I just picked up The Lost Symbol from the library today and am looking forward to reading what whimsical tale of intrigue and conspiracy Dan Brown has come up with now!
So am afraid that that is all I have to say today whilst I get stuck into this book! Very lazy an quite unacceptable I know.
Apologies!
I haven’t bummed out about missing London Town in awhile now, but today I am longing for it.
It’s very hard to live a life when the majority of your closest friends range from 300kms – 20 odd thousand kilometres away. Especially when you know that one of them needs a hug, or a smack in the face, or when you really just want to sit down with them and have a glass of wine, or a cocktail at your favourite pub.
I’m so grateful that I get to see Miss Bella in a few weeks time, even if it is for a short weekend away.
And as for those of you 20 odd thousand miles away in my favourite home of London.. I think of you nearly every day.
Praise the Lord for the internet.
I’ve recently been watching Series 3 of Spooks and once again wishing that ASIO had accepted my application to become a spy.
It seems like such a glamorous and interesting life. Much better than the standard 9-5 desk job that slowly suffocates you. You very rarely see and ugly spy, and if they are less than smoking hot, they always seem to possess a killer sense of humour.
Add this to the extra passports, expense accounts and hefty pay packets (well how else does 007 afford those Bentleys?) and it seems like a pretty awesome gig.
What is interesting however, is that not even the age-old glamorous profession of spying is immune to the changing world.
According to The Daily Telegraph, there have been a large number of redundancies amongst MI5, because aging spooks can’t get a grasp of the internet.
Poor things. Never mind that they can speak multiple languages, track down terrorists or drive expensive cars at speed through urban centres – it seems that what matters is if they can get what twitter is all about.
Yesterday I woke up at 12.30am with a funny sensation in my tummy. 4 hours later I thought I thought I was going to die.
Gastro is a terrible thing. It is a nasty bug that renders you lifeless, useless and is full of embarrassing moments (such as nearly passing out whilst sitting on the toilet halfway through a movement of the poops whilst vomiting onto the toilet floor).
After that episode Dad took me to the hospital, where I remained, lifeless on a drip for 8 long hours.
Since then I have felt weak in achy. And been bed ridden. I’m now well enough to know that I am bored and frustrated that my weekend has been ruined.
Forgive me for not writing today.. I’ve been in hospital with sever gastro for most of the day.
Tonight I went along to my first Zumba class. I thought it would be fun and given my latin dance background easy.
I was wrong. It was fricking hard. I’m not sure how I used to do dance for so long every day.. but I have definitely lost that capability now.
Fitness is such hard work.. I’m not sure I am cut out for it.
As I was waiting for the kettle to boil at work today I was flicking through a Woman’s Day magazine.
A particular headline bother’s me greatly. “Olympic Hero Steven Bradbury something about his babies”.
For those of you who aren’t aware of Steven Bradbury, he is an Olympic speed ice-skater, whom during the previous Winter Games was coming last, yet won a gold medal as everyone else collapsed in a heap and he was the only one who stayed on their skates.
I fail to see how this makes him a hero. In fact despite Australia’s inclination to brandy anyone who one a sporting event a hero, I fail to see how any sportsmen and women are heroes. They did not save a child from a burning building, they did not let a battalion of men onto the battlefield. They did not save a life by doing a heart transplant.
All these Olympians have done to deserve the title of “Hero” is run, swim, jump, skate or kick a damn ball slightly better than everyone else.
I have never been one for exercise or physical fitness. I just don’t like it. It’s hot, sweaty and I go BRIGHT red when I exert myself (downfall of being a ginger).
But I am feeling surprisingly awesome after last nights Pole Dancing class. I could feel the burn in my legs as my instructor drilled us over and over again, and I pushed myself as hard as I could.
And today I’m sore, and am COVERED in Bruises.. but I feel awesome.
Perhaps there is something in this exercise is good for you theory after all. Which is a shame really, because if it does I’ll have to do more. Blugh.
Hangovers always make me reflect on life a wee bit.
Yesterday I reflected on money, men and other mysteries of life. The main questions I would like answered are a) Where does all my money go? Despite my frugality I am still always broke. b) Why is it that its always the men you really want the ones that aren’t that interested? And why is it that I keep sending text messages when I’m drunk to boys that I am mildly crazy about.
I’ve been doing this for years now. It started when I was in London. And since then has escalated to the point that as soon as I have had a glass of white wine I feel the urge to say something along the lines of “I want to be on you” (I’ve PG rated this for you – usually the language involves mentions of licking, doodles, nakedness etc) to a boy that I fancy. And the more I fancy them the more I send them.
I know that boys don’t like it that much, but what they never understand is that its almost involuntary. I’m like an alcoholic. Have wine, must drink. Have phone, must text.
One day, when I finally succumb and jump off the anti-iPhone bandwagon, they will have surely developed an application to stop drunken texts. I await this day with anticipation.
I went out last night. It was one of my very best friends birthdays so we went out to celebrate.
The problem is with these sorts of occasions is that there is the expectation of having a good time and that puts all sorts pressure on you.
Don’t get me wrong, I had fun, I think. I’m not sure I remember. But I had a high expectation was not fulfilled.
I’m also disappointed in my behaviour last night. Most of it is blacked out. I don’t remember how I got home.
I’m looking forward to next weekend and the possibility of a DVD marathon with the birthday girl. I think these days thats’ my sort of night out.
Sometimes I think that perhaps I am too old for this.
Another “Really?” moment today when I read an interesting article on news.com.au.
Apparently there is a filmmaker by the name of Jonathan Keats who has made films for plants. The film supposedly is a visual of the Italian countryside.
I seriously do not understand the point of this. Keats has said he wants to provide plants with what companies such as Disney or MGM provide humans.
I’m missing the bit where a human-like plant has been discovered, that has a sense of humour oh, and EYES.
There are some people who obviously have far too much time on their hands
This week has been another slack week for this Ginger. Today I’m going to blame the wind and all the evil pollen floating in the air which is making me sinusy and head-achey.
Groan.
I am so fed up with Australia Post!
I’m a semi-avid eBayer and in the past few months Australia Post have lost 3 items.
This therefore makes me pissed off. People get pissed off with me. And now I have had a claim lodged against me.
so Australia Post. GO FUCK YOURSELF. I pay good money to have you take stuff across the country. The least you could do is get it there.
Today, St Patricks Day, I am reminiscing on the many encounters I have had with Irish people over the years.
I think that they have got to be the friendliest people on earth. From the couple in Dublin that bought The Ex and myself lollipops and taught us the words to songs, to the mum with kids in Killarney who stopped me to ask if I needed directions to the lovely old man at the bus station in Limerick who told me I was far too pretty to be an Australian.
The encounter that stands out the most though is when I was in Liverpool, England in 2006, walking around the streets by myself, after the guy I was seeing ditched me and a close friend had died in the same week. Three lovely Irish boys took me out on the town, bought me drinks made me laugh and then at the end of the night put me in a taxi and sent me back to my hostel, all without cracking on to me.
I love the Irish. Nearly as much as I love the Scottish (who are grumpier by temperament but MUCH sexier)
I quite enjoy the occasional difference in opinion, and marvel at how defensive I can be. I think it must be the ginger genes!
The other day there was a semi-heated discussion in the tea room regarding whether or not romantic comedies, in particular Bridget Jones Diary, are wonderful or ridiculous.
My opinion on this is -
Today is my mothers birthday.
Please do not mistake me, I love my mother. What I dislike is having to pretend that I enjoy doing family things. Lunch was, delightful. Going to 5 different shops in search of a bedspread (not sheet sets, a bedspread) is not.
It is highly important in these sorts of situations to give the correct opinion. The wrong opinion will draw out this shopping expedition for another 3 hours longer than necessary. Unfortunately in this circumstance I also have to feign having an interest in bedspreads.
Lord give me strength.
I went shopping today with the intention of spending up. As you know I am now working so now have, for the first time in over a year, something resembling a disposable income.
As next Saturday is one of my BFFs birthdays, I thought that new dresses were in order, so we packed up the car and headed down to BrisVegas for a shopping day.
Within an hour I had tried on at least 25 dresses and was getting quickly despondent that absolutely everything I tried on looked absolutely rubbish. In fact the only things I purchased was a dress for Smashleigh and a present for my Mum’s birthday.
At last in the distance, I saw a dress. A dress so incredibly sexy that I had to have it. Feeling slightly ill at the $200 price tag I tried it on.. and after being zipped in and buttoned up (with some difficulty mind you) I realised that yes.. I don’t just look hot in this.. I look S-M-O-K-I-N-G hot in this.
So I had to buy it. I was convinced. As long as I don’t eat anything I shall be fine.
And ps.. If I don’t get at least SOME male interest and a snog after wearing this dress I will be very dissapointed.
Why is it that some people stay in your heart days, months, years after they have left your life?
Sometimes you don’t want them there. Sometimes people keep popping up into your head. I wish they wouldn’t. I wish they’d fuck off out of your head. I don’t want you there.
Lara Bingle. Your in a bit of a pickle aren’t you.
This whole debacle is reminding me of my time in London and reading The Sun. It’s complete and utter trash press which I did believe that Australia was above.
The fact of the matter is Lara, you have no body to blame but yourself. You knowingly slept with a married man, with a reputation for being a rake (to speak in regency romance novel terms).
Any woman who knowingly goes after a man who has a partner is by no means a lady. So your nice fiancé has ditched you? Looks like you’ll have to make your own money now.
You may have made some money out of selling your story to Woman’s Day. But my dear, you are now branded as a woman who sleeps with married man. Your reputation has been tainted, and after your 15 minutes are up, you are likely to fade into obscurity like so many WAG’s before you.
I have not been sleeping well lately. Insomnia kicks in frequently for me and its doing my head in.
Insomnia tends to make me cranky, irritable, headachy, frustrated (sexually and in general). I can’t figure out why I get insomnia.. but hopefully I get over it soon.
International Women’s Day today.
I found myself thinking, as I was attending a business woman's breakfast, that is men decided to hold an International Men’s Day there would be an UPROAR.
I thought that it was just one of those touchy feely days, however some google research has shown that this day has been celebrated since 1910! Its origins are from Soviet days. But does anyone really care? Not really.
All I know is that because of International Woman’s Day I received a glass of champagne (well technically sparkling wine), eggs benedict and got to listen to a highly entertaining speaker.
So I guess, well done to you Bolshevik gals.. I'll take any excuse for breakfast!
Dear Potential Suitors,
When attempting to court me online would it kill you to learn how to spell?
If you ever wish to have the privilege of seeing me naked, you had better learn how to speak properly. For example ‘I don’t no’ is quite obviously incorrect, and there are clearly monkeys in darkest Africa more intelligent than you.
Whilst I am more than happy to partake in the occasional LOL, I’d prefer to use correct words in conversation.
I would find you much more attractive if you chose to do so.
Kind Regards,
Miss Ginger
Dear Father,
I’d like to confess I have broken many of the mortal sins today, lust, gluttony, sloth, envy, pride. All of which have been brought on by watching ‘The Towering Inferno’.
I am lusting after a young Paul Newman, because quite frankly PHWOAR. I am being lazy (sloth) and have barely moved of the couch, unless it was to be a fatty fatty pig (gluttony) when I really was supposed to go to the dance studio for some pole dancing practice. Not to mention I am incredible envious of of the people in the TV commercial who have a Magic Bullet! That thing makes frozen cocktails in it’s own individual glasses.. Seriously! Wow!
I will be sure to say the appropriate amount of Hail Mary’s and have a glass of wine to ensure my salvation
Miss Ginger
As I was hunting through new.com.au for some blog inspiration I came across an article that made me a bit cross. Susie O’Brien of some Perth newspaper has come out defending Lara Bingle in this nude photos scan. She claims that women shouldn’t have to worry about men betraying them. Because men shouldn’t betray women.
Theoretically this is a nice idea, but lovers have been unfaithful to each other since Eve went and flirted with that snake. And quite frankly, I think when it comes to revealing the secrets of a relationship women are the worst.
I know that back in the day when I was a bit whoreish I would more than happily spill the juicy details on my conquests (I did, along with a housemate, come up with a unique scoring system for sexual hookups). I know that my ex showed very provocative photos of me to his housemates, when I found this out I was very blasé about it (I did ask them however, what they thought of my body).
Because quite frankly.. who cares??? It’s not as if I expected anything better from him, but more than that, I let a boy take pictures of me on their camera. I have spent most of my life in the company of men. I know what boys speak about at the pub, and I’ve seen them get pictures of girls out to show their mates the “shaven haven” or the boobs or whatever. Its a boy thing. Not a very grown up thing but hey.
Lara Bingle, model wannabe, I can understand that you might be a bit put out by having your boobies broadcast for all to see, but you were sleeping with a notorious bad boy footballer who was already married. You should have known better.
But what is perhaps sadder.. is that when the news mentioned Lara Bingle I had to think to myself.. “Who the bloody hell is she?” (no pun intended)
As my regular readers will be aware I live on the ‘Sunshine Coast’. Recently the region has not been living up to its name.
For the past week there has been constant rain. I mean CONSTANT rain. I think there may have been about 3 hours in the past week where it has not been raining.
Cue MAJOR cabin fever. Everything is damp and I’m achy like an old lady. It would be ok if it was a bit cooler, but it’s still humid as fuck. I thought it would be an awesome opportunity to get some quality work done.. but am to fed up to knuckle down and crack on with my writing.
I am starting to sympathise with Jack Torrence in The Shining, where cabin fever made him so crazy he tried to hack up his family.
There is nothing else for it I think but to drink me much vino.
I really do love RSS news feeds. Todays brought this to my attention:
“Cat survives four weeks in freezer by eating frozen peas”
Hilarious. Apparently the cat entered a UK frozen goods warehouse on the back of a truck and got stuck in there. Staff tried during this time to find him but he evaded capture.
What a dumb ass cat! If your in a freezer and someone is trying to get you out don’t run away!
Despite losing his tail and ears to frostbite, he is apparently doing well.
And this made World Breaking News. Bless.
Whilst I enjoy my job the vast majority of the time, there is one thing I am tired of. Baby talk.
It seems that all of the staff (apart from myself and 2 other girls) have all popped out kids not that long ago. Hence our morning tea conversation is centred around children.
Which is ok some of the time, but lately it seems that there is ALOT of baby talk. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the occasional baby. There are some babies that I love very much. What I dislike is pretending to be interested in other people’s children. So your baby was crying all night? That’s a shame, could you pass the milk? Your grandchild went on some birthday trip? That’s nice, anyone feel like getting drunk this weekend? No? Thought not.
It’s like having to pretend to be interested in a cousin-that you haven’t seen for 15 years-wedding. I feel like pulling a Blackadder and saying “Rats arse’s I have none to give”
Today a friend and colleague announced her pregnancy, which despite my rant pleases me and I am happy for her and her husband. And she has promised to keep the baby talk to a minimum, which I shall hold you to Mrs N x
Today would have been my Granny & Pa’s 70th wedding anniversary (Pa Passed away in 2002 and Granny in 2009). You don’t often see people reach this milestone today.
People get married later (well a lot of people anyway.. not on the Sunshine Coast) so you don’t have as many years ahead of you anyway (for example.. if I got married next year, I would be 98 on my 70th wedding anniversary). And then you have the current divorce rate to consider as well. But today I shan’t be bitter and cynical.
Today I would like to say I admire people who have grand love affairs. I admire people that get married and live happily ever after. Because it can’t be easy.
I made a gigantic mistake yesterday.
On my drive home from the Gold Coast I popped into Ikea for what I was hoping some household retail therapy.
What a stressful experience! The car park was full, you had to fight people for a wheelie trolley, people meander around aimlessly picking things up without really looking at them and it’s depressing that Ikea has a much nicer bedroom than yours.
Of course, it is really my own fault for going on a Sunday. And I feel sorry for all the children and partners whose parents/spouses have dragged them along to domestic fantasy-land on their day off.
Ikea would have you believe that domestic bliss comes in a flat pack box accompanied with an Allen Key. When in reality what you get is a man, roughly in his mid-late twenties/early thirties, carrying a yellow Ikea bag or pushing a trolley, saying “Yep that looks good”, “Really babe, whatever you want”. When really he is grumbling to himself and thinking about how he would rather be at the pub.
The whole place put me in a bad mood because I either could not afford, or didn’t have the space for what I wanted. I did however leave with a pretty cool lap-top rest thing (which am typing on right now) and some flexible ice-cube trays.
And one day in the future, when I am a grown up, I shall take my unwitting boyfriend to Ikea and make him look at cushions, wardrobes and bedside tables. But I’ll be sure to give him sexual favours afterwards.
