Give me a P

A P party in Sydney is quite different to one in NZ, which I imagine is illegal and much less fun. However, a P party over here is also fraught with difficulty, namely, what the phuck to go as? I refuse to hire costumes because it's lame. You can hire parts of costumes, yes, but not the whole thing. That means you're lazy. It also means you can't fall over, trash it, lose part of it or give it away.

For this particular party I dismissed the obvious, going as myself, realised my bank account said I couldn't purchase much in the way of accessories and then realised that with ten of us going, we could probably manage a posse of something. Pirates, as it transpired. Which, I grant you, could sound a bit old hat, a bit so 1998. So we had to throw in another P. Pregnant for the ladies, proctology for the chaps. Because we just happen to have a suitable amount of small cushions and vet rectal gloves lying around the house. A smear of marmite for the gloves, an extra plump to the pillows and we were off. Accompanied by the usual German porn star. There's always one.

As always at such parties there are the people who cannot think outside the square and the women who feel the need to wear as little as possible. I'm sure you could add pirates to that, except we were all up the duff and wearing tights to support said ... duff? So the usual assortment of playboy bunnies, prostitutes, police officers and so on. What became alarmingly apparent quite early on was that apparently a posse of pregant or proctologist pirates was just a few too many p words for the average punter. Consequently most just assumed that we were in fact pregnant or proctologists who had come dressed as pirates. Not even the sight of Ann and I necking back rum stopped some believers. Or the fact Nic is quite clearly not responsible enough to be allowed to wear rectal gloves for any occasion other than a dress up party.

At any rate, eventually people braved the bellies and enquired after our health. I'm not sure I should have lifted my dress to show them my tights straining to contain my cushion but it made for a good photo.

Regret of the night - not convincing the two ladies dressed as Pocahontas to fight it out for number one. Pochahontas A was far, far sexier than the Pochahontas B. Definitely a reason to fight to the pelt knickers.

Important to note - I look quite dashing with a moustache. Maybe I should have given my belly one as well.

Lockjaw

I appear to have been clenching my teeth a great deal in the last 12 hours - in my sleep no less - because today I have quite the sore jaw. The more filthy among you will leap to the first dirt-ridden conclusion and assume I had one hell of a good night. Or my bed partner did at least. WRONG, mofos. I have no bed partner. This is very sad, obviously but right now we're focusing on the fact that I have a sore jaw for no good reason.

I suspect I was clenching my teeth at having had my previous bed partner of one week, the lovely Jody, taken away from me by ... AirNZ. Admittedly, Jody doesn't put out but in her week with me she did cook, clean, snigger, provide port and cheese and discuss her favourite Gary Larson cartoons so she's pretty much perfect.
Apart from the no putting out bit.

I have not yet watched any of the World Cup. My workmates are flummoxed by my blatant lack of patriotism. I, in turn, am flummoxed by the fact I don't want chocolate this morning.

What's hot in China right now

Right. China. It was ace, thanks for asking, and I came back with trinkets and knickknacks and a bit of a muffin top from such things as breakfast coke. I ate more fast food in two weeks than I normally do in two years. I had no self control at meals - and why would I when dumplings and Peking duck and hot pot are on the table? It would be rude to not hoe on in like a four-year-old who's spotted a chocolate bar at a birthday party. Or myself having spotted a defenceless four-year-old holding a chocolate bar.

And now, instead of a long essay about the things I did and how amazing they were, I am going to talk to you about fashion. Every country has its own fashion - over here in Aus, jandals go with everything. Frenchmen look good in cardigans. And in China, women like to wear flesh-coloured ankle high stockings with their heels and skirts. Somewhat sadly for the women of China, despite the stockings being flesh coloured, they are still highly visible. Often they create a sort of ankle muffin top. To my eyes, they actually quite hideous. But I'm certainly no Vogue editor and they are extremely popular so I clearly have no idea about what is hot.

Moving right along. Invisible bra straps. Like the aforementioned ankle stocking - these are not actually invisible. No one looks good wearing invisible bra straps. You merely look as though your underwear is made of some very cheap sort of plastic bag.

Saving the best for last - glasses with no lenses. I loved this. Glasses are tres cool but if you don't need them then all you need are frames! It took us a bit to work out what was going on but a guide confirmed for us that yes, glassless glasses are so in right now. Mostly just among the teens though. Traveling as I was with three wearers of optical help, I was sorely tempted to make Will, Sarah and Tim that much more fashionable but suspected they enjoy being uncool. And able to see.

And that was China. Good times, folks. Good times.

Smashing China

I have a great deal to write about intriguing fashions worn by people in China that I will be attempting to start a craze for here, but something much more important has come up and we need to focus on that instead.

While I was shamelessly touristing round the Far East, a decision was made by my higher ups back here in the Sydney office to terminate the free Tim Tams. I am under no illusions about the 'coincidence' that this decision was made while I was absent. A hunger strike for free biscuits covered in dark chocolate hiding a smooth creamy centre seems a little ridiculous so I think the only way to get round the Tim Tam prohibition is to buy my own - and sell them at an astronomical price to those workmates I know cannot resist. I will, in effect, become a Tim Tam dealer. Already I can see that some co-workers are suffering the shakes from being deprived of their favourite biscuit, so really, I'm being a good samaritan.

In the mean time, RIP breakfast Tim Tam. We had some good times. I'll miss you. There were days where I thought you were the only one who understood.

Signs I'm a corporate wanker

I just spent $9 on a sandwich. Twenty-three year old me is horrified. But likes my dress.

There's lots in a name

This is somewhat belated given the event occured a few weeks back when once again I was watching the rugby. The Super 15 final, which NZ did not win. We'd toddled off to the local for a few drinks and some watching of the big screen. Mainly to get out of the house, to catch a few friends and to soak up the atmosphere - which was, sadly, verging on violent. No actual fisticuffs but there were some angry people out that night. None appeared to be drunk but all were in favour of shouting abuse at the telly, mostly at the ref but also at the Crusaders. One chap, in particular, was very much of the school of thought that says screaming in a crowded pub at the telly is bound to win your team the championship. In fairness, no one stopped him, I think we were all too scared. His team won, for which I was somewhat grateful - he was still muttering in an angry fashion after 'his' victory was assured by the final whistle. His girlfriend sat though the whole thing calmly sipping wine. I'm guessing he does this on a regular basis.

The blokes behind us attempted to be a little more polite in their disgust at some of the moves the Crusaders were showing on the field. One of them shouted 'Don't be a poof, ref', and as we looked at him said, 'Sorry ladies. At least it wasn't the c-bomb'.

And I couldn't help myself from answering with, 'I'd rather hear cunt than poof'.

We left not long after.

I can see that to several people poof is a great deal less offensive than cunt. Cunt 'sounds' harsher to the ear for starters and has a nastier rep, if you will. But if you call someone a cunt, I don't think you're calling them a vagina. You're expressing your distaste for them on some level but it probably isn't specifically in regards to their gender. You can be a good cunt. A total cunt. An utter cunt. A very bad person indeed. But if you call someone a poof you are in effect saying that they're gay - and that it's not a good thing to be gay.

Am I making any sense? Talking out my lady bits?

Points to ponder

I had to work from home last Tuesday because I had what ranks right up there as one of my top ten worst periods of my life (so far). I got to work and then I went back home again, but, like a trooper - took my laptop with me and proceeded to do more work than usual, while scoffing chocolate, being quite ratty to the brotherman and refilling my hot water bottle at regular intervals. I may have also been wearing pyjamas. Anyway, apparently in some Japanese offices you are legally entitled to take days off during your bleedy time - this is separate to your 'normal' sick days. I'm not entirely too sure how I feel about it. On the one hand - days off for bleeding - woot! On the other, galloping on the heels of that chap that lost his job in NZ for making some terrible statements about women and their bodily functions - is it condescending?

'I see you've got your period (I'm not sure how your boss knows this, maybe you have to wear a scarlet letter P?) - you'd better take some time off because you're probably in pain and incapable of working.'

I brought this up with our latest houseguest, Courtney, who said, screw that line of thought and roll with it, baby. Which of course I can't because I'm in Australia. Not Japan. A workmate pointed out that if men had periods, this rule would be mandatory worldwide. Also, a cure for period pain and PMT would have been found years ago.

I wasn't sure what to think. My poor little head was too busy trying to remember how many neurofen you're allowed in an hour.

This was even less fun than a few weeks before when I suddenly had what we shall politely describe as VERY, VERY SORE BOOBS.

They seemed to think they had a period coming, only I knew, in my not necessarily infinite but quite definitely more knowledgeable wisdom, that they did not. Because I'm on the pill and I dictate the bleeding.

I'm not sure why they do this. It's like a phantom period - all the symptoms but no actual period, for which I guess I am grateful, but usually I just get concerned that something is wrong, that I'm with child (lack of sex life suggests phantom baby), as old ladies like to whisper, or some female acquaintance has fucked up my cycle and I've got a two for one deal I didn't ask for and the no actual period is about to become a full-on neurofen popping bloodbath, for lack of a better description.

They're not all like that, in fact, most of them aren't. Afterwards I barely remember them. But all women have at least one nasty period story. They recall them with involuntary body clenching as though this will ward off future visits from the period demon, let's call her Trixie. We talk about periods like old people do about the war and summers of long ago. 'Do you remember the one of '94? That was a shocker. Now these young folk, they've never seen anything like that one. Whew, when I think about how many sanitary pads I went through and that night I had to sleep on 14 towels so as to protect the mattress, it just brings me out in spots thinking about it.'

Men will often leave the room at this point and from the kitchen will come the sound of a bottle being opened and swigged from.

Anyway - it transpired I'd forgotten to take the pill for a few days so actually, it was all my fault. Feck.