To clean the fridge or not to clean the fridge, that is the question. ( And isn't it interesting how one can write that as a statement without a question mark? ) Something is rotten in there and it is not the state of Denmark.

I bet Princess Mary is not cleaning her fridge today .. SO WHY SHOULD I? I bet JK Rowling is not cleaning her fridge today .. SO WHY SHOULD I? I bet Naomi Campbell is not cleaning fridges today .. oh hang on, she might be, I know she's done a few toilets recently.. . Anyway, now is the opportune moment because there is hardly any edible food left in the fridge so all the dead, diseased and decomposing stuff is plainly visible from the front. But two of the Three Little Pigs were utter maggots last night at tea time and caused me to miss the Makeover episode on The Biggest Loser - so I am not feeling kindly disposed to anything that adds pleasantness to their existence today . How can one miserable child take one wretched hour to eat one measly organic, free-range, roast chicken drumstick?

I will feed him witchetty grubs next time. Though this be madness, yet there is method in it. Maggot!

Oh, how I suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune! That's why I am sitting here, dear readers, in a tracksuit pondering the philosophy of refrigeration instead of preparing for my next news conference in my snazzy pink power suit.

I supppose I could do a Naomi and don a floor length, silver lame evening gown before I put on some rubber gloves AND RETAIN MY PRIDE. 'Tis nobler in my mind.

There is an awful lot of dignity stuck to the back of those shelves from some spilt yoghurt that I'm going to have to scrape off. Then I'll have to sluice up the swill of self worth that has gone gooey in the vegetable crisper. And I have jars and jars of nearly empty dreams cemented in place all around the corners that I'll need to prise off,... shuffle off, even. Aye, there's the rub. Sigh*

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up they soul, freeze thy young blood, make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, thy knotted and combined locks to part, and each particular hair to stand on end, like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But I won't. I don't want to remember the last time I cleaned it out again.

So, will I do this thing rank and gross in nature, or won't I?

The good news is that I am kind of running out of time now.

I

love

the

internet; a place of infinite jest , of most excellent fancy and refrigerator emancipation!
:-)
(And irony if you read my previous post.) :-)

:-) :-)

You know, sometimes I just hate EVERYTHING.

For example: there is this IKEA ad where the kid asks his mum where a certain toy is and she says,

"Stuffed toy or action figure?"

And he says,

"Action figure"

and she says,

"Battery powered or electronic?"

and he answers,

"Electronic".

Then the camera zooms in to her smarmy Stepford-wife face so all you can see is her red-lipsticked smug smirk at the left of the screen, and the kid is all a blur in the background. And the camera stays on that as she says,

" Your bedroom, south-east corner cupboard, second column, orange box."

At this point I emit steam out of my ears and entertain thoughts of weapons of mass destruction while my family roll their eyes (again). The hate this illicits must be nation-wide, especially for those of us of a "certain ilk". But what makes it worse is her bloody white decor and her bloody white clothes!!!
That is like a red rag to me.

And I hate those list 10 things you like blogs. I'm sorry if you have done one, dear reader, and I apologize for the (no doubt) sarcastic comment I left. BUT WHEN YOU ARE IN AN '"I HATE EVERYTHING MOOD'" THEN NOTHING ANNOYS YOU MORE THAN A HAPPY BLOGGER! And those little smiley icons and cross-stitchy flowery templates: hate those too. Want to blow them up.

If you are warm and fuzzy and happy and peppy and peachy and keen and fine and dandy then for goodness' sake DON'T ADVERTISE IT. It's just not encouraging to the rest of us. Get some problems. Show offs.

Sometimes I hate everything so much that I even hate hate! Think of all the problems hating stuff causes! If I didn't hate housework so much then I would probably have white furniture and Swedish storage systems and shiny children!
And sometimes I even hate the thought of hating hate!!! And sometimes I just don't like it.

So what about you, dear reader? What is "up your nose" today? Don't fight it! Embrace your negativity for the greater good! My comments box is now open: wipe the smiles off your faces, I'd like one moan or groan from each of you!

We have a poof in the family and his name is Abdul. It's no secret.


"GET OFF THE POOF!" I don't know how many times I was told that growing up...

"DO -NOT -SIT -ON -THE -POOF !"

..Which was not fair, since visitors were always allowed to. They probably could have even jumped on him if they wanted and my Mum would not have told them off! I could only ever jump on Abdul when she wasn't looking. Just perching on him cross-legged was the best thing - or lying on him watching TV, or singing "Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree ..." Sometimes I used to pretend I was riding a horse!

I remember inviting InstantJim over to my house one day, before we were married, and offering him the poof. I remember the funny funny look he gave me. (Like I was really queer and odd in some way or something!)

Poor old Abdul. He's a bit old and worn out now from all the wear and tear over the years. I can't say how old he is exactly, but my Mum first picked him up in the Middle East around the Suez canal donkeys years ago. And we've still got him with us, well with me to be more precise. ( My sister likes younger more modern poofs.) I had him living out in the shed for years, but that distressed him because his skin kind of cracked in the heat and grew mould in the winter (that Vaseline made no difference!), so I brought him inside again and now he lives in the laundry. No one sits on him anymore.

Still, he can look back on his career with pride. (But surely he must still be good for something? It just seems such a waste of all that leather!!)

Sometimes I wonder about that dear camel who gave his life for him.


And why the French spell it "pouffe".

ROMANCE IS OFFICIALLY DEAD.

And every three seconds around the world someone buys a piece of broken hearted tragedy!



HOW COME NOBODY TOLD ME THAT KEN AND BARBIE BROKE UP???!!

There have been an awful lot of seconds since FEBRUARY 12TH 2004! Yes: 96 917 178 of 'em! And you can say it in three seconds. Less than that ! Try it: "KENANDBARBIEBROKEUP!" "BarbiedumpedKen" "SkankBarbieditchedtoyboy" "KenplayswithBratz" .

So what's the goss? Give us the juice: what happened????

43 years. They have been going out for forty-three years! Mattel's childhood-smashing spokesperson gave the mimsy explanation, "They just wanted to spend some quality time apart. They remain friends," which of course, is a load of twoddle!

Enter the villain of the story: Blaine the Australian Boogie boarder.

Now, I've heard the rumours going around that Ken finally came out of the closet of the dream-house, but I think that's a misconception started by all the loser -looks they've given Ken over the years (Nutcracker Ken and Tea Party Ken with Teddy Bear come to mind). THE MAN IS IN CHARGE OF HER BARBEQUE, for goodness' sake, AND ANY MAN THAT CAN HANDLE A PAIR OF TONGS OVER AN OPEN FLAME IS ALL MAN! Even though he's plastic. Now BLAINE is another matter and that's a girly la-la name for a start. No self-respecting Australian male would ever answer to that! (They should have made it "Blainzy" .) And just look at him:

Doesn't he remind you of someone?

Some people say it was all Barbie's careers that were to blame, or that Ken just never would commit and the wedding kept getting postponed, or that she was never really interested anyway and he was only ever arm-candy to her. Perhaps.

Then some others suggest that it wasn't Blaine that Barbie dumped Ken for but it was, in fact, G.I. Joe, or Action Man. I've even heard that she left him for Barney the purple dinosaur! (He's way too old for her.)

Like all good dramas, this one has a skeleton in the closet. (Not Ken's closet, a different one)(Not Blaine's closet a different different one!). Bild Lilli. Ever heard of Bild Lilli? Well, she's the doll that Barbie Millicent Roberts ripped off.

True! Here's a vintage Barbie:

Here's a Bild Lilli: She was a German-made doll only sold in tobacconists for "the pleasure of gentlemen". Same face as Barbie Number One (1959) same body with torpedo bosoms, same approximate size, and she even came with clothes to dress (and undress) her in. Mattel differentiated their Barbie (eventually) from Bild Lilli by giving her plastic permanent-undies.

So, I'm thinking maybe Bild Lilli has come back after many years and out-vamped Barbie and nicked Ken off her! European hussy! (No perma-knickers either.)

Still, I remain an idealist. I am a Romantic! (I spiral-permed my hair like Jane Seymour did in that Le Jardin ad.)

Ken and Barbie. It's destiny! They will drive off into the sunset in a pink convertible yet !! It's like Romeo and Juliet! Anthony and Cleopatra! Rhett and Scarlett! Ridge and Brooke! Bert and his pigeon! Ernie and his worm! Carson Kressley and

Come to think of it, Ken has plastic dacks, too.

It's doomed.

HOW TO GET OUT OF DEBT AND INTO A BIKINI

You won't find the answers here. Look, I tried, dear readers, I tried for the benefit of you all to gain this crucial information but 'the category' was blocked by the parental-control-filter on my computer. (Surprising, since it was from a news network homepage.) I suppose 'bikini' is classed as a naughty word.

And I don't think it was another Anna Nicole story. (How many people have everyone fighting over their body even after they've carked it?!) Still, her cinematic life certainly offers one way to achieve a bikini

lifestyle. Fergie did the same (the Princess/Duchess not the Fergalicious). Except she ended up "broke" again .................. though royally flushed enough to be able to lie around on banana lounges, poolside, having her toes sucked.

Of course the assumption is that people want to get out of debt and into a bikini.

Well, I don't get that in the first place.

After all, they're just glorified knickers and bras! Apparently the rule is "unless you can see the water, it is underwear" which explains why bikinis and "budgie smugglers" are not considered appropriate attire in the House of Parliament. Canberra is kilometres inland!

As for me, I prefer to go for boardies and a rashy if I'm swimming at the beach, which I never do, so mostly I look like Gidget's 'friend in a tent' Larue, complete with big hat. I should sing telegrammes while I'm down there. Make a few bucks. Get out of the red.

Perhaps we get out of debt by getting onto Bikini - the French island that has all been nuked to pieces by the Yanks when testing their weapons of mass destruction in the 1960s? I suppose a radioactive atoll could theoretically be classed as a tax haven - who's going to come and get you? ? I doubt they'd have a McDonalds and so your ability to fit into that itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot garment is more likely to eventuate there, though pieces of you may periodically start to glow and drop off.

Actually, people were cavorting around in bikinis yonks before Louis Reard took out the modern patent in 1946. I bet he's rich.

Yeah! Thousands of years ago in Crete there were cretins everywhere in bikinis! And then there are the famous mosaics of Piazza Armerina in Sicily which show pre-peroxide historical babes captured for all time in a seriously bad swimwear collection which makes us ask "Why even try when you don't have nylon elastane?" Quite a happening place though, Piazza Armerina, check out this wardrobe malfunction:
Is it just me or does he bear a striking resemblance to Justin Timberlake?

Sorry. I know, dear readers, you are all waiting for me to somehow stumble upon the recipe for debt free bikininess: but I've told you already: we won't find the answer here today.

I guess for now I will have to remain in debt and decent.
Keep away from my toes.