Is Gael the hottest of the latinos?

Matt has been away for 6 days now.  The house is so quiet.  I haven’t really had a spare millisecond all week so haven’t had a chance to miss him yet.  Technology goes a long way I guess.  With the wonders of skype and SMS we’re still offering up to each other that running narration of our day…

Sometimes I wonder though. If we’re constantly getting real time updates of what’s happening, what are we supposed to talk about when he gets back? And, are we giving each other the opportunity to be missed?  Then I wonder, am I over-analysing this and who really gives a shit?

Supposed to be going to see Rudo Y Cursi tonight – a movie starring Gael Garcia Bernal.  And who doesn’t want to see a movie with he of the hotness, latino style?

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But I’ve already seen one film in the past few weeks where Gael was sufficiently hot (Limits of Control by Jim Jarmusch – snooze fest).  Besides, another movie about 2 poor blokes trying to make a living playing soccer (although, at least these ones will be hot – as opposed to those buddhist chaps in The Cup – and men – as opposed to say Bend it Like Beckham).  Bah!  I think I’d rather stay at home, alone and do nothing. Maybe I can visit Gael in my head without bothering about the film (*snigger*)?  Perhaps give myself a little time to remember to miss my husband.

I wonder if mum is doing the same?  Matt and Dad are skiing together – it’s “man week” at the Burgess family ski lodge at Perisher.  So I’m not the only one home alone.

I had lunch with mum on Sunday, seeing as we both had all this free time on our hands, and she told me that they have been somewhat at loggerheads of late.  Marriage counselling etc.  It’s funny how even as a grown adult, with a marriage of my own (of more than 5 minutes), it still gives me a little ugghh in the guts to hear my mum talk about that stuff.  I KNOW that marriage is up and down and all over the place. I KNOW that sometimes you really drive each other nuts. But they’re my parents.  Don’t think I’ll ever stop being their kid.  Don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling a bit sick when they are having a hard time.

Perhaps over the years, the source has shifted though.  You see, I’m too much like my mum and Matt is somewhat like my dad.  I suspect there’s a little bit of fear that if they can’t work it out, then we won’t either.  I know we’re not the same people and we make our own choices etc but still.  Besides, noone is even suggesting they won’t work it out. That’s just my gurgling guts.  Nobody ever said fear is rational!

Does Zooey Deschanel fantasise about herself when she can’t sleep?

500full-zooey-deschanelIt’s 3.43am and contrary to my earlier predictions this evening, I’m apparently still wide awake.  I’ve tried all the obvious remedies – warm milk, reading, valium and sweet, sweet dreams of my eternal girl crush Zooey… all to no effect.

This is not a new phenomenon to me.  Usually it succeeds a hatred for my job, distress about a best friend who didn’t live up to promises made, or panic about an ever increasing credit card bill.  This time, I can’t really lay claim to major concerns on any of those fronts.  Life is good (credit card debt notwitstanding).  Work is, you know, ok.  An previously undeveloped friendship has magically worked its way into real connection and I no longer feel the gaping hole of my formerly disappearing BFF.  Husband is funny, charming and keeping the home fires burning (*snigger *).   I’m creatively inspired and excited for what seems to be a promising venture.

Perhaps therein lies the clanger.  Today I inadvertantly did the most mortifyingly embarrassing thing through sheer stupidity.  The sun was out and mother had lent me her convertible for a few days.  What is a girl to do?  Get in the damn thing and drive of course!  I wandered here and there, lapping up the luxury of a warm winters day on my seasonably pale visage (all hail tinted moisturiser!).  As someone who works from home the sun is a foreigner to me.  I’m daily cloistered in a cool garret with a candle melting fat drips of  wax as I toil and a thin worsted blanket loosely covering my shoulders to keep the cold from bruising my bones.  Ok I exaggerate.  It’s a lovely desk with a pretty view of a vast, hulking, deciduous green tree and central heating. And I wear my PJs and slippers to work.  Whatever.  The point is, to spend an hour or two drenching myself in the sun is unusual.  

Notice how long I’ve avoided getting to the actual point?   Yeah well.  I managed to completely and utterly lose track of myself and forgot a 3pm appointment which was really important to me.  To do with aforementioned future creative endeavours.  Till I got a politely innocuous sms at 3.30 reminding me where I was supposed to be.  At that point, I would like to have flayed the golden warmth from my face and arms and return to my cold garret in shame.  I of course was in Manly  so still obscenely far from where I should have been – in Rose Bay.  Mortification complete.  Did I mention I had already postponed this meeting from the previous day so I could frivolously see some ridiculous baby elephant?  Which didn’t eventuate after much waiting around.

So here I sit, vainly (god, please let me be wrong) hoping that this last ditch effort to expunge my embarrassment from my brain by sharing with others in writing will, at last, help me get to sleep.  Writing as therapy and all that.


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Are Mangoes Better than Sex?

There are some smells that are so intoxicating that the world around you disppears into nothingness for the briefest of moment.  You can’t help but inhale so deeply it almost makes you dizzy. 

Mangoes do it for me in a big way.  A fresh, ripe mango is the most pleasurable smell in the world.  I don’t care what anyone else thinks… it’s mangoes ok!  Closely followed by jasmin… and fresh herbs.  I have a real thing for herbs actually – rosemary, basil, parsley and coriander.  Bruised between my fingers so they’re all peppery and fresh.    Initally, I figured that all the smells I love are only found in nature but then I remembered the smell of a crisp white tshirt which has been freshly washed and hung in the sun to dry.   And freshly baking bread… so lovely to wake up to. 

None of these smells evoke any memory though.  Contrary to popular opinion, I just don’t seem to derive any fond recollections from mangoes.  Except that I really like them… a lot.

Whenever I wear a certain perfume, L’eau D’Issey, Matt immediately recognises it and he says I smell like Paris.  He means it reminds him of Paris… not that I smell LIKE Paris itself…   at least, I bloody-well hope not!  And, while we were in Paris, he bought a man-scent which I adore absolutely.  But, annoyingly, it never evokes France for me. 

I feel jipped.  I love smell. And yet I have no scent-memory whatsoever… nothing “takes me back” or brings back a powerful memory.  I’m never immediately dropped back into that time and place.  And I feel like I’m missing out.  Like everyone else in the world has this super-power that I don’t have.

Whatever.  Did you know that musk  comes from the testicles of a particular type of deer?  Think of that next time you down a handful of those little pink lollies from Darrel Lea sucka.  You and your olfactory-evoked-recall.

A Fistful of Dollars

I make pretty damn good money and so does Matt.  By all rights we should be laughing it up in Monaco with a bottle of Cristal 1990 Krug in one hand and a Goldvish in the other.  And yet, we are always so damn poor!  It’s absurd and I want my money back!  Pun intended.

Last month, courtesy of 2 weeks unpaid holiday in New York, we managed to get down to our last $50 – with 10 days to go before our next payday.  So we economised somewhat.  We “indulged” by adding frozen peas to our 2-minute noodles.  We finagled invites to other people’s houses for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  We walked, we did not drive.  No toilet paper? Find a bloody newspaper mate! And stop whining about how it scratches.  Cheese on your toasted sandwich?  Luxury!  It’s vegemite sans butter again I’m afraid.  Oh, we’re a little late in paying our bill?  Sorry complete oversight, we’ll fix that up right away [well, in 10-12 days]…

This month it’s gonna be caviar and roses I tell you.  Or we’ll be paying off those bills we ignored last month that have now accumulated into a something akin to Rosie O’Donnell’s arse.  Large, pushy and not very fucking funny. 

Of course we did still manage to drum up $80 to pay the cleaner.  I mean really!  We can’t live in a pigsty can we?

The Moment I Realised I’m a Grown-Up

I struggle with the idea that I turned 35 yesterday.  After 35, doesn’t your skin start to wrinkle & pucker like you’ve been hoovering smack with Keith Richards for 20 years?   Doesn’t your bladder shrink to the size of Kiera Knightley’s left arse-cheek (very small indeed!)?   Don’t your boobs start resembling this?

Ok sure… that’s actually a man.  Whatever.

Even as a 10 year old, I felt like a grown-up. Always responsible, always sensible. Surrounded by adults, I felt like one.   The weird thing is, I AM a grown-up now.  I’m married.  I own a house.  I pay my bills.  I have a responsible job.  I remember to buy birthday presents for my in-laws.  But I don’t FEEL like a grown-up.

For one, I love to get hammered. Not in a ‘throwing-up-through-my-fingers-and-then-continuing-to-pash-that-hottie’ kinda way, more in a ‘gosh-this-bottle-of-verdelho-is-lovely-and-hey-I-can’t-feel-my-fingertips’ kinda way.  

Number 2, I say fuck… a lot.

Number 3, I still want Christina Ricci’s haircut NOT Jennifer Aniston’s.

Number 4, Cold War Kids & Santogold are the shit.  Paul Potts and Andre Rieue (whatever) are not.

Number 5, if you offer me a little something-something I’m saying yes please.

So what?  Am I regressing because I’m scared of getting old?  Hell no!  My mum’s 51 and she’s a child too.  We ARE grown-ups.  I think we are just gals about town with a sense of fun and adventure. 

So when did I realise it?  I’m sure it was something painfully mundane, like the first time I suggested dinner with my parents on a Saturday night, somewhere expensive, just because… oh and I didn’t expect them to pay.

Double-dogging Dare #1 – Become a TV Producer in NY

One of you soft-cocks finally gave me a dare which I completed, if I do say so myself, with great success…

Matt and I were in New York recently – he was there for a conference and I was on holiday! So, I crashed a couple of industry parties… I’m not a TV type, I’m an IT nerd but I have gleaned enough knowledge over the years from my husband and all of our TV-type friends to, well, bullshit my way through it…

So, here I am, imbibing illicitly-gained cocktails, eating unethically obtained finger-food and rubbing shoulders with a number of Abercrombie & Fitch mid-level TV flunkies in New York. At this point, Matt decides to make it interesting… he dares me to see if I can do what all the other loser-Aussies and Kiwi’s are desparately flailing around doing and try to get myself a job in NY – as a producer. No showreel in hand. No business card. No experience for that matter. Just me and my ability to bullshit.

Never one to turn down an absurdly pointless challenge, I build myself a promo-producer persona. I’ve been free-lancing around Sydney for 6 years or so. Prior to that I worked at Channel (Insert Channel Number here – depending on who I’m talking to at the time) for 4 years. And before that ABC – a public government-run station. Last year or so has been really focussed on switching to digital in Australia which is interesting and brings it’s own set of challenges in terms of re-educating the audience, finding the real selling point for your audience and so on. You get the picture…

I start quietly by just talking to the people who happen to sit down on the couches next to me.  This is pretty slow going and I can only sit still for so long after all because at this point, I’ve had enough vodka to shame David Hasselhoff. So I grab Glenn (he knows EVERYBODY) and we do a circuit of the room.  Glenn points out a few power-house people to me and so off I go!

I’m like a machine… I work that room like Lindsay Lohan works an ounce of blow.  I’m charming, witty, knowledgeable, interested and so damn creative it blows my mind! Boom! And, most importantly, I’m not afraid to flash a bit of boob should the situation call for it.

But how does one measure success in this type of dare?  Clearly I’m not actually going to be offered a job on the back of one booze-sodden clutch in a dark cocktail bar… so the agreed upon measure?  Business cards baby!

  • Cherine Anderson, VP Marketing & Business Development, Push Creative
  • Jonathan Block-Verk, President, Promax|BDA
  • Charlie Mawer, Executive Creative Director, Red Bee Media
  • Reemah Sakaan, Head of Marketing, BBC
  • Martin Poole, Director, Sway Media
  • Charley Holland, Chief Squirrel, The Charley Holland Agency (to be frank, this one doesn’t count because he knows my true identity)
  • I don’t have photo or video evidence of completion of this dare (as per the double-dog dare rules) however I do have the business cards and several witnesses. I’m hoping that will suffice.

    So if any of you promo producers out there are looking for a job in New York, come see me! I’ve got contacts coming out of my arse!

    And please, please… SOMEONE give me another dare!

    Sex Toys are Not for the Faint-Hearted

    I had the fabulous fortune to be rescued from extreme mortification this week.  We left Sydney on Saturday morning to go to NY for a couple of weeks holiday.  While we’re away, Joe is house-sitting for us.   

    Very early Saturday morning we woke and got ready to leave, trying to be quiet as church mice as Joe was asleep downstairs.  As we were making the bed I had a thought.  Perhaps we should ensure that any truly personal items were not left where they could inadvertently be stumbled across.

    What exactly do I mean by personal items I hear you ask?  Although, more likely, you’re saying to yourself, please don’t tell me, I just don’t want to know!  However in order for you to understand the depth of my mortification you need the truth, the whole truth. 

    I’m talking sex toys.  Nothing kinky or over the top… just your standard normal healthy couple kinda stuff!  Think fluffy handcuffs & the like…

    So I whisper to Matt that perhaps we should move them somewhere less stumble-upon-able… he agrees and heads to their usual hidey-hole to move them.  A couple of minutes later he walks back out looking just a tad concerned and dramatically whispers to me “I can’t find them”. 

    Seriously.  What the fuck?!!!!!  We immediately begin tearing the place apart.  Looking everywhere.  But nothing. Nowhere.  

    Then Matt has an idea. 

    He goes to our suitcase. Our fully packed, already padlocked and ready to go to the airport… you know, THROUGH CUSTOMS and an xray machine, suitcase… and there, buried in the “extra space” top pocket are all the items. Nicely packed away from our last holiday.. one where we didn’t have to go through customs clearly!

    Dear god in heaven.  Can you imagine?  A burly ex-marine, long since turned to fat, standing over us drawling in nasal bronx-ese  “Excuse me sir, can you please open the bag?” and we in our ignorance nervously but ignorantly acquiescing only to bring about our own fatal embarrassment?  Not an experience I’m keen to have…

    Thank god we remembered beforehand!  Although it would have been a much better story if we hadn’t huh?!!