Mates for mates

Flatmate-that-I-love recently bought an apartment (congrats Ellereah – it’s gonna be great!!) and is moving around the corner. I am so excited for her as it has been something she has looked forward to for a while. But there is one member of our household that I think will be devastated when she goes and I don’t know how to explain to him that his other mummy has gone away.. Mate the turtle isn’t going to know what’s hit him when the flatmate no longer leaves her knickers on the floor for him to sleep in.

But not as concerned as I am for my flatmate.. She is going to love having her own place and love having her own space.. but I think she might miss the little thing that she has come to love nosing up against her foot when she turns the kettle on in the morning, or comes out to surprise her from under the couch when she is watching TV. (I secretly think she is going to miss having Mate go through her smalls when they have fallen off the clothes horse also, but we won’t go there). So I suggested to flatemate-that-I-love that I get her another turtle as a housewarming gift. They are the easiest things to care for – I go away for a week and Mate hibernates under the couch, he is so low maintenance it’s not funny, and he is clean and cosy wandering around the loungeroom.

I just need to convince the flatmate that it’s a good idea..

Amusing little tale..

Just got this on email.. (Springvale is a southeastern suburb of Melbourne)

Ordering a cake by phone:
Cake-shop employee answers phone: Harro, dis Springvale cake-shop, how can I herup you?

Customer: I would like to order a cake for a going away party this week.

Cake-shop Employee: What you be want writing on cake?

Customer: Best Wishes Suzanne… underneath that…. We will miss you

(turns out you can’t see it that well, but it says:

“Best wishes Suzanne. Underneat that. We will miss you.”

Sick and/or hungover?

I have had the most annoying cough for days and days and days and yesterday I had had enough. I marched myself up to the chemist and asked for the “most hardcore over-the-counter cough mixture for a dry, hacking cough”. The woman gave me a nasty looking container and assured me it was the strongest thing I could buy sans prescription. I folded it into my jacket like contraband and rushed home, eager to “get it into me” ASAP to get rid of this stupid bloody cough as soon as possible.

At home, I poured the mixture into a spoon and prepared myself for the disgusting-ness that would be my salvation. Imagine my surpise when the sweet, sweet strawberry taste hit my taste buds! What sort of medicine claims to be “hardcore” (you know the score!), and tastes like strawberries?!? I ask you! What sort of fool did that chemist woman take me for?

I guzzled that medicine all day, ignoring the warning to have no more than 20 mLs in the space of 8 hours. I was sure that the more I had, the better I would feel. Kind of like vodka – same, same but different.

And then this morning, I woke with an almighty headache. But not the fluey, stuffy, sicky headache you normally get with a sore throat and shocking cough. More the type you get after you’ve been drinking loads and loads of… vodka. That’s right. Vodka. I am fairly certain that I had a hangover. And I haven’t had a drink in days (which in my world, is a lifetime). That cough mixture was indeed “hardcore” – the chemist woman was right!

Dodginess

It is damn hot in Melbourne town at the moment and what is there to do in such weather but drink, drink, drink. Drink to quench the thirst, drink to cool you down, and then drink to forget the heat and the smell of everyone else’s sweatiness. A lot of drinking to be done. And flatmate-that-I-love and I did it. We drank like there was no tomorrow all weekend, with the piece de resistance being Sunday evening. I had been sitting around all day on my own, imbibing in a refreshing gin and tonic or three, when my flattie waltzed in to the house. Waltzed/staggered, whatevs.

She waltzed on in with her (married) work colleague who was equally as plastered and the pair of them proceeded to slur, slump and sloth around the back yard and lounge room. It was when the married colleague started busting the moves that I rapidly found the sobreity I had been trying to escape and decided to try and get him out of our house. The turtle didn’t like him and I tended to agree…

Luckily I got the dude out of the house just in time as the flattie’s new squeeze (who we LOVE!) walked in the door shortly after his departure. I wasn’t too drunk to know that timing was imperitive, but wasn’t too sobre to know what exactly he had/hadn’t seen. Let’s err on the side of “he ain’t seen much”.

So the dodgy flatmate proceeded to slur at her new squeeze, while I passed out on the couch in the 40 degree heat. New squeeze was none the wiser (we hope) and flatmate-that-I-love took the day off today (sick=beach and (more) beers). Love it!

Everybody loves a bogan

I’ve been seeing a boy for a couple of months now. A lovely boy with a thick head of hair and a gorgeous smile. Life is good. He cooks, he knows how to get from A to B and most importantly he makes me laugh… But no-one is perfect and my man is no exception, being a self-confessed bogan. He loves hanging out with his mates in their backyard (a lot of them live together… like 6 guys…), loves wearing his wife-beater and enjoys the chat about the old holdens a few of them drive.

Not sure if he’s trying to impress me or not, but I’ve noticed that in the couple of months that we’ve known each other, he’s stopped smoking Winnie Blues and started smoking Dunhills. And last night, he brought over a case of Stella Artois instead of the old VB. And before he got to my place, he rang and asked, “shall I grab some cheese and biscuits on the way?” God loves a trier and so do I.

But as they say, once a bogan, always a bogan, so Mr Dong (no, not his real name, I met him in the Ding Dong Lounge, put him in my phone as xxx Ding Dong and it stuck…), this is for you.. Your first featured entry on my blog. x

Keating… er… Hawke

Had my gorgeous mum here for the weekend and I took her to see “Keating” on Sunday afternoon. For those not in the know, Keating was an Australian prime minister famous for wearing double breasted Armani suits and calling Australia (the nation that elected him as it’s leader) “the arse end of the world”. So all in all, the perfect candidate for a musical comedy. One of the actors did an excellent impersonation of that other memorable Australian Prime Minister, that being Bob Hawke – a true silver fox if ever there was one. And it reminded me of these pics that did the rounds a few years ago. Yes, ladies and gents, the guy with grey hair (who is about 40 years older than all the other people in the happy snaps) is a former Australian head of state. And that makes me proud to be Ostrayan. (Especially the third one where it looks like he has nestled into this girls boob for a wee nap!!)

    

Get over it

I’m no sure if what I’m about to do is very PC, or even particularly nice.. but I feel it needs to be done. So, late last year I was “seeing” a guy. I say it in the loosest possibly way, as our relationship wasn’t physical (if you get my meaning… ), and I really wasn’t all that into it. That’s not to say he wasn’t a lovely guy – because to be honest, he was a really lovely guy, but the ex had put me into a wierd head space and I really just wanted to have some fun, rather than be moving into quiet dinner-and-a-movie nights so quickly.. It was all about the three “S”s for me back then – shitty champagne, sleazy clubs and sore heads the next morning. Sweetness!

So, we hung out for a while and then being the chicken/biyaitch that I am, I emailed him one day (I can’t believe I’m admitting this) and advised that the relationship was no longer (and that it wasn’t him, it was me (truth) and that I just wanted to have some fun (another truth) and that maybe, who knew what would happen in the future…(and two out of three ain’t bad). And we moved on.

Or one of us moved on. I checked his blog today (he stupidly admitted he had a myspace page when we were hanging out, I checked it like all smart girls would (due diligence) and surprise, surprise, I found his blog!! And I read the whole thing. And checked back often. But hadn’t checked back since the unceremonious email circa two and a half months ago. Until today. When I did, I was sightly surprised to see blog entries about me. And quite a few of them. About how “to think three months ago I was enjoying the company of a sophisticated, smart, sexy girl” (and yes, for those of you who were wondering, he DID see me drunk thanks).

Not sure if it’s wierd or quite sweet, but hey, at least he’s not abusing me like my other ex did for months (during and after), so I’m gonna say this to the lovely dude I was seeing last year. Number one – you are lovely and a true gentleman. You will meet someone who isn’t so self-absorbed and will appreciate your genuine loveliness. And number two – get over it darls and move on, I’m really not actually that nice.