2006 is 'even', so I don't know why I've got my hopes up

Hurrah for the ass end of 2005! Hurrah for reflection of crap year by some beautiful water! Hurrah for lazy posting! Suck it up, bitches.

19 Things about me (because even numbers are bad luck):

1. I am absolutely terrified of Rabbits & people that dress up in the life size costumes at shopping centres, etc. I'd never be able to visit Movie World / Disneyland.

2. I believe that a well fitted bra is the most important part of a girl's outfit.

3. I'm currently feeling lazy because I haven't done any serious exercise since last week.

4. I am a secret aviation enthusiast, but I only like the big jumbo jets. You might often find me out the back of the airport, getting all jizzed up when the big internationals take off over my head. If a boy took me on a date to have dinner at the airport, then some plane watching, I'd be his forevs.

5. My job doesn't challenge me anymore and I know that I can do a lot better. However I seem stuck in my comfort zone. I aim for 2006 to break out and get that job that I deserve.

6. I hate my nipples.

7. My heart has been broken twice, all in the same year (2005). Once was the Ex-Fucker, where he tricked me into sleeping with him, by telling me that he wanted to get back together. The other was The Athlete - subject of my long but unattainable crush - who finally confessed his feelings, but out of deference to the Ex-Fucker, proceeded to 'take it all back'. No wonder why I'm thinking of locking up my heart in 2006.

8. I'm scared my brother might move to Japan permanently.

9. I'm fastidious about cleaning my sink. I heart Ajax.

10. I never really fitted in at high school. I wasn't tight with any one particular group - even though I had many friends from all different groups, I was sorta transient. I also prefered hanging out with the guys, rather than the girls. Less bitchiness.

11. I could have gone on with my netball career, 'cept I was lazy and more focused elsewhere. Then I nearly lost my leg from having a corked calf 'deliberately' inflicted to try and 'quieten' me during a match, and have vowed that if I ever find that bitch from NSW again, she's fucked.

12. I am a bag and shoe aficionado. Although, due to above injury, my wearing of high heels these days is few and far between.

13. I often will just open my cutlery drawer and look inside. It makes my heart sing to see the knives and forks and spoons all in their little compartments, with a sprinkling of pink cheap handled cutlery from Safeway for some cheer. Observe:


14. My other secret passion is history - particularly European aristocratic history. I am obsessed with their secret societies and protocols and will devour any book about the subject.

15. I have really sensitive skin, and don't wear a lot of make-up because of it. Hence, I perpetuate the tomboy myth surrounding me even further.

16. Balloons make me so happy; they are an instant cheer up for me. Not with things on them - just plain, colourful and helium-ised. I often think about buying a whole bunch and just distributing them throughout my apartment, but can't justify the cost. Again, if a boy was to give me a bunch of pink balloons, I'd be his forevs.

17. I lost a lot of 'friends' because I stood up for myself two years ago. As a result, I've spent a bit of time being lonely, but I'd rather be lonely than have friends that want to cut you up behind your back.

18. I haven't eaten microwave popcorn since I changed my diet for good, two months ago. I will eat it again one day, just when I feel a bit more in control.

19. I'm meant to be somewhere in five minutes, and I haven't even had my shower yet. Fuck. Luckily I'm finished!!


Anyway, this may or may not be my last post for 2005. Happy 2006 to everyone that read my crap this year & be good on NYE. Or if you can't be good, be good at whatever you're doing. And watch the news for drunk girls pashing policemen.

Martie xx

Are you a Random Policeman I can kiss?

Hope everyone had a terrifically wonderful Christmas and fucking massive hangovers on Boxing Day. Hope your Christmases weren't filled with dressing gowns masquerading as a present from your supposed boyfriend on your first christmas together. Like, the fuck?

Decided to forget all about the dressing gown incident, and spend a few days down the coast, relaxing. So, now, I'm back home to do some washing, then I'm spending another fews days down the other coast for some more,um, relaxing. Not a dressing gown or Jungle Boy in sight. Fuck Yeah!

Don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing for NYE - am I too old to think that going out and getting smashed and kissing randoms is fun (although a bit of policeman pashing is always HOTT)? I can only remember one NYE where I actually enjoyed myself immensely the whole night - every other time I have felt let down that the 'Biggest Party Night of the Year' has failed to deliver.

I know some people threaten to 'stay home' & to boycott NYE, but really it's an empty threat. These are the types who have got about a million things to do, but declare their false intentions in the hope of getting sympathy, and coos of 'but you've got a million things to do' from their minons friends. Ego boosting at it's finest, ladies and gentlemen.

I am not afraid to say that I WANT to do something on NYE, the question is, what? I asked Jungle Boy today if we were doing anything: standard answer "I don't know. What do you want to do?" Should have known, but somewhere in my heart I was hoping for something more like this: "Let's go out and have dinner somewhere; get happily pissy together; run around like little kids banging on saucepans in the countdown to 2006 then make use of all night trains and go home and bonk like crazy to see the new year in".

Maybe my expectations are too high?

Perhaps I am destined stay at home wearing dressing gown and drinking Baileys after all? Insert >but you've always got hanging around dodgy pubs pashing randoms to fall back on< comment here, thanks.

Yippee. Telstra just sent me an MMS wishing me a happy new year. Cunts. Despite the fact that their message really is for subliminal for "happy spending up big on your mobile/home bill and making us rich in 2006", it's arrived four days early. Fucking Telstra. They can never get anything right.

You're off the list!!!!

I'm not one to put a dampner on the Great Christmas Extravaganza (snaps to my HOTT pink & silver Chrismas tree), but really, who is with me when I say I hate Christmas Cards?!

Before you start with the Ice-Queen taunts and pronouncing me as a Scrooge on the spirit of Christmas (did I mention I put some purple & silver tinsel around my dogs' necks so they could be Pretty Christmas Puppies?), I don't hate all cards. I cherish the ones sent by my close friends and even the one that my Dad, bless his little unable-to-spell-heart, sent me in the mail, even though he sees me practically every day!

I just don't like the idea of them.

I hate the idea of having to sort through last year's; then making a list; then culling some people off the list; then adding new people on; then realising three days before Christmas that you've forgotten to send another 30 out anyway.

It's the most political, non-political thing that I'm aware of.

Christmas card lists are not just a turn of phrase; they are a living, breathing nightmare that can make or break a friendship. And really, probably more than half the people on the list are people that you'd never speak to except in a blue moon anyway.

Then there are the pretentious wankers that send out increasingly elaborate cards each year; to people they don't particularly like much, but with the aim of keeping up appearances and networking behind the guise of Christmas cheer. Bah!

Don't be playing fake niceties with me, just because it's Christmas. You can't make yourself feel better by hiding behind little baby Jesus' birthday. Next time you want to talk about me behind my back, maybe I will just remind you that it's little baby Jesus' 2 & 1/2 month birthday anniversary - then show me your cheer.

Anyway, to prove I'm not a complete bitch, here is my personalised Christmas Card to all of my Hottness readers, a la The Royal Family:





Ho Ho Fucking Ho.

I, err....Ummmmm

Note time and date of post??? That's right. It's nearly 11pm on a Saturday night, and I'm fucking here on the computer. Fuck.

I've hauled my own ass off to the naughty step; I was a bad bad little girl at yesterday's Christmas party, and I'm spending the night tonight drying out and contemplating the consequences of my actions.

Martie's recipe for disaster:


+

+

which was actually much more like this:


Blend well, then add the following:


+

+ some more

with a very liberal dose of Essence of Ex-Fucker and a shot of Sentimentality-magnified-being-the-time-of-year-that-it-is and you will be well on your way to:


+ some more


Serve over ice, in a tall glass and proceed to block out memory of taxi ride home with (much) older industry colleague. Fucking wrongtown.

Is Monday a public holiday or something????

Amazing Homes I

If you like, I can be Deborah Hutton for a while, and take you on a tour of some of Australia's most fascinating homes.

Or not. I can just be Martie, and give to you what I promised - a guided tour of my very own palace.

Tonight, we're going to start with the courtyard:


Well, there's not a lot to see really, is there kids? Just some pavers, a few weeds, my magnificent gardenia bush that is threatening to bloom any minute now. And oh, what's that in the corner? IT'S A FUCKING SEAL CARVED OUT OF WOOD.

Let's take some time to think about this for a while - I have questions and I need answers.

Firstly, who carves a seal from wood? What fool with enough time on his hands, decides one day that he is going to carve a seal from wood, and flog it as a garden ornament? Goodness knows what else he's been'a carvin'. I might just put in an order for a Walrus - with extra long tusks.

Secondly, who THE FUCK buys ones of these crazy wooden seals? A crazy landlord that likes yellow benchtops, that's who! My seal friend is sitting there like he's like the overlord and protector of, well, my washing or something. Maybe crazy landlord has fond memories of his youth spent at Phillip Island, checking out all the crazy antics those seals get up to. So he decides to buy aforementioned seal, and place it in his courtyard as a tribute to the fun times? The mind boggles.

Anyhoo, as now I'm obviously going to have to live with the bugger, I have a challenge for you, wonderful readers. I'm going to pull a Melbourne Zoo on your asses, and you GET TO NAME THE SEAL!!!1! Interactive blogging is the future, mang. Unfortunately, I don't have access to a wonderful newspaper like the Herald-Sun to advertise my quest to name the little baby-waby sealy-wealy, so I'm going to have to rely on your word of mouth to get Melbourne Australia The World involved to come up with the perfect name

Here's a close up of Sealbuddy to help with your entry:

("Look! No acne scars")

No complaints about the grainy quality of picture either. I had to run out in my undies while it was raining to get that shot for you.

Start suggesting now. Competition fun blogging activity begins...now!

You should have just been home in bed

Look here. If you are teenage lesbians, travelling home on the Frankston-line train at 12:30am Sunday morning, here are a few tips;

- If you insist on canoodling for the benefit of the country bumpkins in the next carriage, please try to refrain from putting your hands down each other's pants and rubbing your groins. Some people just want to get home, not watch a full blown peep show.

- Ok, so I know that the country bumpkins were quite rude to stare; given that they had probably never seen lesbians before, let alone teenage ones, you can hardly blame them. However, you were probably within your rights to be pissed off that they kept staring at you when you were originally minding your own business. And when they indicated their disapproval, you were probably well within your rights to wave at them, and exclaim "And they vote!!"

- However, given that you were all 'equal rights for teenage lesbians', I don't think the following was appropriate:

1. When the two Japanese guys got off the train, you obnoxiously waved and spoke in made up Japanese to them. They couldn't have cared less about your PDA. Teenage lesbians are so 1999 to them. So, apart from being quite rude, and somewhat racist, you then had the temerity to turn around to their friends, who were staring incredulously at you, and start talking your ridiculous langauge to them.

2. When the obviously homeless guy boarded the train with all of worldly possesions in a basket on the back of his bicycle, this was not a cue for you to start sniggering and exclaiming loudly that smelly people should not be allowed to board public transport. Imagine the uproar should people start calling for the ban on teenage lesbians on PT. I'm sure you'd put those smart mouths to use should that ever happen.


Now,don't get me wrong; I'm a big fan of lesbians. I'm a big fan of teenage ones. I'd sign a petition to let you ride on trains anyday. However, I think you have to learn that if you're going to get riled because society discriminates or judges you for your sexuality, then you really shouldn't be judging other people. Just because you are part of a 'glamourous' minority, doesn't give you the right to judge other social minorities for who they are.

And luvvies, you weren't glamourous.

I have standards too, you know!

Celebrities I'd hit hard & good, for free:


The Three Musketeers was like PG Porn. In fact, I had a very hard time trying to pick a google image for you, and ahem, had to take a short break in proceedings to take care of some business.
Although not traditionally 'good looking', his sex appeal and that HOTT 'come fuck me now' glint in his eye, make up for it, and I would be first in line, if he wasn't already married (y'know, cos I've got morals and shit).


Devoted readers of this blog would be familiar with my ardour for the future Mr Aniston.
You did a hell of a lot for yellow t-shirts, Vinnie my boy.


I so wish I was an ice vest right now


Celebrities that I'd hit after a nice dinner and dancing date:


I learnt the true meaning of the words 'sex appeal' whilst watching the The Late Show.


His exterior image, as in the one in the above photo, is so different from his character, so I think the less talking and the more 'dancing' we did, the better.


I forgive you for that disgusting beige suit & sandals get-up in Con Air, just because you're you. But don't fucking wear it on our date.

Celebrities that if you offered me $1M bucks to hit, I'd still have to think about it some:


I've never seen the attraction. Sure, I can see why majority of the world's female population might want a piece of that, but I've never been inclined. I'd like to dress him like my very own Ken doll though - the asthetics are excellent.


I like pool boy fantasies better


Ok, you've proved yourself to be classier than Britney. But even if I was an hysterical teenage fan, I probably still wouldn't chase you down the street to hand over my cherry. Although, being with an older woman has probably taught you a thing or two.

Celebrities who would need to learn the meaning of 'not a fucking chance mate' pretty quickly:


I don't care what you're packing, go pack it somewhere else.


'L' is for Loser, fuckbag


You remind me of a guy that offered me half of his muesli bar, then dumped me, all on the one day, in Grade 5. And you, Leonardo, still look like you're in Grade 5.

Detox Diary #3

The detox was good. Lost two kilos in first week, of which 1.5K was body fat, which is very good.

The past two weeks have been considerably harder.

It's hard to cook for one person.

I can't choose nice apples for shit.

I was so scared to weigh in last week that I put it off until this Thursday thinking I'd be really good. I was wrong.

Somehow I seem to slip into the mindset of having some chocolate, or pasta, and don't really care that I've just paid a nutritionist $350 to fix my diet.

I have a terrible relationship with food. I have a terrible relationship with my self-confidence.

My nutritionist gave me a goal of losing 10kg by Christmas. This has placed considerable stress on me (the only thing that I stress over is my weight), and what do I do when I'm stressed? Look for comfort food.

I feel like I'm a failure because I never can muster up the willpower to stick to something like this. Even moreso this time, because it's not a diet per se, it's simply what I should be eating.

Thoughts of avenging myself in a black bikini when I happen to 'bump' into the Ex-Fucker next time are all but lost, leaving me feeling even sicker and hating myself even more.

I am hopeless.

There's not a nice bone in my body.

Best. Sex. Ever.

But I feel like a an absolute bitch.

Whilst in 'recovery' one afternoon, I was laying in Jungle Boy's arms, and for one moment, closed my eyes and I thought I was lying there with the Ex-Fucker. Not that he's been in my thoughts much lately, and not that I'd ever lay in his arms again, but the thought was there. And as soon as it came, it went again. That's not the point though - my concern is why it was ever there at al??

It was not unlike the 'crazy' Drew flashbacks that Steph on Neighbours has been having. Stupid life mirroring neighbours plot.

I'm also confused on another point: am I entitled to be a bit pissed at him because he didn't get me anything for our 'anniversary'? I bought him a pair of Astroboy undies & even wrapped them (a mean feat for me); we went halves on the accomodation and food costs, so it wasn't like he was 'taking' me there himself - in fact it was I that organised the whole thing.

I'm not meaning to sound so materialistic; but there's not even any signs of small gestures that I've encountered in every other relationship that I've had in the past. Maybe this is my first encounter with a new-type-adult-relationship; maybe I'm just overly generous to others and expect some of the same back?

Then I think maybe that with everything that happened with the Ex-Fucker, that this is my lot in relationships.

Sometimes I look at Jungle boy and see a funny, smart guy, with a great attitude and who knows what he wants.

Other times, I look at him and see a selfish, over-indulged little boy, who isn't used to sharing and doesn't want to learn.

Meanwhile, this coming Tuesday will have been one year since the Ex-Fucker would have proposed, if it hadn't of been for those telling events, Grand Final Night, 2004. I've Dr Craned myself, and I reckon I keep flashing back to Ex-Fucker because of the state of play with Jungle Boy.

Anyway. I'm going to try not to think about it again this year. I've already had my heart broken three times this year (two times Ex Fucker, one time the Athlete); I just wanna lay low now and see what transpires.