Hair Raising

I haven't had a hair cut for over a year and whilst the grey fronds make valiant attempts to penetrate the longer locks, I've managed to keep them coloured with home treatments. Finally, even though I'm flat broke, I decided yesterday to go to the hairdressers for the full treatment. Hey, that's what credit cards are for. Yep, colour, foils and a cut.

I have very independent hair, it has a mind of it's own, curls when it feels like it and frizzess more often than not, even gets a bit 'dready' if I put the right product in it. It's long, about 10cm past my shoulders which for someone my age is considered mutton dressed up as lamb unless dutifully trussed in a french roll or piled judiciously on top of my noggin.

So, as I walk into "Mario and Raymond's" salon, I'm greeted by three young ladies who look like they're just out of night nappies, in tight black jeans and pretty pink T-shirts which are all two sizes too small and bearing enough midriff to tout their varied belly button piercings and a gay blade with far too spikey hair and eybrows that have obviously seen a beautician more than once.

I'm ushered to a leather and chrome bouncy chair in front of a full length fucking mirror. I hate those things. It's bad enough seeing your face under fluorescent light let alone the whole shebang and of course, thanks to the crimson wave, I'm also touting a large blind pimple on the centre of my right cheek that seems to be exacerbated by the huge expanse of mirror before me. I cautiously remove the clip holding the swag of hair high on my nut and down comes the tumbling mass of brown and grey frizz.

Then they're straight into it. Takes two you see . . . One passing sticky stuff and foils the other splitting hairs and packing on the bleach. She's so short that she's standing on tip-toe whilst pasting this foul smelling unction on my hair. I have foils down the centre which means by the time she's finished and my root preparation is put in to hide the grey, I look like an overweight Jean Simmons without the makeup. Then the 'overcolour', I've chosen a nice warm chocolate which I know will end up looking like my normal hair colour but it looked pretty nice on the synthetic hair pallette they showed me. Now I really look like Jean Simmons only with makeup on my hair instead of my face.

I politely decline tea or coffee from the Cafe Bar (it tastes like soap) and commence reading a 2004 Women's Weekly. Oprah's secrets, a bio on Susan Sarandon with photos quite obviously focussed on her sagging breasts and some rather nice things to do with Mangoes (not very helpful now that the season is over). Anyway, the massive volume keeps me distracted until the only thing I love about going to the hair dressers - the wash and conditioning massage. Even the hard neck rest doesn't deter me from experiencing one of life's little luxuries - having a deep conditioning treatment and a little snipppet of a chicky babe massaging the scalp with the devil's fingers. Fantaaaaaaastic. All too soon it's over. Shorty comes back, stands on tippy toes again and does the cutting.

Tippy: "How would you like it?" she asks:
Me: "I don't care, you're the hairdresser, have fun"
Tippy: "Yes but do you want it layered?"
Me: "Shit I don't know, you're the hairdresser, just give me soft curls Susan Sarandon or Oprah"
Tippy: "Oh, I think you should have layers, it will make it less weighty at the bottom . . "
Me: (she isn't listening) "Ok Go for it. Not too short but I want masses of loose curls, not frizz"
Tippy: "No problem, we have fantastic products to control frizz"
Me: *aha, she did listen*

Easy peasy. She snips for far too shorter a time, whacks in some product and dries with a diffuser. I look OK, not spectacular but the colour's nice, the curls are soft 'ish. It's not completely dry when she rings up the $160 bill . . . I know it's a lot but remember I haven't had a cut for over a year so pro-rata'd that's not too much to ask.

I drop into our local Welcome Mart on the way home:

Shop Assistant: "What have you done to your hair?"
mmm . . . maybe something's happened to it on the way home from the hairdressers.

The kids arrive home in quick succession:

ClareBare: "Hey the foils look nice but I'm not sure about wearing it down"
Diplomatic
DrummerBoy: "Hey, how you goin' Frizzgirl, you're not going out tonight are you?"
I obviously haven't spent enough time preening in front of the mirror since I got back so go and check . . OMGWTF . . .

It looks EXACTLY the same as it did before, only with five blonde foils and a little shorter. Fuck it . . $160 to get rid of some grey roots which I probably could have done at home for $11.

So my mission today . . .to get out all the anti-frizz, straighteners, curl enhancers, tongs, GHD straightener and 'play'.

At my age, weight, stage in life . . . why am I so obsessed with hair? It's like those really ugly people who want to go onto extreme make-over to get their nose straightened when really darlings, the nose isn't the problem.

I wish I had Oprah and Susan's hairdresser.

Should Have Kept My Mouth Shut!

There are three Kahuna's who also own the business where I work. Two working full time, one semi retiring. In their wisdom, I use the term loosely, some reshuffling of responsibilities has taken place. There was no consultation, no analysis of workload just the assumption that we can reshuffle responsibilities within existing workload thanks to some pillow talk (TheBoss wife also works there) But 2 partners are at loggerheads. One wants a new Exec Assistant. The other wants to keep his girl and our salaried adviser wants to keep the girl she's got which spreads one Exec Ass rather thin. Looks like there just isn't enough to go around. So, Ms Sensible (again I use the term loosely) put together a proposal with four scenarios which would serve the purpose and hopefully keep the peace.

OK this seemed to work until the salaried planner and her assistant decided that the workplace is a democracy . . . got in each other's ear and didn't want to be separated. TheBoss folds and says they can stay together. The other Sgt Bilko has a major wobbly because he doesn't want to be shared. What to do . . . they decide not to make a decision until semi retired partner TheElderStatesman comes back from holiday. The most sensible of which seems to be:

Charmers does compliance and looks after one Partner (TheBoss) and the Semi Retired Partner(TheElderStatesman)
Butterfly Girl monitors all planner achievement against targets and looks after another Partner (Sgt Bilko)
We promote the SickieQueen and give her a planner of her own to look after (Earth Mother)and hopefully enough confidence to actually want to come to work instead of taking days off because she's stubbed her big toe or broken a fingernail.
I retain practice management and Marketing, and learn a little more on compliance

Just before Easter, the 'men' have a pow-wow and the resolution is:

Fold to the salaried planner and let her keep her girl (sooks, looks like it is a democracy)
Fold to the dummyspitting partner and give him a resource of his own
And the admin assistant? Well she just keeps what she's got and retains her obvious habit of taking sickies at regular intervals.

Here's the clincher. TheBoss rings me at home and asks, how do I feel about 'bringing the old team together' a euphamism for making me his gofer. Well, I can hardly object . . . a job's a job and I need it. I now support TheBoss in an Executive Assistant role as well as running the practice and Marketing . . . so when I return to work on the 16th, I have three Position Descriptions and not because I'm fantastic, not even because my multi-tasking skills are noticed, definitely not because of my charm and wit but because I made a stupid, stupid mistake and added myself to one of my own scenarios (I didn't think any of them would want me as an assistant . . . far too bolshy) . . . that's right, the fourth suggestion on my scenario paper was that I work for TheBoss . . .why oh why did I even go there? . . . I guess I brought it upon myself. So now I have the selubrious title of Executive Assistant Client Services, Marketing and Communications and Practice Manager, BA, JP (there aint a business card long enough). I'm an EEEEEEJUT!

The Big Chill

Well Easter was a big family chillax. Fantastic, ClareBear's friends went to Melbourne so she was a nigel, DrummerBoy's late night antics on Thursday and Friday saw him flake on the couch on Saturday and Monday so there was a lot of doonerage and I think we've exhausted the local video store's library. Sunday was family BBQ and Han-Nah's b'day and at sweet 19 of course there were the ring ins, the drop outs and the usual family members. Babysis isn't too well Krohns desease flaring up because she ate too much chocolate but NaughtyNeph and Maddie thoroughly enjoyed a very elaborate treasure hunt with lots of easter eggs and even the chocolate fountain made a reappearance. Thankfully, the refurbished glass tables held up and no shattering to be seen. Me? Not a chocolate fan but made up for it in Champers and cheesy bits. Good night generally with the first bonfire of the season now that it's getting cold. Dawgs appreciated the leftovers.

ThePrincess is limping again after a run in with AIDS dog who boofed her on the sore knee . . . I think the surgery was a failure. Back to the vet this week for a glucosomine injection and I suspect, more R & R or should that be $ & $.

OK so now I'm off for four days. The plan? Prune the plumbago which is threatening to climb through the bedroom windows, whipper-snip the front where the tractor cannot go, repair said tractor which is spewing some sort of liquid (not fuel), paint front verandah. Babybro had a go at rennovating but only did the bits his friends would see during his 25th Wedding Anniversary bash . . how fickle. So now I need to finish the rest, take ThePrincess to the vet, get a haircut - I look like the wild witch of the west and try to sleep in with ClareBear grudgingly crashing around the kitchen at 6.00am because she has to work and I don't! he he.

Bumps in the night, and screeches, and screams

I'm a light sleeper. I get completely zonked from about 11.00pm - 3.30am then I hear everything from the fridge kicking in with its distinctive rev and hot hissing sound, to dogs walking on the mulch looking for somewhere to pee, to DrummerBoy's drunken return from the RSL and feeble attempts to sneak out doona's and mattresses for other's too drunk to lift a finger. Then there's Frog Mouthed Owls who have a call reminiscent of those deep breather's that nuisance call occasionally but there's one noise in the night that I just can't identify. I can hear substantially sized animals in the pine and bamboo immediately outside my family room window. Not sure if they're fruit bats or possums and every attempt to expose the blighters is foiled by their rapid movement through the trees. They're noisy, the dogs go ape shit and by the time I've reached for the mag-light, they've travelled well up the fenceline and into the neighbour's arbour, their screeching diminishing as if to taunt me and say "catch me if you can biatch". I will find out what they are . . . .

Lazy Daze

It's raining in Sydney . . .an event more common than it has been in the past five years so a wet and cold Good Friday was the perfect opportunity for a family get-together. That is, three bodies draped over mattresses snugelled in doona's and watching a variety of movies, some good, some absolutely terrible. Amongs the do get list, Fast Food Nation but not if you don't want to know where your beef comes from and the Guardian - Coastgard rescue film. Among the horrors, Disaster - cheap animated attempt to compete with Team America and Casino Royale - sorry the Blond Bond is an idiot, with a cat's arse mouth and no charm. How can you have a bond movie without "Q" and special gadgets. Boring, convoluted, lacking in humour and anyone who thinks that lycra boxer swimmers are sexy is just getting out of budgie smugglers. The worse . . .*bless* Judd Nelson who is still trying to act after the Breakfast Club of the 80's and Suddently Seeking Susan . . . still hopeless in the pathetic Black Hole. So there. Others on the recommended list:

Charlotte's Web - Predictably schmulzy but very cute and who can eat pork after seeing Wilbur (bacon doesn't count)
Macbeth - Aussie Version - gotta love the Baird's plots, they're so easily translatable into modern times.

The evening was topped off with Chinese, honey chicken and lobster in black bean sauce . . . OMG, simply scrumptious and not a meal to be eaten in a restaurant unless you want to wear one of those silly seafood bibs.

So, vegie day over . . .time to get crackin' on other things.

Leave Yeay

That's it, a total of 9 days off well 11 if I include next weekend. Fantabulous . . .I get to play with my big girls toys - leaf blowers, hedge clippers, whipper snippers and my DVD player. Happy days.

Ten Rules of Chocolate (PMS Cure)

I'm looking for Belgian couveture chocolate to put in my chocky fountain at Easter and found this . . . . I'm still looking for the couveture . . .

The Ten Rules of Chocolate

1. If you've got melted chocolate all over your hands, you're eating it too slowly.
2. Chocolate covered raisins, cherries, orange slices and strawberries all count as fruit, so eat as many as you want.
3. The problem: How to get your month's supply of chocolate home from the supermarket in a hot car. The solution: Eat it in the car park or take an esky.
4. Diet tip: Eat a chocolate bar before each meal. It'll take the edge off your appetite, and you'll eat less.
5. If calories are an issue, store your chocolate on top of the fridge. Calories are afraid of heights, and they will jump out of the chocolate to protect themselves.
6. Eatiing equal amounts of dark chocolate and white chocolate constitutes a balanced diet.
7. Money talks. Chocolate sings - Beautifully!
8. Chocolate has many preservatives. Preservatives make you look younger. Therefore, you need to eat more chocolate.
9. Put "eat chocolate" at the top of your list of things to do today. That way, at least you'll get one thing done.
10. If you can't eat all your chocolate, it will keep in the freezer. But if you can't eat all your chocolate, what's wrong with you?
    __________________

Cheer up

OK after that last post, we all need a Panadol and a little lie down so here's something that's a little more fun. Stolen of course but see if you have the courage to copy and comment.

Getting to know me. 25 questions!
1. Where were you 3 hours ago Sitting in front of my flatscreen at work
2. Who are you in love with? - nobody at the moment any takers?
3. Have you ever eaten a crayon? Can't remember but I know what their texture is so I guess I must have.
4. Is there anything pink within 10 feet of you? A Blank CD case in my CD rack
5. When is the last time you went to the mall? Saturday week ago. I hate shopping.
6. Are you wearing socks right now? Sort of, those cut off stockingy trouser sock things.
7. Do you have a car worth over $2,000? Well if I combine both of them, just about.
8. When was the last time you drove out of town? Too long ago . . .trip to Mudgee last winter
9. Have you been to the movies in the last 5 days? Nah, DVD's are cheaper.
10. Are you hot? Only in summer
11. What was the last thing you had to drink? Sanseo Coffee, white and one.
12. What are you wearing right now? Black trousers, blue and black striped shirt, flats.
13. Do you wash your car or let the car wash do it? I cover it in dishwashing liquid then put it outside when we have rain.
14. Last food that you ate? Boost mini chocolate bar - I did it for charity!
15. Where were you last week at this time? Same ol - At work fretting over organising a Seminar
16. Have you bought any clothing items in the last week? Nah.
17. When is the last time you ran? 5 years ago when my Dad fell in the swimming pool!
18. What's the last sporting event you watched? 2004 Olympic Games I hate sport
19. What is your favorite animal? Lions tigers and bears? Oh my!
20. Your dream vacation? Paris, springtime . . . George Saint . . tea roses . . .Verve Cliquot or just a week at Hawks Nest . . .
21. Last person's house you were in? Other than mine . . . my sister's a couple of weeks ago.
22. Worst injury you've ever had. Dislocated elbow, slipped on mud in Fiji
23. Have you been in love? Had the first and the best, now waiting for the last!
24. Do you miss anyone right now? My mum and dad . . . my youth
25. What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex! I'm single, obviously haven't got one, can I borrow yours?

Right to Die

Now this is rare. 8:36 on a Tuesday evening and I am compelled to blog. I've just watched a discussion program on Insight a brilliant show on SBS our multicultural public channel, Tuesday nights, which confronts all sorts of issues, some fun, most serious. Tonight Euthanasia . . .it was heart-wrenching to listen to particularly elderly people's experiences of losing loved ones because our liberal (read conservative) government (they don't even warrant a capital letter) refuses to recognise someone's righ to die and the provision of information that might make that happen.

Whilst my much loved Dad with whom I shared a house for 15 years was a strong opponent of such things, watching him die 12 months after a bowel cancer and subsequent liver cancer was horrendous. He passed mercifully quickly for us all and fortunately with little pain, it was possibly the most difficult thing I have had to cope with in my entire life. Had he suffered, I would have wanted to at least provide a legal option for him to bow out gracefully.

I'm different. I'm pro-euthanasia. I want the right to take Nembutol when I'm ready. Hey I'm a smoker, I'm overweight, I have a family history of various cancers, I even have terminal illness insurance so that I can visit Paris before I kark it (don't write me off just yet) but I would like to have the choice of a dignified death. A suite in the Hyatt overlooking Sydney Harbour, my family around me, a quick dose of an oral medication and life as I knew it is over. I was stunned, ney (now that's a word not often used in the 21st century) outraged by our new Minister for the Aged, some little wet-behind-the-ears 40 something called Pyne who emphatically refused to even consider the possibility of legislating for legal euthanasia because old people are so infirm and stupid they might succumb to family pressure or misinturpret family overtures that they are passed their use-by date.

We euthanase pets to allay their misery(I once paid for a mouse to be humanely put down due to an incurable skin disease and my beloved Basil, and Brenna were put to sleep before my eyes, quickly and painlessly despite my distress) . We cut down diseased trees, we lob not just old people but those at the end of their lives into 'palliative care' to pass the buck on their misery under the guise of pain management. Most of these institutions are virtually Solzhenitzyn style cancer wards where the dying are tube-fed and fitted with morphine butterfly clips and forced to ingest useless nutrients and laxatives until they pass . . . I want to be able to have the choice.

I don't want to have to go to Switzerland on my dying legs to arrange my own departure from this planet through Dignitas. I don't want to have to buy the drugs in Mexico and risk the border patrol (yes I have thought about this) any more than I want to tattoo 'don't resucitate' on my chest to be left alone. This is a world gone mad. If I'm dying, I want to make the choice about how I die and where. I've paid my taxes. I can get an abortion - free . . . I can turn off the life support of an immediate family member after five days . . . neo-natal staff can starve a deformed newborn until it expires . . . but I can't choose my own moment of death . . making these decisions are awful burdens for the families let alone the participant. I don't want my family to have to make such decisions about me. So please, if you're bringing drugs into the country, I'd like 50 mls of liquic Nembutol just to keep on the top shelf of my wardrobe . . just in case. Wake up people, it's not Soylent Green . . .it's human rights.

Goings On

I was really struck this morning by the repetition, normalcy and some of the quirkiness of everyday life - of people just doing what they do - getting on with getting on. I'm lucky, I only live about 10 kms from work and take the same route each day so it's a quick but always eventful trip.

It's interesting, as I'm waiting for the inordinately slow lights to change at three intersections, I have time to observe. And each morning, there is a strange ground hog day feeling as the same people, cars even dogs cross my path or at least walk the same route too. There are the local Government school kids - discernably different to their private school cousins who are all impeccably dressed. The Government school kids walk wildly and wobbly, chatting . . mostly in the same blue uniform, grey skirts and shorts and overstretched white socks. The only rebellion against such uniformity is expressed in wildly coloured and styled hair or bizarre shoes - all black - each with an individual twist.

Then there's the sinuey 40 something who runs up Showground road with vim, vigour and bouncing hair every morning. Rain hail or shine . . there she is in her badly fitting shorts. She's incredibly fit, not a skeric of fat, or muscle for that matter, just joggy thinness. I admire her tenacity but I hope she scrubs up a bit better after a shower and a shave.

Similarly, theres the well dressed middle eastern man who walks across to the post office at about 8:10 every morning - as he stands next to the pretty Polynesian Orthodontic Nurse from our building I just notice that he's impeccably groomed, tall, slightly bumless with that 50's thick groomed hair cut safely and squarely framed with slightly unfashionably lengthed side burns but tell ya, the man's proud of his appearance, has shirts ironed with knife-edge creases and has shiny shoes and an attitude to match.

There's also the kid from the local fish shop, his Aqua, fish logo'd shirt is a dead give away, as are the white gum boots which strangely don't smell as bad as they look. He's leaning against a lampost at the bus stop. Looking tired, bored and wiping premature lines from his brow. I actually know this kid and the drugs taken in his early teens have rendered him older than his age and in a lot of trouble with the law - it shows - he's trying to keep his nose clean these days and has just finished his community service - I give him a lift now and then so I'm lucky, he'll give me a discount next time I stock up with Atlantic Salmon!

So they're the regulars . . .along with the council worker that spends three days a week pressure hosing parrot poo from the pavement as the trees above him are roosting grounds for Rainbow Lorikeets, and the blind guy with the big black guide dog who manages to negotiate a five road junction, God knows how . . .and the girls outside the NAB who even though they've probably just left home, feel the need for a smoke before the day starts and finally, that crazy woman with the big backpack absolutely festooned with dangly stuffed animals . . .she's mad but she seems happy . . .ahh, the goings on . . .

Ces Magnifique!

I love Cirque du Soliel . . I've managed to see Allegria, Quidam and more recently Varakai and watching Quidam again in its entirety on telly last night just doesn't capture the heart-stopping talent of these young performers. There's nothing like watching them in the flesh doing things that a body simply shouldn't do, defying gravity with absolute grace, their lythe little bodies exuding power, strength and suppleness. Sounds sexy but combined with the fantastic live music, these are events well worth their exe price tag . . . I just can't get enough, three down, 4 to go!

Missing in Action

Oh Crispy where are you? Am I off your list?

Sad Sack or Culture Vulture

Ok, I might be a sad sack, lonely Sundays, kids too hung over to play . . . but after fighting with strollers and aggresive mothers at the supermarket for the obligatory fortnightly shop, who would do well to watch 50,000 episodes of super nanny, (that's right folks we full time working single parents shop on bloody Sunday with the rest of the psychos), weeding the garden and giving three dogs a grooming experience that only super models enjoy . . . I watch the Sunday Arts show on our public TV ABC. . . Actually I watched a gooey Jennifer Love Hewitt movie that's overdue so I figure I've paid for it, lets go. So mushy, romantic, chick flick to the max then I tune into the arts show to see an Australian Opera, contemporary, songs sung in cars parked at traffic lights, wondering through the Sydney Botanical Gardens etc. I have to say it, opera is shit. Alright, I do like that lovely thing from Madam Butterfly, you know the two women singing unintelligable lyrics. And I do get a bit emotional listening to Pavarotti singing Nessum Dorma (if there's been enough chardy under the belt). I can even become slightly empassioned at some sections of Carmen or the Barber of Saville (I'm not a complete infidel when it comes to opera) but a pathetic attempt at Australian opera (now there's a contradiction in terms when our fave song is John Williamson's 'Hey True Blue') for fucks sake who like this pretentious shit. I started wandering around the kitchen, making a killer Rogan Josh if you're interested, and began singing to my saucepans, dogs, dishwashing liquid - even the carrots got a bit of an operatic telling off for being phallic - and I have to say, it was more melodic and meaningful than the crap they're playing on the telly. There, I feel vented and vindicated . . . opera is like ballet . . . if the music's no good, nobody wants to watch gay men poncing around the stage with socks stuffed down their tights (my mother used to say it was so the ballerina's had something to stand on during a lift) any more than they want to listen to contemporary non rhyming English spoken opera based in the burbs with no melody. See what it's driven me to Blogging at 4:25 on a Sunday afternoon! I have better things to do than listen to this crap. Well not too many but . . . I think, maybe, oh fuck it . . .I'm going to chlorinate my pool and cleanse my ear wax.

Go and Play in the Fresh Air!

Ok it's 10:45 on a Sunday morning, I've been blogging and podcasting for over 2 hours and am still in my PJ's. It's 24 in the shade, the sun is beaming, the birds are twittering and the garden beckons (I hate gardening) so time to go outside and check the graphics . . .I saw a geek phrase on a T shirt once "I once went outside but the graphics weren't great". You work it out!

Hypocratic Oath

Just listened to my fave, well my only loaded podcast and among the topics were the environment, organic food production amongst other things. We're pretty green here, we use long life light bulbs, water saving shower heads, recycled water, I'm one of the few families that has only one TV, no air con and actually hangs clothes on a line instead of using a dryer. I'm a registered member of the Australian Conservation Foundation and Cool the Globe and last night we participated in Earth hour and it was fun. Sydney was asked to turn off all their lights for an hour a month which is the equivalent of taking 75,000 cars off the road for a year apparently if everyone participates. Restaurant's held candle light dinners and even the old oprey house and the coathanger were bathed in darkness from 7:30pm - 8:30pm. Gawd I'm good . . .

So why are so many people so ignorant or unwilling to participate in environmental initiatives. It's a small thing but if everyone participates in some small way surely it'll make a difference. But no, my neighbours, have their homes lit up like Christmas trees, a TV and Playstation in every room, air con running 24/7, use their hoses to clear their driveways, drive petrol guzzling cars. . . just like the bloody idiot in the previous post they don't think this will affect them.

Whilst I'm green, I'm not perfect. I don't buy organic food cos it tastes like shite and there are worms in the vegies and I'm not a vegetarian even though meat is murder (and I don't mean the Smiths album). I don't compost because I'm lazy (but I do recycle) and I'm sorry but the only way to kill mosquitos is to stop breathing out CO2 or use fly spray and since the first option isn't really viable, fly spray wins. So am I a hypocrite (not to be confused with a hippocrite) as well or just someone trying to do a little bit in my own way? Oh the dichotomy. I have to go and spray my weeds now before cooking a Sunday roast of rare roast beef. As long as I don't have to kill it, gut it or butcher it, that's OK isn't it? Bloody oath!

Environmental Fundimentalism is an Oxymoron

You know, like army intelligence . . the oxymoron in this instance is that fundamentalist religion (and I include the pentacostals, evangelists and friggin' right wing Anglicism in that not just ratbag islamists) - is the direct opposite of environmentalism. Take this example, a colleague throws an empty durry packet on the ground rather than in a bin. Disgusted, I call him a tosser and make him pick it up. Totally confronted he goes on the back foot and says "Why should I give a shit about the environment. Jesus is coming, I'll be saved and all you fuckers will be left amidst your own filth . . ."

I certainly hope he's not indicative of many religious beliefs that there's no need to salvage anything on this planet because they're all going to be 'saved', or martyred and only the unbelievers and infidels will be left amid streets full of litter on a deforested, polluted and slowly warming planet. Thank God I'm an athiest.

Burst My Bubble . . .

Just received some A3 frames for some promotional posters that I'm using in the boardrooms at work for a very creative campaign to get clients to refer other filthy rich people to our business I might add - sometimes I surprise myself . . . but wait . . the most exciting thing was the packaging. They all arrived wrapped in bubble wrap. Not the piddly little bubbles, no not the little bubbles but gargantuan big boofers, just waiting to be burst.

Fantastic, better than swearing out loud (another of my favourite pastimes - someone of my age should be more demure but hey . . . fuck it). Within moments four adults ranging from 24 - 50 are all playing touchy feely with these little pockets of air. Whilst the exhilaration was short-lived it was truly excellent. The only man present at the moment is a Polish Argentinian (not normally known for their robust sense of humour) who gave a wry smile but refrained from participating . . he likes to watch!

Opposites

What's the opposite of misogynist? I think I might be one.

Healthy Tadpoles

I was listening to TripleJ on the way to work this morning and heard that pregnant women bearing male foetuses (or is it foetii) who eat a lot of red meat run the risk of their sons being infertile. This got me thinking about infertility - it is Friday after all and the mind tends to wander around lunchtime - so I wondered and found some very interesting information on how to preserve/maintain male fertility. (All in the name of Newsletter Research of course because I'm hard at it - work that is!) So c'mon boys do your bit for the planet and give the girls a rest from calendar watching, taking temperatures, waving their legs in the air for 15 minutes after sex or suffering the indignity of IVF . . get those tadpoles swimming . . . here are some practical guidelines on maintaining your potency.

Don't have intercourse more than three times a week. More frequent intercourse may reduce the number of viable sperm in the semen. (I can see that working)

Time intercourse to coincide with ovulation, which usually occurs midway between menstrual periods. (That's once a month fellas!)

After intercourse, spend ten to fifteen minutes quietly in each other's arms before getting up. (No problem, he'll fall asleep straight away)

Exercise regularly but moderately (no, sex is not moderate exercise). Maintaining a high level of physical fitness increases the possibility of conception.

Avoid excessive consumption of alcohol (Nooooooooo!)

Try to eliminate the stress in your life as much as possible. (hari krishna, hare hare, krishna krishna . . ohm maddy paddy ohm)

Don't smoke (the sex had better be good, no durries or beer!)

Stay cool: A man should not wear underwear that holds his testicles close to his body. Sperm require cool temperatures to remain active. Avoid hot baths, hot tubs, jacuzzis, saunas, and steam baths. These indulgences may reduce stress and create a sensual mood, but they can also reduce your ability to impregnate your partner. (So if you made it in the jacuzzi, it's all over red rover!)

Do not take any drugs except those prescribed by your physician. (Drugs are bad for you. Mkay)

Do not consume animal fats, fried foods, sugar, or junk foods. Do eat pumpkin seeds, bee pollen, or royal jelly. (No of course! Go for something that comes out of a bee's bottom!)

Eating, half a dozen oysters, lean red meat, and crab may help. They all contain a high level of zinc, which is essential for motility and production of sperm. (Well at least you can eat well even if you have given up durries and beer and your beloved budgie smugglers)

Strict adherence to a gluten-free diet has enabled some previously sterile men to become fathers. (I take back what I said about the food, rice cakes and semolina?)

Good luck you father's to be . . .

I Thrive on Recognition

Recognition . . I love it! Rare but very flattering. Yeay. Someone across the Tasman is interested in the unintellectual ramblings of a hormonal grumpkin in Oz. Now I feel super spesh after being linked to NZPubcast. But don't tell anyone, their subscriptions are getting so popular that they'll have to start paying for their server space and that would mean dipping into valuable beer cash (or is that cache). It's an exclusive club and despite offending one of its main contenders this week (sorry Dodge) they've kept me up there. It's great to feel wanted but now I have to lift the humour level, become slightly intellectual and God forbid, start drinking beer!

I think not . . got a nice bottle of Bolly off the boss for running a good Seminar this week . . .much more to my taste and another piece of recognition . . c'mon cloud nine!