THE BIRTHDAY 'PRESENT'

So, my beloved husband turned 46 yesterday.

About a month ago, I asked him what he would like for his birthday.  He’s one of these people that are hard to buy for, and not because he has everything, but because his material demands are minimal.

The dude just doesn’t want a lot of stuff.

So, after thinking about it for a couple of days, he tells me he would like a new pair of golf shoes.  I wouldn’t know one pair of friggin’ golf shoes from another, so I said I will just give him some folding stuff toward it, and he can go and buy what he likes. 

He was happy, and that’s all that matters.

Now, it’s my birthday in late September, and naturally Charlie asks me what I want for my special day.  I’ll be turning 40 for the third time, by the way…

‘Well, I would like a new stick food processor thingy like they have on Masterchef.  That would save me pulling out the big processor all the time… I need some new bras… there are a couple of cooking courses I would really like to do… I would like a couple of new cooking pots… Oh! And there’s a new baking cookbook I saw in Superfood Ideas that I’m keen on too…’

‘Hey… didn’t I by you that ipad thing for Christmas?’

‘Um… no, Charlie-Albert.  Iris and I went halves in it, for my birthday.’ Here we go.

‘No… I mean that thing you read…’

‘The e-reader Charlie?’

‘Yeah.  That’s it.  Didn’t I buy that for like Christmas, and it was your birthday present as well?’

‘Are you fucken kidding me?’ I gape at him.  ‘You bought that for my fortieth TWO YEARS AGO, Charlie-Albert! Two fucken years ago!  What the fuck?’

‘Oh, I thought I bought it last Christmas…’

‘You fucken tight arse!’ I cross my arms over my chest, and get the foot-tap-thing happening. ‘You fucken tight arse.  I can’t believe you just said that.’

He just shrugs and laughs.  ‘Was worth a try.’

‘Go fuck yourself.’

I’ve no idea what I’m getting for my birthday, but I’m hoping its cash so I can buy some cooking shit.  Fucken cheeky bastard.

So, I sort of planned out his birthday a little for him.

Firstly, I leave a dirty card (naturally) with some cash in it on the ensuite vanity unit so when he goes in for a shower when he gets up, he’ll see it and get a little surprise!

Naturally, Charlie doesn’t see it until after he’s showered, had breakfast, which was made by Jade cos fucked if I’m getting up at 5am to make him fucken breakfast, and comes back into the ensuite to brush his teeth. *rolls eyes*

He was happy with his cash, and goes off to work with a spring in his step, and a lunchbox packed by Jade (who again, gives a fuck).

After a delicious roast dinner at Iris’s that night, Charlie and Jade head off early, and I stay with mum for the evening and watch a couple of cooking shows and chat. Normal Thursday night routine.

However, time slips away from me, and my plans to unleash 50 shades of kinkiness on Charlie’s arse that night stay to go awry.

I jump in the car, race through the supermarket, waving a quick g’day to my mate Daniel who’s packing shelves, and fly home.  I sneak into the walk in robe, slip into the sexy new lingerie I purchased, and sneak back into the dark bedroom.

It’s 10pm.

‘Wake up Char…’ I flick on his side lamp and gently rub his arm.  ‘Wake up…’

‘Waaa….’ He groans, as he slowly wakes up. ‘What the fuck…’ he mumbles.

‘Wake up.’ I smile at him.  ‘It’s time for your birthday present.’ I say in the sexiest voice I can muster.

‘No…. not now…. It’s too late…. Sleeping…’

‘Fuck that!  Wake up so I can be naughty on your arse…’ I smile, and he slowly opens his eyes to look at me.

‘Nice bra…’ he mumbles, reaching out to groped me (typical), still quite groggy.  ‘But fuck off… I’m too tired…’

‘What? Fucken bullshit! Wake up!’

‘NOOO!!!’ he groans. ‘It’s 10pm, and unlike you, I have to work tomorrow…’

‘I have to work tomorrow!’

‘Yeah…. Right,’ he says, turning over.

‘But Charlie…. It’s your birthday present…’ I mumble.  ‘I bought spunky lingerie…’

‘Come to bed and cuddle me….’

‘Fuck you and your cuddles.’ I say, my bottom lip dropping as I strip off my sexy new scaffolding, dump it on the floor, and climb into bed.

‘Give me cuddles…’ Charlie murmurs.

‘Fuck you.’ I sniffle. 

OMG.  Could it be possible that I’ve lost my mojo?   Have I’ve lost my sexiness?  Is it possible that Charlie is becoming desensitized to my awesomeness?

What the fuck is going on?

Is he having an affair?  Is there someone else?  That’s got to be it! Surely? I mean, how else could he resist me?

‘Are you knocking off someone else?’ I ask him, as he cuddles closer to me.

‘It’s not a matter of knocking off someone else, it’s how many…’ I can actually hear him smirking.  Fucker.

‘Go fuck yourself.’ I snap.  ‘Happy birthday.’

‘Thanks babe.’

The next morning, I get up, and the cat is sleeping on my new sexy lingerie. 

Great.  At last one pussy got to enjoy it.

Peace out.

WHY BOTHER?

So, Big Brother is back.

*sigh*

Remember when, a couple of years ago, they bought back Hey, Hey, It’s Saturday?  We all loved the memories and familiarity of it.  It was like wrapping yourself in a warm, comfy blankie in front of an open fire on a cold day.  It was wonderful.

Then, before too long, we remembered why we stopped watching it. 

We simply outgrew it.  We got past it.  We got over it.  We started searching for…more.

Same with Big Brother.

In 2001, it exploded onto our tellies, and like a shiny new toy, we were full of wonder and awe.  We loved the personalities, the ‘house’, the challenges and Gretal surrounded by $20,000 LG plasma tv’s.  Yep: $20,000 for a plassie back then. 

Then, in 2006, it died a slow death at the hands of a pack of woo-girls and buff himbo’s that were as boring as bat shit.

Six years later, Channel 9 has applied the defibrillator in the hope that they could resurrect this ratings monster. 

Some things, like Hey Hey It’s Saturday, should just be left to rest in peace, allowing us to relish in the happy memories.

And, just like a plasma telly, things that are expensive and new just become common and cheap after time.

Half an hour.  That’s as long as I lasted.  Half an hour before I realised that my life has transcended so far past the simplistic, cheap entertainment (if you would call it that) provided by the likes of Big Brother.

Now, I loved BB when it first hit our screens.  I don’t think I missed a single episode.  I remember Sara-Jane and her bunny ears, but that’s about it.  I couldn’t tell you who won.  I couldn’t tell you who was in the house with her.  I can’t remember, and I don’t care.

See, the downside to these types of reality shows, is that when the dust settles, no one really remembers you. 

It’s not like you’ve come up with a medical cure or a solution for world peace.  It’s not like you’ve won an Oscar for a brilliant screen performance, or won the Tour De France.

You were a contestant in a reality show where everyone got to see you shower in your undies and make a twat of yourself for three months (if you were lucky), in the hope to win $250,000 (if you were lucky).

In saying that, BB has been a platform for a lot of talent our there now.  Fitzy springs to mind straight away.  He’s on radio and telly.  Chrissie Swan; radio and telly, and doing really well.  Possibly a few others out there, but I can’t even be bothered putting in the energy to researching it.  Care factor = zero.

I’m sure that this new incarnation will attract a different generation of people to it.  Perhaps the 15 to 21 year olds that didn’t watch it the first time around, because their parents were insistent on them getting a fucken life away from the telly (and rightly so).

It will attract the fans of old, like my friends, who loved it so much, and were loyal to it through all six seasons (or whatever it was).  They will enjoy their 7pm special again.

I’d rather cut my toenails.

Actually, I’d rather cut Charlie’s toenails; that’s how much this shit has impressed me so far.

Again, the show seems to have a pack of woo-girls in there, with big hair and fucken cowboys hats (wtf?).  Eye candy for the ladies (the main demographic that watches this shit, sadly), with a couple of pretty boys with muscles and tatts. 

A fucken Rudd/Gillard love child that’s an 18 year old dork that’s never had a root (let alone kissed), but has a voice deeper than James Earl Jones (for the young people that don’t know JEJ; google it).

I wonder if the BB fans will get to see him ‘become a man’ on the show.  Wouldn’t that make interesting television?  God help us.

Then there was a dude called Ray.  I think after two minutes of being exposed to him, and I wanted to throw my cheap plasma out the fucken window.  He was enough to turn me off completely.

Sure; that’s the idea of the show, isn’t it?  Throw together a group of completely different, contradictory personalities, and see what happens?  Stand back, light the fuse, and wait for the fireworks.

Voyeuristic entertainment at it’s best.

I think I’ll stick to the likes of Masterchef, My Kitchen Rules, and any other show on the planet that actually broadens my mind, not numbs it like this shit does.

I’ll even watch The Shire and Being Lara Bingle repeats voluntarily instead of this shit.

In fact, this shit makes Lara look brilliant, and the cast of The Shire deep, meaningful and purposeful in life.  Particularly Becca. *rolls eyes*

I wonder how long before the rest of the country wakes up and switches off.  I’m tipping it won’t be too long now before we start seeing the ratings slide that will drag Big Brother back into it’s grave, where it should have been left in the first place.

Peace out.

WEEK 32 SYL CHALLENGE: BALANCE

Challenge: this week’s challenge is to re-visit the wheel of life exercise from week 4 and report the result. 

Mmmm… interesting one this one.

As I look back at my wheel of life, I’m filled with a mixture of achievement and disappointment.  Some things I have excelled at, some I have struggled, and some I have done fuck all about.

So much for progress? J

So, if I work my way around the wheel, this is where I feel I’m at.

Impeccable with my Word

I felt that I had this under control.  I try very, very hard to be honest and respectful, and not be gossipy and malicious.  However, of recent months, I’ve found myself slipping back into old habits.  Thankfully, I recognised this straight away, and pulled myself up.

You know that I’m a believer of the ‘antenna’ theory.  Your body is like a big antenna.  If you turn the station to negativity, that’s exactly what you will pick up.  What you send out, you get back.

I have friends that spend their lives constantly complaining about their lot in lives, their friends, their families, their frenemies and just about anything they can fucken think of.  And they wonder why life isn’t moving in a positive direction for them!  Fucken change the channel, get a grip, and move on.  Start thinking positively, and start speaking positively.  It will only attract happiness.

That’s what I am constantly reminding myself of every time I feel the negativity creep in.  Be impeccable with my word.

Assume Nothing

Well, I’ve still got this one under control.  I fucken assume nothing, mainly cos I’m too frightened of fucking up! LOL!  I figure that’s good enough motivation J

Don’t Take It Personally

I’ve blogged about this fairly recently.  Its’ something that I’m still really struggling with through different areas of my life.  However, a couple of recent ‘lessons’, for want of a better word, have taught me about the value of not taking things personally, and how if you do, it can really devastate your life.

For someone that has suffered with depression for a very long time, and has managed to keep it under control without medication, I find it’s the smallest things that can trigger a major relapse. 

These recent ‘lessons’, one small and one quite major, have sent me reeling for very different reasons.  Both things seem to have bought to light a fear of rejection/non-acceptance that I didn’t realise I was carrying around, and another hit’s the ‘I’m not good enough’ button.  Yep: that old chestnut.

Still some work to be done here, I think, so I can’t confidently say that I could move from 3 on the scale to 4 just yet.

Do Your Best

Always do.  I always try, and irrespective of the job at hand, I give it my all. 

Personal Development

This was very low on the Wheel scale, and I feel it may have only moved marginally.  Although I haven’t yet undertaken the plethora of cooking courses that I wanted to this year, I have expanded my knowledge in other ways.

Health and wellbeing are possibly the two things in which I’ve expanded my knowledge considerably, as well as cooking.  Reading, watching programs, researching online and experimenting have seen my knowledge in this area expand somewhat.  I could move from 2 to 3 quite confidently on this one.

In saying that, I think some of my bigger plans may be starting to come to fruition soon, so I could go from 2 to 5 in a heart beat if I stop hiding behind my fears, and just fucken do shit.

Health and Fitness

I would confidently move this mark from 3 to 5.  Without hesitation.  I have hit this full on this year, and my health and fitness have improved out of sight.

Sure; it’s not perfect, but any means.  However, it’s a lot better than it was say, twelve months ago.  I’m capable of doing things now that I never dreamt of, and I’m eating far better than I have in the past.

Really happy with the progress on this one.

Money Balance

Another one that I feel I’m progressing very well with.  I’ve got my head around the money side of life, and I’m really not stressing about it anywhere near as much as I use to.

Having the money thing under control doesn’t mean, for me, that I’m rolling it funds.  What it means is that the funds I have are under control.  We’re living within our means, and making progress with our mortgage.

What more can I ask for? *to win Tattslotto!*

I think it’s fair to move this one from 2 up to 5, as I’ve achieved the goals I set with this one.

Home Life

Mmmm… Charlie and I have done a lot of soul searching this year around the area of our home life. 

Jade’s decision to move North to live with her mother has hit us both very hard, and for very different reasons.

What it’s also forced us to do is have a good look at each other, and the direction we wish our lives, as a couple, to head in. 

Jade’s absence, although disappointing and quite heartbreaking really, also gives us an opportunity to reconnect as a couple.  We’ve never known life without her.  It’s always been the three of us, and that in itself has been a constant challenge, if not a battle.

Charlie and I could wallow around in the self-pity that surrounds Jade’s decision to leave, but what would that achieve?  Jade will move on with her life up in QLD, and are we expected to sit here and mourn her loss? 

Life stops for no one, and I certainly know Jade won’t stop for us.  Instead of feeling sorry for ourselves, we need to find the positive in the situation, and make the best of it. 

The wounds that Jade’s departure will leave behind present an opportunity for us to nurture our relationship and each other.  It is an opportunity to grow.

Jade’s decision, quite strangely, has also dropped a cloud of peace over the house as well.  It was like everyone was living in fear of this inevitability, and now that it’s out in the open, everyone is relieved.  Does that make sense?  It was like an unspoken wish for Jade, and fear for Charlie and I.  Now it’s out there, we can deal with it, move through it, and move on.

Life on the other side of this change will be very interesting, to say the least.

I would move this mark from 3 to 4, simply because we’ve grown so much recently, but there is still room for further growth.

So, that’s where I am with my Wheel of Life at the moment.  Still a lot of room for improvement, but upon reflection, I can see where I’ve come a very long way.

Mmmm….

Peace out.

SHUT UP, MOLL

MOLL: self-deprecating term for a woman of loose sexual morals, a bitch, a slut or a prostitute.  The term is also used for a girlfriend of a thief, gangster, bikie or surfie.

I love the term moll.  It brings back so many memories of my teen years… I just love it.  Don’t think it has enough of a presence in today’s vocabulary, which is why I think I’ll start using it more.

I just love it, and it’s also why I’m excited about the start of Puberty Blues.  It would appear that this new series is littered with it.

Now, I’ve never read Kathy Lette’s and Gabrielle Carey’s original book, nor did I see the original 1981 film, but I vaguely remember it at the time.

From what I understand, the book itself is about the journey of two best friends, as they aim to crack into the popular crowd; a surfie gang.  It’s all about social standing amongst teen peers, and doing anything to be accepted as a part of the ‘in crowd’.

At the time, the book was quite controversial, as it openly discussed gang rape, abortion, drug use and loose morals.  Sounds like an awesome read to me.  Possibly better than the 50 Shades of Crap that I’m trying to force myself through at the moment *runs off to see if she can purchase a digital version of Puberty Blues*.

So, the new Channel 10 series premiered last night, and I went on a nostalgic trip through my early childhood of splices (so nice, I could eat it twice), chicko rolls, eating cheezels off the end of your fingers, and being able to walk five miles to the beach without your parents worrying if you were going to be kidnapped, raped and murdered.

A point in time where beige was the rage, some idiot dictated that anything crotched was a fashion must, bell-bottomed jeans and thongs were somehow acceptable, and driving without seatbelts whilst intoxicated was the norm.

Yes my friends, it was the 1970’s, and they were horrifically awesome.

Whilst watching this show, I had more flashbacks to my childhood than Holden sold panel vans.

Dead set.

Forget Twilight and its pretty vampires.  Forget Harry Potter and his magical world. 

Puberty Blues is a reality so shocking that you would think it fiction.  However, this was life for some teens in the seventies, and I’ll be really interested to see what evolves over the next eight weeks (it’s only an eight week series, apparently) for the main characters, Deb and Sue.

I, for one, am already hooked.  Though admittedly, I was so blown away by the spectacular recreation of 1970’s life, that the storyline came a distant second.

The Sandman panel vans; the blonde, long-haired surfies; the molls that hung around with them; the boys that asked ‘so, you wanna go ‘round with me?’;the girls and boys that liked to ‘pash on’; the teachers that were allowed to smack with a ruler for mucking up; the tight t-shirts with different coloured sleeves and neck trims; the brown/beige horror; the long, loose hair; big, boxy televisions; fake timber wall panelling; Kingswood station wagons with no air conditioning; sprinklers (OMG! remember them?); maxi dresses and simplistic innocence.

Let’s not forget the language: moll, dead set, far out, nick off, dud root (oh dear), put out, chicko rolls (my fave next to moll), brandavino and scrubba.  Just to mention a few.

Then of course, there’s the music.  *runs off to download Dragon’s ‘Are You Old Enough?’*

Though, I suppose that’s really what the first episode in a series like this does, yeah?  It permits you to enjoy the memories, get lost in the history, and settle in for some good old fashioned entertainment.  Right?

You know when the show is produced by the people behind shows like Offspring and Tangled that it’s gonna be good.  It’s just got that beautiful, clean, real feel about it, and you can completely relate to and connect with the characters and their swirling, hormonal emotions and desperation for acceptance.  The simple humanity comes across perfectly, which is why I think this show’s gonna be a ripper.

Jade sat there watching the first episode with me in a state of complete horror.  She was so shocked with the way the characters spoke to one another, and the ‘loose’ ideals some of them had, that it took her a while to recover.  Having a guy say ‘you wanna go ‘round with me’ was laughable to her, and the way one of the characters simply said ‘you’re dropped’ to a guy on behalf of her bestie, was astonishing.

Naturally, I’m like ‘Open your fucken eyes, you dork.  That shit happens now, but it’s filtered through social media.’ 

Kid needs to get out more.

I was more concerned that she liked the high-waisted bell-bottoms, just quietly.

Wednesday night viewing will now involve The Shire and Puberty Blues for me.  Hopefully these two shows will fill the gaping void left by Being Lara Bingle.  God how I loved that show.

Peace, love and green shag carpet out. *tucks into a chicko roll, followed by an eskimo pie*

A GENUINE THANK YOU

So, one of the bosses turned 40 this week (welcome to the club), and I made a birthday cake to mark the occasion.

Yummy, rich Devil's Food Cake that looked awesome, but because there are only a few of us in the office, there was a bit left over.

So I gave the leftovers (about half a cake) to one of the blokes at work, Mick, to take home to his tribe of four kiddies.

When I came in the next day, this letter was on my keyboard waiting for me.  Apparently, his little six year old daughter was so taken with the cake, that she wrote this letter all by herself, off her own back, only checking with her Dad how to spell my name.

So, I've promptly put the letter up in a place of prominence near my desk, so I can look at it every day.

This is a testament to the beautiful character this little poppit has, as she felt it appropriate to write a thank you letter for something like a piece of cake, to a complete stranger.

Must have meant a lot to her.

Possibly as much as this special letter means to me.

Peace out.

SHEEP STATIONS?

So, a few weeks into my new tennis season now, and I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.

I don’t know what it is exactly; whether it’s being back out on the court again at a competitive level after such a long break, or if it’s the fact that I’m actually physically making it through the match, or if it’s the lovely ladies I’m meeting each week. Whatever; I’m having fun.

However, this week, things took quite an interesting turn, and reminded me that some clubs out there are really, really competitive, irrespective of the level they play at.  You’re heard the expression: We’re playing for sheep stations?

I’ll remind you that it’s mid-week ladies in a country district; not friggin’ Wimbledon.  Just in case you were a little confused.

So, this week, we’re playing away from home, and we rock up to this particular club, and it’s a damp, overcast, cold day.

We had a couple of emergencies in our team this week (a couple of our regular gals had some things pop up), so I meet Fiona, one of our emergencies, in the car park, and we wander into the clubrooms to find our opposing team.

After standing there for a few minutes whilst people rushed around everywhere and ignored us, I grab one of the ladies, ask them who the fuck our team is.  Luckily for me, I grab one of the ladies we’re playing against.  She points me to a table, and scurries away.  Nice.  Welcome to the fucken club.

This seems to set the tone for the rest of the morning. 

We’re supposed to start at 10am, and at ten past, our team is standing in the clubrooms, waiting for our hosts to get their shit together.  They’re just standing around flapping their gums, as other teams from other sections are getting their matches under way.

‘WTF?’ I say quietly to Trish, who is our captain for the day.

She just shakes her head.  ‘Excuse me ladies; what’s happening?  Can we go out and have a hit up?’ she asks very politely.

‘We just have to mop the courts first.’ One of them quips, and they reluctantly make their way out onto the courts to mop up. 

‘I get the feeling they don’t really want to play today.’ Trish says quietly.

‘You’re right on the money there, champ.’ I reply with a sigh.  Gonna be one of those days.

Twenty minutes later, out match is finally under way, and all I can think is that we’re already half an hour behind; I’m going to be late for my CWA meeting this afternoon.  Fabulous.

Needless to say, I played like a fucken window licker.  Iris would have done better than me, I’m sure (she was a gun in her day).  My team mates were awesome, telling me I’m doing well, and admittedly, there were some flashes of brilliance from days gone by.  However, overall, not one of my best performances.

So Fiona and I are playing, and doing quite well, I must say, when we had a little… incident.

You see, Fiona miss-hit a ball, and it went flying.  It was heading for the back fence on the full, however the lady at the other end couldn’t get outta the way in time, and blocked it with her racquet.  The ball just bounced off her racquet and a few feet in front of her; our point.

I turned to Fiona; ‘I think we were a bit lucky there, mate,’ I smiled as I walked back to receive the next serve.

‘Yeah!’ she laughed.  ‘That was flyin’!’

As I turned around, the oppositions number two player (who I was playing against all day), said ‘So, what happens with that?’

‘I’m sorry?’ I asked, a little confused.

‘What happens with that?  The ball was clearly going out, but she couldn’t get out of the way… what happens there?’

I look at Fiona, who gave me a ‘what the fuck?’ look, and I said ‘Well, she hit it on the full… it’s our point…’  What the fuck was she trying to say?  Was I heading down the wrong path?  Was I not understanding?  WTF?

‘I know she hit it on the full,’ she snapped a little impatiently, which succeeded in greatly pissing me off.  ‘but the ball was clearly going out.  She just couldn’t get out of the way in time.’

Bad fucken luck, I thought.  ‘She made contact with the ball before it bounced love.  I’m sorry… it’s… it’s our point…’ I shrugged.  Fiona’s still looking at me with a WTF expression on her face.  She couldn’t believe it either.

Fucken great.  This is about to get interesting, I thought as their number three lady (the one that hit the ball on the full) wandered up to the net to join the conversation.  ‘I hit the ball on the full, love.  It’s their point.’ She explained, pointing in our general direction.  ‘It’s just one of those things.’ She shrugged.

‘Yes, but you were clearly trying to get out of the way…’ number two insisted.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Number three said, a little more firmly.  ‘Their point,’ and with that, she turned to walk back to the baseline and take her next serve.

Number two absolutely cracked the shits, stomped over to her position on the next, and proceeded to slam any net-court shot she could at me for the rest of the fucken morning.  

Yep; she handled that well.  Didn’t help the situation when I kept getting her net-court slams back, either. Ha.

On the change of ends, I said to Fiona: ‘Seems like things suddenly got just a little serious to you?’

‘Fuck yeah.’

Final set of the day, number two still has the shits on, and it’s starting to spit rain.  Fucken great.  I ain’t playin’ in the rain, so we’ll see how long this shit lasts.

I return a ball to their number four lady, who has a reputation for… let’s say… not quite calling the ball true, if you know what I mean, and she calls it out.

Here we fucken go.  I’ve copped a few odd calls from her already this set, and I’ve just let them go, but this one was clearly in.  The ball landed about six inches inside the corner of the court.  Fucken ‘out’ my arse, I thought.  I’ve had enough of your ill-tempered, ungracious behaviour; fucken game on.

My gorgeous partner Sherry didn’t hear number four’s call, and turned to me; ‘That’s my Lee!’ she smiled, and bounced off to take the next serve.  Sherry is just gorgeous.  Young, fit, healthy and gives everything a red hot go.  I love her.  However, she was about to see the bad side of me over this line call.

I wandered up to the net to take my position, and waited to see what they called the score as.  Then I would argue the line call.

Now, I’m not one for arguing line calls.  If the ball’s at your end, and you call it out; so fucken be it.  If it’s up my end, and I’m not sure, I’ll fucken discuss it, call it in, ‘play two’ or move the fuck on.  Whatever.  I believe the universe will sort it out if it’s a miss-call.  I have faith.

However, the universe was telling me to dig the fucken boots in on this one.

Number two, who still had the shits on from the last set, walked up to her partner and said: ‘The ball was in.’

‘No it wasn’t!’ snapped number four.  ‘It was out.’

‘It was well in.  You called it wrong.’ She insisted, and now it was number four’s turn to crack the shits.

‘Fine!’ she snapped, and stomped off to take her next serve.  Number two just shrugged, and made her way to the net.

Fuck me!  A little serious here ladies?  I looked over my shoulder at Sherry; I don’t think she realised what was happening, and I didn’t mention it to her.  She was happy.

So, didn’t need to tackle that one after all, and my reputation of awesomeness is still intact in young Sherry’s eyes! LOL! 

As the game continued, I just wondered if number four made a genuine mistake.  Sometimes people do.  The ball can move so quickly, and if you’re at the wrong angle, you literally don’t see it bounce.  Even if it’s right in front of you, you can actually miss seeing the ball make contact with the ground.  Sounds fucked up, but it’s true.

So, I’m going to assume that she made an honest mistake, and her partner sorted that out.  *rolls eyes*

Thank you universe.

Sadly, I had to fly as soon as we finished the match, because I was seriously late for my meeting.  I love having lunch with the ladies, because you get to know them a little better, and often they’re a lot different to the people you face on court.

Those white tennis lines can bring out a very different side in people sometimes.  Anyone that’s played any sport would understand that.

This match was a clear reminder that it’s not always fun and games.

I’m looking forward to playing this team in the second round, where hopefully by then, I will have gathered whatever fucking skills I have, and sorted them into some semblance of a game, cos the shit I’m rollin’ with at the moment is woeful.

Not that my team mates seem to care, cos at least I’m trying. 

I love my team.  They’re awesome. 

Peace out.

WHO'S LAUGHING NOW?

Well.

A week ago, we’re laughing our arses off at Great Britain’s failure to deliver the gold.

Who’s laughing now?

The poms have pulled our pants down and given us a right royal spanking.

And we totally deserved it.

For years, our arrogance has propelled us into a position of greatness, but as the years have rolled by, the poms have quietly undermined us.  Quietly plotted against us.  Quietly pinched our coaches and trainers, and used our own against us.

Now, as we’re thankfully sitting eleventh on the Medal Ladder (thanks to Mears, Pearson, Slingsby and Jensen/Outteridge); we’re the ones wondering what’s happened.

I’m glad I’m not in London at the moment.  I’d be too embarrassed to say I was an Aussie, cos I’m sure that every pom would just point, laugh and call me a fucken loser.

Not that I’m ashamed of the Australian Olympic Team’s performance at all.  They’ve done as well as can be expected, and bagged something like twenty-six medals so far.  That’s an amazing achievement, and one I certainly can’t criticise.

I’m certainly in no position to criticise their performance, am I?  I mean, how many Olympic medals have I won?  Aahhh…. That would be none.

What Olympic sport do I specialise in?  Aaahh…. Tennis.  (Tennis is not an Olympic sport, really). 

What standard do I play?  Aahhhh… section two for Pyalong Tennis Club, in the Broadford and District Tennis Association. 

Is that an Olympic qualifying competition?  Ahhh…. Fuck no.

So, who am I to criticise?  Though; it won’t stop me J

I think we’ve placed great expectations upon our athletes these Olympics, particularly the swimmers, and they’ve simply failed to live up to them.  We did so well in the pool at Beijing, that we took it for granted that it would happen again this time around.

However, there’s a big difference the between fourteen gold medals in the pool in Beijing, as opposed to the one we have now.  Big difference.

Suzie O’Neill announced that there’ll be an inquiry into the Swim Team’s performance at these games.  Be interesting to see if she can drag them away from their social media outlets and nightclubs long enough to get answers out of them.

Save your time and the Australian Swim Team’s funding, Suze, because the answer’s screamingly obvious; we’re just not good enough. 

It just wasn’t our time.  We crashed and burned. Keep the money you would spend on an inquiry, pump it back into the program, and find us some athletes with talent and focus.  That’s what we need at the moment.

The beauty of the swim team’s failure though, is the shift in focus to other sports.

Yes people: Australia compete in Olympic sports other than swimming! Fuck me!

Athletics, equestrian, sailing, beach volleyball, cycling, triathlon, shooting… the list is endless.  We have representatives in every sport, I believe.  How amazing is that?

Charlie says it’s all Julia Gillard’s fault.  She cut funding to sport (apparently).  When I pointed out that if the athletes were good enough, the funding wouldn’t make that much of a difference, he said no: it’s still Big Jules fault.

Whatever.

We all find it easier to point the finger and blame someone, don’t we?  Personally, I blame every other nation out there (particularly GB, China, France, USA, Germany, Russia and Kazakhstan) for being better than us. 

If they sucked arse, we’d be fine.

What I’ve loved over the last few days, however, is seeing the true colours of some of our Australian athletes.  Take Matthew Watt, who won silver for the Long Jump.  His response to winning silver was awesome.  He went on about how proud he was to have won silver for his country, and anyone that complained about getting a silver or bronze needed to have a good look at themselves.  Good on ya champ.

After watching the hurdles with Sally Pearson (who was so happy when the results came through, that she collapsed!), the USA competitors that came second and third were hysterical with joy and pride.  And why the fuck wouldn’t you be?

Steve Solomon; the Aussie sprinter who qualified for the Men’s 400 meter final, came last in the medal race.  He came off the field banging on about his performance, and that he ran out of his skin, and how proud he was to be there, and how proud he was to even get into the finals.  He was gorgeous.  He’s only 19.  I hope he keeps that grateful attitude.  He’s a future champion, he is.

So, maybe it all comes back to attitude?  Maybe that’s the problem with our swim team? Maybe all they need is an attitude adjustment?

Magnusson declared that he had learnt a lot about himself after the 4 x 100 mens relay disaster. I don’t know how much you can learn about yourself in two days, just quietly, but apparently, he learnt something.

Honey, I think you and a few other athletes have a lot to learn about yourselves.

So, we’re languishing just outside the top ten, speedo’s around our ankles, as GB spanks our bare arses on the way to golden glory.

Yep.  Who’s laughing now?

Peace out.

THE ROSTI EFFECT

So, you know I’ve been on this diet thing for a while now.  Or should I say; revised lifestyle plan. *rolls eyes*

Anyway, in the past, my usual breakfast on the way to work would involve a pit-stop at Macca’s.  I was tempted by McMuffins, NYC Bagels (oh that hollandaise sauce…) or my ultimate favourite: the Rosti Breaky Wrap.  Need I mention the copious amounts of hash browns I have consumed in my life?

I became an expert on hash browns.  I expect a certain standard, and don’t appreciate anything that falls below it.  Don’t serve up any soggy crap; I’ll throw it straight back at you.  Don’t give my stuff that’s been blasted with a flame thrower on the outside, but is a gluggy, uncooked mess in the middle.  Don’t crucify them like the chicks in the BP servo in Kilmore do (they’re all just crispy deepfriedness – not potato).

No; I like the crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside.  It’s really not that hard, people.  Show some respect.

But those Rosti Wraps….. oh sweet Lord how I love those Rosti Wraps…. *starts salivating*  God I wish I lived closer to a McDonalds right now.  Possibly a good thing I don’t…

But I gave them all up in pursuit of a healthier lifestyle.  *sigh* Apparently.

So it’s fair to say that it’s been some months since I’ve indulged in one of these babies.  Several.  Long.  Months.

However, the other morning, I committed the ultimate sin: I left the house without having breakfast. 

I slept in, and as a result, rushed around so much, that I simply didn’t have time to stop and eat.

Don’t stress!  I told myself.  You deserve a treat! You get your arse into Macca’s, and you have yourself a Rosti Wrap and a hashie.  Yeah!

I swear to you, I broke the land speed record on the drive from Tooborac to Tullamarine.  I’m sure I got there in an hour (instead of an hour and a half); I was so fucken excited for this wrap.

*Christ I need to get a life.*

I’m literally salivating at the memory of it.

Now, I’ve noticed that the quality of said wraps varies from restaurant to restaurant.  You think that they’d all make them the same; but they don’t.  From different arrangements of the ingredients inside the wrap, to how their folded; all different.

Yes; it is pathetic that I’ve noticed that.

So, I receive my order, and pull up in the car par to hoe into my wrap.  I can quite confidently say, it was the best rosti wrap I have ever had.  It was loaded with bacon and sauce, and the rosti seemed huge! It was just sensational!

I ate every last crumb of it, and I’m not ashamed to say, I licked the fucken sauce of the wrapper, it was that good.  I even sat there sniffing the empty wrapper for a while, basking in the memory of the yummy wrap… *drools*

What I didn’t plan on, was the effect this wrap would have on a body that’s simply not use to eating that kind of stuff any more.

Within the half hour it took me to drive from Tullamarine to my Sunshine office, it hit me.  Hard.

The Rosti Breaky Wrap was about to deliver a huge reminder as to why I shouldn’t eat this stuff.

As I sped along the Ring Road (yes, sometimes the traffic is really good on the Ring Road), my stomach started to gurgle.  My heart skipped a beat; it recognised the sign straight away.  Oh no….

My body was not happy with the bacon, egg and potato combo, and wanted to evacuate it as quickly as possible from its dysfunctional fucking system.

Crap.  Literally.

I know, from this point, that it’s about ten minutes to work, and I pray to Christ that there’s no traffic ahead of me, so I can fly straight to the office (and the toilet).

Stupid fucken body.

However, the God’s of Diet must have been watching me ‘sin’, and as I rounded the final bend toward the Boundary Road turn off, there it all is in front of me.  The fucken traffic is banked back from the Westgate Freeway, and I’m stuck at the tail end of it.

There’s nowhere for me to go.  Literally.

Great.  This is going to test the power of my fucken bowels (an anus). 

I can hold a pee for hours.  I’m use to that from driving so far for work every day, and being too much of a lazy moo to stop the car and go to a public toilet somewhere (you know my views on public toilets).

However, and upset digestive system and a bowel that’s all too willing to support it, is a completely different matter.

As the traffic moves slower than Iris at a fast walking pace, my stomach really starts to gurgle and churn, and wind stabs away at me, doubling me over a little in the driver’s seat.

Sweet Jesus…. I start wondering if it will be acceptable to wear my gym clothes all day at the office, considering I’m about to shit myself.

The $100 jeans I’m wearing, that are virtually new, are suddenly sacrificial, because if I have an accident in them, they’re going into a garbage bag, and into the dumpster.  If I could flush them, I possibly would.

Finally, I get a break, and fly down the Boundary Road off ramp, cut off a semi-trailer, and fly along the back streets of Sunshine West, toward the office.

In what seems like three hours, but in reality was only about five minutes, and after dodging every truck, ute, delivery van and fuckwit in the Western Suburbs to get there, I fly into the communal driveway of our industrial estate, and hurtle toward the office, only to find some fucker has taken my car space.

You’re fucken kidding me.

Fuck you.  Assuming it’s one of the clowns from next door, who continually park in our spaces just to fucken shit us, I double park behind him; blocking him in.

I grab the keys to the front door, and as I fumble with the locks, I curse the bosses for putting extra security on the front door that only allows fucken key access.  Faaarrrkkk!!

As I finally fling the door open, I shove two of the boys out of the way as I stumble toward the toilets.

‘In a hurry Lee…’ one of the voices follows me down the corridor as I run for my life, at the same time thinking, ‘how am I going to ask them to get my change of clothes out of the car when I shit myself?  How’s that gonna roll?’

Five minutes later, and somewhat considerably relieved, I stroll out of the toilets and wash my hands.

‘What the fuck mate?’ asks my boss.

‘Just busting, boss.’ I smile simply.  ‘Just busting.’

‘I figured.’ He laughed, and wandered out to the warehouse.

As I walk back into the reception area, I can see a guy standing beside his car, which is blocked in by my own.  I wander out there and apologise.  ‘I’ll move my car for you mate.’

‘Sorry I parked here.  I didn’t realise that I was in the wrong space…’ he offered simply.

‘We’ve told you guys a million times not to park here.  That’s why we have numbers on the spaces, champ.’ I replied, climbing into my car.

He mumbles a weak apology, and quickly leaves, allowing me to slip back into my space.

I sit there for a moment, gathering myself, and reflecting on my near miss.   The savoury fragrance of the wrap is still lingering in my car.  I can smell the bacon… nearly taste the sauce… and my stomach starts rumbling again… hungry for another wrap…

How the fuck can I possibly be hungry? 

Simple: the wrap didn’t last too long in my system, now did it?  Mmmm… I could really go another one….

Peace out.