I once dated what I thought was a smart guy. On our fourth (and final) date, we were out having drinks when I made a joke about being a supermodel.

“Oh my god!” he snorted, “That’s hilarious! I mean, you’re gorgeous, but you could never be a supermodel!”

I know that, cocknose.

When I was nineteen, I shared a house in West Ryde with a twenty-six year old tradesman. This meant that 80% of the fridge space was taken up by beer and the TV could always be heard from halfway down the street, but apart from that, he was an acceptable housemate.

When summer began, my housemate’s co-workers started coming over regularly to work on their cars in our large backyard. Undeterred, I continued my strict sun-bathing regime and spent every afternoon lying on the trampoline in a bikini. Gradually, I gained the attention of one of these guys, and once I knew I had it in the bag, I told my housemate to hand over my phone number.

“Why would you want to date him?” my friends asked, “He’s a tradie.”
“Don’t be so judgmental,” I scolded, “Just because he breaks stuff for a living doesn’t mean he isn’t intelligent, charming and interesting.”

A week later, I received the following text message:

Hey, how rya? Do ya wanna go out 1 nite dis week n grab sum food n shit?

I sunbaked in the front yard after that.

As I lay on the beautician’s table, a middle-aged Greek woman applied hot wax to my legs and patted on cloth strips. Each time she tore away a strip, she grunted and licked her lips. Together, we worked in silence – her inflicting; me enduring. When she got to my bikini line, however, she straightened and made an announcement:

“There’s two things in life I never done.”

I’ve always been intrigued by people, places and products that define themselves by what they are not, rather than what they are. Surely it’s quicker if we just cut to the chase?

“Small-talk,” I guessed.

“No,” she replied, “I never had a nose bleed and I never threw up.”

“I’ve never had a nose bleed either,” I sympathised, “But I’ve thrown up a lot.”

“I never threw up,” she repeated.

“That’s ridiculous, everybody throws up.”

“I never did.”

“But you must have,” I pressed, “When you were a baby. Babies throw up all the time.”

“I never threw up. You should get laser, save us both this shit,” she advised, nodding towards my crotch.

I did.

• Glandular fever
• Pneumonia
• Cancer of the brain
• Arthritis
• Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
• Epilepsy
• Appendicitis
• Broken ankle
• Leukemia
• HIV
• Anaemia
• Receding hairline
• SARS
• Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
• Emphysema
• Alcoholism
• Insomnia
• Heart murmur

Me: What exactly does the groomer do for your dog that you can’t?: I bath her myself, but the groomer is supposed to give her a clip, clip her nails, express her anal glands, etc.

Kahlee

Me: I’m sorry, I thought you just said ‘express her anal glands’??

Kahlee: They get stuff in the glands in their butts, and if they’re not expressed every 6 months it can be painful for them.. You kind of squeeze on their butt.

Me: Surely that’s not really necessary? Do dogs in the wild walk around with sore butt-holes all day?

Kahlee: Dogs in the wild don’t eat processed biscuits.

Me: Another tragic example of how humans have ruined the world.