Farewell
The dollhouse blog is over dear readers. The housemates were zombified by a VCR loop while watching recordings of Australian Idol and I was forced to eat them one by one after my kibble supply ran out. I'll be travelling to Sydney, Finland and London now to chow down on former housemate bloggers.
Soon, all dollhouse members shall exist together in my jelly-flab fat, united in my pores, my very being, like one gigantic and seething conglomerate of walls, white ceilings and slate floors, of messy bedrooms, unwashed dishes, overgrown tomato plants, bumblepee moneyboxes, KLF albums, Neighbours episodes, parties, laughs, tears and unsullied joy!
Something for the juvenile at heart
Well, I think this blog has suffered of late. I was going to try and make something up that was controversial about the house, then I remembered I _do_ have something to impart to the world, or at least to people who aren't offended by rabid swearing...
At work a couple of weeks ago someone bought a huge new dictionary for the office. It's the size of about 10 phone books sewn together and has chic graphics on the cover. Aside from containing the meaning of everyday words, it also has definitions of things like 'cyberbludging' and 'Lisa Curry-Kenny'. It drew the immediate attention of anyone who entered our office, but the most startling thing about the new dictionary was the fact that 3 people within 2 days of seeing it asked straight away, 'Have you looked up the word fuck yet?'
I thought to myself, this is a thing people do?? Even when they're no longer in high school? Well, apparently so, because after the 3rd person asked the question, we decided, why the hell not look up the word fuck? So extraordinarily comprehensive was this dictionary that it not only didn't disappoint, it provided what seemed like pages upon pages of variations on the theme of fuck...
Fuck it
Fuck around
Fuck me dead
Fuck a duck
Fuck someone over/up
not give a (flying) fuck
Fuckable
Fuck-all
Fuckface
Fuck-knuckle
Fuckwit
Fuck truck - actually defined as "shaggin' wagon"
and finally my personal favourite (and a special one for AnnaMartine):
Fucken
It actually said Fucken. I'm still giggling even now.
Melbs!
Sydney last fortnight, now I'm off to Melbourne this weekend, road-trip style with a group of friends.
We're telling people it's to see the Picasso exhibition, do a bit of shopping and catch up with people. But REALLY it's to get ahead on our celebrity spotting of that hotsvillian TV/sport personality, Eddie McGuire.
It wasn't enough that we saw Eddie last Friday night on the town in Adelaide, sipping cocktails in a swanky hotel lobby, or that the bravest of our group, let's call her Bel, approached him with a special handwritten note and conversed with him for at least a minute, asked him to join us for a drink and then walked away dejected from his polite refusal. No no, that clearly was not enough! Our desires have been fuelled by his rejection and we can only seek him out in his hometown and try again.
Maybe the next note could be swayed more to his tastes? I thought Bel's "Hi Eddie, you look bored. Would you like to have a drink with us? We are not famous" was pure genius. But maybe we can appeal to him with some "onya Collz!" "Get a dog up ya Mark Llewellyn!" or "you should have
boned Jessica Rowe when you had the chance". Haha! Yes, these little ditties will be guaranteed to tempt him over to our humble group, and then it will be a nasty, grabbing tussle to the pash and dash. Oh, for it only to be true!
I’m off to Sydney this week armed with a very thorough shopping list from my housemates of things that I “absolutely without fail must bring home for them”. Helen has unsurprisingly requested a new cane indoor setting much like this one:
For Audrey, it could only be the collected autographs of the NSW liberal party (I had to convince her keen soul that it wasn’t going to be on any part of my body, not for love nor money). For Adam, a self-help book for incessant bloggers. And a Transcat Pride t-shirt for Sesamina.
I’ll also catch up with that old doll Marla and her beau Mike in their
superiornestoflove, will cultivate my own nestoflove with mjg and will walk the hallowed walls of Sydney Uni with
Ann reminiscing about our bluestockinged foresisters. And if approval to hike up my visa card limit actually comes through today like I was promised, I may just hit the shops and bring home a few I ♥ Darling Harbour Lacoste t-shirts for myself.
who says Aaron Spelling is dead?
so I'm going to change the subject, I'm searching for some non-tv related ditty. ummmm... Last night Sesame had the house to himself because the three sheilas of the house frequented an exhibition opening. Unfortunately the gentleman of the house was being elusive.
We three arrived and entered the room in a Charlie's Angels style. Confident, wind swept hair with fabulis model-walks in slow motion. Over the loudspeaker there was an awesome rock theme song which ended when we casually say 'three wines please'.
We were greeted by another house posse who live in their own 'Secret life of Us' storyline at the 263 CBD. After the chats we moved to a coolio pub where the mile end crew (again, 3 beautiful housemates from the wess-syeed) were hanging out. Fancy that, 3 groups of 3 housemates just wanting to spend time with each other, i'm loving the housing arrangements in 2006!
I dig it when our house posse meets up with other house groups because in these moments I get the faraway look in my eyes and reflect that we are so close to living the Melrose Place experience. Unfortunately though a very blonde 'Jane' pixie haircut is missing (i'm gently encouraging Cath to get this ticked). Also, there is limited inter-house shagging but this might be because we don't have andrew shue in the mix. Or Jake. hmmm, andrew or jake. how can a girl make the choice?
And the winner is....Predictability.
As predicted, Jamie took out the title of Mainstream Australia's Favourite Duffhead not three hours ago.
This incessant drive to celebrate the most average of people was supposed to end with Logan Greg. After Tim amazingly failed to take the prize home last year, I was hesitant to get involved with the show's sixth outing.
Against my better judgement, my reasoning, my inner faith I was sucked back into the vortex once more! For a nano second, I truly believed Camilla might have a chance. That somehow, the 12 year old clones normally intent on freezing out the female might this once side with her instead. They might take courage from her articulate, forthright manner and identify with her occasional fragility.
But then, this is a country where teenage girls greet John Howard with giggles and hugs. How could I have expected anything more than crushing defeat?
To review: Australia voted in favour of an inarticulate wannabe Swede who lacks the knowledge of how to correctly wear pants and who spoke openly of having 'tender' sex with a Thai prostitute, RATHER than a confident, sassy, well spoken, intelligent and feisty female who appears so different to the general flipflaps paraded across our screens.
Big Brother, you are dead to me.
Ambassadors of Beauty are we.
So here we all are, as the final five of Miss Universe glide across our beloved television screen. We've been dazzled by these Ambassadors of Beauty for the past two hours.
The tension is palpable. You can practically hear the ribs poking through their dresses.
But like all reality teeve final twos, the real winner came second.
Miss Japan - We salute you and your impressive samurai sword. We know you're an innocent victim of a staged archaic ritual engineered by a man who seems unable to view the natural disaster that is his hair.
You're better than this. Take your multi lingual self and go and work for the UN. We'll download pictures of you at the round table and never forget to kiss you goodnight.
In other news, living in The Dollhouse is shaping up to be a real treat! Karenski's been getting a little tetchy lately because she's the only one posting on the blog. I've tried explaining to her that my hectic schedule of late night teeve and daytime sleeping leaves little time for blogging but she will not be appeased. Except when I cook for her. Then she is like maleable putty in my hands...
On the subject of cooking, we feasted tonight in a grand celebration of homely love. This of course came after feasting LAST NIGHT in a similar grand celebration of homely love. Tonight, Karen and Helen concocted *two*separate curries while Adam and I battled it out for the honourable title of Grandmaster of Chocolate Puddings. Things almost got ugly when we tried to claim the same long baking dish, but I willingly gave it up. That's just the beacon of peace and love that I am I guess.
Despite my most fervent desires, I'm not sure if I'll be able to institute a daily blogging policy. This is because tomorrow I not only have to wake up well before 1pm, I'm also booked in for a heavy night of car crash television. Unfortunately, Honey We're Killing The Kids won't be on due to the 'surprise' Big Why Bother* eviction but there's still Channel Nine's New York: Life of Grime and Shock Docs expose on midgets. So, something to look forward to then.
Can I just say as well that the finale of The O.C was completely ghey? Marissa Cooper dies in the arms of Ryan Atwood to the strains of a crappy cover of Cohen's beautiful ballad 'Hallelujah'. At least now we won't have to endure all that rubbish about the many 'clues' in the final three episodes. Even if it was a murder mystery, hello? The tinterweb is, like, my second brain and I could just consult that to find out. Which I did. So sucked in breathy Channel Ten voice over wench - you ain't jivin' ME.
* Because it's blatantly obvious that the retarded 12 year old voters will elect Jamie to be the new king of Mediocriville.
