So after Friday night’s gym session

I wondered whether I should message her and ask 

Something strange happened on

I really hope it’s not as bad as I imagined

So um, it’s hot today. I think I’ll have salad for lunch. You?

O wait, tis Tuesday! :D

This was first runner-up of cat-image-to-precede-today’s-post. I’m squealing in delight.

I was saying to Mirjana that we should invest in a pharmacy cat. I’ve seen hotel cats in Munich and campus cats in UNSW and strongly believe that our workplace would significant benefit from the presence of a kitty. Since Mirjana is already a cat-owner, the idea would have took off if not for the fact that nobody ever takes me seriously.

But I’m serious, see. Not only will our cuteness radar (which thanks to me is already flying high and when Sophie is here goes through the camera-riddled roof) would be the highest in the centre, we’ll be welcoming a new employee who works quietly and accepts pay in the form of Whiskas chicken. We’ll hang a cute little sigh around its neck that says “ASK ME FOR DIRECTIONS”. It’s a brilliant idea. Brilliant I tells you.

Glenda, being an arse, bought a packet of caramel slices. Pack of SIX, for Christ’s sake. I had steamed barramundi and rocket salad for lunch, snacked on berries, and at 4:30 pm made a beeline for the goddamn caramel things and ate the equivalent of 30 minutes on Stairmaster. Then we went back to Jez’s place before going to the gym, and I found out that Jez’s mother makes a mean tomato rice. I had thirds. THIRDS. Then I voiced my concerns regarding my arse (from which one can clearly deduce I go gaga for carbs) if I went back for a fourth serving, and to my horror Jez asked his mum to prepare a home-made lunch for me from dinner leftovers. I was going to protest but I really want that rice.

Happy Chinese New Year

Jez’s parents invited me over for Chinese NYE and my parents insisted that we come home because my “childhood friend” was visiting and I use quotation marks because if “friend” was a loose term, this is Jenna Jameson. Her grandmother was close to mine. In fact we knew their entire family. I personally have two memories of her and they are as follows:

1. When I was very little she joined us for dinner and scolded me so harshly for being picky with my food that I almost shat my pants gobbling up stuff I didn’t like. This is not as much my own memory as one forced upon me by my grandmother who seems to remember it a lot more clearly that I did probably because she found the situation amusing instead of traumatising.
2. Her mother took us to McDonald’s when I was twelve, and while we were in the playground I pushed my skinny little prepubescent arse through a small window in the cubby house and asked her to do the same knowing that because she was overweight she wouldn’t be able to manage. Whether or not this was revenge for the aforementioned eating thing is as good as anyone’s guess.

Needless to say we didn’t have a lot to talk about. Not beyond the usual profile-page conversation. Jez and I tried to get her to play Wii with us but she didn’t seem very interested. When my cousins came I clung to them like a koala on a gumtree so my mother couldn’t berate me for being antisocial.

On a different note, we ate fish and chips before gymming today and I learned that food + treadmill is a horrible way to die.

Eek.

A child somewhere on my street has been crying continuously for 20 minutes. It sounds like it’s coming from outside rather than from a home, and judging by the fluctuating volume it seems like he or she is wandering around.

The crying started so suddenly it makes me wonder what could have caused it. And no, this isn’t a baby’s cry. From the kid’s voice I’d say he or she is at least 5 years old.

I want to help, but the crying has just stopped, because the kid is now safe at home, I hope.

Out With the Old

I can’t decide whether remaining stationary makes me more or less hot. I’m sorting through my clothes. Late-night Spring clean.

It only dawns on me during these moments how much clothes I have and what a small proportion of them are actually still in daily circulation. I can immediately identify where and when and why I bought every single item I touch and I just got a glimpse of my night and it was … reminiscent.

I just tried to chase away the bug on the screen by nudging it with my pointer.

While I’m resting and somehow perspiring even more severely than when I was up and about, here are some of the interesting, the awesome and the wtf:

• Salmon Decjuba knitted, short-sleeved top my mum bought me from Melbourne circa 2005. She might have overlooked the two sides of the buttons that don’t actually meet until mid-navel so that it is impossible for me to wear this thing without the world knowing the colour of my bra.
• My Nudies are starting to smell. I decided to leave them alone until winter, when my thigh-sweat will cease to contribute to the already poor hygiene practice demanded of us Nudie owners.
• This awful, ruffled, rose-patterned atrocity I bought from Wild Lotus during my lunch break. Note to self: Haven’t I told you a hundred times to NEVER BUY ANYTHING DURING LUNCH HOUR THAT YOU CAN’T EAT?
• Too many pairs of stockings. Most of them have one or two minor flaws at the ankle or wherever but I’ve retired them on the basis that once I have them on and walk two steps the flaws might not be so minor. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on whatever I’m doing if I knew I wasn’t wearing Perfectly Intact Hoisery.
• A white satin Piper Lane blouse that I was in love with for so long. It now looks like the old lady of all blouses. Out.
• Bettina Liano Ace skinnies. They’ve faded to nothing but I don’t have the heart to throw away my first ever pair of designer jeans.
• A creamy cotton Sportsgirl dress which when I first bought thought I looked so shit hot in. I still quite like it, but somehow every time I’m about to step out the door in it I glance into the mirror and decide to change.
• A truckload of grandma-underwear that my mum bought for two cents for a pack of fifty. She calls them practical. If your boyfriend is about to put his hands under your skirt and you stop him because you’ve suddenly remembered that you’re wearing cotton waist-high animal-print pantaloons then practicality is obviously an issue. Oh, I sense some hidden agendas here …
• Wrangler tee with “Friday I’m in Love”. Firstly, I don’t even know the song. Secondly, there must be someone somewhere holding the same top with a size 14 label wondering why it looks so much more like a 6.
• A white tee belonging to Jez. I hold it up to my nose. Mmm …

Playing the Game

Semi-review on my new Belle book. Semi because I haven’t quite finished yet and the heat inside the stupid house is frying my brains and there is nothing more I want to do than to remain as still as possible while moving my fingers in tapping motions to write blog after blog of my lack of life.

I can’t say it’s pulling because this is literally reading someone’s blog. You don’t feel like you need to read all of Perez Hilton’s archives to be able to sleep at night. You don’t run home anticipating the newest Fug blog (but I do). However, there is certainly a lot more interest in Playing the Game because it’s awfully personal. So entrancingly personal that I noticed with mild surprise that I’ve taken Belle’s blog as a standard and have said in recent posts things that I’d actually rather you not know. Slap. Snap out of it.

It’s still very sexy but has a funnier side than the previous Belle de Jours, because Belle is no longer a call-girl as of page 107. I just made that up. But I was serious about the ex-call-girl thing. She makes me simultaneously admire and be terrified of being single, and kind of sort of regret having never subjected myself to speed dating not for actual dates but just so I could laugh about it afterwards. Sometimes her sentences become a bit convoluted and I just skip them. I hope I haven’t missed out on anything good.

Oh and the other thing was, I swear I’ve read parts of this book before. Not while browsing a book store because it wasn’t just the first hundred pages that sounded familiar. Not from a magazine excerpt because I would have remembered that, and also the hundred-page thing. Not because I’ve owned the book before because then I would have finished it. I’m puzzled. Going to go read more.

Nothing like spending a Friday night doing housework

Had a very minor tiff with Jez this afternoon.

Here’s the part for which I was to blame: it was a little past five. If I left the house right there and then I would have to sweat out half of my body’s water content to make the train. However I couldn’t leave yet because I was still wearing something highly inappropriate for the public eye that also irritatingly is difficult to take off. Okay so I was in a crazy mood and decided to surprise the boy with a couple of naughty photos which BY THE WAY were more stupid than sexy because not knowing what to do with my face while I stood on top of half of my wardrobe in little more than my knickers, I arranged my expression into various states of poopy. I’m deviating from my point here.

So. I change, not without some difficulty, and am extremely late by the time I dump my deodorant and runners and Jez’s new shoes unceremoniously into my backpack. I remember at the last nanosecond to take my membership card and run out of the house waving my arms around in the way that only people sprinting for their lives while wearing heavy backpacks could.

By the time I was on the train I realised three things.

1. The iPod was sitting in the bag I had just changed out of. Despite currently possessing three nanos – two mine, one Jez’s, the one that I had on me was the one that stored nothing more than five old episodes of Gossip Girl, no songs, and nearly no battery life. This is significant because if you refer to my previous post, Fujunbutsu is currently my sole inspiration for exercise.
2. My phone was right next to the iPod.
3. I hadn’t bothered to turn off the computer. I hadn’t even closed any windows. Only the monitor was switched off, and if either of my parents decided on a whim to turn it on, they would access a small gallery of pictures featuring me in my knickers and a Sonic Digital Media window indicating that a few of them have been burnt onto a CD, and as said CD would be nowhere to be seen and I was known to be meeting Jez, they would figure out that I was whoring out before working out. Which believe it or not was not true. Not in this weather, anyway.