It's been a while since I've seen a 'homey'.

I think the last 'home-boy' i saw was Kevin Federline in WHO... wearing trousers that bagged down to his knees.. his CK undies hanging well above the pantline.

Say - I wonder if he could spare some fabric for Britney?

I gotta say - I miss homeys. Their big pants, backwards hats and baggy t-shirts.

Where did all the homeys go? Did their clothes shrink in the dryer... causing them to walk awkwardly with their heads towards the ground... forget to eat and subsequently become emo?

A gal can only wonder...

It's like the Hippie generation. One minute they were everywhere .. the next they were wearing spandex and dancing to disco... a few decades later, were polite civil servants with 3 kids at boarding school and a wife who just wasn't interested in sexytime.

Have all the homeys grown up?

Skaters are like homeys... but not. I used to know of alot of skaters, and to be honest, never thought much of them. The only person I thought looked cool on a skateboard was Bart Simpson. 

Skateboarders were just boys whose dad's wouldn't let them buy  rollerskates.

In my teens, I was a cross-gothic, alternative, doc-boot wearing bad ass.

In my early 20's, it was nasty halternecks, cork shoes and too much eyebrow pencil.

Now?

It's nothing.

Hahahaha.

Women don't seem to have a longstanding history of really unique 'looks' - I can't help but envy our male counterparts for a colourful history of exciting and celebrated attire such as - MC Hammer pants... Vanilla Ice t-shirts and Guns & Roses bandana's. It's such a novelty... even mullets.

All we have is "i can't beleive those shoulder pads' and 'omg - blue eyeshadow - how 80's!!"

BORING!!!!

If you ask me, anything with the word 'home' in it should retain similar appreciation. 'Home' is a great word... 'home-owner' and 'homeless' - even 'homebound' - 

let's not desecrate history by forgetting the 'home-boy'  either.

Daddy Mac 'ell make you jump.

Nasty.

All I can say, is thank GOD for Facebook....

"In total, you were reviewed for dating 1 time and no people expressed interest in you.

For me, the day before yesterday (being Tuesday) was a mind boggling experience. My past – well it came back to haunt me... or bite me... or whatever the expression is. 

It started with the friendly barista at our local coffee shop – just near my new work. You see, I recognised her on my first journey to find a creamy, enjoyable flat mocha to stimulate me of a morning. She was in Year 9 with me at St Clares – and from memory, I was a revolting terror whom she hated, and deservedly so.

For the past 2 months at my new job – 8 weeks of running between Court houses and Cop shops, I’ve been chuffed that a) she hasn’t recognised me and is superbly friendly and b) the mochas are sweet.

Then, on mind boggling Tuesday, I get a phonecall from reception.

“Ah, hi – ah …Nasty?”

“Yes” I say, wondering who wants me ,and why they’re calling me at lunchtime when I’m supposed to be on my lunch hour like everybody else – (but really, I’m working at my desk and starving to death)

“What’s this I hear about you stealing a crate of mooves?”

My mind drew a blank. Stealing? Moi? The pressure of working in criminal law has my mind swirling as I momentarily turned into Rumpole of the Bailey.

*Theft – how much? Was it less than $2000? Ha! A minor offence… a summary matter. No prior convictions? Good references? Would warrant good behaviour - at the worst…!!*

“Ohhhhhh” I gasped, remembering that in Year 9 at St Clares, I had stolen a crate of mooves and now, the game was up. The barista had remembered me this whole time.

So alas, the day unfolds and I soon forget about my failed espionage - until later that afternoon, when I finish work and park my car outside a random Office building to pop into the supermarket to buy some mushrooms, basil and pasta for my exotic, carbo-licious dinner.

On my return, there is a business card on my windshield. “Ha!” I murmer – too exhausted to move as I entertain the idea of turning on the windscreen wipers and driving off with card flying into the wind –

until I see the word “LEGAL” printed in capitals.

“Legal?” I wonder… “which firm has stooped so low as to place business cards on the windows of unsuspecting, bird-dropping infested 1983 Pulsars?” My curiosity gets the better of me and I retrieve this peculiar item, turning it over to see an all too familiar name.

“Andrew Thomas”!

URK!

I bark… !!!

I squeal…!!!!

I drop the card in terror! Violated in my travels, Andrew Thomas - the strange ex-boyfriend-like person whom I once dated back in 2000 – had seen me exit the vehicle and waited in the wings to place his eeerrrksome card on my smudgey windscreen!

I shudder… looking at the high heels on my passenger seat… wondering if he longed to touch them? Or worse yet –

Wear them? As he waited behind a tree... hand on his proverbial gavel … watching me.

ARK!

So I drive home at rapid speed  - making sure to obey all road rules and avoid any reckless, negligent or furious driving.

I get home, and the flyscreen is locked.

GREAT!!! - I don’t have a key  - I am forced to break into my own house!!

"Ladies and gentleman of the Jury... I ask you... could her day have gotten any worse?"

I hike up my size 12 tunic, remove my size 7.5 colardo heels, and climb the fence... looking a sorry sight - thinking that attempted burglary certainly isn’t my forte –

Nor does it suit my outfit.

I scour my own house – looking at flyscreens and doors – rattling a few handles and saying a few F words, when I discover the bathroom window is open.

At last!! An Entry point!!!

I remove a screwdriver from my handbag (don’t even ask)  - unhinge the flyscreen and HEY PRESTO!!

I do as the Beatles songs, and come in through the bathroom window!!

So after such a hectic day, and 3 months of ignoring my blog, I realise that life is funny indeed. I work fulltime… I study fulltime. I love my job (although it drives me crazy ) and I love my degree (although I’m nearly finished).

In between working and studying – with friendships temporarily remanded-in-custody and socialising adjourned for a later Hearing date – I smile and appreciate that even though you can take the fun out my weekends…

You can’t take the fun out of Nasty.

"You have the right to remain dirty…”

Nasty-KG

They say you can only kick a dog so many times before it bites back. And when he does, presumabley it hurts. So much so, that kicking the dog results in a bite so ferocious, you yourself may kick the bucket.

That is, moments after you kick yourself for being so stupid.

The word 'kick' is a nasty word. Think about it - a 'punch' or 'whack' can be accidental, but the 'kick' requires intent... the malicious forethought... the act of raising one's leg, and propelling the foot (with force), towards the said recipient:

Be it dog, bucket or person.

Im off to a funeral tomorrow, for an old fella who himself 'kicked' the bucket. What timing hey... right after Christmas. They say in martial arts, the kick is said to be a more powerful weapon than the arm. Kicks are lethal... dangerous... sad... and whichever way you look at them:

the front kick will always be lethal, if not more lethal than the front wedge itself.

So, on the topics of kicks, I have been forced into thinking about what habits I intend to kick this New Years Day. Some habits are simple: stealing candy from babies, over-indulging on the carbs and no hot milo after 8pm.

But other habits are well... much harder than that. The kind of habits we develop BETWEEEN resolutions.... those 12 months of accrued habits which sneak up on you when you least expect it. Bad regrowth, unflattering hipsters and unhealthy friendships.

So I guess it begs the question...

where do we draw the line when it comes kicks?

and more importantly...

how do we know when it's time to kick the habit for good?

Now, i'm no footballer, martial arts expert or aerobics instructer. My kicks are pretty unco - and the closest I'll land a kick is probably somewhere between your left toe and the nearest exit sign.

But this New Years Eve, I guess there's plenty of kicking. But no dogs... or buckets...

just bad eggs, bad hair and a few stale memories which must be laid to rest for good.

So, as for resolutions, can a person really resolve to change it all in just one night?

The answer is yes;

time to let sleeping dogs lie and teach old ones new tricks.

2008; bringing you a storm in a D cup -

Nastykindagal.

1. Days One - Two:
   Apples (black tea/coffee allowed)
2. Days Three - Four:
   Cheese (black tea/coffee allowed)
3. Days Five - Six:
   Chicken (black tea/coffee allowed)
4. Days Seven - Eight:
   Salad (black tea/coffee allowed

Ahhh, the strenuous world of hardware! You take me under your wing every Saturday morning, nurturing me within your mecca of tools, timber and decor. Strengthening the sole of my feet as I stand there, manning register 715 in my hideous mustard t-shirt and poorly pinned nametag which SCREAMS my name out to all the world, ensuring that I am easily identifiable to tradesmen, frustrated mothers and poorly visioned old people.

"Good Morning Victoria"

??

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Perhaps not.

But I will allow the customers to compare thee to Bunnings... and other associated rival companies... when prices are too high and queues span longer than a piece of string.

Weekend jobs are the pits. I should know - I've been planted behind the same set of cash registers for 12 months now - dodging frustrated sighs and barely escaping the fury of many an angry customer. I'm OVER retail. Tired of squealing 'NEXT PLEASE'... of strangers calling me by name and most of all:

losing every Saturday.

Sometime, customers are nice. Sometimes, they are horrible - speaking to me as though I am as dumb as a doorknob. The only thing missing is a 'please do not disturb' sign to hang from neck, marking, quite satirically, my fear of insanity and the fact that one day,I may indeed become disturbed for good.

But it's not all that bad. There are some nice people there - a handful of 'cool' youngsters (myself included), a bevy of smoking women and the majority, being white haired veterans of retail: 60 year old men not quite ready for retirement, who wander the store in search of customers to help.

So yesterday, I took advantage of our ageing staff population and took to 'question time' with my favourite foggy, a 68 year old named 'Evan'.

Evan is our security guard. He stands at the main door, checking bags, prams and much to my surprise:

checking out women!

I gasped!

"Old people perv?" I asked him.

"Of course we do!" he responds.

"At who?"

"Women" he tells me

I got to wondering. What sort of women would Evan like? The delicate, lavendar smelling type with pinkish hair and walking frames... or the more outspoken, long white hair booming grannys? So I asked him his preferance...

"Young ones" he says.

"You mean, post world war 2 babies?" I asked.

"No. Young ones... with perky backsides and plump, wrinkle free skin"

Wow & Barf... old men still perv.

Having realised that old men are just as shallow as young ones, my heart skipped a beat when I thought about all those 70-something year old Bertha's and Marjory's, getting their hair and nails done at the retirement village, only to be outshone by perky nurses and miscellanous grandaughters friends'.

SHAME !!!!

All of a sudden it struck me like a timber handled, ryobi electronic nail gun to the lower temple,

no matter how young or old, men are always looking to jump the queue and find the next best checkout operator. The one that is fastest, easier for them to get to you... and will stand there patiently while they fumble around in the trouser pocket of life sifting through small change and a mid life crisis.

So have a nice day, and if you're gramatically inclined, consider the following and laugh along with me:

"A woman: without her, man is nothing"

"A woman, without her man, is nothing."

Nasty.

They say 2 wrongs don't make a right:

but 3 make a left.

They also say a bird in the hand is worth 2 in the bush:

but these days, it's all about the Brazalian.

People and their sayings... and their doings... with their yardsticks, pedestals and high horses. After 1 year of gruelling, mind-numbing and intense study,

I am 1 right turn and a landing-strip short of a law degree.

That's right baby...

next year, I'm a lawyer.

Earlier this year, I unhinged my wonderbra of binge and excess, stripped myself of mischief, mayhem and merlot and pulled my ankle socks well above my knees. 

I studied the books harder than an aged, sexually deprived and paying client does a lapdance;

I realised that in order to BE somebody, I'd have to take mine to class, study hard and focus on results.

And, as happens in life, everything changed. My uni friends wondered what on earth I was doing in class, and my social friends managed to dislodge their lips from respective footballers and let their jaws fall to the ground. My Library card soon took precedence over my Mooseheads card and for the first time in years, I became inspired by the law all over again.

I became a nerd.

But my impending goods grades came at a price more crippling than coverchage in Sydney on New Years. I lost friends; a number of them. People I've known since I was knee-high to a bouncer suddenly retreated, attacked and dispersed.

Then there was the sobering up. Having to re-train my brain from Saturday Night Fever to face the long, hard and demanding reality of serious study. There would be no wolf-whistles or cheap shots to help get me through a night of mens rea and hearsay; no guiding hand to help me up when I tripped on consumer protection and hardest of all,

no-one to watch my back when socractic questions put me on the spot.

And you wanna know what?

I wouldn't change it for the world.

As a 20-something year old woman, I guess I (along with many others) tend to take life very seriously. Sometimes I feel so very grown up... falling into and out of intense relationships and discussion; making bold assertions about life when in reality,

i'm one cup size up from being 19 again.

I sit back and consider my options; feeling as though time will run out if I don't act now, pay later. And it's only when I sit back and reflect on the past when I remind myself that although I'm just months short of finishing uni;

I'm only a few years into a whole lifetime.

2007 has been a sexy year. And if I had my way? I might change a few things... tweak a couple of off moments and learn when to draw a breath.

But for everything else? The wrong answers... the feeling of having both hands tied behind my back when I thought I was doing the right thing at last?

Not even the long arm of the law could twist mine otherwise.

You have the right to remain dirty....

Nasty!

It's desperate times and desperate measures when you're called upon to co-ordinate the hen's night of a very wild woman.

In the past, like most girls, I'd seen "The Wedding Planner" and thought (for a brief, goon-induced moment) that I too could pull a J-Lo and become a wedding planner.

Then I saw "Maid in Manhatten" and considered a career in the hotel industry. Hanging out with my hoochy sister's in the upper-west-side of Manhatten's plushest hotels -  making beds and later lying in them with Ralph Fiennes and other likminded patrons.

Oh - and who can forget the time I revisisted my childhood home on Owen Dixon Drive in Evatt?? Later putting pen to paper to write a song whose gist was, no matter how rich I become, how many men I marry and how many rocks that I got:

I'm still Nasty from the small house with a blown up letterbox on the wrong side of the block.

Anyway, I was recently called upon to colloborate a series of ideas for my big sister's, best friend's, hen's night.

I was blown away.

Moi?

Organising the pre-martail soiree of a post-mix party girl?

I wondered what it was. My suberb organisational skills?... my eye for detail?... my penchant for the finer things in life?

Nope.

It seemed that, no matter how succesful this 30-something year old friend had become - with her personal wealth, beauty and well-to-do investments:

the ex St Clares girl wanted one last dabble in debauchery.

So my sister called me.

Anyway, tearing myself away from the Evidence Act to write this blog, I was surprised to discover the hen's night would be held in canberra... and even more surprised when I found out that Canberra, the porn capital of the country, with legalised brothells, plenty o'adult shops and limestone lizzy:  

only had 1 male stripper.

Not 2... or even 1.5... but 1 guy named 'Covy' who my sources tell me,

services the Goulburn region as well.

It got me thinking about Canberra, and I guess the overall lifestyle of those who reside here. With our bustling public service and senate estimates hearings. All the roundabouts that seperate Gungahlin from Belconnen and that huge stretch of no-man's land between Tuggeranong and everywhere else. (quarantine??).

Of all the people, all the porn and all the cocky, smug, self-serving men:

we only have 1 stripper;

and he's old.

So, for all the guys reading this, if you're from Canberra or even our esteemed neighbour, Queanbeyan... I beg you to consider a career change; to dismantle Covy's monopoly in the market of hen's night stripping and give crazy, pre-marital drunk women more confidence in their economy.

Get your sexy on -

Nasty.

The other day, I shocked myself into a state of comatose when I asked my friend's sister a question I never thought I'd ask another woman:

"So... are you seeing anyone special at the moment??"

I nearly choked on my lukewarm sausage and onion sandwich. Mortified at what had come out of my mouth (and later, morified at what I had put into it), the world suddenly went into slow motion as I noticed her reaction.

Her head twitched just slightly to the left... her eyes widened as her gaze momentarily dropped to the floor.

I panicked.

"Oh no!... NO!... don't answer it! I can't beleive I just asked you that - plead the 5th - PLEAD THE 5TH!!!!" I begged of her - feeling the blood rush from my head.

I guess as my dad used to say -

I felt like a silly sausage.

Of course, she thought I was an idiot and I didn't blame her. With a looming silence filling the room - overwhelming the smell of babies, napies and gossiping young mothers - she braveley volunteered a response:

"No... No I'm afraid. Haven't quite met anyone yet".

*ooops*

It reminded me of a time, all them years ago, when I was groupie and hanging out backstage at the Bob Dylan concert. My friend and I were young and impressionable... and welcomed to join a very strange looking man with a name I had forgotten for dinner in the VIP tent.

We didn't know him - all we knew was that he was a tall, UFO-like man with tight leather pants, piercing blue eyes and long, black matted hair.

But Maree hadn't forgotten his name... and in hindsight... I wish I hadn't forgotten it either.

For, during a break in the conversation, as he slurpped away on his spagetti... his watery eyes scowering our young, impressionable figures... she says with trepidation:

"So Mr Simons... I hear you once played bass - for a band called 'The Kiss'???"

He pauses in between a forkfulls of fettucini and pasta to glance towards his laughing entourage and murmer:

"Yeah, something like that"

We later found out:

it was Gene Simmons.

In a strange way, it appeared to excite him. The anonymity...the possible discretion of posing to be a nobody with his revolting long tounge urging to find it's way towards our vibrant, young selves. He watched us with sheer delight; finishing his dinner, taking a long sip of bourbon and placing two things on the table;

his empty glass;

and an offer we could refuse.

So anyway, turning from the exciting rockstar back to the BBQ - I felt terrible about asking her the dreaded question that (ask Bridget Jones tells us): all singles girls dread.

Seeing anyone special?

What am I? A war widow... a ninny??  I left the room on the premise that I was getting another sausage just to escape the calamity I had inflicted upon this poor, nearly 30 year old woman.

But it got me thinking.

Was it really that bad? I mean... why did I feel so guilty? It was like I had asked a blind person to tell me the time... or a fat person for tips on how to lose weight.

Was it the wrong thing to ask?

Days later, I had dinner with my nearest & deareast girlfriends. I told them of my 'special' comment, as surprisingly, they shook their heads and demanded:

"Snap out of it! - who cares?"

"We were all single once"

And it was true.

Every young woman, has at some point in their lives, been single.

There are those who have fought... flirted and fornicated our ways to Mr Right. And those who have sleezed, snuck and shimmied his way.  Whatever the case may be;

there's no point tredding lightly when there's an Elephant in sitting room (or in my case, the lounge room).

So I stopped indulging in my guilt and let the balloon of humilitation fly. I realised that being hypersensitive towards a tempestuous, slightly jaded single woman is not the way to go. That for those of us who have braved the cold, cruel world of dating and come out on top (or the bottom, depending on which you prefer);  being single should never be a dirty word. 

Rock & Roll all night.

Nasty. 

I have a sexy boyfriend.

When I met him, I wasn't expecting it. I was a perennial party girl... post break up... post mix. I was 24 hours into 'boytox' when we met... the very first time I laid eyes on him, something crumbled.

Something skipped a beat... raced at a million miles a minute and went from my backpocket onto my sleeve.

My heart became full.

In life, you meet people and you love. It's a beautiful thing that you feel... and feel you should.

But then there's that kind of love. The kind that sweeps you off your feet- gives you butterflies - makes life two cup sizes bigger. You can't explain it, nor can you force it - it just takes you on it's very own misadventure.

The first time I saw him, my world changed. Every motion was beautiful - every word just clicked. I'd never met him, but I knew him - it's like we'd lived within 6 degrees our whole lives.

I think i'd loved him forever.

So Happy Birthday to him!

The most amazing person I've ever felt... and the other half of the sky.

To me, you are a greater feeling than love.

Veronica.

When i was a kid, it was a compliment to have a 'big brain'. The suggestion was (all them years ago) that a big 'big brain' was indicative of a smart brain.

Then in Year 4, I heard this story about a crazy weird friend of my Dad's whose brain was too big. Rumour had it; his brain had swelled.

I became confused... as my young imagination morphed into this Roald Dahl fantasy world. One with giant peaches and strange, androgynous chocolate factory owners who reminded me of Michael Jackson.  

I pictured my Dad's friend. This ugly, mean little bald man with a huge forehead;  wearing a glazed look in his eyes and a man-sized nappy as he clapped along to seasame street while eating vegemite soldiers.

It did not make sense:

how could a big brain be bad?

Of course, my Dad's friend turned out alright in the end. His once gargantuous brain soon shrivelled back down to size, although in the process, the stress on his poor wife caused her ass to inflate.... and presumbley his other bodily organs shrivelled as well. 

For as I once overheard her say...

"I'm allergic to chocolate -

it makes my bum swell"

Anywayyyyy, exam time is near and brains are beggining to EXPLODE!! So much to learn... to understand. My poor brain is like an undersized, yapping poodle on heat;

overstimulated.

All I think about is law. Donaghue v Stevenson... Natural Justice...Exceptions to Hearsay. Prerogative Writs... Consumer Protection and Indefeasible Title. My boyfriend tells me...

"Nasty...

get your gear off...." *hahahha*

OOPS! I mean:

"Nasty....

switch your brain off"

And I can't... and I wouldn't. Until just recently... I figured out how to make it all better;

Stupidification.

A short, sharp indulgence in trash TV.

You see, intellect is relative. It's not about whose brain is bigger... whose bum is bigger... whose *ahem* is bigger. It's about weight - how much importance you give to an assigned subject matter.

A good lawyer is no smarter than a good mechanic... or a good hairdresser... or a good Nurse. So when I decide to 'stupidify' myself, it's not to the detriment of anyone except some crazy toothless woman with 1 poor child and 10 potential fathers:

"Tyrone... you are NOT the father"

That's where trash TV comes in. It deflates what is ordinarily an overflated brain by throwing in a couple of f*words and a big, 'junk-in-your-trunk' sized dose of reality to unclog the pores of pretension.

Trash TV = the poor woman's pilates.

"the lie detector test determined... that was a lie"

Your friend, Nasty.

A recent scientific study found that women find different male faces attractive depending on where they are in their menstrual cycle.

For example, when a woman is ovulating she will prefer a man with rugged, masculine features.

However when she is menstruating, she prefers a man doused in petrol and set on fire, with scissors stuck in his eye and a cricket stump shoved up his backside.

Tee Hee.

Nasty.

Google dictionary and I have great relationship. It is my oracle... my visionary. Answering even the stupidest of questions, misspelt or not, Google never judges me.

My relationship with Google is also exclusive. I don't do Yahoo... have never messed around with ninemsn and wouldn't touch HotBot in my darkest, most desperate of hours.

I trust Google. It has never failed me, is there whenever I need it and most importantly:

Google doesn't argue -

it just does.

I'm a big fan of google dictionary. For example, I ask it to "define: carp".

Google tells me that it is the 'lean flesh of a fish', a 'freshwater fish' and 'symbol of great aspirations and strength'.

For lack of better expression, Google always seems to be there. To filter through profanity and poor use of slang, instead of calling someone a "sl*t", Google suggests we call her a 'dirty untidy woman', a 'woman adulterer' or 'a pejorative term for a person (usually female) who is more sexually promiscuous than is socially acceptable'.

And let's face it.... in those self-doubting moments... where you feel a little lost, insignificant, or even like a small carp in a big sea;

you can always google yourself.

In today's society, which is one of upheaveal, cheap thrills and even cheaper broadband, women spend alot of time exchanging funny/unfunny jokes about the stupidity of men:

What do you call a handcuffed man?

Trustworthy.

 

Why do men like smart women?

Opposites attract

 

How does a man show that he's planning for the future?

He buys two cases of beer instead of one

It's an accepted trade-off. They have porn, we have jokes about the size of their respective bodily organs to chuckle over, and forward at their expense.

To me, jokes about men and blondes aren't all that funny. I guess you could say i'm a realist...

you're only as dumb as the hair colour you're born with...

and only as bad as the man that you grope.

Sure, men are simple. But so is google.... and to be honest...

i think simple is good.

As I am growing, in both cupsize and age, I am compelled towards the more simple things in life. A straightforward request, an honest answer and simple rebut. I'm tired of complications... longwinded drama's... drawn out breaths and too many fullstops.................

all I want in life, is to call a spade a spade.

So thanks Google. For being there when reason, rationality and effort is not. For giving me the answer to life's little questions, and guiding me where text books, 3 hour lectures and pretencious academics may not.

V

Man, I am poor.

Totally, stupidly and intoxicatingly poor.

In the old days, I heard of this 'poor student' affliction and thought it was a myth concocted by smug, self-serving uni bludgers who relied on their heightened status as 'students' to escape the workforce. 

But then I became a student and realised that the price for good grades:

is $0.

Well, not quite.

It's $236 per fortnight... PLUS youth allowance,

but when you break it down, all it amounts to is $315 per week.

$315 a week.

For someone who needs to pay rent, drive a car, pay bills, maintain a social life, upkeep her feminine charms, eat and generally stay alive,

$315 will only just get you there.

Being poor has been an awakening experience. 

It has stripped me; if I want to buy a piece of clothing, I am forced to momentarily deliberate between the $15 or $20 top.

(That $5 makes all the difference.)

It has sobered me; Forced me to consider whether a messy Saturday night in town is worth 1 weeks groceries and half a tank of petrol.

(2 gin & tonics = 80 kilometres in my car.)

I am a woman who, in pursuit of 1 more year until graduation,

has renounced all her earthly possessions and is now forced to,

dare I admit to you all...

dye my own hair.  

*cue fall to the knees, looking to the heavens and screaming 'whhhyyyy!!!'*

There are many types of students roaming the campus of life. Those who live at home with mum & dad, do arts degrees, and talk about the meaning of life and other pretencious dribble. Then there are those who live on campus, get drunk at lunchtime and seem to be forever waiting for the bell to ring to get to class (even though there is no bell).

There are the mature-age people who have 3 kids, 2 jobs, shoulder pads and ask too many questions in class, and there's the rest of us;

the ones who don't fit the cliche, don't mind the lifestyle and can't wait to get out of here.

Being poor is hard, but it's a good lesson in life. It forces you to consider the pro's and the con's... the needs and the wants... the things in life you once had the sense to overlook and now,

have no cents at all.

Say... could you spare a dollar for the bus?

Poor in taste but not style:

Nasty.

 I once had a friend named ‘Sally’ who was a curious person. She was intrigued with the mystique of the underworld… where money, sex and power motivated young mobsters like Dr Phil does frigid housewives.

Her fascination with this brooding and yet glamorous syndicate led her to respond to a job advertisement at a local ‘Burlesque’ club. The kind of place one could envisage under the glow of a red light, on the corner of ‘don’t tell my wife’ and ‘who’s your daddy’.

Against our good advice, she took it upon herself to act as her own guinea pig in this wayward social experiment and called the owner to confirm her job interview at 8pm that evening.

We were shocked… “those kind of places are reserved for perverts and low-lives” we insisted, “you’re only asking for trouble” we would cry, but Sally, with her bright eyes and bushy pony-tail, could not be persuaded.

Later that evening, I hadn’t heard from Sally. Early the next day, not a peep; no text message, nor a phone message or email.

It’s like Sally had vanished into thin air.

By 5pm, I was alarmed so made an emergency SOS (save our sally) trip to her house.

My fear, fused with millions of crazy thoughts about the pervy job interview came to a hault when Sally opened the front door wearing her PJ’s and a very tired look. She went on to tell me the story….

“It was crazy Nasty… just crazy. I drove around Fyshwick expecting to see this sleazy strip with fluoro lights and expensive cars, only to find this old, musty building which looked like a computer store with the front window blacked out.”

She continued…

“ I walked to the front door and knocked… nobody answered. Suddenly, a loud voice boomed over my shoulder “what is your business”! and I jumped. Turning to my right, there was an intercom hanging off the wall with a little grey button… the voice inside said “push the button to talk”.

That’s when I started freaking out…

imagine how many horny, gross fingers had touched that button????”

She rubbed her eyes, smushing the remnants of day-old mascara deeper into her tired pores:

“So I press the button and I say “I'm here for the job interview”. The door opens, and there’s this fat woman standing there. No teeth, a big baggy jumper who points inward to another door and says “through there love”.

I walk through, into this small room with leather couches, a coffee table with a vase holding plastic flowers, and a whole pile of old porno’s scattered across the top with boobs, bums and bondage plastered all over the covers. This small Asian man walks in, and extends his hand saying “I’m Tan” and he takes a seat. I sit adjacent, crossing my legs and nervously fumbling with my resume. He says:

“Are you a working girl” and I say “Yes, I’ve been working since I was 15”

He seems impressed, and although his English isn’t that great, he seems quite interested. He says “15? Wow… is early” and I say “Well, my parents encouraged it. They did it with all my sisters - said it would teach us a lot about the world”

He says “so where did you work” and I say “Well, at Manuka Woolies for a few years” and he says “Manuka, wow. I’ve never heard of Woooooolies”. I mean, come on:

who hasn’t heard of Woolies?

Anyway, I said “It was on the corner, across from the big empty carpark ” and he simply nods his head and says “start tonight” and excited, I agree.”

Sally takes a deep sigh, her eyes narrow as I start mentally scanning my teledex for any big, rough bikies who can go out to Fyshwick and kick a little asian man’s backside.

“So, I started work at 10pm and it’s BORING!” she says “The women were nothing like you see in the movies. Their clothes were terrible and they just sat there watching TV. It was dead quiet… and by 1am… I fell fast asleep on the desk only to be awoken by Tan politely tapping me on the shoulder saying “you do rubs? You do rubs?” over and over again.

“What do you mean ‘do rubs’?” and he says “$50…$50 for 30 minutes”.

I suddenly freak out… “no, no, no! I’m just the receptionist!” and he says “You working girl???” and I say “yeah, so what” and he says “50 more then…50 more!”.

I suddenly realise what he means; working girl, as in WORKING girl!!

I demand to leave immediately - and Tan is a nice man, who apologises profusley and rifles through the money draw insisting her pays me for my 3 hours. Feeling awkward, I peek out back and notice one of the girls changing from tracksuit pants into a flimsy, faded red negligee....

it must have been happy hour.

Tan opens the door, passing me my envelope as I walk to my car as quickly as possible, vowing never to return to the sleazy underworld”

So that was the end of her story. Sally’s short-lived romance with the underworld… Fyshwick – the Bris-Vegas of Canberra’s inner-southside.

We would never speak of this job again. The interview, the parlour or even Tan.

But before I bid my farewells, I ask her one last question:

“How much did he pay you… for the most productive 3 hours you ever worked… ridding you of this dangerous fascination with the underworld???”

“$21” she utters, and closes the door.

*diclaimer: no children, animals or cheap, nasty women were harmed during the making of this blog. The only thing that did suffer, was my grades*

V

We are a world of junkies... addicts... fanatics.

It all started last night, during a fabulous dinner with my much loved ladies. Miss M rushes into the restaurant and sits down, with a strange look that slightly contorted her generally uncontortable face and says:

"I just drove down Northbourne Avenue... did you know the window washer was wearing a Daramalan College Jersey".

She flinched.

"Does that mean that the window washer went to Darraa?"

I was hungry, so shrugged and continued scowering my neighbours dishes in deciding between Pad Thai & Laksa.

But Miss T replies:

"Well, legend has it, that he graduated top of his class like 15 years ago and became a luctrative accountant until he got into heroine and lost it all"

Murmers sweep across the table...

Miss P: "ohhh, terrible"...

Mr Z: "wow, how sad"...