Itchies and music lust

So for everyone who woke up this morning thinking “oh my god, I wonder how things are with Inga’s undisclosed allergy?!”, this is for you.

The Itchies are still spattered along my extremities, but they’ve faded and are rather pleasant to scratch now – as opposed to the throbbing fluorescent wheals that had me tearing out chunks of my own flesh a few weeks ago. I’ve found it’s especially aggravated by red wine, exercise and tomato based meals such as pizza and minestrone. Unfortunately for my lovely complexion, I’m not about to give any of those things up. It’s time my immune system learns its place. I’m nothing if not idiotic and stubborn. And itchy. Because I’m drinking a glass of Wolf Blass cab merlot as we speak.  

In other news, I’ve fallen in love twice this week:



I had no idea who either of these birds were a week ago – which is terribly unfortunate because I’ve since found out Ms Michaelson was performing in Melbourne a week and a half ago. (I accidentally stumbled on her on You Tube while I was looking up Ingrid Bergman clips.)

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Arthur’s Seat Challenge 2010

So what did everyone do this weekend?

I bet no one ran 13.4 kilometres up a giant mountain for charity, drank too much wine afterward then took Monday off work because they felt like they’d been trampled by camels.

My cousin has recently moved into a place 10 minutes down the road from me. This is good because she feeds me regularly and lets me harass her children. It’s bad because we drink vast quantities of wine after which she talks me into doing stupid things like the Arthur’s Seat Challenge.

I have not been to the gym in weeks because of the Stupid Itchies. My cousin smokes and has never exercised because she’s naturally as thin as a rail despite having had two children. It’s fair to say neither of us is Bernard Fanning (I know he’s not an athlete, I just like saying his name).  When I tactfully pointed this out, her argument was: “we’re from PNG! Mountain climbing is in our blood!” So apparently, a drop of Melanesian genetics is like to transform you into Xavier Rudd. Who knew?           

We didn’t get off to an auspicious start when we arrived late to the starting point. We had to grab a croissant, then we had to register, and as we were powdering ourselves in the loo we heard the countdown. Crap. We bolted out of the toilet and down the street, to find 2500 competitors disappearing steadily into the distance. We sprinted a good 200 metres down the Nepean Highway to catch up to the pace car and ambulance while the spectators cheered us on and made smart ass comments like “have you lapped them already?”

Seventy minutes later we stumbled over the finishing line. My cousin, being unaccustomed to the effects of exercise induced endorphins, was bouncing and pinging like a crack whore. “We made it this far! We might as well run back – it’s all downhill!”….at which point she fired back down the road, leaving me no choice but to drag my sorry, aching arse after her.    

Sixty minutes later as we sat sweaty and lank in a Rosebud café, hoeing into meat pies like a pair of truffle pigs while the other patrons gave us nervous glances, I was pleased to see she wasn’t so chipper. We drove back to her house, demolished two bottles of wine in celebration and promptly passed out. I’m pretty sure that’s how Steve Moneghetti rolls.    

Brain vomit.

I wish homosexuality was a choice. I’d be an excellent lesbian, and I’d never have to deal with the f***wits that make up 99.5% of the straight male population. I wonder if it’s something you can train for, like a half marathon.

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The other week, a bloke who looked exactly like Redfoo from LMFAO (well, he had an afro and sunglasses) wandered past the window at work. Myself and the other lass from work bolted to the front door, leaned out and hollered “everybodehh….shots shots SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS!!!” at him. He looked utterly terrified and walked faster.

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After graduating high school back in 1998, I went on a celebratory camping trip to Tinaroo Dam with some friends. My good mate Stupid Paulie performed a beautiful re-enactment of a Jurassic creature emerging from the sea for the first time, which involved dragging himself through the mud with his knuckles while his back legs flopped uselessly behind him, all the while pulling a suitably ‘evolved’ face and squawking like a velociraptor. It remains one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen in my life. Fast forward to 2009, and I find myself partnered with Stupid Paulie in a friendly game of barbecue charades. Paulie’s word is ‘evolution’….he drops to the ground, raises himself on his knuckles and we win in 3 seconds flat while the other contestants gape at us. Things like this make me think the universe is unfolding as it should.    

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Why did no one ever tell me you can cook steak in a sandwich press? Three minutes in the press and BAM, perfectly done steak. Quick morning tea at work? BAM, steak. Home from the pub at 4.00am? BAM, steak. (Granted, I did ingest a dangerous amount of melted plastic after neglecting to remove the wrap from the sirloin. I also mixed allergy meds with alcohol, leaving me comatose for the next 13 hours. BAM.)