She goes na na na na na…

…nana na na naa na na nana na na na na na na naa naa SHE’S GOT THE LOOK.

Guess who went to the Roxette concert this week? That would be me.

There was no mucking about. No drawn out intro, no fancy-pants stage set up, no inane onstage banter – just four back-up musicians and Marie and Per cranking out the pop, looking more energetic than anyone of their vintage has any right to be. Especially considering Marie underwent a brain tumour operation a few years ago, leaving her with some difficulty remembering the words to their more recent songs. She had a lot of love from the crowd, partly for her trials I suspect, but mainly because she’s cute as a little blonde Swedish bug.  And Per…well, let’s just say despite being twenty-three years my senior, I would totally go there.

“It Must Have Been Love” was very moving – Marie sang the opening line and the crowd sang the rest.  “Dangerous” and “Dressed for Success” were fun and energetic, and of course everyone went mental over “Joyride”. I closed my eyes and swayed a lot, especially to “Fading Like A Flower” and “Perfect Day”.

I realised during the evening that for the entire twenty-three years I’ve been listening to Roxette albums, I’ve never bothered to learn the lyrics. Thus I hollered along to my favourite songs with the same exuberant gibberish I employed as a six-year-old:

Walking like a man, hitting like hammer
She’s a chewing gum scam, never walk a critter
Testy licker raindrop, SHE’S GOT THE LOOK!

Helping me around, cos Emma’s got a mother
And she’s spinning me around kissing in a cover
Loving as a white dog, SHE’S GOT THE LOOK!


Bunny Log

Well, it’s been an educational week.

First of all, bunnies do NOT like being picked up. I knew this already, and didn’t get a bunny for the sole purpose of carting it to the shops in my Prada bag. However, no one tells you how to get Bunny from A to B without one or both of you winding up in intensive care. I’ve looked at countless instructional videos on how to pick up a noncompliant rabbit, all of which are demonstrated on what are obviously lobotomised bunnies with no soul. Roman will not gaze adoringly at me as I “support her back legs and scoop her up snug against your chest.” Roman turns into three kilograms of fluffy indignant fury. There is no scooping of my Roman. She has her first vet check up on Thursday, and I’ll give $50 to anyone who wants to come and coax my sweet little fuzz-demon into her carrier.

Secondly, bunnies are excellent dusters. Roman has cleaned under the fridge, behind the TV cabinet, under the couches and around the plant holders. Of course, she leaves a two inch deep trail of moulted fur wherever she goes, but she’s certainly removed a lot of cobwebs. She gets into everything. Open the fridge: woah, what’s in THERE?! Open the cupboard: omigod, look at all the stuff in there! Open the linen cupboard: holy shit, TOWELS!! It’s like she’s new to Earth.

Third, bunnies evolved from cheetahs. I’m not sure how rabbits became prey instead of predator, because nothing in the world could fly down the hallway faster than Roman. I teased her into chasing me the other day, and it was terrifying.

All in all, I think I chose a great little buddy. She uses her litter without fail, and hasn’t even left ‘territorial’ deposits for me to stumble upon. She doesn’t chew anything except her toys, ignores my plants completely, and doesn’t bite even when I piss her off. She binkies while I’m watching Charmed and licks my fingers when I give her a sultana. She’s the perfect Starter Kit rabbit.


Oh god. I’ve just turned into Crazy Bunny Lady, haven’t I?

Madonna of the Hops

I have a bunny!

We want big booty bunnies


Well, technically I don’t just yet – she has one more vaccination tomorrow, and then I can collect her. Her shelter name is Madonna, but seeing as I’m not comfortable with naming any of my pets after a fifty year old lady who thinks it’s acceptable to prance around in public in a leotard, she will be rechristened ‘Roman’. Because she’ll be roamin’ around the house, y’see. It’s also a Nicky Minaj reference, because my bunny has a big ol’ booty.

I wasn’t planning on getting a big bunny (she’s actually bigger than my poor cat), but here’s what Bunny Shelter Lady said about her:

“She’s an independent girl. We’ve tried to bond her several times, but she doesn’t seem to want anyone else living with her. She just wants to have her own space.”

Lightbulb moment – Roman is me in rabbit form. Sold! She was an absolute bitch to all the other bunnies, then promptly fell in love with my friend Nikki and covered her in licks and smooches. She didn’t seem quite as impressed by me, but I’m sure she’ll change her mind when I present her a cat to eat.

Self discovery via Leporidae

As part of the life enrichment kick I’m currently attempting, I’ve decided to do something I’ve wanted to do for years.

I’m adopting a cute widdle fuzzy wuzzy bunny wabbit.

Rabbits are a prohibited pet in Queensland, so I spent my girlhood with boring animals like dogs, cats, chooks, cows and skinks, quietly wishing I could have a rabbit or pony or mice, like the kids in the Enid Blyton books. I always told myself when I buy a house, I’ll get a couple of rabbits, a dog, another cat, and plant a vegie patch. And I tell myself I’ll buy a house when I find a job I like better. And I’ll find a job I like better when I’ve saved a bit more money. And I’ll save a bit more money after my 30th birthday trip to Cook Islands. In a nutshell, I’m a ridiculous overthinker and need to learn to live in the ‘now’ occasionally. I’ve spent 29 years preparing for Future Inga, and you know what? Bitch never shows up.

And that’s where Bunny comes in. Bunny is a gift for Now Inga.

Having never owned a bunny rabbit before, I’ve spent the last few months doing stacks of (internet) research so I’m fairly confident I know everything there is to know in theory.  Don’t give adult rabbits lucerne hay as it contains too much calcium, don’t pick them up by the ears, don’t let them overheat, watch out for mozzies and foxes. The problem is, when I’m confronted with a bunny in real life, my immediate instinct is to squeal like a tween at a Bieber concert, squish my face into it, tie ribbons on it and cram it in my handbag. I don’t think that’s proper rabbit handling technique. The cat sure doesn’t appreciate it.

So I’ve bought  a lovely double storey hutch, a couple of litter trays for when Bunny is loose in the house, some wicker baskets to chew, boxes to play in, citrus wood chips, meadow hay and matching powder blue water and food dishes. All I need is a spare couple of hours on the weekend to drive to the shelter and pick out a second hand rabbit. Everyone I speak to seems to think I’m going a bit overboard with the preparations, but I figure if I’m going to be giving one of Mother Nature’s creatures a home for the rest of its natural life, it’d better be a great home. Although maybe you shouldn’t mention that to my cat, who’s been yowling at the back door for the last thirty minutes while I eat rice crackers and drink tea.