Want! Need! Desire!

Oh God, who invented internet shopping? And why did they make it so easy?!

I demand that you all go here, and join me in my obsession. And trust me, it'll get pretty f*cking obsessive.

Let's Get Physical

Being a specimen of such physical perfection, ppl are always asking me, MelWuv, what's the secret to lookin' so damn awesome?

In my dreams, perhaps.

I have reached a point where the closest I get to a sit up is a get up, usually fm the couch, in order to grab another bag of corn chips. If I could actually be arsed to figure out the intricacies of on-line grocery shopping, I'd probably stop walking the supermarket aisles to procure such delicacies. However, this hasn't caught up with me yet - another 3 years and I'll be a fat bastard ready for my appearance on 'The Biggest Loser' - but so far, I'm holding back the tide. But this has to change.

I have a relatively good diet - the rule of thumb is my house is, Himself should cook - and don't drink too much (I merely enjoy myself tremendously, as often as possible). However, I'm pathologically stingy in matters relating to gym memberships. I won't pay hundreds of dollars to go running! sez I. I can run around the lake for free, I sez. Of course, I don't. So I sat down, and I tried to think about how to overcome my connundrum, namely

• I don't have the readies to be throwing at the gym
• I hate running with the fire of a thousand suns
• I like having a (relatively) flat tummy, and totally would NOT mind if other bits of me tightened/stopped their vague wobbling

I need a cheap, available exercise routine. Answer? Lots and lots of sex.

• Hello? Do it rite, and it's THE aerobic workout (aerobic is a fancy word for heavy breathing - always a good sign in this field of endeavour)
  
• Get on top, and work your bum and thighs
• No man I have ever, ever met is thinking about how wobbly your bum is/how roundy your tummy is/how small your boobs are during this kind of workout. Not one single man. Mainly, and I rely on the research of myself and others here, the train of thought seems to be, My God, my God, she's so hot, yes yes yes, this is the best ever, she's amazing, do that again, Ahhh! (Admittedly, not being a man, I'm merely recounting this. If you are a guy, and feel this info to be incorrect, please correct me! I dare you!). How great - a workout that's good for your self-esteem!
• Sucking your stomach in (for appearance's sake), makes it all feel a little more awesome
• Do it standing up, and increase your core strength and balance (or, alternatively, fall onto the fall, and die laughing. That's good for you, too)
• You won't have to buy, or wear, stupid, fluro, lycra outfits, or massively expensive running shoes to get the most out of your workout. Unless that's your thing. In which case, you go, you saucy minx!
  
• It's good fun sharing the details of your exercise routine with the unwary who ask what you're doing to keep yourself looking so good (unless this fool is a family member. In which case, you've been doing Pilates. Lots and lots of Pilates)
  

Admittedly, there are some cons

• It's considered poor form, when one is engaged as I am anyway, to have more than one exercise 'buddy'. (On the plus side of this, if you're both committed to your workouts, you won't have the time for another buddy)
• Do it at the gym, and you may be asked to leave/arrested (unless you're a gay man. In which case, you are LIVIN' it, Miss Thing!)
• The money you've saved on gym membership/sports outfits/shoes must be redirected to approriate contraception. That stuff is damn expensive. Bastards.

Have I come up with a brilliant solution to the obesity epidemic? Or am I just looking for an excuse to shag like a rabbit?

I Wanna Have Your Babies - Pick Up Lines that Shock and Amuse #3

Lads, lads, listen up. I'm prepared to share with you, with some considerable measure of personal risk, one of the Great Secrets of wooing women. I have been told by the Sisterhood that sharing such secrets is strictly verboten, but I'm prepared to go out on a limb.

I will state it simply. DO NOT SCREAM AT ME FROM YOUR CAR.

This sounds simple - My God! Yes! The mysteries of the Universe have coalesced! Perhaps women would be more open to my admiration and charming advances if I didn't broadcast my lewd fantasies down Northbourne Avenue - but apparently not. It still happens with a nauseating frequency, to me anyway (of course, I'm nauseated every time it happens, so it mightn't really happen al that often, if you catch my time-relative drift). But no one seems to have told you! You poor little things - I am not berating you, merely sharing with you my perspective. After all, you can't expect anyone to do (or not do) something which hasn't been communicated to them. Nobody here's a mindreader, rite? (Although I have my supicions about TLD - he seems to be pretty in step with my ramblings...)

But back to the matter at hand - it's offensive, it's threatening, and frankly, I'd rather shave my pubic hair off and smoke it than continue a conversation started in this manner. No woman I know thinks, Gosh, what an inventive ice breaker! Perhaps I should start discussing the possiblity of moving in with such a illustrious fellow. Rather, we think you're a tool for doing it. And usually, a tool in a stupid car.

P.S. You'll never win: below is an EXACT recount of a conversation had last weekend.

Him (a young man in a hotted-up Holden with 3 of his mates, sitting at a red light, waiting to cross Northbourne Ave): Hey baby! Looking good! I'll fuck ya tonite!

Her (a Uni student heading home fm a Saturday nite, wearing a modest, below-the-knee dress, crossing Northbourne Ave on foot): Get your hand off it!

Him (now with an even cockier air of posturing, if such a thing is possible): My hands are on the steering wheel! /much laughter from the car/

Her (realising a brilliant straight line when one's offered): Oh, so it's your mate's hand in your pocket, is it?

Him: /thick, 'the Apocalypse is coming!' silence/

Job done. If only he'd read this memo!

My Feminine Side

Listen up, lads - a secret look inside Female Culture. Unfortunately, not the baby-oil-and-pillow-fights side of it. More on that next time.

Being a woman, I have an uncanny knack for remembering the minutae of everyday life. Ppl I haven't seen for several months/years will be greeted, and then asked about their wives/children/home renovations. It's just one of those things - if I didn't do it, I'd be stripped of my heels and lipstick.

However, this system of female greeting - because it shows we care, dammit! - has strayed off into strange territory: I was looking in my (lovely!) mother's e-mail inbox, because she'd had an update on the health of our summer retreat (if I'm honest here, a caravan) sent to her, and God bless her, she hasn't quite mastered Forwarding, so I was forced to view her original e-mail. Of course, I had a squizz at what other missives she'd received (What am I, a saint? What if she received something REALLY good, and didn't tell me about it?). There was the usual CHEAP VIAGRA!!! and SHAVED MULES IN 1001 POSITIONS!!! crap, the usual mailing list nonsense, and a succession of e-mails detailing a photographic progression of Jake. The problem, I hear you ask? I didn't recognise this infant, nor his parents. Couldn't even place the name in a context.

Jesus, as women, we're now expected to care about anyone shorter than a foot who can't hold their own head up. Feminism obviously wasn't as successful as we'd all hoped.