Gambling

No, I’m not talking about our fab GRQ TAB idea this time.. this time I’m focussing on the more socially acceptable form of gambling, otherwise known as “trading stocks and shares”.

Now this is something I have only just started getting into.. and I’m not particularly bad at it, but I’m certainly not particularly good. And, I’m not gambling the house, people, so don’t fret. Actually, I don’t even own a house. But if I did, I wouldn’t be gambling it.

I work in a very male-dominated environment. The one girl in my team resigned two weeks ago and is sorely missed (*shout out to S), and there are a whole two other women on my floor (the Director’s EA and PA). So, I can tune out of discussions about sport, girls, beer and the gym like a pro (especially the gym bit, but I don’t think this is because I’m a girl, I think it’s because I’m chronically lazy and unfit!). I always, always, always listen though, when the talk turns to stocks and shares because I find these conversations verrrrry interesting. This is one area where no-one claims to know what they are doing. There is always a lot of “well, I’m not sure, but I’ve heard about this one,” and “yeah, they’ve gone up, but I don’t think they’ll go up anymore,” or “I’ve just lost on those so not sure what is happening.” A lot of unknowns and uncertainty.

But, as they say, you got to be in it to win it, and just as I make sure to buy a Lotto ticket when the winning jackpot is over a certain 7-figures, likewise, I figured, what’s the harm on putting a bit of money into some shares. I don’t really know which ones are good or bad, so won’t give out any tips – but watch this space – I could be a millionaire soon – I do have a ticket in tonight’s Lotto draw!

GRQ

K and I have been trying to put our collective thick skulls together to come up with a fast and easy way to make some money. We want a get rich quick scheme that doesn’t take pyramid selling, busting our a$$es, illegal activities, or flogging stuff to friends.

I came up with the idea that I could sell people’s unwanted items on ebay and take a percentage of it.

K’s idea was a bit different. He decided we can open up a TAB account – for those not in Australia, the Totalitizer Agency Board is our biggest betting agency. This way we can make HEAPS of money betting on sporting events, on Australian Idol, and horse racing.

There’s is only one flaw in his plan. And that is that neither of us really know how to bet. I mean, we can put a few bob on a nag on Melbourne Cup day or whatever.. but knowing what team to bet on, to win by how many goals, etc.. Not really something we know how to do.

Anyone got anything they need me to sell?

Non-drinking dilemmas

Every regular reader of this blog would be aware that I am never afraid of an after work beverage, a cheeky wine in the afternoon on the weekends, a night on the turps in a seedy establishment or even a hangover that lasts for days. I love a drink, I love the social activity of drinking, and I even love being a bit tipsy (*note, I’m not saying drunk – this is a family-friendly, responsible site – kidding, I don’t give a shit about the kiddies, I just don’t like being super drunk – super-tiddly to the point of verging on super drunk maybe… but you get the idea).

So it really as a match made in heaven when I met K, surprisingly at some ungodly hour of the morning, in one of Sydney’s more notorious dens of iniquity. Let’s just say he doesn’t oft say no to an alcoholic beverage either. I will say in both of our defences that neither of us are alcoholic, or even what I would call binge drinkers.. we just both like a good time and have a hard time turning one down.

And so we come to August.. after months and months of fun-filled weekends, caused by celebrations (my moving ot Sydney, our moving in together, engagements, birthdays, weddings, the fact that we cleaned the house, you name it, we’ve celebrated it) too great to name, we have decided to take a month off. A month of no wines of an evening with dinner, no boozing in the local pub on Saturday nights, and no catching up for a beer with friends.. ever. It has been.. interesting. I don’t think either of us have found it hard. Not in the slightest actually. And we have acheived a lot. The spare room has been cleaned out, we have been walking ever day, we have studied, worked, done all sorts of things where we otherwise might have been relaxing/sleeping/snoring as a result of wee hangovers.

The problem is drawing near though. Our mate is having birthday drinks on the second-to-last day of the month.. and it’s a pub crawl (more on that later). And there is only one thing worse than not drinking on a pub crawl, and that is putting up with all the drunken fools that are on that same pub crawl. What are we to do? Stay tuned..

A long overdue update..

Forgive me brothers and sisters for I have sinned – it has been AGES since I my last confession.

So here goes. I met the boy, we lurve each other, we did the back and forth, back and forth, and I mean in the interstate-romance-kinda-way for those of you with your mind in the gutters. I moved to Sydney, the job is going well, my car made the journey and is fabulously enjoying being driven around Sydney-town, the friends are all glad to have me back, Ma and Pa are fine, my bro gets more in love with god and the baby jesus every day, my Grandpa is still alive, the crew are all rocking along, Azza G had a nose job (and it is as FABULOOSE as he is, btw), Ellareah (flatmate-that-I-love) is missing me in Melbourne, but I’m heading down this weekend for a music festival and some QT with her, my ex-flatmate Philomena has moved back to these fair shores and my two gorgeous Irish princes are staying with me at present.

So, in a nutshell, life is good. Headline of the weak is that the turtle is trying his hardest to commit suicide off my new balcony. Everyone keeps trying to convince me that he won’t.. but I know one thing that they don’t. And that is – that the turtle is really not that smart. Actually, his brain is about the size of half a cheezel, and he doesn’t get the concept that the four metre plunge will result in his untimely death.. all he sees when he pokes his little head over the balcony edge is adventure, ADVENTURE, ADVENTURE!! Not the smartest creature on god’s earth, that is fer sure! (I used the G-word for you brother!)

Anyway, I’ve been inspired by my friends new blog – well done Pandora – keep up the good work. I’ve added a link to her page so please check back to see what we’ve both been writing. Big love to all. x

End of the holiday blog, and back to normal rambling..

I didn’t get too far with writing about my holiday, did I?

Oh well. A few concerned onlookers have asked why I haven’t been writing.. and the truth is – life has been getting in the way. Things have been busy, busy, busy since getting back from my holidays (which was about 3 months ago). I have loads to write but will keep it concise for you now.. with hopefully (?) some elaboration in later posts..

The man. Yes. Cinderfarkenrella has a new love. And no, it’s not the pot-smoking bogan.. It’s a lovely boy I met at a bar at stupid o’clock in the morning after a good few hours of bevaraging imbibing. He thought i was hilarious when in actual fact I was drunk, and we have gone from strength to strength ever since. Life is good.

The job. Still doing nutso hours and pretty over it. The less said, the better, but let’s blame a certain large Aussie Telco for this blog not getting updated regularly. They kill me.

The flatmate-that-I-love. I still love her, even though she is not longer my flatmate. My boy (let’s call him “K”) thinks we might be lesbians, only because we hang out so much. And we might be. Who’s telling? Heh, heh. JOKES!

Mate the turtle – is still being the best thing ever. He rocks. Everyone needs a turtle as a pet.

Cars – well, here is an update.. I got rid of the car I had with the stupid ex – that was after the blardy thing decided to blow a tyre about 150KMs out of Melbournio on the Hume Highway at 10.30 at night. Of course, I had been on the phone so had no battery with which to call the RACV to come and rescue me. After a bit of a “toughen up sunshine” inwardly-directed pep talk, I got down to changing the fricken tyre (in the dark, on the side of the highway, on my own – the shizzle B-grade horror movies are made of!), but I tell you, that was the last straw.. I was determined to get rid of that car the next day, even if it meant throwing it into the cap of some beggar on the street. It’s day was numbered. And, as the universe always comes through for me, the next day, when I took my car to get the tyre changed, someone, I kid you not, offered to buy the car off me. I was like – what?!?!? So, yup – sold the car to some vehicle broker who happened to be at Beurepaires Tyres. And that night – the Chiko roll mobile went to a lovely couple who came to inspect/buy it.. So the next day. I bought myself the convertible I have wanted for a while. I just like being able to say I’ve been driving around topless!

Anyway, I think that that is enough of an update for today. Big love to all and thanks for always checking back. Will write again real soon! x x

Red on school nights

I’m 31 years old. 31. Not old, by any standards. But too old to be drinking on a school night. And yet. Somehow. I manage to do it. Time and time again. Ti-ime and ti-ime again (a la Kings of Tomorrow)!

Lately, I’ve been showing a bit of restraint and only having a few jars of vino collapso. Actually showing even more restraint by not always making sure there are cold casks of whoite woine in the fridge. But herein lies the problem. The weather is getting colder. And day light savings has now ended (so that Queensland is now only 10 years behind us, rather than 10 years and 1 hour). And I have a large selection of lovely reds sitting in my loungeroom waiting to be drunked. My lovely brother works for a winery and brings boxes and boxes of wines over for my drinking pleasure. And don’t think I don’t love him for it. Except the morning after when my hangovers are bad. And red wine tends to be worse than white. And school nights are always worse than weekends.

So it is going to be a long, long winter. And soon I’ll be another year older. And no wiser. Cheers to that!

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!

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!”

Not what I was expecting..

So, was planning on writing my first blog entry in a week on something super exciting, like the Big Day Out that rocked on Monday, or Australia Day, and how grouse it is, or even the whole work thing that’s been going on, which I know you’re all DESPERATE to hear about. But.. as a good friend of mine once said, “the best way to make god laugh is to tell her your plans”. And so today’s entry is about my lovely next door neighbour.

He is a lovely gent. Actually, he and his lady are both lovely- middle-aged, portly, and generally keep to themselves except when we swap gardening stories, which normally involve me bitching about the possums eating my garden, and him showing off his fab plants. Generally, nice neighbours. So, imagine our surprise when the flatmate and I open the door last night to discover him on our doorstep.

The poor love had had his pushbike stolen from outside the flat and was wondering whether my flatmate or I had heard anything. We hadn’t. He was visibly upset, so inspite of the fact that we were both exhausted because of our big day out at The Big Day Out, we invited him in for a glass of wine and a chat and a bit of consolation. 

I noticed we both leaned in closer as he said, “I’m probably going to regret telling you this…”

And closer again as he said, “oh well. I’m going to tell you anyway.”

“Yes, yes?” we quickly (but ever-so politely) urged…

“I used to be a woman.”

WTF?!?!?!

Yeah. My lovely pot-bellied, balding, bearded, short arse bloke, used to be a blonde, buxom beauty. Now that is not what I was expecting from my Tuesday night in front of the teev on the couch.

Snoozin’ for a bruisin’

The snooze button. I love it. I attend to it daily. A few times daily. I especially love it about thirty minutes before I actually have to get up out of bed. And every five minutes from there until I finally, reluctantly, drag my sad and sorry ass out from under my duvet/doona/quilt (depending on where you’re from, apparently). I am not (nor have ever been) one of these people who springs out of bed, eager to get into their day, bright-eyed and happy from the first moment of waking… No, I’m more like the monster from the lagoon depths, struggling to move at any great speed, grunting my greetings before coffee number 2, and looking like the monster’s ugly step-sister. It is NOT a pretty sight.

So, the morning has broken, and my alarms goes off. I press snooze and quickly return to my dream (I’ve been blessed with the uncanny ability to pick up exactly where I’ve left off in my dreams). Five minutes later, the alarm goes off again. I hit snooze and go back to sleep. Five minutes later, the alarm goes off again. I hit snooze and go back to sleep. Five minutes later the alarm goes off again… and you get the idea. This can go on for hours.. actually it usually does.

But this morning, I think I set an all-time record. I snoozed for 1 hour and 45 minutes. My PDA doesn’t stop snoozing after an hour (like previous alarm clocks I’ve owned have), it just goes on and on. For 105 minutes.. Even I was impressed with my own effort. Or at least I was after I’d had a few coffees and could actually think about.

Kevin-oh-seven!

Have the bro and mother staying with me this weekend and my brother decided that rather than go out on a Saturday night while on holiday, like a red blooded Aussie bloke, he would much rather stay in and watch the election count. So that is what we’ve done. And it’s been a K-Rudd-slide (Kevin Rudd is down with the homies, yo!). So, now we’re watching the speeches. And Howard (the out-going prime minister, who has just lost the Australian federal election to Kevin Rudd, for those not sure what I’m rambling on about) gave one thanking his long-suffering wife. And while he gave it, she corrected him. That’s what I like to see.

Congrat anyway to Kevin Rudd.. who is giving his in-coming speech as I type.. So far, nothing too funny to report about his, except to note that he is much easier on the eye than ole’ Howard. And his wife did nowt more than blow him a kiss.

Fabulousness?

My friend has come over to SingSing for a few days and we have been having a fab time. We visited a cool bar yesterday which had all the trimmings of a hotspot – pool-bar, sexy, funky tunes, daybeds on the beach to lay on as we sipped gorgeous cocktails and shooters.. only thing missing was the bevvy of hot men.. Ok, ok.. without the bevvy of hot men it was all a little.. dull. What’s the point of getting leery and boozey if there is no-one to boozily leer at? But anyway..

So we have been doing fabulousness – facials, massages, hair treatments, manicures and pedicures.. and colon treatments.  Yes, colon treatmets. Not the loveliet discussion topic I’ve had on my blog.. but if you are going to detox properly (forget about all the alcohol we’ve been drinking (guzzling?) and duck and pork we’ve been eating – or was it 5 kitkats?!), you’ve got to excise the colon.. so we’ve been taking this hard-core (you know the score) colon treatment. And woaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh nellie, does it work. The badness is literally falling out of both of us. Not a pretty image I know. But I’ve been assured we’re going to feel like magic in a matter of days. I hope so because otherwise, this is sure as hell not worth it!

Cupping

I feel a bit like Gwyneth Paltrow today… No, I’m not married to a rockstar, and unfortunately I was never engaged to Brad Pitt. OK, not that much like Gwynnie.. But.. a friend of mine rang yesterday and after a chat, told me to go to her well-being clinic for some love and positivity. So I did. I got a massage, some flower essences to calm me and.. some cupping. For those who don’t know, it’s where small glass bulbs are heated to remove oxygen and then placed (suctioned?) onto the back to “suck out” toxins.. or something like this. There is probably a much more technical explanation for it all, but you get the idea right? The bulbs are sucking out the bad stuff to make you feel better and release tension which is all very well and good.. but in doing so, they are sucking the blood as well, resulting in what look like blood-blisters all over my back… (apparently the darker the marks, the more toxins/tension/stress they are sucking out – let me tell you, my marks are DARK!). So anyway, I now have 8 circles on my back which almost look like some sort of wierd alien branding. It didn’t hurt at all and I am feeling much, much better today so obviously something worked. BUT. My back looks shocking and might take a while to recover – the bruises look like the type that go a nice shade of yellow and purple. HOT!!

   

That Gwyneth on the left.. and how I looked yesterday on the right.

Thanks to everyone for reading my blog

I can see all the hits and it surprises me! Anyway, just wanted you to know that I really appreciate it. Especially DS and WAHID. You fellas both rock. Hot and lovely!

And thanks to the friend who just rang me and actually had me believing that he had joined AA. You and your flatmate are massive piss-heads and I actually thought it was a good idea and would have been more than happy to be your work-sponsor.. Ha, ha, ha. OK, so I am gullible. But maybe you should actually think about it. Shout out to both of you little drunks. xx

Onto other news. I’m in the hometown at the moment taking care of some family business and I always think it’s a bit strange coming back to the house I grew up in.  My brother and I had each moved out of home for about a week when our bedrooms were converted. My brother’s became the computer room and mine is now a guest room, and all of our childhood crap was unceremoniously put into big trunks in storage in the back sheds). It means that now when we come back home, we stay in the guest room but otherwise, everything is exactly as it was before I left. Including: Dad waking me up when he goes the toilet at 6am – the guest room is next to the toilet, and I don’t get woken up with the toilet flushing - when my parents had their kitchen overhauled, they (in a flash of wisdom) decided to move the exhaust fan from above the stove to the toilet. They also had it connected to the light so that when you turn the light on, it sounds like an aeroplane taking off in that tiny space - gives first-time guests a shock, that’s for sure. And the cat whining at my window every morning (the cat is old and I can’t believe it’s not dead yet – especially when it’s breathe smells so close to death). And my dad sticking to the habits he has cultivated for years.. the birds get fed at 5. The garden gets watered at 6. The dinner is put on at 6.15. The shows are watched and he is in bed by 9. Which leaves me sitting up, only onto my second glass of wine wondering who I can play with? Ahhh life.

B-grade celebrities..

Caught up with a wonderful friend last night and we went to a gorgeous little Italian restaurant (and yes, I had pasta and wine – detox-shmetox). I walked in and the first person I saw was a B-grade celebrity (Daniel McPherson – his 15 mins of fame ended when he left Neighbours, didn’t it? Or maybe it was The Bill. But really who watches that in Oz?). He had a gorgeous lady fawning all over him and all I heard as he stood and grabbed his coat as I moved past was, “Come on, you can come and see my house”. Man, I thought to myself, he’s still got it. And she certainly wanted it.

As we took our seats, I looked around me and two tables away was yet another B-grader (C?) - this time it was Marcus Graham (he was on E-street and…um… I’m sure there was something else). He had yet another gorgeous lady fawning all over him (she actually was out of her seat and sitting on his lap) and man, he’s still got it. And man, did she want it.

I have never taken an interest in either men (although obviously I know who both are) either when they were famous, or now that they are more “has-been’ish”, but I have to be honest and say that they both looked good. Real good. And if they had even looked at me twice, I would have jumped at the chance to be the one fawning all over them. 

And the pasta was not bad either.

Ugg-ly boots

I went out for dinner with a pregnant friend last night.. She’s also one of those friends who loves flat, comfortable shoes.. and no, before you ask, she’s not a lesbian, she is just a practical, comfort-loving individual who either wears Birkernstocks (summer and winter editions), crocs or ugg boots. And last night it was the latter.. She watched my face as she pulled them on knowing exactly what I was thinking (in my pointy-toed, stiletto-heeled ankle boots that leave me lame). And because (and only because) she is pregnant I bit my tongue (it was a struggle). Let the woman have some comfort, I decided, with something pressing on her bladder 24/7, she doesn’t want unneccessary toe cramping going on.

Then this morning, I was out for breakfast with my flat-mate and saw a large number of young ladies wearing the afore-mentioned ugg boots out for a day of shopping. Not-very-pregnant-looking ladies… Wearing ugg boots. I allowed my pregnant friend to wear them because.. she’s pregnant.. (ok, she’s lovely as well, AND I wouldn’t mess with her! ) but these ladies need to know – the Ugg boot was so named because – THEY ARE UGLY!!

Does my fat look fat in this?

I just wanted to assure those concerned (by a previous entry) that I’m not suffering body image issues at all. The diet/detox thang (from the post “The best way to get over a man…”) was more just because: detox –  I’ve been drinking like a fish (or even better, a really, really thirsty person) and - diet – because I’ve been on a work trip for ten days so have been indulging in hotel buffet breakfasts, big catered lunches, team/work dinners with all the trimmings, with coffees, soft drinks and alcoholic beverages thrown in at almost every occasion – think the Belgian Beer Cafe followed by the Lowenbrau Beer Hall followed by Bavarian Beer House. And that’s not making mention of when I went to my former-manager’s house for dinner and we ate three bottles of champagne with a side of takeaway pizza (the pizza was a digusting-but-well-known franchise brand, the champers was nothing less than Moet – and that’s why I always loved that manager!)

And so, as an update – the diet is going well so far – I only had two pieces of raisin toast for breakfast, went easy on the butter, have only had two coffees so far and went the SMALL pizza and DIET coke option at lunch – and skipped the Krispey Kreme donut shop on the way back to the office. All in all, a pretty healthy day!