Old Boiler

I've been calling myself an old boiler since I was well, a spring chicken but it's suddently dawned on me that I really am. My daughter says I drive like a geriatric and my son says I smell like elephant brains . . I think both were meant to be terms of endearment but I took them darkly. I decided to start a blog after being thoroughly entertained by the streams of younglings who expose their lives, dreams, hopes aspirations, drinking and sexual habits all in some cathartic or maybe it's an exhibitionist way to vent, reflect or just to document their day to day existance - either way it's a voyeur's paradise in bloggworld.

Not that I'm a voyeur just a Sunday surfer . . .and not that I have anything as interesting to offer I just thought I'd have a bash. My interest was also sparked by a couple of e-friends who I've adopted through my business life and we've become good pals although we've never met and I'm old enough to be their mother. Tempted as I was, I've never lied about my age to these e-buddies but they seem to enjoy the occasional banter with some client in Sydney even though it's highly unlikely they'll ever share a joke let alone a beer. I suppose I'm a safe proposition, fun when it suits . . no commitment . . . Addicted as I am to some blogs, all written by people who I have never met and probably never will . . I decided to start my own journal.

Even if it's not nearly as entertaining as some. I now know, I can get things out in the open without boring my children, MSN'ing my tiny contact list of computer literate peers or at the very least have something that my overseas mates can log into from time to time to gauge just how tragic the middle ages (mine that is) can be. First place of choice was 'My Space' but realising that there are no postings for people ove the age of 40, I turned away, spurned, hurt and cut to the core because I'm not 40, not even 45 but only a matter of weeks on the right side of 50 and that dear readers is what cuts me to the core. Inside, I'm fabulous . . .young, spirited, thoughtful, feisty . . Christ, I listen to Triple J - I can't be that old, my girlf rides a motorbike in races for heaven's sake . . .I say fuck and like the Foo Fighters . . . but every now and then, my alter ego surfaces, that grumpy old woman that laments kids today because they don't know the art of conversation, it's all done via SMS on mobile phone or heiroglyphic messages on some chat line :) (: :P }} }}, btw, imho . . .electronic coms sux.

Alternatively, that anal woman occupies my body and freaks out unnecessarily about the way a towel is strewn all over a bed or loses the plot because shoes are not neatly placed together and God forbid if anyone gets instant coffee granules in the sugar or leaves the toilet seat up - because the world as we know it will end.

Then there's that weeping mess of a waste of womanhood that just bursts into rivers of saltiness because someone left the door open or let the dog out or didn’t' make their bed or was so selfish that they couldn’t bloody be bothered to go up and buy some milk when they know all I want in life is a CUP OF TEA IN THE MORNING!!!!!!!

Not to mention . . .that ballistic bombshell of spiralling overconfidence, the legend in her own lunchtime, that amazonian decision maker with supreme knowledge grounded in nothing but sheer belief in her ability . . .In a nutshell, that's me . . .

I look in the mirror and see a tall, slim, dark-haired, brown eyed beauty with a face full of character and charm. A smile that would melt the ice caps and velvety skin that any man would find irresistable.What's really there is a mere semblence of my formal self, not so many wrinkles but I've just about forgotten what my original hair colour is . . frequently tinted to hide the grey. My silph like figure has well quite simply ballooned so now I really am a woman of substance and my skin . . well, nothing a 10 week acid peel regime can't fix.

Resolution for today: Remove all reflective surfaces from view.