So, right, I hardly ever do the 'what I've been up to' kind of post.
It's just not that kind of blog.
I'm more of a 'these are some smart-arsed sentences I've thrown together about stuff, a couple of tentative similes, and an awesome zinging burn' kind of girl. But what the hell, right? If it can't be all about me on my own freakin' blog, what are we talking about? I'm not here for a haircut. Speaking of which, I just had a kind of rockin' haircut.
I'm running out of ways to describe how utterly slammed I am at work. I'm in the business of organising music for television shows, and the company I work for currently has a show on telly which is closing the ratings' testicles in a vice and twisting enthusiastically. We're kicking televisual arse, and it's kind of all about music. I'm pulling in sixty-plus hours a week, and feeling all necessary and important and crap, but if it wasn't for the ratings and a big double-fridge in the office kitchen bursting with beer, I don't know how I'd get through. Luckily, I recently had a promotion and a pay-rise, so it's nudging the edges of awesome.
America's Next Top Model.
On the one hand, I feel desperately sad and neglectful that, due to the aforementioned blue-arsed fly nature of my current work situation, I haven't been able to watch full episodes or bang a recap up on the 'blog. On the other hand, this current pay TV series is about as interesting as the dishwater left over from washing grey plates that once contained un-sugared porridge, so I'm not particularly devastated. On still the other hand, I've had a sneak-peak at the modules in the upcoming series of Australia's Next Top Model, and I'm rubbing my hands gleefully together with excitement like some kind of retarded praying mantis. Still, for those of you who need an update on the US series: Modules are manipulated. Nigel's bonkable. Tyra's an arsehole. Aaaaand I'm done.
If the panda suits, face-pegs, mimicking galahs and milky boobs of previous posts haven't given it away, I'll let you in on a bit of a secret - my family is fifteen different kinds of awesome. My parents are supportive, hilarious, and encourage all attempts at sarcasm, silliness, literacy, and lording it over stupid people. My brother wears panda suits in the desert, unhooks Giant Trevally from my fishing rod, and encourages me to jump out of planes. My twin sister is my source of mutual everything, provided me with the coolest nephew on the planet, is gestating the Niece Of Excellence, and is the best person I've ever met. Plus, she can totally kick your arse.
Is it possible to have crushes on fifteen different people at the same time? I'm kind of taking multi-tasking to the extreme, here. The curse of having your real name on your 'blog is never really being able to put too much contentious detail in. Trust me. It's better this way.
I'm having a cocktail party this weekend. I've barely had time to organise anything, but if it goes to plan, it'll be the kind of shindig that both Dean Martin and Pete Doherty would be more than happy to attend, albeit without quite the need for Jerry Lewis or crack. I'm doing all the canapes from scratch (because I'm a complete gourmet wanker), and I'm naming one of the drinks the 'Mojo-hito'. If Clive Owen ever returns my calls, he's totally invited. I'll be wearing lilies in my hair and my most robust drinking undergarments.
What the fuck is this shit.
Still good. Keeping my hips separate from my thighs, and filling out my jeans nice.
Started both Lady Chatterly's Lover and Nick Cetacean's yet-to-be-published book excerpt eons ago. Enjoying.
Rufus Wainwright, you move me as no gay man could or should.
And I should probably mention Bluejuice and Sierra Fin, because I'm a name-dropping whore, and I had beer with parts of you today.
That's it, really. I've got music to license, floors to sweep and cocktails to invent. Oh, and work? I borrowed some chairs and beer.