I know this guy who flew to Bucharest today for a conference. He really wanted it to be DraculAir but it was plain old KLM.

The lucky bastard's gone behind the Iron Curtain. Don't tell me that the Iron Curtain is no more. I won't let you take that evil communist overlord Nadia Comaneci Perfect 10 polyester tracksuit romance away from me.

I've never had a job that required me to go to conferences. One-day seminars run by software companies don't count. They're just for product-flogging and clamouring over Adobe hats and yo-yo's or Macromedia Flash t-shirts that have no hope of stretching across the bellies of the clamour-ers.

Proper conferences are the stuff of telemovies and poorly-written erotic stories on the internet. There's a guy in the hotel bar who's slamming down a bourbon glass and loosening his tie. He looks up and finally notices the lonely brunette in the beige pantyhose, playing with the ice cubes in her drink, briefcase at her feet.

-- So I bet you're here for Air-Con Con '97 too?

-- Oh yes! I can't wait for the climate control workshop tomorrow. How about a drink?

Fifteen to twenty sprawling paragraphs later, they're afterglowing in his suite in fluffy bathrobes. They crack open the mini-bar Schweppes Tonic Water and divvy up the Toblerone and wonder if they'll get away with it

Some days I want to surrender and have one of those weblogs where one can just fire up about whatever's shitting them off on that particular day with no regard for quality and editorial control instead of the sorely neglected over-edited pile of pish this site has become. So here's a few things that have annoyed me lately.

1. Small child on bus who turned around to face me and demonstrate her ability to make giant snot bubbles zap in and out of her precious little nostrils.

2. The person who heats up their lunch in the microwave and takes it out before the time is up then just shuts the door WITHOUT clearing the timer, which means when I wander into the kitchen the display says 00.27 or 01.00 or whatever trickle of time they left behind, instead of showing the CLOCK which is the rightful setting for a microwave currently not in use, so I am forced to clear it myself coz I can't stand microwaves that haven't been allowed to finish their jobs properly. I have been pressing that damn Cancel button for eight months now and I swear I WILL FIND YOU, fucker, and I will microwave your arse on 100%!

3. West Approach Road closure. Small delays my arse!

4. Deranged flatmate obsessed with safety.
FLATMATE: Do you know where the bath mat disappeared to?
SHAUNA: No.
FLATMATE: Well you know it is there so we don't slip over when we get out of the shower!
SHAUNA: No way?
FLATMATE: It's dangerous. One of us could slip out and go flying right through the glass door!
SHAUNA: That could be interesting.

5. Woman in my Body Jam class wearing PEARLS with her skimpy hotpants and crop top. PEARLS!

6. Losing the lovely amber ring The Mothership bought me a mere two weeks ago. I don't know where or when.

7. The way my boss dials the telephone with excruciating slowness, fingers hovering over the numbers as if trying to select a chocolate from the Milk Tray box. 3.... 3.... 4.... *pause for a full minute* 6... 7... 7... *goes and makes a cuppa* ............. 9. Pick up the pace, sport! Don't make me break your dialing finger!

Moving the contents of your apartment down three flights of stairs one armload at a time is bloody boring, to say the least. Plus I hate walking down stairs when carrying things, I freak out when I can't see my feet.

But I found a good way to stay awake and/or not fall down head over turkey: assign stupid personas and scenarios to each load.

BOX OF WINE GLASSES --  A family of refugees who I was smuggling over the border. Persecuted in their homeland for not being genuine crystal, they paid me $1000 to put them on a boat bound for the promised land. The faint clink clink as I ran down the stairs was their pitiful cries for oxygen.

BIG FAT ARMCHAIR WITH LURID GREEN AND PINK STRIPES --  A rather portly skank at a nightclub. She'd been in a brawl with some fellow skanks, and I was the bouncer. I slung her over my shoulder and lumbered down the stairs to throw her out on the street. She kicked and screamed the whole way and threatened to sic her boyfriend Leroy onto me.

SUITCASE STUFFED WITH COOKBOOKS --  I'd murdered my wife, chopped her into steaks and now planned to put her remains on a train bound for the countryside... unaware that Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly were watching me from a window across the courtyard.

ASSORTED BED LINEN --  I was sneaking down to the local boarding school, where I would knot the sheets together to form a makeshift ladder so I could help a number of girls named Trixie or Imogen escape out the dormitory window and far from the clutches of their evil Headmistress.

Year 7, 1990. I used to watch the popular chicks draped over the bubblers at recess and wonder why the lads loved them so. Why had these girls nabbed the hottest (scrawny, arseless, crackly-voiced) boys in our grade? What did they have in common?

After a lot of scribbling in notebooks and scientific analysis, I concluded that the successful chicks all seemed to have huge, gravity defying fringes. That's bangs to you Americans.

These saucy babes had perfectly boring straight tresses in the back, but perched on their foreheads were magnificent works of art. The fringe stood noble, unmovable, a seperate entity. It was a careful construction, invariably bullied into place with half a can of hairspray.

There were a few different species. Some shot straight up like a picket fence, others spiked violently to one side like a backslash. Then there was the mushroom, my personal favourite. It had a distinct core, then each bit of hair had to be individually pulled outward so it fanned from the centre like petals on a (very tacky) flower.

I thought these chicks must have held the secret to man-snaring in their tidal waves of hair. Was there some mystical allure in their ponytails, scraped back so tight that their eyes narrowed like a cat? Was the scent of Taft SuperHold Laquer an aphrodesiac?

By the end of Year 8, everyone had adopted the freaky fringe, even me. But I was still no more successful with the lads than the bookworm with the body odor or the skanks that trolled the canteen lines asking, "Have you got five cents?"

Luckily I got older and realised that a particular hairstyle wasn't going to open the door to sweet sweet lovin'. There's no secret, no special formula to finding romance. Sometimes it just happens. Sometimes even while you're having a really bad hair day.

There's a few people moaning about being alone on evil Valentine's Day today. Chin up, I say. There's friends and music and vibrators and chocolate and puppies to make you smile. And it could be worse, you could have a really stupid fringe.

Text message conversations with Mr. Wrong Number.

About 3am
- WHERE R U RIGHT NOW?

9 am
- Who is this?

10 am
- ITS NATE
- I don't know a Nate
- OH MUST HAVE PUT IN THE RONG NUMBER NICE TO MEET U, WERE DO U LIVE?
- Canberra, and you?
- PERTH WAT DO U DO?

11.30 am
- Work for the govt. And you?
- IM A STOREMAN I WALK AROUND ALL DAY, HOW OLD R U?
- Almost 25.
- COOL SO WAT DO U DO FOR THE GOV?
- It's a secret. I have to go now.
- SO UR GONNA LEAVE ME HANGIN?
- Yes. Sorry.

1 pm
- SO ANYTHING U WANNA KNO?
- Umm. Is the weather nice in Perth?
- YEAH IF U LIKE RAIN AND I DO SO DO U WANNA KNOW HOW OLD I AM?
- Ok
- WEL I LOOK 20 I ACT LIKE IM 5 BUT IM 17
- Groovy. I have to go now.
- CYAH HAVE FUN

3 pm
- ALL WORK AND DULL PLAY MAKES SHAUNA DULL WOMAN :)
- SORRY IF IM DISTURBIN U BUT IM AT WORK AND IM BORED
- No worries.

4.15 pm
- SO WATS IT LIKE?
- What's what like?
- TALKIN TO A 17 YR OLD THAT LIVES ON THE OTHA SIDE OF THE COUNTRY
- Bloody weird.
- TIS AINT IT AND THE FACT THAT IM 17 DONT BOTHA YOU?
- Age doesn't matter in text messages.
- TO SOME PEOPLE IT DOES

Hmm. Yes. Good lord, I am desperate for conversation today. I am used to having Instant Messaging programs on my work computer and blathering away all day long. But I don't have installation rights on this computer. No chit chat. Instead I play with my phone and talk to young boys with their caps lock on. How very sad.

mailache n. When the tingly euphoria of seeing one actually has new e-mail melts into sadness and grump when one realises it's just more Check out these ho's in my highschool! spam.

Spotted outside Salmonella House in Braddon:

1977. to 1981 —  Really don't remember.


1982. Next-door neighbour Bradley's treehouse, handcrafted by his father in solid pine, nestled in an ancient pepper tree, complete with devoted mother bringing tasty snacks at regular intervals.


1983. Erin, Kelli-Ann and Marnie with their long flowing hair, just begging to be arranged into elaborate ponytails, braids and bunches. I am tortured by Rapunzel fantasies but lumped with a cropped red helmet.


1984. Tracy's unshakable ability to colour inside the lines, using her expensive brand-name brand-new implements, not skanky stubby pencils handed down through three generations of tight arses.


1985. Susie's genuine three-storey Barbie™ doll house, not shoddy homemade plywood construction. Also her Sale of the Century board game.


1986. Ballerinas.


1987. Anyone who's Dad didn't drive an mortifying bright orange Valiant Charger.


1988. My sister's prowess with cartwheels and handstands.


1989. Kids with chocolate Paddlepops from the school canteen.


1990. Brenda and Kelly's perfect hair on 90210.


1991. Kylie's parents, the Mum who cooked dinners and the Dad with sparkly eyes who told dirty jokes.


1992. Anyone with a part-time job.


1993. Anyone without a part-time job, or at least one not at KFC.


1994. Anyone without acne.


1995. Anyone with a drivers licence.


1996. Anyone with a drivers licence who could comprehend calculus.


1997. Anyone who could handle more than one drink without feeling the need to get naked and/or sing sea shanties.


1998. Anyone getting laid.


1999. Anyone with a job.


2000. Anyone without a job, especially those good for nothing bludging university students who know nothing about the Real World™.


2001. That chick at the gym with the perfect body. Her limbs are long and elegant, muscular but still feminine and curvy. Her skin is tan but not in that Roasted On A Sunbed way. An hour of gruelling Body Combat class means a delicate sheen of sweat that enhances her perfect skin, whereas I am glazed and pink like a Christmas ham.


2002. Babies: Sleeping, eating, farting. What a life.

This week I've learned the importance of good signage in the workplace to warn employees of potential hazards. I've also learned the importance of ensuring none of these posters are designed any later than 1985.

There are hundreds of signs available from the National Safety Council of Australia and fall into four different categories:

1. Posters designed to shock employees into awareness by using good old-fasioned shock value.

2. Posters designed to shock employees into awareness by using terrifying fashions from the 1970s.

3. Posters designed to shock employees into awareness by using patronising phrases stolen from your mother.

4. Posters designed to shock employees into awareness by celebrity cameos from the likes of Olivia Newton-John and one of the guys from The Village People.

This is the day in which women everywhere have a constant look of expectation on their face. Flowers, chocolates, marriage proposals, they're just around the corner, to be sure.

I say this without any trace of bitterness, it has nothing to do with the fact I am home alone while both my flatmates are out on the town being wooed. But why is it the guys that seem to be doing the wooing? Why are the chicks sitting around saying "That bastard better bring me flowers." What are you doing for him?

An example. A conversation between a girl I know, let's call her The Princess, and her boyfriend, with a brief cameo from me:

PRINCESS: It's Valentine's next Thursday.
BOYFRIEND: Yeah, I know.
P: So what are you getting me? It's a special day.
B: I dunno yet!
P: And then after that it's my birthday.
B: I know.
P: And then it's Easter. We'll have Easter presents, right?
B: Yeah!
P: And then it's our anniversary!
B: Yeah.
P: And Christmas!
B: Mmm.
P: And Valentine's again!
B: Yeah.
P: So you have to buy me things. I like jewellery. And perfume.
SHAUNA: What are you getting him?
P: What?
S: A new girlfriend?

If I had a man and I wasn't in fact sitting here alone with some icecream, I would make sure his Valentine's Day was worth remembering...

There's only three floors in this building but the majority of us lazy arses still use the lift. Sometimes it's jammed full with sweaty bodies and the rustle of lunchtime shopping bags. Sometimes it's completely empty and you have 15 precious seconds from Ground Floor to Level 2 in which to check your hair or to see How Big Your Bum Looks In This. Then other times you're stuck with a Phone Guy.

Phone Guys are very common these days and easy to spot. They're the ones who insist on taking out their phone every time they have a quiet moment, unhooking it from their belt thingy or extracting it from the depths of their pockets. Then they gaze fondly at it, or poke at a few buttons, sometimes even stroke it a little, smiling to themselves. This display goes on for the entire lift journey, then when the door opens they put it away, giving it a little reassuring pat as they stroll out into the sunshine.

What is it with some guys and their phones? Last week I overhead my rich fat cat former employer calling someone specifically to tell them he'd bought a new phone. "It's the Ericsson. It was only released today. And it's so small and sleek." And I am a wanker and will no doubt chose the wankiest ringtone known to mankind. Perhaps the Mission: Impossible theme or one of Foreigner's greatest hits.

Oh how they annoy me, those Phone Guys. Why can't they just keep it in their pants? I'm not impressed by your 20,000 ringtones and your global roaming. Mine's smaller than yours! I hear you crow. I'll bet it is!

I was explaining this phenomenon to some folks at the pub last week, punctuated with great disdain, bitterness and vodka. And wouldn't you know it, I spied a Phone Guy in the corner who was demonstrating the theory to perfection.

He was tight-jeaned and polo-shirted and sharing a bottle of wine with a young woman. She was bewitching in a loud cotton frock and a hairband with worry dolls parading across it.

(Whatever happened to worry dolls? They were all the rage, briefly, some time ago.)

Goodness knows what they were talking about, but there was a lapse in conversation and I could see him wondering what to say next. That is when he reached into his back pocket and plucked out his phone. "Hey lady! Watch me pull a Nokia out of my arse!"

We watched as he turned it on and began crapping on about its wonderous features. He punched at the buttons with gusto and talked rather loudly. She nodded at appropriate intervals and gave those weak kind of smiles that don't quite reach the eyes.

The poor lass. I couldn't quite hear the conversation but I'm sure it went something like this:

"Look at this. It's my new Nokia Whatever and it cost me three weeks salary."

"Wow!"

"It WAPs and raps with 5 billion happenin' ring tones."

"Cool!"

"It fits inside a matchbox."

"Fascinating!"

"And now I am going to dazzle you with my phone prowess by pressing an alarming number of buttons in quick succession. Some things will go bleep and some wacky pictures will come up on the display and you will be most impressed."

"Oh yes. I'm very impressed!"

"Good. Would you like to see my penis now?"

When you get to about Year 6 you look back down at the kindergarten kids and think, "God they're so tiny and useless, was I ever that tiny? I was not that tiny. And they've got it so easy, with their naptimes and fingerpainting. I've got a huge social studies project to do plus Little Athletics after school. I got no time for napping."

Then you start high school and you look back at the Year 6's and say "Oh those Year 6's think they're so great, but they know nothing of the real world, I mean I get like an hour of homework every night. Then there's peer pressure and hair in strange places."

In Year 12 when your ears are bleeding with stress, you look down at everything from Year 7 upwards with great derision. Especially the Year 10s and 11s with their eyeliner and attitude problems and the underage drinking like they just invented it. "Pah. Silly bitches. You have no idea what you're in for in Year 12. The pressure. The expectation. The fate of the world resting on your exam results."

Then when you hit university it's time to scoff at the foolish Year 12 students moaning about their stupid, inconseqential exams. "I stayed up all night writing this highly complex essay, man. You have no idea about the rigours of academic life."

As soon as uni is done and you're thrust into a Real Job, you can then walk by a university campus and sneer, "Oh look at those decadent, selfish layabouts. Making eyes at each other on the library lawn. All that shagging and recreational drug use and sleeping in til noon, they'll get a shock when they get into the Real World! Long hours with poor pay and little recognition! And far less sex! Oh ho ho! My word yes!

Then the late-thirties early-forties middle management roll their eyes at me if I dare to look stressed, "You're a young pup, you have no idea about stress, wait til you've got the CEO breathing down your neck, a mortgage, three kids, a cheating husband and VARICOSE VEINS, dammit, then you'll know what life's all about!"

You can feel superior and sage at any age, as long as there's someone around slightly greener than yourself.

How long does this go on? Does it get to a point where we no longer feel the need to feel more wise and worldly than someone else, or does the drooling 90-year-old dame in the nursing home say to the 80-year-old dame with the crocheted blanket, "Listen lovie, shut up about your arthritis, you've got no idea about the Real Pain. When you hit the big nine oh and your breasts finally dangle all the way down to your toes and you can't watch The Bill for your cataracts, THEN you'll have something to complain about."

I was sitting here contemplating the universe and the sad state of my wallet when I noticed the remarkable difference between our coins of yesteryear and today. Compare and contrast:

The 1966 model shows Queen Lizzie all smooth skinned and delicate, not a blemish in site. But the 2001 is most unflattering. Check out the frown lines, the double chin, the poodle-esque hairstyle, the general air of bitterness and fatigue. Getting old is a quite bitch as it is, let alone having your decline immortalised on the back of a coin. Poor old duck.

Hey! Fran chops bows off her bras too! She told me so. And you all thought I was some kind of fruit loop!

Dee is a bow-chopper too! They're all coming out of the closet now!

Why in hell do you insist on putting those silly teeny tiny bows on them? You know, in the middle. A pointless little decoration that announces "Here Is My Cleavage". It serves no purpose at all! One spent $60 on foxy bra yesterday only to get home and realise there was a stupid bow on it. And you've even put them on sports bras! A sport bra is an instrument designed purely to hold down the girls and prevent them from slapping one in the face while one is gallumphing along at the gym. Well I for one am not going to stand for such senseless adornment! I'm snipping them all off! CHOP CHOP CHOP.

"It's not easy, but then again, it's not brain surgery..."

I must have heard this phrase a dozen times since I started the New Job. I think it's my panic stricken look that makes my colleagues feel the need to reassure me that the tasks ahead are not *too* difficult, but at the same time, they are not so simple that they may as well have employed a trained monkey in my place.

But the Brain Surgery cliche doesn't rest well with me. What the hell do we know anyway? Brain surgery could actually be a stroll in a park. Can you actually speak from medical experience to use this as a basis of comparison? Unless you're Dr Joe Neurosurgeon, I wish you'd all come up with something I can relate to. There are plenty of difficult tasks out there that would be perfect for this phrase. Now, if someone said to me, "Well it's a bit difficult, but it's not like trying to find a decent tasting tomato at Woolworths...", I would know for sure that I was in for a dirty bitch of a task, because everyone knows that Woolies has the most shithouse flavourless pasty looking excuses for tomatoes on the planet. Yes! Even the hydroponic ones.

So I've come up with a few subsitutes in accordance with the tasks I find personally to be as difficult as brain surgery is made out to be. To test them out, simply use your most scoffing tones and prefix with, "Oh come on! It's not like..." :

... going to a bookshop without buying anything

... sitting through an episode of Harry's Practice without wanting to kill Harry

... skating

... gardening

... lying

... making a cake without licking the bowl

... keeping your pants on after a glass of wine

... unscrewing the lid off the spaghetti sauce jar

... the evil cross-trainer machine at the gym

... wearing matching socks

What do you find more difficult than brain surgery?

Why do some blogging types find it necessary to refer to their blogs in the royal "we"? As if there is a dedicated staff of thousands working around the clock to produce their masterful publication? "We here at X-blog can't get enough of that new album/love smearing ourselves with chocolate/suggest you vote for someone else in the bloggies/are going naked waterskiiing this weekend/etc etc etc". We we we all the way home!

I for one will always been a staunch advocate of "me me me". No we here! It's bad enough admitting this is all I can come up with, let alone if a whole team was involved!

Who is this WE, I ask you? Do you have a crack team of monkeys with typewriters churning out copy? Or is it just you there in your undies in front of the computer, eating Doritos and scratching yourself?

Remember Smarties? Before M&M's came to our shores, Smarties were the only candy-shelled chocolate product available in Australia. It looks like times are tough at Smarties HQ, they're trying everything to woo back chocolate lovers. First they introduced the blue smartie, then they got rid of the brown smartie, and now their latest ploy... Alphabet Smarties! But of course I had to get some. Educational and tasty! What more could I want

Now you too can have your very own exclusive What's New Pussycat t-shirt! Stun your friends with your sexy style, offend your grandmother with your lack of taste and make me feel more popular than ever possibly conceived in this delightful 100% pure cotton garment!

Sometimes I wish life could be more like ICQ. Things would be so much simpler if I could announce my status to the world with a little green flower on my chest like an organic post-it note.

If I was feeling lonely, I could put up a Available sign. And if I was really gagging for company, I could put up the flower with the little smiley face on it, indicating that I'm ready and willing to chat with any Random person, flaunting my desperation to the world. Wouldn't that come in handy down at the pub? No more contemplating into your beer, "I wonder if she's got a boyfriend? Oh hang on! Look at that little yellow smiley face! She's up for it baby! YEAH!"

If I needed to nick off to the shops I could go into Away mode. I'm not home, sorry. Go away! And if the Jehovah's Witnesses were being really persistent, I could put up the more emphatic Not Available so they'd just stick a Watchtower in the mailbox instead of waiting on the doorstep for me to get home.

Then there's the Occupied mode. This would be good for work. People would say, "Oh! Looks like Shauna is occupied. In that case I will keep my stupid computer questions to myself and call the Help Desk instead!"

Do Not Disturb mode is a slightly stronger expression of the above. It's a floral way of saying, "Bugger off and let me wallow!"

Or if that didn't work, I can always go Offline. Yep, the red flower. I'm gone. I've just exiled myself entirely from the world for awhile.

But best of all would be Invisible mode. That little heiroglyphic looking eye would be such a blessing in real life. How wonderful would it be to be able to observe the world, watch people come and go, without them ever seeing you. You'd be a human fly on the wall. Imagine the possibilities! Stalk that guy you're lusting after with no risk of criminal charges. Rob a bank in stealth mode. Spy on your bonking flatmates and fulfil those voyeuristic fantasies without anyone ever knowing what a pervert you are.

Oh yes. Life would be a garden of roses if we could only say it with flowers.