Rescuing..

Friday night, my gorgeous girlfriend Loulou (who was down from Sydders) and I went to some very funky bars in the city. In (afore-mentioned) Sydney, a “hole in the wall” is usually along Oxford Street somewhere and also known as a “glory hole” (chuckles) but in Melbourne, it’s actually that.. a sneaky doorway you tentatively open to uncover an awesome little bar. There are drinking establishments in every little nook and cranny here and it is often a surprise and delight to discover them in places you just don’t expect. So, we went to a few of these places and had some lovely cocktails (lychee mojitos – mmm..) and a good girlie chat.

In one of the bars, we sat, chatting away, when a man approached our table. He was not the most attractive man, and when he spoke, it was clear that he wasn’t the most charming either. He was, infact, arrogant, annoying, self-absorbed and charmless. But because we are polite ladies, we let him drone on and on (and on and on) about himself.

Until his friend approached. And in a stage whisper, asked.. wait for it.. “Do you need rescuing?”

Sorry?!

WTF!

Does he need rescuing?! Lady, take a look at the picture in front of you. Your mate is standing at OUR table, insulting US with with tales of himself. We are the ones that are trapped by the damn wall. And you are asking HIM if HE needs rescuing?

You’re farken kidding me.

Another T-shirt

Saw another great T-shirt and just wanted to put this for everyone’s enjoyment. (I (have never been to) NY).

 

Peel. Nice.

Did I mention how tanned I was after Byron? Did I mention how burnt I got on one of the days. Probably not, because in the era of 30+sun screen and skin cancer, it’s not only extremely dumb to get sunburnt but also very embarrassing. But anyhoo, I digress. So, my legs got sunburnt, or rather the back of my legs got sunburnt, because I (cleverly) slathered sun screen all over the rest of my pasty white body. The backs of my legs got SO sunburnt that I actually suffered a case of mild heat stroke. But I digress a second time. The point of this blog entry is not to discuss the badness that is sunburn (it’s bad and naughty people!!), but to discuss the after effects of the sunburn. And in particular. Peel.

Mmmmmm. Peel. Well, my pasty white body is pretty much golden brown all over (beer belly and breasticles included), but the backs of my legs yesterday were white as snow. White and flaky. As snow. That was falling everywhere. Out of the bottom of my skirt. Onto the floor around my seat at work. Onto the toilet seat. Down the street when I went to get lunch. In the kitchen when I filled up my water bottle. Worse than the worst case of dandruff you have ever seen. In fact, if you ever had dandruff this bad, you would probably be hospitalised. There were little pieces of my everywhere. And not in the most pleasant way, I am woman enough to admit. The worst part was that I often wear trousers, but yesterday wore a dress, so there was no accumulation of the flakes in a collective location, but a small smattering of my DNA in every place I had gone. Similar to Handsel and Gretels breadcrumbs. Only not as cute.

Byron…

…AKA: Paradise on Earth, and once again, it didn’t disappoint. I was there with 4 girlfriends and we ate, drank, lay by the pool, drank, saw the sights and drank the week away. It was amazing. I would go so far as to say that even the three days of rain we had at the start were forgiven as the place got warm and sunny and gorgeous after the clouds moved on to a better place.

Ahhh, Byron, the place of massages, crystal healings, pamper packages and loveliness. And Hare Krishnas. Who I love. My travelling partner D, not so much. The last day we were there, a few of us went to sit on Main Beach. For those who don’t know Byron, there is a big lawn between the beach and the Beach Hotel, and you will find a vast array of interesting people sitting, lying, lounging, standing and walking here. After a week of self-indulgent relaxation, I was surprised to hear D come out with: “Those people. I don’t get it. They shit me. What are they doing? I just don’t get it.. Looking at each other with those bloody bells, staring inanely into each others faces. With bad hair and even worse clothes. I don’t get it!!”

I gazed over to see a group of about 5 Krishnans (sic? how the hell do you spell that?) sitting in a circle, singing happily, peacefully jingling their little bells and gaxing lovingly into each other’s eyes. I also saw a bearded, 50 something drunk (who looked like he may not have showered or shaved since 1975) stagger over to the group to hurl a mountain load of abuse at them…

At which D turned to me and said, “now, that I get!”

Big Day Out

OK – so it was a while ago and SO much has happened since, but I wanted to write to let some of my absent friends know that it was a great day and I was thinking of them. Especially to my music festival buddy for a few years – Philomena from Land Fer Feckin’- you were missed.

So, Melbourne’s Big Day Out was held at Flemington racecourse, where I had spent a drunken day a few months previously at Derby Day, wasting money on nags and cheap champagne. It was a bit of a dustbowl but the lineup was pretty incredible (http://www.bigdayout.com/lineup/melbournetimetable.php). I had two friends fly down from Sydney for it, and flatmate-that-I-love came along for the fun times as well. It was a gorgeous day in Melbourne-town and we were dressed in festival-suitable attire. My favourite was Kate Nash - http://www.myspace.com/katenashmusic - love her. The big stage bands were great (Rage Against the Machine, Silverchair, Arcade Fire, Grinspoon, etc) as well as the old LCD Sound System in the dance tent.

But, there is always a but. Why the hell where we locked behind a fence because we wanted to drink? And why were the queues for everything (wristbands, drink tickets, food, water, everything) so damn long? I love nothing more than holding my beer as I rock out to the band, but alas, it was not to be at this Big Day Out. The cage was miles back from the stage and all the old booze hounds like myself had to stand and admire from afar. I wouldn’t waste my beer on some minor anyway – not sure what the organisers were thinking. This aside though – it was a good day out at the big day out.

Badged by a radge

Have just spent a week up in the gorgeous Byron Bay (http://www.byron.nsw.gov.au/) with some very gorgeous girls but more on that later…

Last night, flatmate-that-I-love came and picked me up from the airport after my holiday. She normally brings my chiko roll mobile but last night was in her mother’s car (as her mother is away gallavanting). I got home, took my car out and did some dodgy reverse parallel parking. Getting out to check out my handiwork, I noticed something on my car. Or rather, something NOT on my car. My car had been badged. As in, some theiving,robbing vandal had taken the badge from the front of my car.

I just want everyone who reads this blog regularly to cast their mind back to an earlier entry where I wrote: “We call the car the chiko roll mobile. Funnily enough, it’s not called that because it’s fabulous. Instead, it’s because it looks like a car that you would drive to watch your boyfriend Shane or Robbo surfing with their bogan mates, while you sat diligently on the beach, ready to run for their chiko rolls as soon as they came in from the surf.”

This should probably tell you that the car isn’t a Mercedes. Or a Jaguar. Or anything even remotely worth badging. The car is a frickin’ Daihatsu! Who badges a Daihatsu?!?! Welcome back to Hellbourne. I kid.

The classifieds..

I’m up in lovely BrisVegas again with the gorgeous glittergirl and today I learnt something that I never knew before of my friend of (ahem…) more than 25 years… She reads the classifieds. Like every day. For wierd ads. ”Wierd ads?” I hear you ask.. Yes, my fellow stunned folk.. wierd ads.

Like: “Enterpreneur, tanned, sensual, handsome, healthy, happy, positive attitude, N/S, S/D, “wisdom from experience”, age open for genuine friendship”, which glittergirl assures me means “60 year old nudist who like a finger up the bum looking for anyone into same.” Or this one: “22 yo single mother-to-be seeks male, 23-35 yo, good-looking, caring to share my life with”, which means, ‘I am up the duff, if you don’t have a chance at having a kid elsewhere, I’m your girl’.

Or my personal fave: “Wanted: fireman, tall, nice-looking, average build, good morals, 45+yo, to keep company with an attractive blonde lady, VTPR.” Let’s look a little deeper into this one…

VTPR (I thought that was her intials, but apparently glittergirl assures me it’s “classified-speak” for “view to permanent relationship”) is looking for a good looking, tall man with good morals (and who isn’t, afterall?) BUT, she insists, he must be a fireman. A fireman, aged 45+ no less?!?! I would think that if he was still “in the force” (do they say that about firies?) at 45, it’s probably time to get out – his lungs will have gone to shit years ago.. But not only does VTPR want all of this, but the guy ALSO has to read the classifieds. And who, other than glittergirl, does that?

So here’s mine. Me: GSOH, DTE, F/S, N/S, S/D, ARA, VTPR. You: If you got all that, apply here.