You are what you wear.

There are some clothes that need to come with diagrams that show how they should be worn, and Entry and Exit signs.
Trust me on this one.
Today I tried on a dress in Marks and Spencer's that had been designed by Zandra Rhodes.
Ever since I was a teen, I have LOVED Zandra Rhodes clothes.
The colours.The fabrics.The pink hair.The zaniness.The total impracticality of it.
God knows I know about as much about fashion as your average Christian Brother Headmaster knows about celibacy.
But in terms of sheer fantasy, Rhodes has my number.
For the record, I WEAR mostly black, in fabrics that suit my size and workplace.
But I BUY the occasional piece of whimsy in fabrics of layered rayon silkiness and caress their hot pink and turquoise petals in the privacy of my own Bedroom.
It's a girl thing.
Today's Object of Desire was a peach and orange creation with sleeves that looked like the wings of CGI butterfly.
It was beautiful. It was in my size. It was marked down by 70%.
I was in love.
I deftly- but reverently- grabbed it from the rack before anyone else saw it and bolted to the changing room.
And here, my friends, is where it all went terribly awry.
The dress itself weighed less than a postcard.
All delicacy and flutter, it slipped across my fingers like a well lubed jelly bean.
It had an inner slip, and an outer shell, like the casing of an expensive salami.....and lets just leave the sausage references at that shall we?
Dressing rooms are dignity black holes at the best of times- as every woman knows- but M & S do an OK job of them, so space, lighting and mirror position were not at fault here.
It was the dress.
In terms of possible confusing design detours , Rhodes had outdone herself.
That the slip was firmly attached to the shoulders of the outer dress was issue enough, but the fact that the arm holes were the same size as the neckline, all three of which were covered in approximately 500,000 gossamer orange and black leaves, and that there was a wrap around belt that crossed the body at three places and that the dress looked EXACTLY the same inside out and back to front was a recipe for potential dress trying disaster.
The first attempt saw me standing in front of the mirror with the slip halfway up my neck, and my head coming out from the right sleeve.
It took me 5 minutes to get out of that combo.
Next effort was better, until I saw that I had it on back to front, and had managed to turn the slip inside out. The belt now did up at the back, and the zip was useless as it was on my left hand side, just out of reach.
I didn't panic.
I have learned not to panic when trying on expensive, delicate things.
Nothing alerts a shop girl faster than the sound of ripping material and the words " Oh Fuck".
I quietly worked back along the path I had travelled and reversed all the steps.
I was naked again, but I wasn't crying, so that was good.
I looked down at this expression of femininity that was slowly becoming my nemesis and thought "There is a perfectly easy way to wear this dress, you just have to see it".
(That's right Wendy, when you can no longer dress yourself, try using your 'inner eye'....Jesus wept,won't my dotage be a fun time?)
A third, and forth- yes really- attempt fared no better. I just couldn't get the slip and the dress to match in terms of them both pointing in the same direction, and both being the right way out.
I was doing something wrong, I refused to believe a designer would create an unwearable dress and sell it to a chain store, so I knew it was me.
I had become dress dyslexic.
On a fifth and final try I cracked it.
I managed to get everything where it was supposed to be, and I stood in front of the mirror triumphant.
It looked lovely. I WAS the fairy princess.
I was also in a full blown sweat, and I had a headache that had crept from the nape of my spine and encircled my head.
The only way I would ever attempt to put on that dress again was if I had a support staff of 14 and a therapist on speed dial.
The dress was in one piece ( per se) but I was in tatters.
So back to the rack it went.
I am sorry Zandra. I still love you, but the older I get, the less time I have to negotiate exit strategies with inanimate objects.
Give me underwear with tags in the back, and necklines that show me where my head goes. That way if I am seen walking down the street with my clothes on inside out, at least people will know it is an active choice, and not the sign of a losing battle.

Joy to the Jingle

It's Christmas.
This may have passed you by if
a) you live a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away or
b) if you are a cat. I don't think cats know about Christmas. Not really.
I would think even if you live under the sea, or in a cave, you know it's Christmas.
I think Osama Bin Laden knows it's Christmas, and last I heard he lives in a cave so it follows.
I am not a god person......that is I don't have a God in my life. Of course I pray when I really, really want something, but that's just hypocrisy and wishful thinking.
Plus I like to play the odds.
But I do very much like Christmas Carols. Real ones. Ones that talk about baby Jesus, and stars from the east, and good kings that look after poor people, and have words like Dominum and Sanctum and feature the sounds of per-adolescent boys hitting the High C.
In short, I like Christmas hymns.
As a matter of fact, I like hymns period.
I was bought up in a religious household, which could go part of the way to explaining why I no longer believe in God, and also why I still like God music.
My mother was of the evangelical persuasion, lots of talking in tongues and large arm movements. The theatrical element of my religious upbringing was absolutely integral to forming the person I am now. Every part of my chosen profession and personality type can be traced directly back to an event when I was about 8.
Standing on a pew so that I could see properly, I was taken to see a 'De-possession'- quite the most spectacular show I had ever witnessed.
I have a very strong memory of looking around the church, looking at the faces of the adults around me , all of whom had worked themselves into a sweaty frenzy of religious fervor.
At the centre of this cacophony was the 'possessed'- a woman of about 30, who was writhing on the floor swearing and spitting vitriol.
The scene fascinated me.
Of course I knew- even at that age- that this was nothing more than mass hysteria, but the thought that popped into my head at the time was " How can I get that kind of attention?"
I have been aiming to capture and hold an audience with as much focus ever since.
But back to the hymns.
Today I went in search of REAL Christmas carols.
Not " Santa come and kiss mummy and feed the reindeer's jolly candy canes while it snows marshmallow" type carols.
I wanted ancient, haunting, uplifting, spine tingling, knee weakening God Songs.
Ones that make me feel guilty about not believing anymore, and that remind me that there is a greater good.
Hymns that are sung in cathedrals that have acoustics designed to break even a heathens heart.
So there I stood in HMV, looking at over 100 CD's to choose from and this is what I discovered.
Every two bit twat who has entered a recording studio has a Christmas album. Glen Campbell has Christmas Album. The CHIPMUNKS have a Christmas Album. So do Cats ( actual living cats) and Dogs ( that woof the songs). Punk bands record Christmas Carols (there is a lot of swearing, kind of " Fuck of and have a merry fucking time, you captitalist sellout fucks" which alludes to the hypocisy bit mentioned earlier).
There is an Album of Jingle Bells- the song Jingle bells.18 tracks of THE SAME SONG recorded, presumably, 18 different ways.
Have you checked out the lyrics of that particular track lately? They are not exactly open to much 'interpretation'. Essentially it's about the fun to be had on a sleigh with bells.
That particular Album, I assume, is for the stoners.
It took me ages to find the CD I wanted.
Recorded by the Choir of the Kings College, Cambridge, it includes all the necessary Mendelssohn Classics and male Sopranos that make up a 'real' Christmas play list.
None of this " All I want for Christmas is teeth, you and snow for starving Africans" malarkey.
I always wondered about that, by the way.
Remember Band-Aid?
There is a lyric that says " Without snow outside, do they know it's Christmas time at all?"
I grew up in Australia.
Never saw a bloody flake of snow in December in 11 years.
Nor a Reindeer for that matter.
Not to worry though, with the advent of recorded sound and the help of preachers who spent the end of the year harassing choirboys to sing- as opposed to just harassing choirboys- I was always alerted to the upcoming festive season.
So, for now, Gloria in Excelsis Deo, and have a safe and Merry Christmas.

WANTED Loose Cannon- Apply within.

What does your business card say?
This question comes from a place in the heart, because lately it has come to my attention that describing ones self in a one or two word sound bite can be difficult, if not downright dangerous.
As it happens, I am in need of a new business card, a detail has changed, so in order to make life easier I am looking for a Job Title.
So far I have 'Talker'.
Wendy Herbert
Talker
I have a very small business. It is essentially me, and 8 or 10 times a year I employ 9 or so people for special projects that can last for as little as a day and up to a few weeks for well paid, interesting and fun work.
I like my job. It's diverse, and it pays my rent.I am never bored, I get to meet a wide range of people, I always learn new things, and I have a certain amount of autonomy.
I have ambition, hell yes, and time frames, research guides and lists to enable the realization of my dreams.
Everything I currently do has a place in my future plans. I see all of it as essential for reaching my goals.
But when people ask me what I do.......well.....that's where it gets tricky.
Because what they are actually asking is " Can you explain to me in 5 seconds or less how I can categorize you" and the answer is " No, because when it comes to that pigeon holing part, I actually have no fucking idea how I fit in".
Some days, like today, you will find me dressed in a Santa jacket MCing (and hopefully entertaining) 600 members of a private club as they make their way through a three hour Christmas Orgy of presents, prizes, turkey, inflatable walking candy canes and magicians.
Tomorrow, however, I will sit in the home of a quiet, but brilliant, business woman and double check her power point presentation with her, as she struggles to remember not to turn her back to her CEO and to keep the wobbles out of her voice and the butterflies out of her stomach.
Some mornings you will find me exploring the hilarity of a well placed hand gesture in an AA Milne poem with a bunch of Cantonese speaking 8 year olds, but in the afternoon of the same day, I may be in a board room of a bank role playing Diversification and Conflict Resolution issues with men who earn more in a month than some schools have as their budget for a year.
You see the problem.
The only thing I am truly qualified for - apart from motherhood- is working in the Radio industry.....that's my qualification.......from AFTRS......and I did that ( radio) for a good long time.
But I don't do that anymore- although I still talk A LOT with my work- but I have to say, I earn 4 times what I did in radio in HK....
Wendy Herbert
Better Paid Talker
I know someone, who knows someone, who describes her job title as a receptionist in a hair salon as 'Traffic Manager' because she had mark off customers names and direct people to the chairs when they came in for a trim.
Perhaps the title should be given an extra word.
Human Traffic Manager.
But Human Trafficker just doesn't have the same.......je nes se quois.
Or something.
I don't know what.
Wendy Herbert
Fill in the blank
That seems about right.
I may just end up stealing the idea of a friend of mine, a dear little man with with a mind like jelly and an ego as unique as his smile.
When I asked him once what his card said he boldly announced " I don't carry a card. If the don't know who I am, they can just fuck off ".
And rightly so.

What's eating you?

Dreams are funny things.
Over the years I have read the odd book or two (some of them VERY odd) about 'unlocking the meanings ' of dreams.
It's not that I am all hocus-pocus about stuff.
I am one of those mortals who tends to attribute extraordinary occurrence to ordinary explanation.
It's just that dreams often catch me unawares, and I am a control person.
Like last night.
Sleeping soundly in a warm and comfortable bed, my mind took a wander to a room that was clearly in a home that suddenly- and rather mysteriously- belonged to me.
This room had a wall of fish tanks. Not one large fish tank, mind you, but a series of fish tanks, all stacked one on top of the other apartment style.
Some were large and deep, with coral displays and rocks and caves, and some were small and shallow with only sand in the bottom.
The entire structure, which by my reckoning was at least 20 feet tall, and 5 feet wide, was being supported by wooden brackets whose struts extended only12 inches from their anchor point and yet the tanks, which could all be accessed at the top, remained in place.
At one point in the dream I turned to a girl, who at the time seemed very familiar but now whose face and name have dissolved, and said " I don't know how long this will last with such little support, I am waiting for it to fall, and when it does nothing will save it"
Mmmmmmmmm.
Well yes.
But moving on.
From there the dream moved to a situation that was so distinctly remarkable and disturbing that it woke me up a mere 5 hours after my head originally hit the pillow, and has me blogging as a kind of bloodletting.
Another woman, all I can tell you was she was Chinese, turned to me and said " We need to rescue two fish from being eaten so we are bringing them here. I think they will die in these tanks, but they were going to die anyway, so a few hours happiness at the end is better than nothing"
Hmmmmmmmm.
Quite.
She then very carefully placed a small guppy like fish into a small tank with a sandy bottom.
It was orange with a fan like tail, and seemed happy enough.
The second animal was not.
In the arms of a man was a 4 foot shark that was struggling for its life.
My eyes turned immediately to the largest tank and I remember thinking " it will eat the other fish" but to my surprise it was placed it in a small and shallow tank. The poor animal struggled to get it's head underwater, and my distressed self turned to the woman who casually announced, "I will strangle it later to put it out of it's misery"
Instantly a larger shark appeared alongside our doomed fish friend and started eating it alive.
There was nowhere for it to go in this small and shallow tank and I watched it die a horrendous death. It's attacker was a deep sea Frilled shark.
I know this because I saw its red gills and recognised its face from the video on you-tube that documents the agonising death of this prehistoric marvel when it was brought to the surface by Japanese fishermen and had it's insides expand and explode in the pressure less shallow water.
That video has always haunted me.
I hate cruelty.
Now, if you have stayed with me thus far, you will have noted that a larger fish existed in a smaller tank that could not support the life of one shark, let alone two.
But this was a dream. And dreams are designed to break the laws of metaphysics at the best of times, it's doubtful these are the best of times, especially for that shark.
So what does it mean?
And who is the shark- the dead one- and for that matter who is the Frilled one?
And why was it placed in a situation where it clearly had no opportunity to protect itself, or fight back, or survive?
And is it better to have a few hours happiness just at the end?
Is it enough?
I think not, I aim for happiness everyday, and I usually find it.
But clearly something is going on.
My subconscious self is trying to tell my conscious self something.
Or maybe it was the chocolate and coconut cookies I had just before bed, and my dream was merely the result of an early morning sugar rush coupled with a weekend of Christmas festivities and way too much excitement for a 40 year old.
Either.
Or neither.
I'm just putting it out there.
I shall make a cup of tea now and quietly write a list of all the people I know who would eat someone alive - in the metaphoric sense obviously- and pop it on the fridge.
It's a small tank.
I need to know what I'm up against.

Making The Cut

We all edit our lives in some way.
And what we allow to be seen in public depends entirely on which Directors cut we want to be screened on any given day.
Is today's blockbuster feature an action film? Dozens of bad guys cut through in a hail of bullets issued forth by just the raising of an octave?
"You want me to wait HOW LONG for my home delivered Pizza you lying piece of scum?"
Or is it a bubbly Rom-Com replete with witty repartee and floppy hair?
"Oh, Charles, you rascal. When you said lets go Dutch, this WASN'T what I had in mind"
Perhaps today's home edited flick is a slapstick comedy staring your landlord, a guy from the taxation office and a Prairie Dog. Prairie Dogs make even the worst days seem like a comedy.
Which brings me to the point......finally.......that all of this editing takes time and effort. Especially the effort part.
I have a friend whose life is so carefully crafted for his adoring public that if he turned his life into modern sculpture it would resemble some kind of large, smooth, shiny,white obelisk. Not a single spike in sight. No rivets, or badly fitting seals. No bumps, or hard edges, or broken bits held on with superglue. Just light, tight and bright white chocolate mousse floating on a cloud of perfumed sunshine.
His therapist of 15 years agrees. No one EVER had a life that charmed. NO ONE. EVER.
And that's my second point.
Life, even other peoples lives, has lumps.
Soft ones that look good on screen, pastels and beanbags.
Small hard ones that feel like a stone in your shoe. Wrinkle makers. Not too bad from a distance, rough on the close up.
Big, fat ugly misshapen ones, that look like carcinoma, smell slightly sour, and are hard to light.
Those are the ones we crop out most often.
Hours of cropping and honing. Hours of re-editing sound and lights and even actors.
Re- auditioning the roles of the lesser players.
Re invention of term-making a career shift/out of a job-taking a break/out of a relationship-taking a personal day/out of your mind.
It's not criticism. I do it, the editing. We all do. And we don't just make edits to the surroundings, we do it to ourselves as well.
Billy Joel calls them 'the faces of the stranger and we love to try them on'. And he's right.
The 'masks', the 'smoke and mirrors', the 'make-up'.
They can be useful, but it's worth remembering that the life you live, the REAL life is trying to tell you things.Important things like 'Why you shouldn't drink and Drive' and 'Why after a certain age, mini skirts look trashy'.
Stuff like that.
So the next time you take a pair of mental snippers to your 'REEL OF LIFE' story, ask yourself this.
Is it a better film with the bloopers left in?
And is there a place where a well placed Prairie Dog might be appropriate?

Size Does Matter

Today I learned that the Marianas Trench is swallowing the Earth.
Great.
That should keep the Doomsdayers busy for a while.
That, and the Icebergs floating along the edges of Terra Australis- very south......very, very south.
Look it up. It was in the paper.
So I wonder, given how precariously we cling to this big wet rock anyway, is it worth getting all het up about the small stuff?
We know we are hurtling towards the sun.
We WILL impact.......in 5 Billion years.....and that's a finite amount of time.
It's a countable noun.
That is if we don't crispy fry before hand due to a lack of Ozone, or be ground into dust by the movement of the tectonic plates.
And if Hollywood's latest blockbuster is anything to go by, we may have less that 3 years to put our affairs in order before it all turns to poop anyway.
Sure, Mayans were so great at predicting the future they all died out. But they carved our fate into rock first. So they MUST be right.
But back to my point.
The small stuff.
Like starting that diet.
Or replying to that email.
Or going on a blind date.
"AHA"....I hear you say ( because in my head you give a damn)....."NOW I know what she is going on about !!!"
"Now her thought process is exposed" you say" Now we know why she is rambling"
Yes, it's true. This week, I am going on a blind date.
Not the type where one of us is actually visually impaired- although that could be an advantage- but the kind where you wear a red carnation, and check your lipstick in the mirror every 2 minutes.
Confession time, this is not my first one.
It's my second.
And the first one was good enough to brave me trying it again.
The thing about dating as a previously married 40 year old is that it is an unnerving combination of the familiar, and unfamiliar.
Truthfully, I am not a New Kid On The Block....being able to achieve erection, buy me dinner, and pronounce wine names does not impress me.However, the same jaundiced eyes I bring are also going to be set into the face of the chap sitting across from me.
My cleavage, girlish giggle, and coquettish responses will not do.
Time to bring out the big guns.
Damn....where did I put those big guns?
And can I remember how to use them ?
And are they looking a little out of date ?
And will he notice the dust and cobwebs?
There is nothing for it.
I shall either have to suck it up and buy that carnation, or stay at home and pray for the destruction of the Earth before Friday.
Probably the former.
It appear the Marianas Trench is swallowing the Earth at the breathtaking speed of approximately 3 inches a year.
3 Inches !?!?!
I wouldn't leave my house for 3 inches.
I'll let you know how it goes.........

I am not obsessed.

Sex. It's all about sex. All of it. All the time.
Look, I am not naive, and I know you're not too.
It's just that I never noticed how much of it is about sex until now. Not just a bit. ALL of it.
Short shorts and high heals. A given. As work wear? It says what exactly? I'm fertile? I'm up for it? I want it now, on the desk, in the copy room?
I am beginning to see 'The Game' as I used to refer to it absolutely everywhere. Standing on the train platform, me and 15,000 commuters, 99 % of whom speak English as a second or third language and all I can see and hear is 'The game'.
Furtive looks, thrusting chests, batting eyelashes. I think up until recently I have ignored it. Too wrapped up in my own world perhaps. Or shut off from that part of my social radar.
I feel like the ultimate voyeur. I see 'her' walk into the coffee shop, and I see all the 'hims' take note. They postulate, slightly louder than before. Legs crossing and uncrossing, or jiggling. When I was younger I used to wonder at the constancy of the male leg jiggling until I learned about testes and the release of male pheromones. "AHA!!" Went my newly informed self, and then "...ah..haaaaaaaa......"
As for the 'hers' giving it up for the 'hims'?
In this town it's not too tricky to work out. 'He' is walking through the supermarket.'She' can smell him from a mile off. She stops to look at the produce located conveniently located just to his left, on the bottom shelf. She bends to pick it up, whilst taking a moment to check out his body on the way down.His eyes scan her tit's, legs and arse in less time than it takes for light to travel across a condom box.
They both know what's going on. She may be happily married, his girlfriend may be in the next aisle, but that's never stopped anyone from looking. It's sex.
Good old fashioned "I wonder what you would be like in bed" mental telepathy. And it's everywhere. All the time.
I read recently that the old wives tale about men thinking about dipping their wick every 7 seconds has been proven to be a myth. It's actually only a couple of times an hour. Interestingly, they now say, about the same number of times a woman thinks about having her dip wicked.
And why not?
What else are women supposed to think about? Their hair? The groceries? BBC Documentaries about Nazis?
I think about sex all the time. Always have.
And now I see I am not alone. Everywhere I look, on the faces of the young, and not so young, I see the look that says" You know, I reckon you would be quite the Tiger under the sheets".
Or maybe I am imagining it.
But I think not. I think no matter how 'evolved' we get, no matter what accoutrement we fill our lives with, at the end of the day, we are all are looking for a way to share our gene pool. Or to play at it.
Of course, none of this game play means anyone is actually getting any.And this may be why the game is now being taken into the public arena. If Bars and Clubs are not working out for you, what better option than the good old fashioned Post Office as a pick-up joint?
Stamp licking, queue forming, uniforms.
It's all there.
Sex.Sex.Sex.
I am not obsessed.

Never explain. Your friends do not need it and your enemies will not believe it anyway. ~Elbert Hubbard

There are some things that are better left unsaid.
This applies very much to the loaded question.
It's called 'loaded' not because a nose full of fairy dust, or a belly full of beer, but because it has the potential to explode like a mortar and shatter your heart.
Remember when you were 7 ?
"Wanna be my best friend?"
Or 13 ?
" Wanna go together?"
Sure, you said yes. Who doesn't want a best friend or someone to 'go' with ?
But did they explain the fine print to you?
Did they mention that you would be tied into that friend for ages to the exclusion of others?
"You don't even know Wendy, she is MY best friend, she belongs to ME, and she will only talk to ME"
Did they tell you it would kill off any chance of a normal relationship you may have had with the first person you ever had a crush on ?
" Why don't we talk anymore ? All we do is pash, and then you ignore me when you are with your friends"
It's about thinking, and being honest, and being brave.
"Does my bum look big in this?"
"Yes, yes it does- it makes your arse look huge, actually, it even makes your shoulders look big, weird, you look terrible."
"Would you mind if I leave some of my stuff with you?"
"Yes, yes I would. Your shit is not welcome in my home, I need extra clutter like a hole in the head. Most of your stuff is shitty anyway, why not just ditch it and get better stuff?"
" I am using a new cream, can you tell?"
"No, no I can't, you still look like a Shar Pei.Lets face it, nothing but a super size bull clip is going to take the old out of your ugly"
You get the picture.
It stings. It does. But in the end you will be thankful that you took the time to read the fine print tacked onto the loaded question......having to compliment your friends butt, putting up with someone else's crap, lying about someones crows feet when all you really care about are your own.
Honesty is THE BEST policy. That's what they say. Not honesty is QUITE A HIGHLY RECOMMENDED policy.
So take the time to say what you mean, and mean what you say. No explanations required, only the truth. It hurts, but it will set you free.
Don't you agree?
You agree with me right?
Say you do.
Say it..........

Reality TV and Me

It's true confession time.
I like TV.
I do.
I like TV for lots of reasons.
It keeps me company, I learn stuff, it allows me to not think when I need to not think, and there are other reasons less exciting than those.
Lately I have discovered Reality TV....like I said in a previous post....I am a late adopter....
Now, living where I live means I am not bound to national loyalties. I can watch neighbors change interiors in 3 different accents in the one evening.
I have no set time for watching TV, so keeping abreast of who is doing what to whom in terms of people stuck in remote regions does nothing for me, but I do like discovering that other peoples junk can be turned into Dollars/Krona/ Euros/ Pounds in the blink of an auction.
As for restaurant trauma shows, there really is no end to the number of exasperated head chefs, crumbling amateurs and bunches of torn arugula appearing on the small screen from every single corner and bolt hole all over the world.
They make compulsive viewing.
They make almost as compulsive viewing as the make-over shows. Be it plastic surgery, a 6 week workout, or a dose of life coaching, nothing sucks me into an hour on the couch with the cat faster than a voice over asking me to " watch as she turns her life around".
" Yes" I say "I'm there. Let me see her naked, and forced to eat broccoli.Let me bear witness to her confronting her overbearing husband, her fear of spiders, her 4th grade bullies. I will weep with her as she wears purple for the first time since she was 18, I will tingle as the bandages come off, I will sigh as she goes on a first date 10 years after her divorce. I am the great voyeur.Let me watch her real life unfold on my flat screen and let me dream of the day when I too turn my life around with the help of a sexually ambiguous stylist and a pair of Spanx"
Now, before you get all 'thing' about the last sentence, just let me put on record that I quite like my life, and where I am in it.
I feel no great desire to be on the telly, and I actually nearly bought a pair of Spanx just the other day, WITHOUT the assistance of a fully grown man in a hoop skirt and pink cardigan.
My point is, with 100 or so channels to choose from, I find myself these days flicking between the 7 or so that offer me the inside view of others peoples lives, and it has me hooked.
It's gotten to the point where I can pretty much guess just how many pounds/years/furniture she is going to offload before the opening credits finish. But still I sit glued, just to make sure.
So, if you are wondering where I am, I'm watching TV.
I will take your call, after she has spoken to her mum/therapist/lawyer/dead uncle/fitness instructor/nutritionist/creditors/potential ex-boyfriend.
Until then, you will have to deal with reality on your own.

Look...it's not you.....it's me........

I promise this will not become a place for me to vent my frustration at the idiocy of the fine people of planet Earth....rinse......lather.....repeat.....
It goes like this...

"Hi so-in-so, it's Wendy"

"Oh Hi Wendy, how are you?"

"Great, look, I'm just checking up on the status of the invoice I submitted to your behemoth fucking company 6 weeks ago" - OK, not like that but in my head it was like that-

"Oh, yeah, I sent it over to accounts yesterday 'cause I don't give a flying fuck about you or your small business, or the people who rely on you to pay them on time. Shit, if I cared about that sort of thing I would have gone into business for myself instead of sitting in gods waiting room of said behemoth business for the next 5 years until I marry a rich banker and start pumping out alimony cheques every second year" - once again- not an ACTUAL transcript-

" Oh, well, I was hoping that seeing as I submitted it early, because I know what a dumb bitch you are, you might have moved a little bit faster on it this time, instead of sitting on your arse all day which, might I just say will not aid you in securing your balding boring as batshit banker babymaker unless he likes thunderthighs with his stupid"- By now I think you know-

"Oh yeah, well, it's been so crazy busy here, so just get off my fucking back about it OK 'cause if I gave a toss I would let you know.It will go through next week now,will that be soon enough you whinging ant?"

"That will be great, you lying, lazy piece of shit "

"Great, speak soon. Bye whore"

"Bye, bitch"

I PROMISE this will not become.........

A whole New World

Here it is, the brave new world of blogging- I know- I'm late to the party. Perhaps a little unfashionably late. And I may be wearing the wrong shoes.
No matter, it's better to come late, than not to come at all yes?
I would like to take this minute to thank the ancestors- not my own obviously, I don't even know who they are- but other peoples ancestors who needed to have their graves swept today,and thus allowed me to veg out at home watching trash TV and wondering why I didn't have a blogspot.
Cheers guys. I owe you. Also, thank you to my neighbors who have played Mah Jong non stop since Friday, thus reminding me that there are others who have equally exciting lives as mine.