Monday, August 30, 2004
And get your collective arses down to the Barley Corn Hotel this Wednesday to see The Boy's band, Lethal Lix, play live. There will be drink giveaways (If I haven't nabbed them all before you get there) and the rest of the details are as below:
WEDNESDAY 1ST SEPTEMBER
The Barley Corn Hotel,
177 Johnston Street, Collingwood.
9.30pm $5 entry.
Friday, August 27, 2004
So I have two posts that I was going to put on here, and one for today.
I suggest you grab a cup of tea, and prepare for a bex and a good lie down, because this is going to be a long one....
A GOOD WEEK.
Sorry for the absence, people, I had the week off work, so no blogging for this little cookie.
So for those who are gluttens for punishment, here;s a brief look at last week:
Failed to sleep in on my first day off. Barely slept at all. Wnet to the pub with Danny, my brother, for lunch, went shopping and BOUGHT TWO SKIRTS. It's a monumental thing that people get to see my knees now, so it needed to be put in capitals. Trust me, it did.
Went underwear shopping. I'd say lingerie, but I had to buy a sports bra and sensible underwear for wearing with the new skirts. Met The Boy for lunch at the Oxford Scholar. Won a Southern Comfort Lanyard. Found out what the word Lanyard meant. Saw The Boys office. The Boy asked if he could see my blog and considering he was checking my e-mails, doing my banking and generally being his usual sweet self, how could I refuse? The boy sets up his own Blog after reading mine.
Got m hair done, FINALLY. I now have straight, shiny, lovely coloured HAIR, instead of a poodle-esque afro mess. The Boy came over and we watched Black Books. Kinda.
FRIDAY - Well. Friday could use its own post. Friday, I woke up rather grumpy, as is my wont, and wandered out, bleary-eyed, to collect the mail. And tripped over something that had been placed right in front of my front door. Luckily, I noticed the name and address on it before I kicked it flying. It was a box-of-flowers shaped box, and it was addressed to me. ME? Huge-dressing-gowned-Peter-Alexander-thesearen'tuggbootstheirhomeboots - booted - crazy eyed me? So, gingerly - just in case they were a bomb, or some kind of practical joke - I carried them inside, bewildered. Totally and utteryl flabergasted. The Boy is the only person (I hope) who would send me flowers. Why would the boy send me flowers? So I opened the box, and, squealing far too girlishly (Yes, Boy, I squealed) saw red roses, a box of Lindt chocolates, potpurri, and rose oil. Roses. Red Roses. Lindt chocolate. Then, as if it could get any better, I opened the card that came with them. They were, indeed, from The Boy. And he'd written me a poem.
And a real-honest-to-goodness poem.
Written for ME.
I am, therefore, nominating The Boy for best person EVER.
Turns out Friday was one month since we'd gotten together. I've been so wrapped up in the goodness that it hadn't occured to me, but The Boy notices and decides to send me Roses.
And you know the best thing? (Apart from the above) I let him read this Blog last week, and there was a post that said things were close to perfect, and the only things I needed for perfect were a packet of Tim Tams that never runs out and a big bunch of flowers. And he gets me the bunch of flowers.
Before he had even read the Blog.
Anyway, he's started a Blog. The Boys blog can be found here . Check it out, not only because he's my Boy, but because he says several nice things about me, and if you're in need of cheering up, his post of last Friday should put a smile on your face.
It did with me. But, The Boy can do that to you.
Friday, August 13, 2004
Musings of a Friday afternoon are never bound to be productive or thought-provoking, but it's possible I've set a new low today.
Ah well, drinks with The Boy tonight before he goes to the footy, and dinner and a movie tomorrow. What more could a girl want? Apart from a packet of Tim-Tams that never runs out, and maybe a big bunch of flowers.
But if you can't have absolutely, positively everything, bloody close to perfect will just have to do.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
And yes, Mildura IS a hole.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
A few new blogs to link to, that I recommend, endorse, and lick the boots of talent that I don't possess:
AUSSIE ANKLE BITER - A Blog run by Jess Healy, lead Democrate candidate for the Senate in Victoria. She's got my vote.
And after reading Jess' blog, I came across URBAN CREATURE. Some creative ideas, and quite well written (In my humble opinion)
That's really all I can be arsed with today. Meeting The Boy shortly so we can catch the bus home together. And I'm tipping his infinite patience will not extend to blog-related lateness resulting in us having to wait half an hour for the next bus.
Will also introduce The Boy formally tomorrow. Or talk about him on a blog he knows exists but hasn't been given the address to yet, as the case may be....
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Danny Williams has been banned for 18 weeks following his king hit on O'neill. (Full Story here)
I find that absolutely disgusting. Banning someone for 18 weeks for a clumsy punch that was in response to a careless high tackle is just bullshit. And O'Neill, while found guilty of the infringement, doesn't miss one minute.
18 weeks for a clumsy punch in response to an illegal tackle is just pure bullshit. Not only does it end his career if he can't get the sentence reduced, but O'Neill gets off 100% scot free for the tackle! It's not like the spear tackles and careless high tackles that can cripple, maim and end players' careers, and in extreme cases, lives. This wasn't something that could have done, realistically, a whole lot of physical damage to a man who is used to taking a lot more physical punishment, as Rugby is a harsh, physical game.
Concentrate on trying to stamp out the more dangerous aspects of the game, I say. O'neill could have inflicted far more damage on Williams with that tackle than Williams could have done with a dozen punches, not just one.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Last thursday saw me and 32 others who play at The Pool Room in Upper Ferntree Gully (Just south of the end of the earth) set out for a journey of epic proportions. Well, not really, but I've never had any sense of proportion, so it felt pretty epic in the lead up. We all had to play Elite league first (Where my team, the Premier Pussies (charming name, I know) had their FIRST EVER Elite win. HURRAH!!!) so we ended up leaving the Room at around 11.30pm. After a stop at Safeway to get the necessaries (Batteries, a camera, Multi-V Juice (my saviour), pringles and Natural Confectionary Company Dinosaurs), and a stop so Vroom could take a highly unneccesary amount of time to clean his car, we set off properly. All was going well, and some spirited rounds of Twenty Questions ensued. Although as we'd all been up from times varying between 5am and 7am in the morning and it was 3am the next day, it turned into more like 120 questions.
But I digress. Where things got interesting (And I say interesting in the context of exceptionally frsutrating and teeth-grindingly incompetant) was when we reached St. Arnards. Vroom turns to Crackers (My ex, a good freind, and an exceptional pool player and thouroughly acomplished drinker) and utters a phrase I'd been dreading -
Vroom:"How far is it to Mildura?"
Crackers:"Oh, about 400 kilometres"
Me: "Ahem. WHY?"
Vroom:"Oh, nothing really. It's just that we have 130 k's of petrol left"
Vroom: "Um, yeah. Where's the next open Servo?"
Crackers: "Ah. Bendigo...."
Vroom: "And how far is Bendigo?"
Cracker: "About 135 kilometres..... in the OTHER DIRECTION"
Vroom: "Ah..... well..... we can have rest there anyway"
Me: "Turn around, shut up, and keep your fucking hand off the Red Bull from now on, would you?"
Well, turned out Vroom's fancy new car's fancy petrol gauge isn't entirely accurate. We got as far as Bridgewater before the petrol ran out. We literally rolled into the servo (Which was conveniently closed for another three hours) as we ran out of petrol. So we had a fun filled three hours waiting for the servo to open, and wondering if we could smuggle the large box of pies that had been delivered sometime earlier into the car without inciting a riot (Which, we assumed, would take the form of pitchforks and burning torches) There was also speculation as to whether to car would run on Jack Daniels, but we decided that mine and Crackers medicinal needs in that area took precedence, and the theory went untested.
The upshot of all this was that an eight hour drive took us a touch over thirteen hours. Now, thirteen hours in a car with two ex boyfreinds (one very recent) and Vrooms new girlfreind (Her status, however, by the end of the weekend had rapidly been demoted to "Fuck Buddy" and an insecure one at that) with the only entertainment being "Spot the Tumbleweed", by the time I got out of the car, I was well and truly ready to have a drink.
And drink we did. In large, stupifying quantities. To the point where we gave up on Uno. To the point where one of the guys from work, who had called for advice on a piece of work I'd given him, made comment on the Monday after as to how many times I stumbled over and "Do you realise that you can tell when someone is skolling from a can over the phone?" To the point where only four of us won more than one frame, and water bombing random strangers seemed like a great idea, as did handcuffing all in sundry, stealing flags from golf-courses, and playing Night Bocce on the springiest, most uneven surface in history also seemed like a good idea. To the point where the two people I was rooming with (Tiger and Justa) thought that the first thing I wanted to see on a Sunday morning half and hour after I'd gone to bed was them having sex in a bed less than a foot from my head.
But it all ended up okay. But for those who decide to veture to Berri for the Pool Tournament next year (And I'm sure that's none of you, but I'd highly recommend it) I have the following advice:
- Don't set off at night. Everyone will be grumpy at the lack of sleep, and you end up spending more time sitting on the side of the road waiting for the drivers to wake up from a power nap or sitting in a closed servo forecourt than on the road. It's just not worth it.
- Don't expect to get ANY quality sleep, and if you do, sleep outside. It's your best option.
- Beware of handcuffs.
- Look up when approaching balcony's water-bombing is not out of the question.
- Take a water-proof jacket. And several changes of clothes more than you think you could possibly need.
- Go nowhere near a pool unless you want to end up in it, fully clothed (thankfully I had learned my lesson the hard way with a spa and a jelly pool three weeks previous at Lee's party. But there were those who clearly didn't get the memo)
- Don't room with anyone who have a history of casual sex unless you want to be woken up in the most brain-jarring of manners.
- Don't expect to be able to run at a golf flag, pull it out as you keep running and it will come with you. It won't, and you'll end up flat on your back with three pissed people with cameras collapsing around laughing and taking photos.
- Take a day off either side. You'll need it.
- Don't be the token female. I made that mistake a few years back and ended up losing a series of bets that culminated in a white t-shirt/pool lapping incident that will serve always as a reminder that no matter your intellect, it will be compromised after several drinks.
- Make freinds with the owners and security, as they'll be round to your room quite often telling you to shut the fuck up if you don't.
And don't go on any kind of tournament weekend expecting to win. If you do have those expectations, and they don't come to fruition, then you'll be left with a weekend feeling like crap while everyone else is living it up. And enjoy yourself. You're only young enough to go on these kind of trips with no feelings of guilt for so long, so take advantage of it while you can!