rut I am in. What to do? What to? I decided I would set some goals. I’m not big on goals due to the posts always moving but…

Goal one: - sleep with a vampire. This is probably one of the best goals I have ever had. I like the whole concept of vampires. I like intense, deep, dark thinking, complicated men. A vampire would be good as you would not have to deal with him all day – only at night. I also don’t want long term commitment and I think vampires probably get around a bit so I’m thinking wild sex for a couple of intense weeks and then he would go off looking for new blood…so to speak. So this is a doable goal.

Goal two: - go blonde. This is a totally irrational, dumb-arsed goal but they’re usually the ones I’m best at. I think I would look scary-good blonde.

Goal three: - get a tattoo. I spent some - okay a lot - of work time talking to colleagues who have tatts. They gave me the lowdown on what to expect, what to ask for and prices. Yes, it's going to be painful but I'm pretty damn tough. I like the idea of a butterfly design. See attached pictures. Of course I had to send these around to every female friend I knew to get their opinion. Yes, it was in work time but I'll be rearranging furniture at home tonight for positive feng shui so I can’t do it in my time. I'm busy. Anyway, all friends and colleagues reckon it’s an excellent goal.

However – and there always is one – Hugh, my personal trainer pointed out that my tatt goal wasn’t smart at the moment. He’s into goals. He always asks me mine and before this my only goal had been to try and read the manual to find out how to get the back windscreen wiper on Patrick, my car, working. No, I haven’t done it yet. Why? Because it’s a boring goal. Anyway I told Hugh the vampire – blond – tatt goal. The first two he just rolled his eyes at. He doesn’t think vampires exist. Ha! My turn to eye roll him. He asked where I was getting the tatt. I told him. He shook his head and said no. He then grabbed my thigh - not many men are allowed to do that and still live - where the tatt would go, and pointed out that although I had lost a lot of fat, had a lot of muscle and I was really strong – he’s right – I could kick Zena Warrior Woman’s arse – that if I got a tatt now it would be distorted by the time I had toned right down. Bummer. I had heard that could happen. I hate it when people point out the obvious.

I told him, I would wait – but I was still going to sleep with a vampire. He said if he wanted a proper goal that I could do the city to the bridge run. To my mind if the bridge can’t come to me, then I’m not running to the bridge.

I like this politically incorrect quote – a friend sent it to me today -

Men are all the same - they just have different faces, so we can tell them apart.

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Lover don’t come back…

I had a break from writing for a couple of weeks but now I’m back. Pyjamas - check. Popcorn – check. Phone on messagebank – check. Coffee in favourite mug with broken handle – check. I’m good to go. So, I’m writing about werewolves. Why? Oh, who knows? ‘Just one of those thoughts that came to me at the traffic lights on the way to work. I have an almost mentor – probably mental - relationship with traffic lights. The light turns red and I stare into space and think up wise thoughts like – must buy tomatoes - do I have petrol for the mower - write about werewolves - pay phone bill. It’s all pretty logical when you think about it.

Anyway, I have been trying to think up acts of revenge that my heroine can do to her ex-lover. I have had input from friends but to be honest their stories and suggestions are pretty damn scary. Who are these people? I know now I must never upset any of them because they are nuts. In the end, I settled on something simple and silly that the heroine gets talked out of...or does she? It will depend on how I feel towards the end of the book. It’s a mood thing. But all this talk of revenge from scary-arsed friends, made me realize how many people I know who have got even or tried to - some of their schemes were insane, doomed to fail, illegal – get revenge on ex-lovers or who have been the target themselves. So, why do we do the whole revenge on an ex-partner thing? Because its fun…no, wait, that’s probably the wrong answer. Um…actually it’s just better to wave bye-bye to an idiot and thank god he or she is gone from your life. While I am a Scorpio and I do understand revenge very well, there is a time and place and wasting more energy on a doomed or finished relationship is a waste of time - but in saying that things like wishing his penis falls off or he grows hair on his eye balls or he suddenly gets drunk and comes homes with a tattoo on his forehead indicating he’ll bonk feral biker dudes for free is acceptable. That’s not revenge. That’s creativity and completely different because it involves wishing. You can’t be sued for wishful thinking can you?

I had a squiz on the internet to see what people did as lover revenge. In no way, shape or form am I advocating anyone doing any of these things. But it does make you wonder how some people’s minds work.

- Sending dead animal parts to your ex as a gift
- Carving your name into his car with an axe
- Selling his used condoms, with his photo, on Ebay
- Anonymous embarrassing emails to everyone that he/she knows
- Selling intimate photos of your lover with a list of every sexual inadequacy he has.
- Cutting up his clothes
- Painting his carpet bright orange

…and the ideas go on and on and way sicker than what I have listed. Best revenge? Well, it's the old adage of living well and being successful and making sure the person who hurt you knows how fabulous you are – because you are – ‘cause you got rid of them.

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How long…

…do you think you should pine for someone? My personal belief is no more than two weeks because lets face it if they were dumb enough to leave you or upset you then hell honey, they don’t deserve any more of your time. Even a week would work. Why? Because life is too damn short to deal with people who don’t understand you. So cry, scream, eat your weight in chocolate and drink too many margaritas and then move on. Basically – fuck ‘em – it’s their loss.

Why am I bringing this up? A couple of reasons, while working on the current book I have had to constantly stop writing and slap myself around the head when my heroine gets too caught up in being pissed off with her ex-lover. You know, I need the angst as a reason why there is no way she wants to deal with the hero but sometimes as I write madly away, the character starts getting too angst ridden for me. If it was real life and the heroine was a friend, I would want to slap her and tell her to get a grip. There’s a real fine line between the plot and oh-my-god-is-this-heroine-an-idiot-over-this-man-or-what? I’m trying very hard to keep her away from idiot status….fingers crossed.

The other reason? I have been talking to a friend who I can only equate to as being a soap opera character. Strange thing is it never hit me before that he was. But he is exactly like one of these characters who takes up with woman after woman and loves them all and ‘deeply cares’ about them then he loses them. Before all this happens, he does the whole ‘I’m listening to you’ thing very well – you know that’s the deal when he repeats back word for word what the woman said making her think he is very sensitive and in tune with her. This is followed by drama – the angst ridden sort you get in soap operas. Pining happens next when they’re no longer in his life – that is until he looks for and finds the next woman he has ‘tender feelings’ for. You know, on the whole I think he’s pretty harmless and maybe a little dopey.

What is it with soap opera-like men and women? They love in an emotionally exhausting manner which everyone else can see is doomed or dumb and yeah, I think most of them probably have the whole staring meaningfully out into the distance thing down pat. They’re not bad people – they’re just not rational and I believe they get hurt too often and confuse the rest of us in the process. Can I suggest if you find yourself staring meaningfully into the distance – stop it – life is not The Bold and the Beautiful.

Check out the commercial below…a classic soap opera man....reminds me of my friend...



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Best proposal ever...I love this...

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Rambulations…chapter 67…

Stuff…

Here’s the cover for Lickety Split. It’s out early August. Isn’t he lovely…er, I mean isn’t the cover lovely? I’m most pleased with him…it…the cover…you know. What’s Lickety Split about? Well it’s about ice cream and all the lovely things you can do with it…and you can eat it as well.

And ‘struth – I also got a contract on the pure Aussie book I sent off. They said they wanted pure Aussie speak and characters so I took ‘em at their word – and stone the crows they said yes. I did put a glossary in so maybe that helped. Just think if you buy the book you’ll all be speaking true blue Aussie in no time, cobber, sheila, mate, Bruce. It’s just bonza.

Then - I got an email from someone who would not know if their arse was on fire. No seriously. You would have to tap them on the shoulder and say ‘excuse me but you’re bottom appears to be in flames. You may want to consider doing something about that.’ It made my so angry that I simply refuse to deal with it. Just say no to idiots is my theory. Breathe in breathe out…ignore the drongo.

Defibne me not...

· define - specify: determine the essential quality of
· define - give a definition for the meaning of a word; "Define `sadness'"
· define - determine the nature of; "What defines a good wine?"
· define - show the form or outline of; "The tree was clearly defined by the light"; "The camera could define the smallest object"
· define - specify: decide upon or fix definitely; "fix the variables"; "specify the parameters"

wordnet.princeton.edu/perl/webwn

I don’t get this need people seem to have of late to announce they are ‘defined’ or ‘need to be defined’ by something. What is that about?

- My job defines me
- He defines me
- I must find something to define my place in the universe.

I find the whole defining thing exhausting. When did we stop being our human, hazy, less than defined selves? Yes, I know it’s all about ambition and getting ahead and belonging to something that makes you feel good, smarter or the whole goals deal - but holy crap you can do all that without having to announce you have or will define yourself. All this specifying and determining and outlining your plans and goals and needs sounds painful. I worry that we are losing our characters and our quirkiness in the black and white world of defining. Why can’t we just continue to colour outside the lines and aim for okay or pretty good or wander into fantastic and be comfortable with that? Where has the surprise gone in life?

Maybe it’s just me but I like hazy, quirky people who lack definition and clarity and seem to stumble from one thing to another sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. I like the whole human experience where people are less than perfect and just do the best they can without worrying about fitting in with the whole trend of finding definition. To my mind nothing or no one can define you. You are who you are. You are unique and I think that’s pretty damn good and nothing can beat individuality. Define me? I’m just fine as I am.

“I define nothing. Not beauty, not patriotism. I take each thing as it is, without prior rules about what it should be.” -- Bob Dylan

Damn straight Bob.

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