Pure, unadulterated HEAVEN.

Australia, I love you, but why do you refuse to acknowledge the supreme combination of chocolate and peanut butter?

"You were all flushed when you were dancing with him."

"What? I was not."

"Yes you were. There was only one other girl a brighter red than you, and she became completely incapable of moving her legs whenever he went near her."

"Hmph."

The fancypantsdancingprancing lesson. Twenty-one of us in all, twelve girls to nine guys, stepping awkwardly from side to side. Nervous giggling. People sneaking sly glances at eachother's feet. Look anywhere but their face, because direct eye contact is so incredibly unnerving. Moving from one sweaty-handed partner to another. Wiping my hands on my jeans every five minutes.

Dancing with the instructor every time I got to the front of the circle. He turned off his microphone, said, "You've got it, GBE," and followed it up with "but stop looking at your feet." Anywhere but the eyes. Feet as good a place as any.

Names going in one ear and out the other. Brent, Brenton, Trent, Trenton. Feeling a bit slutty for being introduced to every guy in there but having not spoken a word to any of the girls.

Standing in HolyShittingAWE when the instructors showed what 'proper' dancing looks like. Knowing that my slow-quick-quick really was utterly shite in comparison. Round of applause. Another on Thursday. Free CD next week for home practice. Thank you very much. Wave goodbye. Sweaty hands. Excited talking.

"He kept standing on my feet. She kept staring at my feet. He was really great. Really strong grip. I thought I was going to knee him in the groin! Did you like it? I liked it. I can't wait for the CD! Can you wait for the CD?"

Bright-eyed and childlike.

So. Much. Fun.

Lovely Pomgirl tagged the whole world with this tops meme about books. And I am doing it, because I am sadly deprived of book talk and am sick of loitering at Dymocks, looking wistfully at the people milling about and waiting for one of them to say, "Gosh, Lolita for only $9.95? I'll take TEN!"

One Book That Changed Your Life:

Erm. I suppose when I graduated from kiddy books to grown-up books it was a bit of a change. It wasn't a gradual thing for me - it was Hairy MacLary one day, Stephen King's Misery and Jane Eyre the next. When I was 12 and a complete arse-kissing teacher's pet, I was given a heap of classic books by Mr. Brennan at the end of the year. Which I thought was great, but the other kids snorted and called me a nerd. But now I am clever! and they're all pregnant and homeless. HA HA.

One Book You Have Read More Than Once:

The aforementioned Jane Eyre is one of them. I'm really not too good at reading books over and over again. Short attention span and all that.

One Book You'd Want On A Desert Island:

Well it seems obvious to say something like 'a copy of How to Build Very Good Boats out of Palm Trees and Sand' but, if I'm supposed to answer properly and pick something that would last me a long time and hopefully not drive me bananas, I would probably have to say The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Which has been sitting on my shelf for approximately one million years after I made a half-arsed effort at being one of them proper clever people by reading Romeo and Juliet and a couple of sonnets.

One Book That Made You Giddy:

Eh? If you picked up my hard-cover copy of Lord of the Rings and threw it at my head, it would make me a bit giddy. It might even kill me. Gosh, I don't know. Lolita swished around inside my head and twirled and whirled and was fabulous. Remind me to loudly answer 'THE ONE ABOUT PAEDOPHILIA' the next time somebody asks me what my favourite book is.

One Book That You Wish Had Been Written:

I completely misread this. I thought it was asking me for one book that I wished I had written. And I thought of a million fantastic, mind-blowing answers, then realised that the question is completely different, and all my ideas went out the window. But, you know. You know those books. The ones where you get to the end and go, 'awwww, I wish it was longer.' Yeah. Them. The sequels to them. That's my answer.

One Book That Wracked You With Sobs:

I think that this question should actually read 'One Book That DIDN'T Wrack You With Sobs' and then we might be getting somewhere. Sometimes it's the lovely words, sometimes it's the hormones, but either way I am a big wailing sissy when it comes to books. It has been worsening steadily as I've been growing older, too. At this rate, by the time I'm 60 I'll be curled up in a corner, constantly crying when I see things like curtains and empty coke bottles. Show me a forlorn puppy, a poor kid with a dirty face, a Greenpeace ad on the telly, and I am a heaving, sobbing mess. The book I am reading right now, Captain Corelli's Mandolin, has already made me cry. I hate this girly bullshit.

One Book You Wish Had Never Been Written:

If I answer The Da Vinci (SHITTINGSHITARSE) Code, then I'll start ranting for the next half-hour. I need to stop the ranting. I need to be a happy person. I need to stop wishing death on Dan Brown. I'll change my answer to Ulysses, and make of it what you will.

One Book You're Currently Reading:

Oh, bollocks. I already answered this one. There's a picture of it over there. It's ok in parts, and as boring as my high school science teacher in others. Hence the Very Long Time it is taking me. But I am hoping it will turn around and end fabulously and heart-wrenchingly, and I am holding out for some raunchy sex.

One Book You've Been Meaning To Read:

Oh, there's only about a million. I'm yet to read any Dostoyevsky, I've fallen behind on the Jane Austen, I've had War and Peace sitting on my shelf for a few years, and haven't tried Dickens since I was spotty and awkward. There will always be books on this list. There's too many books, and too little time.

Ooh, books. I'm all hot and bothered now.

So my new best friends, The Internet People, have lovingly given me a dial-up account to get me by while they're activating the broadband at my place, for which I have offered to have many of their babies. I am free and easy with cash now that John is earning zillions and I am not petrified of ending up destitute, homeless, and wearing a hessian sack.

Ok, so not zillions. But, let's face it - it doesn't really take much to seem affluent in comparison to my piddling wage. Curse my wretched job. Curse it to hell.

John: [sighs after hanging up the phone]
Me: What's up?
John: Oh, I've just been offered another job, that's all.
Me: SHUT UP, GITFACE.

I have been trying to convince him that, as his girlfriend, it's my right to quit my job and live off him like a parasite, but he does not agree. But! He has agreed that it would be a good idea for me to tell Large Insurance Company to go and eat a plateful of their own excrement, wave my middle finger suggestively, swear like a drunken sailor, and hand in my notice, so I can stop moaning and hoping that death comes sooner than the next phone call.

Which is a fabulous - yet frightening - idea. Back on the unemployment train to Poorville. I am thinking that I will hold off until John buys a car, so I can scam some discounted insurance (yes, the only perk), and then quit. Ha!

The latest:

• The weekend involved mucho drinking (ten drinks, people. TEN.) and due to my extreme cadbury nature I have a million black spots. In my memory, that is. Not on my face. Though I've spent the last couple of days slightly zitty in an 'I'm thirteen, how 'bout you?' sort of way. Probably because of the ten drinks. Ten drinks! I am surprised that I am not dead, to be honest. Thank God those bartenders were being stingy with the vodka. Wait. Actually. CURSE THOSE BASTARDS.
• I ate a slice of chocolate pizza. Yeah!
• I have a wisdom tooth. Well three, actually, but let's focus on this one in particular. It is pushing its way out and feels like it has almost completely burrowed through my cheek. When I reach up and touch my face, I am expecting a big hunk of tooth to be hanging out through a gaping hole in my face. The growing part isn't causing me too much discomfort, to be honest - it's the fact that the son of a bitch seems to be reshaping the inside of my mouth. "Oh, this bit of cheek is in the way, I'll just HACK IT OFF. I'll just make room for myself by creating FESTERING WELTS." It's quite shite, to say the least.
• Has anyone seen a (cough) movie called (cough) Wild Orchid? If they are not actually (cough) doing the business in that final scene then I will eat my hat. Hooray for pornography!
• (But boo for Mickey Rourke. That son of a bitch scares me.)
  

That's it. Spent.

Would you believe that the people whose internet access I have been ruthlessly pilfering have been so inconsiderate as to move out, taking their lovely, lovely bandwidth with them?

Those bastards.

This means that I actually have no access to the internet whatsoever, due to the above and also due to my workplace being so 'antique' that the computers would spontaneously explode if you looked at them sideways and said 'INTERNET' under your breath. I am at an internet cafe. It is full of backpackers and the like.

Please excuse my temporary absence. I shall return shortly.

Oh, hello there Internet connection. You've decided to come crawling back, huh? Couldn't live without me, could you, bitch?

(Please don't leave me again.)

We have a few things on the agenda for tonight.

1. Regarding That Gym Business, I followed option one and it was nice and simple. The membership is frozen for another two months. I had to actually deal with that smarmy little bitch from the first incident, and used every ounce of will-power to avoid stabbing her in the eye with my membership card. Also, they have never even given me a free gym bag. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?

2. John and I went to check out the fancy pants dancing class, to put John's mind at ease as he was quite fearful he would have to wear frilly pink shirts and shiny heeled shoes. It was entirely fabulous to watch, and I am 99% certain that I will go there and a man wearing high pants will tell me that his partner has been knocked up and that I have to fill in and then we'll dance and do lifts in the water and I'll tell him how I carried a watermelon. John is not happy that I am continually referring to the instructor as 'my husband'.

3. I HATE WORK. It took a while, but my festering hate has now bubbled up to such a level that I get out of bed in the morning, take a shower and get dressed, and then wonder how it would feel to throw myself in front of a bus. Will you hire me, please? Just don't make me talk to people whose main goal in life is to be upset about their insurance policies. THERE'S MORE IMPORTANT THINGS IN LIFE.

Is it sad when you can sum up an entire week of your life in three paragraphs?

Apologies for yesterday's drunken rubbish. These things happen after somebody throws themself even further in debt (but now I have all the furniture necessary for a normal household, and don't have to put my TV on a cardboard box anymore!) and celebrates by going to the pub at 3:30pm, drinking four pints and dribbling stew down their chin.

And I really did sign up for Latin dance classes. Not only that, but I signed John up too, because he was stupid enough to drunkenly agree. There's no turning back.

I had a plan for tomorrow. I was going to work all day, turn into One Tough Bitch and cancel my gym membership, and then go and check out the dancing prancing place to see what I've got myself into.

And I looked at this plan, and saw that it was good, except for one little hiccup.

That Gym Business.

I pulled out the terms and conditions and the Fitness Industry Code of Practice. I figured I'd better be well-versed in all of the fine print before I went in refusing to take no for an answer.

Twenty minutes later, I realised that I don't have a leg to stand on. Yeah, I can cancel, but it's subject to their termination fee. Their termination fee is basically to pay out the contract. And I know I could go in there just being extremely difficult and bitchy and it might get me somewhere, but I much prefer to have the upper hand.

So I'm a bit at a loss.

The other options:

• Freeze my membership for another two months, pay for two months membership legitimately and then take my plane ticket in, saying that I'm moving to Peru. Permanently. No, I don't speak Spanish. Is that a problem? I'm allowed to move to Peru if I want to.
• Force them to cancel the membership by breaching my terms and conditions. That is, cause damage to equipment or take in a pack of tic-tacs and wave them around, yelling, 'LOOK AT MY ANABOLIC STEROIDS.'
• Cancel my credit card. Which would cause an enormous amount of shit.
  

I know I'm covering old ground, here. And yes, I know I'm a twat for entering Satan's lair in the first place. I'm so screwed.

HELLO! Because I am drunk (HELLO I AM DRUNK), I have signed up for a Latin dance class which is starting in a couple of weeks I have also lost the ability to punctuate and will reply to comments once I'm sober and most importantly does anyone remember a film called The Forbidden Dance?

I am working the latest shift at work possible. It is a shift that they have recently introduced which includes a 15-minute 'break' at the end of the shift, during which time you don't have to talk to twats (excluding co-workers, unfortunately) but do have to run around the office, emptying paper bins and filling water coolers, after which time you can leave.

So, get the shit done, and be out of there ten minutes early. Hurrah!

It hits dark o'clock, and the rest of the insurance minions trudge off home, leaving everything quiet and gloomy. I get up from my seat and wander over to the water cooler and, well, fill it up.

A voice shoots at me out of the darkness. Sharp, blistering, hateful.

"Do you realise which activity code you're in?" she says, and I suddenly notice the striking resemblance she bears to Voldemort.

"Oh. No, sorry."

Ah, activity codes. Activity codes were invented because the worthless employees, who have numbers rather than names, cannot actually manage their own time and need codes to tell them what to do. If you are not pissing, working on a policy, or having a meeting, YOU'RE NOT FUNCTIONING PROPERLY.

I sigh. OF COURSE I KNOW WHICH ACTIVITY CODE I'M IN. I am not a simple-minded cretin. I play dumb because I can't think of anything suitably scalding to say.

"Well," she says, relishing this moment and sliding her tongue over her lips, "You can only fill that up in your final fifteen minutes here. Do you understand?"

Tell me. Does anyone else put up with that shit? Am I in high school? Is she actually Ms. Tyler who taught me home economics? Can I get away with killing her? Can I call on the great God of Office Politics and launch a spiteful harrassment case against her?

Can I turn bright red, look humiliated and scuffle back to my seat?

Yes. Yes I can.

Due to a chronic fear of confrontation and vocal stature comparable to that of a fourteen-year old, my options to address this issue are as follows:

• Ignore it.
• Approach a supervisor and express my concerns, saying that it's unfair to be treated like a child, even if I sound and act like one.
• Leave thumbtacks on her chair.
• Fill up the water cooler and then tip it all over her rotating Satanic condescending head.
  

To be completely honest, I have had it up to here with that place. And yes, I am gesturing as far above my head as I can reach.

Sitting back and watching Blackadder of an evening, I am struck with a realisation. My new hairstyle, which can look quite pretty if I smother it with straightening balm, swear at it, and burn it to a crisp with my hair straightener, on an average, cannot-be-arsed day, looks pretty much identical to Baldrick's 'do, circa Series III.



Which is a worry.

Soon I will be telling you how I've never taken off my trousers and am dreaming of a big turnip in the country.

Not that I let it get like that often, mind you. Not unless my plans for the day involve lounging in fat pants and eating rocky road until my stomach bulges so far out that I can rest my beer on it. Then, and only then, is Baldrick hair acceptable.

Lazy Fat Pants Days will be known as Baldrick Hair Days henceforth. Spread this information far and wide.

If you're not already aware, I am bored shirtless. I am officially working the Worst Shift Ever and am about as motivated as a vegetarian on a daytrip to the local slaughterhouse. The feelers I've put out in Salsa Land have so far gone unnoticed and I can only conclude that I am yet to receive any replies to my e-mails because everyone is far too busy dancing and looking attractive.

I imagine that is all they ever do. Ah, what a life.

Feeling inspired by lovely Audrey, I am contemplating going for a walk down Meme Road, but just don't know which one to do, or whether I should make up a completely new one. Any ideas?

First and foremost, I lopped all of my hair off. Well, not all of my hair, but about half of it. And, um, a hairdresser did it, rather than me. And then I watched Aeon Flux and thought, Shit, Why didn't I cut my hair like Charlize? Short bits with some long bits = HOT. And then I thought, Shit, This movie's plot has more holes in it than a piece of Swiss fricking cheese. I prefaced a few more thoughts with Shit for good measure.



Last night, instead of the usual teenage miscreant rabble at The Embassy (a bar/nightclub-type place in Brisbane), my lovely Best Mate and some of her co-workers (along with myself, of course) were drunkenly wobbling on the dance floor when we were struck dumb by some fricking fantastic salsa dancing.

I've never been so pleased to hear a remix of Madonna's La Isla Bonita, which, incidentally, has been chorusing through my brain NON-STOP. He was spinning her all over the place and she was flicking her hair and WOW. We cheered loudly after the song finished but it was drowned out by J-Kwon, or whatever the hell they played next.

We found out that they teach classes and all of a sudden I'm thinking that when I grow up, I want to dance salsa. None of this astronaut/ballerina/doctor shit for me. SALSA. And I will spin and wear skirts that flare with silver shoes. I will dance with handsome men whose sexuality may be questionable and people will look at me and think, That girl has picked a really rewarding career path. And also, check out how hot her arse is from all of that dancing.

YEAH.

Hey now. It's feasible.

Gosh.

The only good thing about being stuck without an internet connection is discovering that lovely bloggers have posted LOADS of stuff and I get to read it all in one hit.

• I dreamt that John asked me to have sex with him, and I said no, so he cracked onto MY MOTHER. For some reason, I woke up more angry than completely grossed out.
• It seems to be the time of year for sleazebags to hit on me over the phone at work. I had one man say that it was only because he feared I was recording the conversation that he didn't ask me to do things that could have him arrested. And I thinking, hey, do you want me to assassinate somebody, mate? Because asking me to touch your privates probably won't get the cops round there. It is either a sleazy time of year, or my voice has finally hit its Phone Sex Operator peak.
• There is no food in the house, and no Coke and no beer! I am going to have a chicken burger but as I have no bread rolls I am having the chicken patty in bread. It is a chicken breader. With no other filling. YUM.
• John has gone for a couple of job interviews to bring in some 'spare cash' and just because he knows stupid boring stuff about stupid boring computers, they are THROWING jobs at him. Paying Over Three Times what I earn. PUNK. Punches for John.
• I finished Don Quixote! I know I can use my bollocking workhours and time spent with John as an excuse, but only Ulysses and the Lord of the Rings trilogy have taken more time to complete. I know you probably don't care, but HEY. I am excited. Now I am positively whizzing through light and fluffy books that weren't published in 1605 (and 1615) to give my head a rest. Where are the footnotes? There are no footnotes, the writing is large and the pages are few.
  

There is just one day until the weekend, and by using my clever brain I can deduce that I only have to put up with 7.25 hours of talking to braindead twats about insurance before I have two glorious days off work. HURRAH. Let us drink and be merry. Who's with me?