You will be interested to know that when you purchase a pair of stockings, they come with a built-in CROTCH PATCH.

(Seriously, people. Fill me in. Am I not supposed to wear underpants? Because I wear underpants. Is it there for added warmth? Or just in case I wee myself? Or is it there so that when you take off your skirt in front of somebody, all they can see is a crotch patch? A man repellant? "Oh, golly gosh, I'm jolly glad that I had my crotch patch, or Bobby would've rogered me senseless. Not to mention all the wee it caught and how lovely and warm it kept me. I love you, crotch patch.")

The secrets of women... REVEALED!!!

I have entered a World Cup tipping competition at work. It is the first time I have ever entered something like this in my whole life. The guy who sits next to me asked if I wanted to go halves in the entry fee, and then we could split any prizes 50-50. The guy who sits next to me said he's been following the World Cup religiously since he was 12, and I was all like 'SIGN ME UP, bitch'. The guy who sits next to me is a foolish, foolish man. Muahaha.

Here's what I know about soccer:

(Are you impressed that I know it's a soccer competition?)

• It's Rey-al Madrid, not Reel Madrid.
• David Beckham's a big ponce with highlighted hair.
• It involves booting a round ball about, and if you use your hands IT'S VERY BAD. Unless you're a goalie, in which case slap that bastard all you like.
• Australia's pretty shit at soccer.
• I played a game of soccer at school when they decided it was 'Let's force the students into physical activity' Day, and with a swift kick I set up the GOAL OF THE DAY. It was the only time I touched the ball, but MAN, I was the shit.
  
• I have had soccer balls land on my head approximately eight times during my life, and not on purpose, in a 'look at me, I am headbutting the ball in a very professional soccer' way - in a 'how the hell does my head end up directly beneath a falling soccer ball. WHAT ARE THE ODDS??' way.
• When you kick a goal, it is a requirement that you pull your shirt over your head and run around blindly, perhaps tripping over things and people and injuring yourself seriously.
• I've got a zit on the side of the bridge of my nose. THE SIDE OF THE BRIDGE OF MY NOSE. When God was handing out puberty, he was all like, "We've given that ungrateful bitch shit hair and social inadequacy, what else can we do? I know! PUBERTY FOR TWENTY YEARS."
• Um, soccer. Um.
  

I said, "Can I tip Australia to lose everything?" and he said, "Um. There's a bit more to it than that." Oh. Complicated, eh.



Alas, no. My breath is only fresh, and occasionally minty fresh, and sometimes Early Morning Rotten, but never MAX FRESH. Who is this Max, and how fresh is he? Freshen me good, free toothpaste from my letterbox.

Since I am the queen of choppin' and changin', a "compliment" received by a blonde, middle-aged woman at the pub (from the other night - not another visit. I'm not that pub-hungry, you know).

Man: Look, it's Britney Spears!
Woman: Oh, haha.
Man: Not the young, pretty Britney - the one who's had kids. You know.
Woman: [deathly silence]

Ouch.

Yet another night at the pub. You know you love bullet points.

• We discovered a bartender who mysteriously charged everything at half-price, and decided he was our favourite bartender in all the land. I waved my money and yelled at him like I was at a Manpower show.
• The muso, who I recognised from my Every Week Without Fail pub days a few years ago, seemed to remember me too (or did a bloody good job of pretending) and I asked him if he still gave lessons, seeing as I'm sick of sitting at the same bloody level year after year and never making the effort to improve. He said no, and when I offered to pay him he said that he won't officially give lessons but if I buy a bottle of wine and give him a call, he'll come over and show me a few things. And am I right, and quite astute, in thinking that he is referring to his penis? Or am I the queen of misinterpretation?
• A red spotty top, which cost me $49.95 (and I'm a stingy bitch who only pays more than $30 if I really, really like something), suddenly developed a gaping hole in the back, near where the sleeve bit connects. And I sat there for ages, with a gigantic hole in my shirt, probably looking very unfashionable and dero-esque and like I should be in the gutter with a tallie in a brown paper bag rather than in a pub sipping half-price cocktails, until it was pointed out to me and I took it off. I was fortunately wearing a singlet underneath, you see, though it was fun to imply that I took my top off in a pub, perhaps provoking all sorts of Dirty Whore mental imagery. Should I take it back to the shop, even though I have removed all tags and it's been worn and it's been longer than 14 days since I bought it, purely because a hole appeared for no reason after wearing it for the first time?
• As my best mate and I stumbled off down the road, hand in hand, a girl leaned out of a passing car and screamed "WHOOOO! LESBIANS!"
• I neglected to mention that the red spotty top now also smells like it's been used to wipe out ashtrays and mop up stale beer. I'm not getting my money back, am I?
  

If you are a reasonable sort of chap or chappette, perhaps you can answer a question for me. I like to chat with folks at the pub as much as the next person. It's loads of fun, and people blurt all sorts of random shit when they're pissed. But why, oh why, do only odd, freaky, slurring, drunken, bumbling, boring, slimy, greasy, dysfunctional men decide that I'd be a Top Bird for a chat, and maybe for copping a feel? Do I give off A Vibe? Normal Nice People, who do you talk to at the pub? Do you avoid people like me? I am perplexed. It was the hole in the top, wasn't it?

Infancy: I graduated from crawling to walking, albeit unsteadily, and uttered my first words. My mother doesn't remember my first word, but she suspects it was 'maaaaah', which is most kids' first word. I grew a bit older, and started using a grown-up toilet instead of pissing in my pants whenever I felt the need.

Age 12: I went to a school camp, and took off my oversized t-shirt while I was swimming in the pool for the first time, revealing my fluorescent pink swimsuit. "You're getting boobs," said the girls in awe, and I peered down at my chest in shock and horror, and noticed for the first time that I didn't have a Boy Chest anymore.

Age 13: Girls whispered about boys, boys whispered about girls. Young love bloomed and couples showed their affection for eachother by calling eachother names and throwing curried egg sandwiches at one another. On a weekend trip to a shopping centre, I peered out of the window as we were parked at a petrol station, and noticed a man in his late 30's, with a car full of kids, staring intently at the space between my midriff top and fashionable-in-the-90's skirt. I felt sick to my stomach, and pulled a jacket over me, and cowered in the back seat.

Age 18: I moved out of home and bills from electricity companies and telephone companies were suddenly addressed to me. I started budgeting my paltry student wage to fit in my rent, food, and rum-and-coke. I took to my new found responsibility with glee, and budgeted down to the cent.

Age 19: My first 'real' job. Moving in with a partner for the first time. Discovering that having a wage doesn't mean that everything is hunky-dory. Owning my own fridge. A fridge! With my very own food inside it! 20. Going to the first high school friend's wedding. Thinking shit, man, this is pretty serious stuff.

The things that made me realise I was growing up.

Now: My best friend telling me that she's engaged to be married, and that she wears a ring now, and that I'm the maid of honour.

Suddenly, it seems like the past 23 years have passed in a blur.

Welcome to the Number One Google result for 'phantom high pants' and the Number Six result for 'shitty arse holes'.

You know how I love my high pants and arse holes. My two favourite things in all the land.

It's my best mate's birthday today. Yo, sister. A torrent of beer's a-comin'.

Things I have heard far too much of lately:

• That guy on Big Brother with the Very Massive penis. I can hold a conversation about that show, and I don't actually watch it. I don't need to watch it at all - listening to everyone else has made me an expert. Yes, I have heard about his penis, yes, it's very large, yes.
• The miners. You got stuck in a hole, you got out of the hole, you got an absolute shitload of money. I do care, and I'm sure it was really shit being all cramped and having to wee in front of eachother and stuff, but Jesus. Will they talk about me on the news as much once I die from excessive miner talk? "This is Sandra Sully. In the news tonight, a girl dies after repeatedly slamming her head into her coffee table, due to over-exposure to boring miner bollocks."
  
• The football. Soccer. That game where they boot the round ball about, and sometimes accidentally kick eachother really hard. Specifically, Australia in the World Cup. They will not make it past the first round, because Australians are good at swimming and cricket and drinking beer, and not that great at soccer. If you are a fan of Australian soccer, and you are flying to Germany, the only thing that will make your trip worthwhile is the glorious bier. Make your way to the local Biergarten and drown your sorrows.
  
• My bird, Reg, and the noise he has picked up from what must surely be the most annoying bird IN THE WORLD. Chirp-chirp chirp-chirp CHIRPCHIRPCHIRPCHIRRRRRPPP. Oh, you're trying to listen to music? CHIRPCCHHHHIIIRRRPPPPPP. Playing guitar, are you? CHIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPchirpchirpCHIRRRRPPP.

And I'm spent. Two scary men peered at me as they walked past me on my way home and one of them said 'oh, here we go. Heh heh heh.' Please stop immediately boys and take my hand in marriage. You're such charmers, with your mullets and combined total of five teeth. While we're at it, let's consummate our union right here, on the pavement. That's how much I want you.

I hate working the late shift.

Tis the weekend, and I have achieved the following:

• I've had a haircut. Rather than the usual hairdresser banter, she didn't speak a word to me and stared off into the distance most of the time, which was a worry. I'm still not sure she realised I was a human being.
• I've played masses of songs on the guitar that I'd be unlikely to play in front of other people. Cold Chisel were a good band, you know.
• I've developed a scratchy, sore throat, which I've completely ignored and soaked in beer. From the inside, that is. I haven't been bathing my neck in beer, or anything. That would be pretty gross. Have you seen that ad on TV where it's raining beer? Imagine how sticky that would be.
• I fixed my hot water system. Hurrah! No more five-minute ohshitnowitsfreezingcold showers in the mornings.
• I've been completely unable to think of anything worthwhile to write here. Hence the bullet points.
• I watched Three Colours: Red, Blue AND White, in the one sitting. And I took great pleasure in saying 'Trois couleurs: BLEU!' To noone in particular. But I watched them in the wrong order, which is causing me no end of mental anguish.
• I watched Dogville. And it made me have the most messed-up dreams I have had in a long time.
  
• I took delivery of a coffee table and shit, I really need to realise how small this place is, because I now have 50% floor space, 50% coffee table. But I shall now wave goodbye to the days of eating off the floor, all primitive and bum-like.
  

This is going to pose a challenge.

I miss my music.

My iPod is cram-packed full of different genres. I've got Enya and Air for the walk home from a completely depressing and shite day at work, when I need my head cleared and my nerves calmed. I've got Foo Fighters and Queens of the Stoneage for when I feel like a bit of head-bobbing and air-punching. There's Bowie and Queen for when I want guaranteed awesomeness.

Which is all good.

But there's something I miss. When I was in my late teens, I was a major fan of a Brissie band called george. I'd pay $8 to go and see them play and buy all of their EP's while they were still breaking through and being recognised. The ticket prices slowly rose, as did the crowd numbers.

They gained radio airplay, and people at gigs started screaming "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!! OH MY GOD!!!" I still religiously bought their CD's, but it wasn't so hard to find them anymore. I still liked the music, but so did everyone. When people asked what sort of music I liked, they no longer looked puzzled by my answer.

And it was sort of heartbreaking. Does that seem stupid?

I still appreciate their music, several years later, but I miss the feeling of liking something new, and raw, and untouched and beautiful and exciting.

Do you have a secret band you can tell me about? I promise I won't tell.

Tonight I spotted:

Bottoms x 2
Boobies x 6
Vaginas x 3

That's right. I went to the gym.

Call me old-fashioned, but I still freak out Just A Bit when women rip off their clothes in front of me, and start drying their personal bits with a towel, and rubbing cream on other personal bits, and it's not like I go out of my way to stare but WOAH, there's boobs in my face and I just brushed against a bare arse with my thigh, WOAH.

I like private change rooms. They're convenient and enclosed and good and shieldy and nobody sees my naked bits. This makes me abnormal, right?

I finally have a day to myself after my six days of work and have managed to spend money unnecessarily, purchase milk, and consume an entire packet of Natural Confectionary Forbidden Fruits in ten minutes.

But they're natural and sugar-free and shit, so it's like eating nothing at all, really.

Pomgirl stuck a tag on my forehead to list six of my idiosyncrasies, and as peculiar as I am, I think this is going to be tough. I mean, I already told you how I fold my underpants. Hmm. Let's see.

1. Chewing my hair.

Very Bad Habit. And the reason why I have shite hair. If you ever look at me, it is 99% likely that a chunk of my hair will be in my gob. I'm chewing it right now, for Christ's sake. The only remedy that I can think of is refusing to wash my hair, therefore making it taste like grease and dirt, which should stop me from putting it in my mouth. In theory.

2. Books.

If I start a book, I HAVE to finish it. I have no choice in the matter. Do you understand what this means? This means that if I pick up a pink book with swirly writing and pictures of champagne glasses and high heels on the cover and casually read the first four pages, I HAVE TO READ THE REST. Having this knobby mentality means I have read many books I shouldn't have (coughTheDaVinciCodecough).

3. Sitting.

I do not sit like a normal person. I cannot sit upright in a chair in the normal way. I fidget, and writhe around, and fold my legs up underneath me and in front of me and around me, and then I am comfortable. For all of five minutes. I do this at home, when out, and at work, when I'm in my poncey business clothes.

4. Poncey business clothes!

Ooh, it all ties in so well. If I buy a top and wear it to work (even if it's just the once), it then becomes a Work Top. Which means I can NEVER wear it in a social situation again. When I buy clothes I have to think very carefully about whether I will wear them out normally or not, and if there is the slightest chance that I will, they do not go outside in business hours.

5. I have a dent in my head. (I'm not sure if that's really an idiosyncrasy, but hey, I've done well up until now, right?)

When I was a wee sprog, my brother sat me down on a blanket, grabbed the end of it and started dragging it around the room, all sleigh-like. It was very very fun until he turned sharply, sending me flying off the blanket and into the fireplace, where my head smacked into a Big Pointy Bit and blood started streaming into my eyes. It's a dent and bald patch in one.

6. Books. Again. Sorry.

If I read a book and enjoy it, I then read every book the author has ever written. Even if the other books turn out to be a bit shit in comparison. I really have issues with the whole book thing.

If you would like to be tagged, then consider yourself tagged.

I saw graffiti earlier that said 'EAT YOUR SIN' and 'I LOVE MEAT'.

Well Ho. Ly. Shit.

On my weekend pilgrimage to the local Blockbuster, I pulled a few movies off the Arthouse shelf at random. Including a special little French film called The Piano Teacher. Oh boy, is it special. Beyond special. And by special, I mean Shit, Jesus, and a big dose of What the.

The main character in the film has several fun habits, including:

• Playing the piano rather delightfully.
• Needing to compulsively do a wee because she's aroused.
• Pashing off her mother. YES HER MOTHER.
• Being really mean to people.
• Writing her new boyfriend long and meaningful letters about how she likes to be punched.
• Stabbing herself in the chest with sharp knives whilst at public functions.
  

But let's not forget the best one of all:

• CUTTING HER VAGINA WITH RAZOR BLADES.

I have never cringed more in my life. I cringed so much I am still trying to get the cringe wrinkles off my face.

Want me to pick a movie for you next time? I'm good at it.

I am working the Shit Shift and therefore have no time at all. I am currently trying to work out how to get through all of the DVD's I borrowed, and still fit in tonight's episode of House*.

(*Please note that this is completely imposs.)

Speaking of imposs, I keep shortening words. "That's completely ridick," I'll say. "No, it's imposs," I'll say. And so on.

Speaking of saying, today I had one of those moments where everything went silent and everyone could hear me just as I said "Yes, but my ARSE WILL GET LARGE."

Speaking of arses, the Married Chap from that other post quietly replied, "Oh, you don't need to worry about that," and it was said all jovial and chummy but I couldn't help but think 'hey, go look at your wife's arse, buddy.'

Speaking of... no, shit, I've run out.

Speaking of shit! Ha! Well, toilets really. I went to the loo in a 'I've just arrived at work and I'm a bit out of it' daze and afterwards went out to wash my hands. A lady who was waiting walked into the loo after me and smiled and said hello, and I suddenly thought 'Did I flush the toilet?' Then I completely panicked, because what if I didn't flush the toilet? And it was stupid, because who doesn't flush the toilet? But I was dazed and confused and purply-faced because I was convinced I'd let somebody walk into a cubicle containing an unflushed toilet, and my wee.

There is altogether too much work and sleep and avoiding and work and sleep right now.

I would like to commend Reg, for quite spectacularly flying directly ONTO my piece of toast this morning. It was quite a landing.

And I would also like to make special mention of the incredible skill displayed as he did A BIG SHIT on top of my toast. All in the space of a split-second.

Thanks, you little bastard.

I am home and alone and completely excited about Flashdance being on TV tonight. I will watch it, and then practise taking my bra off while I am still wearing a shirt.

Please assess:

• He asks me to take breaks when he takes breaks.
• He mentions how much he likes going out, but that he doesn't get to do it now that he's married. And then he looks forlorn.
• When I suggest going halves in something from the cafe nextdoor, he insists on paying.
• He directly asks to be invited next time I go to a concert.
• He says that if he wins the X-Box, I can go over to his house to play it.
• He gets up half-way through lunch, and when somebody asks him where he's going, he says 'I'm going over to the park, if anyone wants to come.' And then he looks directly at me.
  

Am I:

A. Reading too much into this.
B. Correct in assuming it's getting a Bit Weird.

Men are shite. I don't want to talk to them anymore.

Bullet points, because my life is too mundane to be explained in larger portions.

• The 'we show ads relating to your e-mails' advertising thing in gmail keeps showing links for recipes involving spam. Admittedly, this occurs when I click on my Spam inbox. Broccoli Spam Casserole. Spam Swiss Pie. Toasted Spam Burritos. I feel ill.
• My work is running a competition where I have the chance to win an X-Box 360 and I. Want. It. So. Bad it's not funny. But I figure the odds are not in my favour, seeing as the more money we scam (sorry, I mean 'sales'), the more entries we get, and I don't make an effort. Ever. For I cannot be arsed.
  
• John sent me a parcel containing SCAMPI (flavour) FRIES, which are not just marvellous, but marrrrrvellous. It's the best parcel ever, even though it probably cost him a total of £1.50. I'm still trying to work out why I don't like spam, yet I like packets of crispy things that are supposed to taste like prawns, or fish, or salt, or something. Actually, what the hell is a scampi, exactly? Am I on the right track?
  
• [Brief interlude during which I shove my gob full of scampi fries]
• Right when I'd sussed my mother's birthday present, I suddenly realise that it's my brother's birthday on the 14th. ARSE.
• Why are there people running around outside my door? I would peer out the window, but I'd be entirely too visible and would completely fail in my role of Sneaky Nosey Neighbour. Leave me in my hermititude, people! Yeah, it's a word.
  
• The Nice Bloke at work and I were chatting about guitar, and he admitted that he'd spent his weekend playing Ashlee Simpson and The Veronicas tunes. I said, "God, that's sad, mate," and thought, 'Woah. That's hot.'

I think most things are hot, lately, and this means that I'm about three days away from erotic dreams about people I find completely unattractive.

Because that's the way it works, see.

Shit buggery bollocks.

Today is the second of May, and I have just realised that my mother's birthday is on the fifth of May. Which, just in case you can't count, are two dates within the same month. I am a shite daughter for completely forgetting up until now. But I figure it's better to remember three days earlier than three days later.

So I'll work out what she wants tonight, and then I'll buy it tomorrow, and all will be well.

My dilemma: my mother is impossible to buy for. Not just impossible, but Im. Possible. This is because she doesn't like Mum Things at all. Try and give my mum a pretty scarf and she'll use it to tie up the passionfruit vine in the backyard. Give her the latest Celine Dion CD and she'll be resting the kettle on it by the end of the day.

This is my mum. She's a tops mum.

Because of this, I have developed a method of deciding on birthday/Christmas gifts. This method is as follows.

Me: Hey mum, what do you want for your birthday?

How's that for a method? Mm? Eh?

Mum: Oh, you don't have to get me anything.
Me: Mum. Just tell me what you want.
Mum: Oh no, you have bills and rent and things.
Me: Tell me.
Mum: I could do with a new pair of socks.
Me: Please name a present that costs more than $5.
Mum: Ok. I need new gardening shears, another clock radio, and my DVD player broke the other day.

Because if I get her something pretty, ornamental and useless, it'll sit in a cupboard and gather dust.

Lately, I seem to be concluding more and more often that my mother and I are fricking identical.