Friends- friends sing together, la la la laaaah!

This blog is dedicated to a Kat loving friend of mine. She has the biggest heart ever, which is especially amazing since she’s a Kat.

There are times in everyone’s life where life doesn’t seem all that lacksadaisical.

Times when you feel like everyday is a replay of the time you just demolished all of your chocolate Lindt Bunny. (Shit, I can’t believe I just reminded myself of that time!)

Times where you feel like you’re walking through this life cold and alone....

(Here is a picture of my nephew-dog Bobby.

He’s the best at being cute-pathetic.)

It’s as if a Shakespearian Voodoo Witch Queen

has put a pox on your houses....

....(I’m not sure what this “growth” in the bathroom is, but I’m pretty sure it could be a pox on my houses. )

And instead of reaching Friday night and singing the Happy days theme tune, you reach Friday night and worry everyone else might think you’re an idiot for singing at all. So you decide to stay inside your prison/room.

At times like these friends surprise you with their awesomeness.

Friends are like…. the miracle of seeing three monkeys Jesus’ competing at the Willoughby counsel synchronised swimming carnival.

I’ll leave the next space blank so that you can employ your vast and powerful imagination to create your own image...

(IMAGE CREATED BY THE POWER OF YOUR MIND)

However, as far as simile’s go the monkey Jesi are a weak comparison. Monkey Jesus miracles are kind of a flash in the pan… a chlorinated flash in the pan, whereas friends….friends are….

Well they make the world a little bit more like you’ve just been sent a million peony roses.

They are honest when they need to be and they lie a little bit when deemed necessary:

Scenario 1. Non-friends:

You: I’m thinking of launching a rocket to the moon.

Others: Have you any training as an Aeronautical engineer? No. Not even an undergraduate degree in Astro-physics? No. A TAFE course in rockets then?

You: Yes, what a silly notion that was. Silly me. I'll just be in my prison room.

Scenario 2. Friends:

You: I’m thinking of launching a rocket to the moon.

Friends: Aaaaahhhhhhh Aaaaawesome. The moon is the best!

You: Bloody oath it is!! Come and watch!! ….but you have to bring your own safety glasses, I’ve only got one pair and they’re broken.

They remind you that you’re dreams aren’t silly and are worth pursuing and inspire you to break out of your prison room and into song. That song may well be the Happy Days theme tune, it may also be a song by Madonna or Olivia Newton John. They’ll probably even join in.

They are surprising, funny, generous, and amazing.

Beyond words really.

They make you’re heart feel like a light made of colourful umbrellas.

And you realise you and your colourful umbrella heart don’t always have to be on the outside of things

The support of friends is more deeply valuable than any words in this blog could articulate. Truly, I can’t adequately represent how grateful I am to you, so all I can say is:

Thank you. Ellibelli x

Lindt Bunny- Today I lost a friend.

Lindt Bunny. He has been my constant companion on this journey of reckless under-employment.

His steely gaze has given me the confidence to stare joblessness in the face and laugh just like him- a sociopathic lindt bunny. He was my confidant and my inspiration.

His shiny golden armour of foil has always stopped me from giving into sweet temptation and taking a big ol’ chomp out of his chocolaty bunny butt. He has also given me my own metaphorical golden armour, for which I’ll always be grateful.

We were the best of friends…until now. Before I tell you what happened lets look back at some of the better times.

This is when the cheeky little bunny got into the herb garden. Actually it’s more of a Basil garden...

Ummm, okay my camera broke, but believe me, he was in the herb garden.

And this is when Bunny and I watched a clip on video piracy together. He’s against the burning of DVD’s and illegal downloads,

especially if it’s Watership down...

.... he's still watching...

And here is a picture of maple syrup, because I couldn’t show you the one in the herb garden:

(a picture of maple syrup)

Anyway, believe me, we had some good times! Things were going swell between bunny and I, until I started applying for jobs in the hospitality industry. Our lives stared to go in wildly different directions.

Bunny was living a life of leisure, while I would traipse around in the rain and mud applying for bar jobs to keep us both in the life to which we were accustomed.

Eventually I managed to snag a trial at the bad assest pub in all the land. Things were looking up on the job front. Maybe bunny and I could reconnect, maybe things could get back to the way they were. I did the trial and all seemed to be going well. They said I did well and they’d let me know how I went on Monday.

Monday went by, and then Tuesday and then Wednesday. I rang the pub and asked how I went and they said: “Sorry, the manager said ‘No”. I wondered if that meant, “The manager said NO bunnies, but yes to me working there”, he said “No, we don’t have a job for you” and then hung up.

I was in a rage. I decided to channel all my feelings of inadequacy and rejection into blame and I mostly blamed bunny. He could watch the Bold and the Beautiful whenever he wanted! Rooooaaar!! He could sleep in until 3pm and sleep with prostitutes and gamble basil leaves, while I had to starve and only eat Paddle- Pops!! Our friendship had to come to an end...

and this is what happened......

It didn’t end up making me feel better. It mostly made me feel a little sick because I’d lost a friend

..and also because I’d eaten quite a lot of chocolate.

I’m not proud of my story and I miss my evil little overconfident bunny friend.

The stand-off at the 7 eleven.

When you’re poor and kinda hungry this funny thing happens to your brain. You want to eat ALL food ALL OF THE TIME. Even when you’re not hungry you’re hungry. You’re sole purpose in life is to gather as much calorie dense food as possible and store it safely on your hips, so that when the time comes and the need is great enough you will be able to reach down and snap a peanut butter cup off your thighs, like a delicious, edible mole.

You can understand my absolute delight then when I finished the last lick-e-dy-lick of my banana paddle-pop and it revealed that I had won another free paddle-pop! Not only was it food, it was free food AND it was made of ice cream. Oh, happy day of daisies!!

I started to get a little high from the thought of a paddle-pop for nothing (even though I had bought the original paddle-pop). I was THAT lucky person and the rest of the world could go fuck itself.

It was the turnaround and win that I needed. I was going to become a person of excess amongst an elite crowd who were so rich that they no longer need to buy things because things get given to them. I would go to A list parties and my life would be full of people who are terribly fashionable, chortle, have real tans and snort lots of things up our noses. I’d probably also become anorexic and wear lots of maxi dresses. My parties would be full of girls with bizarre-ly long arms (partly due to the anorexia because they haven’t eaten any paddle-pops) and they’d flaunt and flail their arms everywhere until eventually the parties became nothing but rooms full of girls with flailing arms.

Clutching my little stick of glory I waltzed, head held high into the seven eleven and slapped my paddle pop stick on the counter.

Me: “Another paddle-pop please Rajeev”.

Rajeev: Makes expressionless, full body sigh

Rajeev’s poker faced reply made me start to worry he might not front up with the goods. Panic set in. Perhaps he doesn’t have any more paddle-pops!! …No, I checked the freezer when I walked in ...maybe he wasn’t going to give me one….I’d have to report him to Streets, I’d take him to court, he can’t do this, it says it quite clearly on my stick “You WIN a free Paddle Pop” motherfuckka!!!!

Rajeev: (Another sigh), “Yeah, okay, which one you want?

Me (Gleefully): Banana please.

With the mere wave of his brown Pakky hand Rajeev indicated that the freezer was all mine for the next 50 seconds to a 1-minute. I could choose any banana paddle-pop that I wanted and not just from the top ...and I did. I made my selection and for the next 3.5 minutes I was queen of Australia, until I took that last lickedy-lick and it revealed that I’d won one half an X-box.

It was like a kick in the teeth.

The trials and triumphs of the googley-eye vagrant.

I’ve found it, I've found my hook! Until now I have taken a rather “alternative hippie school” approach to blogging. I wanted to take my readers on an organic journey of discovery as we decide together what this all might be about. I’ve been told this is confusing and occasionally physically alarming for my readers. So for your own mental comfort here it is.

You: WHAT IS IT?! TELL ME ALREADY, I'M STARTING TO FEEL PUNCHY!!

Me: I'm getting there.

It is definitely not a “how to” guide. In fact, the only thing I really know “how to” do with any level of success is make my eyes go really goggely without moving any of the other muscles in my face. I’m not willing to share my secrets about that so you guys are on your own with the Google-eyed-ness. (Below you will find a very poor picture of my "Goggley-eye in action". It's powerful stuff).

I can also lacksadaise fairly well. I’m less good at lacksadaising than the google-eye. It involves mooching around, without a proper job. It’s pretty fun, but it doesn’t seem to pay very well and sometimes it makes me wish I were better at useful things.

My third and final skill is to successfully advise people on any level of problem or subject in the world.

For example:

Fred: Lacksadaisy, explain the twin paradox. (It’s a rather complicated Physics conundrum) From Fred.

Me: Fred, exactly!? Some twins look exactly the same, but some are not identical at all…weird. Children are starving Fred, shuttup.

More often than not my response involves “people are starving” *. It works pretty well for almost any topic.

(* This is very possibly ripped off hyperboleandahalf.blogspot. I can’t be sure since I couldn’t find it when I quickly checked, but like the time that I thought I’d composed “I can’t help but lovin’ nobody but you” I actually didn’t. The Turtles composed that song. Anyway visit Allie’s work at www.hyperboleandahalf.com, and then check out the Turtles on iTunes.)

You: ENOUGH! YOU HAVE FAILED TO TELL ME WHAT IT'S ABOUT, GET TO THE POINT!

Me: Well it’s many things, but I’ve decided out of my three major skills the one I’m best at is google eye, but since I'm keeping mum on that issue

I have decided to write about my life and struggles as an unemployed vagrant…or at least someone who is miss-employed or under-employed. There you go.

Please allow my loss of self respect, cunning approach to foodlessness and my apathy towards employment educate you and more importantly inspire you to stay in your reasonably well paying job. Learn from me, learn with me, but definitely don’t learn at me or I will make my eyes go all googley-gog, evidence below.

My heroic journey into unemployment

Oh unemployment, you saucy minx, how I loath it when you come to visit; and me being the artistic variety of human, you insist on visiting with unfortunate regularity.

“Unemployment”. UN.EM. PLOY.MENT. ‘Un” is such an unfortunate addition on the word employment. Shall we just say I am ‘negatively employed’ and be truthful about it! I can’t be misemployed (to deprive someone else of employment… because obviously it is not an act you can bestow upon yourself, similar to the bowl cut. You should never, ever, give yourself a bowl cut, nor should you let others do that to you). I could be anti-employed, employment-less and possibly even reach a level of negative gearing in my optimal level of employment. Actually, as an economist friend of mine well knows, I have no idea what Negative gearing means. Actually, this friend is not even an economist; they work as a bank teller. Perhaps that is why I am unemployed. I did attempt to understand what negative gearing means. When I entered: “Unemployment” into the Negative Gearing calculator in Google it came back with the response: “You obviously have no idea what negative gearing is, no wonder you are unemployed”. Smart arse Google.

Now my unemployment journey has gone through many stages, some more alarming than others.

BRAVADO – the most enjoyable stage

This stage involves me wallowing in my lacksadaisical life, sautéing in my own free time and flashing it about to those poor mugs riding the bus to work, while I sit in my favourite coffee shop, in the sun, drinking 15 Soy Chai lattes, pretending to type on my computer. During this phase it is helpful to pretend you are a freelance journalist such as Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex and the City. Well, her character “Carrie”, not SJP herself, I don’t like her hair much. At least she doesn’t have a bowl cut.

REGRET- less enjoyable than bravado.

Regretting I didn’t use my initial unemployment for good, rather than evil. Wishing I saw my dwindling funds as an opportunity to detox rather than drink 15 soy chai lattes. Regretting I didn’t drink more water to balance out all of the soy in my body and now feeling paranoid about breast cancer, urinary tract infections and Chai disease. (I’m sure it’s a thing). Wishing I had ridden the wave of euphoria to land a slammin’ job. People love to give you a job when you don’t need it.

FEAR- least enjoyable phase

Fear that I may never work again. Fear that maybe no body likes me and that the guy at the 7/11 is beginning to notice I haven’t washed my bowl cut hair in 7 days. Who is he kidding?! He doesn’t have hair! He doesn’t know the time is takes to look glamorous and why do I need to look glamorous anyway!? Who is going to see me, eh, Rajeev? Personally I think he needs to spend a little more time topping up the Oovie machine and a little less time noticing my personal battle with personal hygiene, personally! I wish they stocked Love Actually. Stoopid Oovie, stoopid Rajeev.

RESIGNATION- the most dangerous of the phases.

This is the phase I am currently experiencing. Resigning yourself to fact you may need to accept that job that pays $16.50 an hour. At least you won’t have to wash your hair ever again. Accepting that maybe your dream of becoming Princess Jasmine from Aladdin may be a pipe dream after all. Wondering how long you could live off muslie if you needed to and you also find yourself wondering about the practicalities of organ donation if you suffer an asthma attack and wild poodles eat you for breakfast.

Yes, readers, it is a hard road. A hard road indeed. Maybe I could be “missemployed”, because I’m pretty sure I AM meant to be Princess Jasmine.

Holy Fat Knee Batman.

Dear Lacksadaisy,

To my shock I realised I have larger, droopier knees than when I was younger. Am I right to be concerned about this, or should I listen to my husband when he says he finds me very desirable and doesn’t know what I’m worried about. It’s keeping me up at night. Please help.

Yours truly,

Alice.

Dear Alice,

Oh holy hell, you have Knee-fat, or “fat-knee” to be precise. It’s a condition cause by the localised assembly of fat cells around the knee region, whereby you knee no longer looks knee-like, it now looks a bit like a cute, dimply baby’s butt. Problem is, you don’t want a baby clinging it’s little cheeks to your knee, no matter how cute. It’s both illegal and disgusting. No! Away baby, away with you!!

Fat-knee may sound like a lovely Welsh ladies name…”oh Ma-fat-nee, could ya pewer (Welsh pronunciation of pour) a little more butter- milk in the pale for the village goats, they’re starting to look a little punchy ma dear…or should I say stampy” etc etc. *(N.B), but in reality it’s just a hassle.

Reasons Fat-knee is a hassle:

• Girl gangs that look like Miranda Kerr will chase you down the street. And laugh at you because of fat-knee. (You can identify these girls because they are all really tanned, wear exactly the same short shorts and have messy sumo buns. Watch out for them. They look like they eat organic food, but really they’re souped up on slushies. The red kind).
• 
  
• You can not wear skinny, slim fit or super slim fit jeans (Nor the jeans where they spray them on to you and you’re actually wearing jean coloured human skin…jeanskin). When you try them on you may shed a little tear because you get your excites on because your ankle fits in super well, but then you get to the knee…you can guess the rest.
• 
  
• You don’t look as much like Miranda Kerr as you would like.
• 
  
• You wonder whether maybe buying organic face cream might make you look like Miranda Kerr.

Okay, Okay, enough!! I am a woman of reason Alice and of intellect and of many other things like intellect. Women these days freak out because they don’t look like airbrushed perfection. Air-burshed perfection is as the name implies- bloody well airbrushed! It makes duffers of us all. It is time to celebrate our “Amazonian Knees”. Maybe these knees give us the power to run through the jungle and save our jungle tribe from crocodiles or a gang of spiders. Waify stick leg-lasses can’t do such things. No! It is time to present the argument for fat-knee’s!! Yes Alice, stand up upon your chub-knees and be proud!!!

Reasons to celebrate fat-knee:

• When you eventually become incontinent it will provide a successful catchment area for wee drips.
• 
  
• Keeps knees warm, no need for those pesky knee warmers we all know are going to be in fashion next season.
• 
  
• More surface area to cover when involved in community body art projects.
• 
  
• Provides good padding for other projects involving kneeling, such as marriage proposals, gardening, being in a Broadway musical where there is a lot of kneeling in the choreography.
• 
  
• It might be nice to sometimes reach your hand down to your fat-knee and it give it a comforting caress. This provides a strong sense of reassurance during stressful times, such as when you’re being bullied and chased down the street by afore mentioned local street gangs because of your fat-knee.

Well, well, well…it looks to me like there are more reasons to celebrate the supposed accursed fat-knee than reasons to whinge about them. I now have a new appreciation for my own knees thanks to my own venerable wisdom and I hope you do to Alice. By the way, until you send me a photo of your knees I can neither confirm or deny you have the condition. If you are like most women you are needlessly obsessing over a supposed imperfection. Most men don’t give a rats ear what your knees look like. Why? Men aren’t very observant, especially if you temporarily blind them by wearing reflective devices on your breasts. Now off you go.

Love Lacksadaisy.

*N.B This stereotype is very unkind to the Welsh who have a thriving cottage industry. Actually, I don’t even really know what a cottage industry is…..but I’m sure it’s less Goat oriented than I’m claiming. Probably more bikes involved. In fact replace “Goat” with Bike”….the sentence won’t make much sense, but I’m a stickler for Political correctness and I love the Welshies, especially their funny accents.

The rantings of a mad-lady at tax time.

On a recent radio show I heard a woman who had been institutionalised in an asylum for much of her life say we should learn to celebrate people with mental illness and applaud them for the struggles they face as opposed to degrading them to the lowest of the low. I happen to agree. They are discredited, disenfranchised and branded, but human just like I’m supposed to be. We fear becoming them and so we push people with serious mental illness into the furthest recesses of our minds. Just thought I’d mention that before I became all-flippant about things.

Why so flippant? Well it’s in keeping with my generational ability to deflect when things get awkward, awkward, and awkward. (We also love a good cop out (this is), storm out and coming out).

I have decided instead to subject you to a moment of my own lucid rantings and attempt to join the ranks of the great minds who wrote under the influence of hallucinogens, opiates and sedatives (most writers). My drug of choice: coffee. Two strong- weak- soy lattes have given me the jitters. Whoop. My brain is a mishmash of wah wah today… not dissimilar to the two infamous cat ladies from the documentary film “grey gardens”. In my mind I’m sitting around drinking flagons of tequila while belting out show tunes with runny mascara and my dress tucked into my knickers while seven cats pee on my foot, in a decrepit mansion in upstate New York. Why so skittish when I'm normally so wise and together? It’s tax time.

The greatest of all opportunities to procrastinate, agitate, ..debate, walk out the gate, go on a date, buy a crate… sorry, I was even procrastinating on getting to a point.

The tax time conversation with myself always goes a little bit like this….

Lacksadaisy do your tax… I wonder…is ‘confidence’, or is ‘precociousness’ the opposite of awkward? Do your tax. And why are so many of our allies drunkard Neanderthals. Do your tax. Do you think anyone has put nail polish on their nipples? Do your tax. Why are there so few winter woolly thongs? Do your tax. How many grannies can stare at me with wonderment as I belly dance around the dog pooh in their garden? Do your tax. I have never met a canary and I doubt their existence. You should be doing your tax. We are all the centre of the universe since everything is expanding away from everything. Tiles are shiny AND matt. Why are you not doing your tax you lazy thing? I like dogs, but only friendly ones. Do you tax. People are funny. Funny weird and funny ha ha. Whaaaaaaaaa!!! Pfft. Graggle graggle. Tax. Graggle. Tax. Waggle woo poo doo. Doodlie doo. Taaaaaax. And then my brain hits a wall. Everything grinds to a halt and I have a moment of clarity. I. Must. Do. My. Tax.

Shaking I get out my purple tax folder. I use the term folder loosely. It’s more of a big envelope where I have put all of my useless receipts after having thrown out the useful ones. I curse myself for not being one of those organised people that staples things and owns highlighters. I get angry with myself. I may cry and say I’m splitting up with myself and that I’ve gone to find someone a little more together and with it and who has their life sorted. I say to myself: you’re a lot of fun. We’ve had some good times, I really like you, but I need more from a self. I need someone who's good with numbers, who can do tax.

Then I leave myself. I go get another coffee and realise... I only have myself. A may try and deny it, but I’m all I’ve got and we need to get on and do our/my tax. It’s a weird moment of clarity. Then I do my friggen tax.

Every year…it’s always the same. *sigh*

The break-up template and the bald monkey.

Dear Lacksadaisy,

I have to break up with this girl I’ve been dating. How do I break the news gently? Our relationship is not that bad, am I crazy to even be thinking about it?

Fred.

Dear Fred,

This one is really very simple. Take up gin rummy, learn to ski, become tri lingual, learn to make an American quilt, volunteer for St. Johns, raise bees, read every magazine about Wine in the news agency, foster a “Yes man” attitude and agree to everything from group sex to nanna racing (similar to crab racing, but it’s with nannas). Once you have completed all of these things you’ll be too distracted to think about your nice, but not awesome relationship and forget about breaking up with her. You’ll turn your tepid “relationship” into a “weddingship” and then a “childrearingship” and then settle into oblivion and probably die, we all do.

Better that than the awkward, painful, gut wrenching, heart wrenching and in some cases of IBS sufferers bowel wrenching process of confrontation. Who likes confrontation? It’s gross!!!! Not me, that’s for sure. I’d rather shave a monkey than confront one.

If the monkey asked me to shave its whole body so that it can be the only bald monkey alive (which btw looks quite similar to a human, only it’s missing opposable thumbs) I would say yes. The monkey might first be inclined to ask whether or not it would look good completely hairless and rather than be honest and say:

“Monkey, you would like pretty silly completely bald…monkey, nature intends for you to be hairy, similar to women’s armpits and bikini lines)”, I would lie and say:

“Monkey, you would rock the bald look. You would look like one of those trendy hypoallergenic cats we all know and love”.

Wow! That would be a big lie; no one likes those cats, weird little bastards.

So it’s probably best if you just sweep everything under the carpet and stay in your relationship.

I don’t care if you believe in peace in the Middle East whereas she believes in pieces of cake. I don’t care that you fight all the time, are never there for each other and you fantasise about having sexy times with that nice girl who works at your local coffee shop who never talks back, would look great in a country road jumper and would look beautiful with or without a fringe (not many people do). I don’t care that she doesn’t inspire sonnets, she doesn’t inspire you to call her once a day, she doesn’t inspire you to make her a cup of tea to bring her in bed, she doesn’t inspire you to shave for a month and doesn’t inspire you to laugh. Man up and shut up and occasionally put out. You’ll be all right... right...Right?

Maybe you should break up.

Ok, if you do decide to break up I’ve devised a couple of templates so you can do it real gently like.

TEMPLATES FOR A BREAK UP

1.

You take her out to a nice dinner, shower her with rose, maybe fly her to Paris and then say: “Baby, life’s a bitch, you look like a witch so I’ve decided to ditch…you”.”

2.

“You are a pretty remarkable person, but I don’t want to spend my life with you. I’m sorry, I must be crazy because you are beautiful, smart, funny and can make a mean carrot cake…. but you smell like rat faeces. “

No matter what you say, whether you use one of my templates for successful breakups or your own special message, just remember: life can be tough, hurtful and painful at times, but we must go through those times to enjoy the beautiful, funny times with people that inspire us. You deserve that and so does she. Good luck.

Albany's golden jocks of Glory

Dear Lacksadaisy,

I've been wondering..

When I look in my wardrobe, my stuff looks a bit daggy so I relegate

some items to the "I'll wear that when I am gardening category, or if

it's really daggy, 'I'll wear that when nobody is around when I am

doing a bit of concreting or painting' category. Some times there is a

bit of 'wardrobe creep' when I am getting a bit low on what's left of

my vaguely respectable looking gear and I resort to wearing something

out and hope that I don't bump into someone who might like to say hello.

Can you please advise how to resolve this quandary? Maybe I should just

take the plunge and buy a pair of overalls.

Undressed and Depressed, Albany.

Dear Albany,

I like overalls. I especially like their use in Sesame Street, rap videos and on pregnant women in made- for- TV movies. I like them less on pot bellied painters because it makes me wonder about whether the pot-bellied painters are wearing underwear and I don't want to wonder about that. Also I have a slight aversion to having to undo my top when I need to use the toilet. Same problem with a onesie, bathers and body suit. However, this is not about your overalls Albany, it goes deeper than that.

We have all been there; those days when you look at your clothes and you have less to wear than if you were a little duck in my shredded duck curry puffs. I feel those days are a reflection of my/your self-image, (or images if you have multiple personalities). Some days I will look in my wardrobe and see a land of promise, clothes which make me look like a hot TV skank called something like "Hillary", who has had her hips removed and put into her cheekbones. On those days I can smack together with ease an outfit that whispers: "Foo-dih-fah-fah" in French as I saunter by, smelling of French cheese, rose water and marmalade hair products.

Other days it is more of an uphill ordeal. The battle lines are drawn. I look at my wardrobe with a kind of paralysis and fear normally reserved for moments requiring a 000 phone call and a double length episode of Midsummer Murders. I attempt a swallow but my throat is dry, my brown starts to crease and I pick up a sorry, grey jumper and start to sob with quiet shame into its worn out seams and dusty smelling armpits which are held together by congealed sweat. I hate my clothes. Those little bastards have conspired against me to make me look as bloated, ugly and outdated as possible. I might as well have shopped at the store named: "Ha ha, we make you look like a tramp and then make go out in public looking like a tramp!!". It's a shitbox store, why did I ever shop there and fill my entire wardrobe with it's clothes? Then the fog lifts and once again I can throw on a scarf, find my marmalade conditioner and impress the world with my charm and lady-flair.

The moral is this: it's not the clothes, it's you. Sniff the air Albany. Does the air smell sweet? Do you smell the air of promise? If you put on the daggiest man-under-garments which should have been relegated to the incinerator years ago, but you kept them just in case you needed a rag and then forgot about that decision and just kept wearing them, but you manage to wear them with flair, with grace and the confidence of The President of Italy then we will think they are made of gold. "Albany's golden jocks of glory" we will cry. We will say: "Look at him go, the man with the golden pants" and girls will sigh, men will do man-swoons and horses will gallop along side you in slow motion if you feed them carrots.

If, however, you're feeling a little bit drab then your wardrobe will be a cacophony of doom. All your clothes conspire against you and you end up wearing a business shirt, high heals and overalls at the same time in a desperate attempt to look normal....but no, you look avante garde....or at least that's what you tell yourself, but really you just look wierd. Then you spend the rest of the day squirming about in the clothes that betrayed you and curse yourself forever daring to keep up with the youth of today. (Sumo buns, leggings and long shirts are in by the way... basically you want to look like an anorexic, bogon, Caucasian sumo wrestler).

So. It's not the clothes, it's you.... but sometimes it's the clothes.

Examine your wardrobe as a whole. If your clothes smell bad, have faded to the point where you ask your wife what the original colour was and whether you should attempt to co-ordinate with the present color or original color, if they have come back into fashion after 20 years (wear it first time round, you shouldn't wear it second time round), if they are stuck together, or stuck to a dead rat, if they make you look like a terrorist (you don't want to be stopped at airports), or a Mormon, or a weird uncle, or generally so daggy that not even a dog will hump your leg then maybe it's time to join me in my eBay addiction. Make your treasure someone else’s treasure and get some new rags. If you're strapped for cash you can dress like a Chinese pimp for a sweet price thanks to the wonderful world of eBay, the world is your oyster.

Either that or you could sniff the sweet air of inner strength, snap on your daggies and parade around like the King of Tasmania.

Either way take a shower.

Love Lacksa.

Jealousy

Women have a nasty habit of turning jealousy into the destructive emotion of envy and then, eventually, seething, passive aggressive hate. Hate that is born on Competition Island and raised in Insecurity Village. So in an attempt to appease my jealousy monster before it turns into a demon of hate I have decided to ‘fess up, for the good of all mankind.

Dear Zoe Foster,

I’m not going to lie. I am jealous of you. I’m so jealous of you that I wish you would get pimples. You should be flattered; jealousy is the highest form of flattery. I think you hardly need to ask why. You work in the glamorous world of magazines, publishing and media. (Yes, yes, yes, we know, we know…it’s not all that glamorous…but if you ask us believe magazines aren't glamorous then you might as well ask us to believe that Camel breath is not rancid and flaxseed oil is delicious.) You have snagged and snogged Sir Hamish Blake…the cutest of all cutes… and get to flounce your hair around in Pantene commercials- who hasn’t wished to star in a Pantene commercial? Gosh!! Flounce, bounce, flounce, bounce…. awesome. (I mean that without the slightest hint of facetiousness or Gen Y irony…”Gyrony” (more on “Gyrony” in another blog)).

I’m sure your bedazzled life has not come without cost… hard work, dedication, a vision board, and a humorous and upbeat attitude to life that only comes as a result of ridicule and bullying as a child. Your upbeat loveliness could challenge the perky faces of the lululemon staff who hold yoga sessions on a Sunday morning….Sunday morning!! Do they ever drink on a Saturday night, only to wake on a Sunday morning to feel like a car has broken down in their mouth?? Or do they live in cryogenic freezers overnight, only to be thawed out each morning by the nominated lululemonite who is voted by the rest of them to have a night out on the town, cheeky bugger.

The thing is…and this is difficult for me…I read your COSMO stuff, I read the book you and your now Boy’f wrote and I read the article your wrote for the Mia Freeman Blog Mammamia.com….the one about “allwomenwantisacupoffuckingtea” (I could be paraphrasing), and you’re right. You’re right about everything! About singleton self esteem, about Pantene, about the tea, everything. So I admit defeat. If life were a competition (it is) you would win (you did). All that is left for me now is to become President of Australia and have you deported…Oh don’t worry, I won’t, fortunately for you you are likeable. My other option is to become truly fabulous myself so that people send me jealousy letters and I accumulate more jealousy letters than you. My hair is currently a little too witch/mermaid like for Pantene commercials, the closest I get to an Ad is A.D.D and I am not focused enough to write an entire book…could be the A.D.D…ooh, look a sparrow…but, what? BUT…he he he…and this is my ZING moment!!! …I have turned a few heads down Artarmon’s main street while doing “Mainies” Zoe and I have been asked out on three dates in the last 12 months by gentlemen over 65, score! I own your book so maybe I’ll re-read it, get out of my trackies and go on a date. I own my own carboard boxes and am formulating a plan to move out of my best friends spare room!! ( Not that that spare room isn’t awesome, thanks J & A ).

So watch out Miss Zoe Blake-Foster, I’m comin’ up! Yesssssssssssss

Sincerely, me.

Dear Lacksadaisy

Dear Lacksadaisy,

Can you have swollen adrenal glands?

Exhaustedly yours,

Jackie.

Dear Jackie.

Firstly, I am not a Google search engine and no longer wish to enable your hypochondriacal addiction to medical searches. Please stop emailing me with these kinds of questions, especially the one about your brothers’ warts (that one wasn’t even about you Jackie!!).

In saying that, I am, by nature, a casually helpful person and do not wish to see anyone with adrenal fatigue go without proper help or support. Plus, I am sponsored by the adrenal gland foundation and skin pigmentation association and am contractually obliged to reply to your question.

You may have “adrenal fatigue” Jackie. I read about it in Fitness First magazine. You get tired, your adrenal glands get really fat and you possibly die from “fatarse glandus”. Please be careful not to overdo things. Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it. So Jackie, pour yourself a soy chai latte, kick back and watch Ferris Buller’s Day Off…and then watch the Breakfast club, because you can’t have an 80’s movie marathon without either of those two movies… and then have a nap. Wake up from the nap and then go for a 20km run, because you’re likely to feel guilty about the nap and the four hours of movies you just watched!! Our society doesn’t look kindly upon slackers Jackie.

Yours truly,

Lacksadaisy x

Lacksadaisy,

I’m too shy to approach women at the pub.

I’ve been told I’m a nice guy, a bit of a catch,

but when I go to talk to a girl I am overcome with…

Um, abdominal cramps and have to rush to the toilet.

Please help,

Alex.

Dear Alex,

I understand your pain. I once went to ask out a gentleman (He was an attractive mathematician I spied while studying at the Melbourne Library. He was tutoring a high school boy in maths.) I was overcome with such nerves that I ended up whistling my request. Of course whistling involves neither lyrics, nor words, but in my mind the conversation went something like this:

(Casual and attractive Lacksadaisy): Hi.

Him: Hey.

(Casual and attractive Lacksadaisy): You seem pretty good with numbers, here’s my phone number if you would like to play the tv game show “words and numbers” and come up the target of 985...using my phone number

Him: Oh, I have my eye on a target. …infact, I’m calling you right now with my artistic, yet practical hands.

(Casual and attractive Lacksadaisy, seductively swishes hair and laughs).

The reality was slightly different. In reality I whistled in his face while my eyes got really wide, to the point that I looked like I was shrieking. Most of the whistling was done on an inhale (inhale whistles are never the most successful whistle, it is always better to exhale your whistle). I whistled the tune of Muse’s “Unintended” (It’s not an upbeat number…in fact it’s probably a bit full on for a first encounter whistle). I also went white and sweated so much that I looked like I had just emerged fully clothed from a swim in the Yarra.

Needless to say I was not successful.

Alex, I may not have succeeded in getting that attractive God like man to go out with me, but I did succeed in life. I dried my sweat patches under the hand dryer in the library bathroom, manically took a drink of water to re-lubricate my whistle mouth and strolled out of the library with my head held high. I knew every librarian was watching me as I collected my homemade library bag. They may have been whispering about the decline in Federal and State funding to mental health and closure of Mental Hospitals… or they may have been whispering:

“Look at her go, what a gutsy and stunningly beautiful woman”. Which do you think it was Alex? Which do you think?

Grow some hairy balls Alex. Take some Imodium and remember women are like snakes. She wants to meet you as much as you want to meet her. *

*That’s not completely true, please do not approach snakes unless you’re at the zoo and the snake is in an enclosure….even then, don’t approach the snake. We all read Harry Potter #1 and know what can happen at zoos in the reptile house.

The movie in my mind.

Why does packing tape smell bad? Maybe there’s a market for scented packing tape! I’m sure the Americans have already thought of it. “Marmalade scented packing tape, give your next move the feel of a comforting English breakfast”.

Yesterday I spent the day packing all of my worldly possessions into boxes. Actually most of the time was spent staring at my room willing the objects to arrange themselves neatly into the boxes through the use of telekineses. (All of those years of watching Sabrina the teenage witch obviously did nothing for my Witching skills… other than foster my love of her boyfriend Harvey and love for chunky 90’s jewellery. I no longer love 90’s jewellery, but if Harvey Tinkle walked down the street, Phwaaaaaaaaaaaar!).

The packing required lots of little micro decisions which is always excruciatingly boring, but hardly qualifies for the kind of mood where I just want to sit and stare at the ceiling while playing Adele on a loop during that movie in mind. You know, everyone does it!! You look at your life through the film lense. Watching yourself as an actor in a brilliant, or in this case very boring film.

In the movie I’m the lacksadaisical girl packing up her life into boxes while atmospheric music (Adele) is playing. Adele would be playing because I’d have a word with the music supervisor of my movie and politely state that Adele is the most appropriate choice. She is a good mix of soulful melancholy without being too emo. The music director would relinquish.

The costume department would be a bit difficult. I’d obviously want to upgrade my current look and be way trendier and have a much bigger budget, but they would argue that I wouldn’t be being true to my character and so I’d have to wear my usual uniform of something grey, perhaps jeans, most likely straddling (unsuccessfully) that line between trendy, conservative and safe. I would relinquish and end up wearing my comfy camouflage pants and a t-shirt. At least my bottom half will be invisible when my room/ film set is set upon by the militia

I fired the script department. I know, I know, harsh!! I’m not a big fan of silent movies but I had no choice! The only dialogue they gave me all day was a couple of phone calls and a hasty trip down to my friends house to drop off some chairs. I mean really!! Where is the romance, where is the dramatic tension. There were a few tense moments when I was writing a text message, but it hardly makes for riveting cinema. Alas, I had to do a lot of acting with my eyes. The director of photography managed to capture a few stellar moments. Highlights include:

• Soulful moment when I stare off into space
• Awkward moment when I smell the packing tape
• Comic moment when I fart and wonder if my housemates are home
• Delightful, romantic, French cinema moment when I buy punnet of blueberries
• Disgraceful moment when I eat whole punnet in under one minute, like an animal.

The movie ends with a “garden state” like feel. An areal shot of me lying on my bed in a star shape, while coldplay are playing something annoying a repetitive. The camera slowly pans back, shot of boxes and then one final shot of my eyeball to make it look meaningful.

The End. It’s been nominated aside True Grit for an Oscar.

BTW you can learn telekinesis at www.2knowmyself.com ......ok.