Bears. Big Beautiful Bears.

As requested, so it shall be… for Twitchie and other WoW’ers

Is it odd to measure the value of a group or team by the ability and success of a Zandalari Zul’Aman (ZA) Bear Run? No. But there’s more to the value than just high dps (damage per second), excellent tanking and extraordinary heals. It has to include attitude, understanding and winning strategy. Running for Bear is an adrenalin rush, an endorphin fuelled state that literally makes my hands shake.. which not necessarily a good thing considering I need those hands to push the right key and not end up forcing a button mashing exercise. What is a Bear run exactly? It’s a ‘dungeon’ run, with four other players, against the deafening tick of a clock demanding the slaughter of the first four bosses who are protected by a significant number of adds (‘Adds’ are additional creatures whose sole purpose is to block your access to the boss, preventing you from beating the clock). The prize, when successful, is the opportunity to win the Amani Battle Bear mount, complete with his own stack hat helmet. I use the term ‘dungeon’ for lack of better word – and according to Borgapedia it IS a dungeon, despite looking more like a zoo, with relatively feral and mutant beings, some resembling actual animals.

I’ve had three successful bear runs. The first was a pure pug (pick-up group), with another four unknown toons from other realms and/or servers. Pure pug.. you always prepare for the worst. The term ‘fail pug’ on the tip of your tongue ready to roll out of your mouth, based on past experiences and a wasted three hours as toons rage, quit, drop group. But on this occasion the planets shifted, stars aligned and magic happened [insert jazz hands and spirit fingers here]. The first lot of adds at the beginning is generally the indication of whether or not a Bear run will occur, everyone watches the dps meters and the clock. The reason this group ran so well is, in spite of not knowing each other, we understood one another, all reading from the same page, at the same pace – telepathy at its most magnificent. We ran, fast, pulling only what we needed to, avoiding all the rest, leaving all the loot behind as the sacrifice to achieve the bigger goal. Those with CC (crowd control) abilities knew instinctively where and when to use them, we instinctively knew the order for Nalorakk (boss #2, Bear Boss) and the ranged dps instinctively killed scouts without the need to ask. It was fast and furious, a confident tank pulling groups of two mobs and keeping aggro, amazing heals keeping up with tempo and sustained hurt and high dps’ing, the three dps’ers individually pulling no less than 17K, or in my case closer to 20.2K. The clock ticks at its steady rhythm, completely mocking your own heartbeat as you race toward the finish. The team kept together, silently agreeing to an unspoken rule of ‘no man left behind’. The tank using strategies I had not seen before and they worked. This team worked. We achieved the Bear run with just under 2 minutes remaining on the clock and had we been on vent, or mumble, I’m sure nerd screams would have been heard. I didn’t win the prized Bear on that run. But, in all honesty, winning the Bear feels very secondary to just the ‘Hell Yeah!’ achievement of beating the god damn clock.  It’s amazing how much I relax after the race has been run, the final two bosses of the dungeon, Hex Lord Malacrass (boss #5) and Daakara (boss #6), greeted with more of a ‘Oh, Hey’ rather than ‘DIE M^%&$F*CKER’!

The second Bear attempt was half pug as I teamed up with two friends. This run was a little different. I don’t think anyone expected it to be the race it turned out to be, it was all very casual until Jan’alai (boss #3 Dragonhawk) was annihilated. Seven minutes remained on the clock, that’s when it all kicked in. Taking lead from the tank, we followed his moves, leaping over the first lynx pack and running for the water. Time ticking loudly in our ears. We began the lynx gauntlet, tank pulling two mobs, then another two, we wasted no precious time in killing the honey crème coloured cats. Racing into Halazzi, the fourth and final required boss, with four minutes to spare and ‘it was on’. Everyone pulling what they could out of their toon. This is where I fell down. My dps was dismal on this fight as it had been all through the run, I felt awful, guilty, my hands shaking as a result of frustration and embarrassment more than the adrenalin I’m used to. We achieved the bear run with seconds to spare, we all rolled for the prize, I won it – undeservedly so. I held on to that prize for the longest time, waiting until it could no longer be traded to another player before ‘learning’ the mount. Had Hennypennie not logged off so soon after the run, she may very well have a Bear mount. Since this run, it probably should be noted that I have reconciled winning the roll, it’s the prize for all the other times where I have done exceedingly well in Zul’Aman.

The third run, a surprising and welcome invite to run a random Z with <Fidelity>. As soon as I recognise the ZA muted green and blue load screen I breathe a sigh of relief, ZA is just so much better (for me) than the sister dungeon Zul’Gurub and when you’re with such an elite group of players you know a Bear run is imminent. Game on. If successful, and seriously how could it not be – a confident tank, fabulous healer and three toons capable of pulling incredible dps – then this run was for Borgthor, his Bear. Strategy? Just fast, no one left behind, an expectation that everyone knew what they were doing and knew their role. Granted, I think I recall Jondayla battle rezzing me a couple of times (omg, thank you!). I passed on every single piece of loot, after all this was their guild run and any loot, or subsequent disenchanted mats, were of better use in their guild bank than me as an individual. We plucked the feathers from Akil’zon (boss #1), skinned Nalorakk making a very nice bear rug for in front of the fire, extinguished the flames of Jan’alai and, with a minute to spare, had Halazzi mercilessly defeated. Bear run achieved. Instant relief. The teasing and hysterical laughter from the clock abruptly stopping. And, must admit, sheer relief I didn’t stuff up too badly.

The Zandalari Zul’Aman Bear Run is not just a test of your own toon, its capabilities, but also as a real person, the patience and understanding required, a capability (and demonstrated ability) to appreciate other players, their skills. It is a run that contradicts your overall feeling of pugs and it forgives you for thinking so harshly about them. It is an excellent run where I feel as though I can truly contribute to a team. ZA is indeed a favourite of mine, not only for what is achievable as a team and individual but mostly for the incredible graphic artwork, cool tones of moss greens against the warmer hues of blue and greys that whisper sweet-nothings. No burning of the retinas here. Waiting for the random dungeon finder to change so it’s not so random.. I would live there, stay safe at the starting point but then venture out to play in the waters, chase frogs, lie back in the green grasses and cloud watch.

Amani Battle Bear with free stack hat and glowing Tiki's

I Heart WoW

Do you know when World of Warcraft has taken over your life? I do. I’m all too familiar with the tell-tale signs that this ‘hobby’ has become a frightening obsession and I start to wonder whether or not I should put myself in some rehab clinic and be forced into embracing the WoW-A Seven Step Program through attending meetings at least once a month, mandated by State.

Step One: Admitting I have a problem.

Hello. My name is Ianthee Kate and I am a WoW addict. I started playing purely out of duress, bending to the whimsical fantasy of others. Yes, there are WoW pushers out there, normally dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, they appear quite harmless. Their sweet talk and promises of bringing me into a new, creative and eclectic world where I could be powerful and mighty drew me closer to my pre-existing goal of world domination; a world where I could slaughter all that stood in my way appealing to my psychopathic tendencies – the very same tendencies that I had previously caged and pushed into the nether regions of my soul; a world where I could slay dragons and fly on gryphons – truly inspired artistry.  They pushed WoW like it was some new and fantastical narcotic. I was weak. I wanted to fit in with this neatly attired crowd. I inhaled. Deeply. And I liked it.

Step Two: A power greater than I could restore my sanity.

The power of sleep restores sanity, so I have been told. I no longer sleep, I just seem to fall unconscious every now and then, hallucinating dream sequences in character. Any restoration of lucidity, snapping me out of dreams, is pretty much equivalent to a dc. Eating well and healthily may also be considered beneficial to a higher cognitive function, but I have looked closely at my diet of coffee, wine and cheese flavoured corn chips and believe it meets the nutritional food guide pyramid.

There are many things in WoW greater than I, none possibly greater than one of my mentors, Borgthor, whose guidance and penmanship gently points me in a direction of higher learning, like a cryptic crossword; 3. Down: Corruption will set him free in the purple June. Really? Can’t you just tell me the answer?

Step Three: Made a decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of God.

I have made a prayer macro that I use each time I enter a raid or a heroic it simply says “Ianthee prays to God Moordenar for haste, exceptional dps and survivability”. It saddens me that sometimes Gods answer is ‘No, not today’. I adore my god, truly, but I’m not sure I can turn over my ‘will’. I have a strong independent streak and a desire to take over the world and I particularly don’t care to share that crowning glory when the inevitable happens. Furthermore, considering God Moordenar’s sage advice on how to kill Nefarian was ‘don’t die’ I’m not convinced I should hand over my life either.

Step Four: Admitted to myself and to another human being the exact nature of my wrongs.

I admit that I may have embellished the truth at times in an effort to reschedule dinner dates and catch-ups – but I just can’t do Wednesdays, Thursdays or Sundays.

I admit, in game I have killed, many times. I perform heinous crimes, sometimes in the name of loyalty and protection and sometimes just because I can. I also admit to thieving and pick-pocketing, usually by whacking the intended victim over the head causing grievous bodily harm. Sadly, I always seem to pick ‘losers’ who only offer me piddly amounts of silver and the gnome’s version of Zoo magazine – oddly filled with busty Night Elves.

Step Five: Made a list of all persons I have harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

I’d like to apologise to Virginia for promising to call but then getting so wrapped up in a raid, or one of several conversations, or simply killing something that I forget to pick up the phone… then it gets too late to call and then the whole ‘mouse on a wheel’ life continues, a rinse and repeat of the day before. I’m such a crappy sister. Please start playing WoW, I’ll add you to my friends list and that way we can finally have a decent conversation while I kick turtles into the lake.

I apologise to Robert for not hearing him say the same thing over and over because my focus is drawn completely elsewhere which, selectively (and sometimes opportunistically), blocks out all audio. I understand that repeating yourself forces you into saying more than the required 2000 words per day and that is unconscionable. Please just assume the answer is ‘Yes’ to whatever question you’re asking. I’ll presume the question is ‘Coffee?’

I apologise to my cat for forgetting to feed you and then getting cranky with you because you’re yelling obscenities at me at 10pm, 4 hours after your feed time. My wish for you to become mutant and grow opposable thumbs so you can open your own food is clearly never going to happen.

My gorgeous friend Rachael recently suggested a snow hunting trip, but I prefer to go to Northrend instead. She sends me emails over the possibility that climate change is a conspiracy and I think of the cataclysmic events that changed the landscape of Azeroth. I apologise to Rachael who may be self blaming her flaming red hair on the fact that I haven’t been very social or in contact. We all know red headed people are forced to live a solitary life and I was so hoping to change that rule for you.

I’d like to apologise to Glubtok – I know you thought we were dating, Blizzard did throw us together an awful lot and I did become quite fond of you. Perhaps Stockholm Syndrome played a part in my affection. But like many relationships we find ourselves on different paths and if you weren’t trying to kill me all the time we could have possibly worked something out. I’m really sorry, I just need someone with less anger management issues. It’s not you, it’s me.

I’d also like to apologise to that horde mage I met in Tol Barad. My killing of you was simply self defence and thankfully cloak of shadows, evasion, sprint and killing spree meant that I defended myself unto your death. Please note that I am the worst ever pvp’er, my lack of skill literally sends my Overlord, Jodd, into hysterics and pants wetting, so based on that, it is quite possible my slaughter of you was actually a favour. After all, if I can kill you then you obviously suck at pvp more than I and this makes me smile… ok, yeah, worst apology ever. Let me rephrase… I’m sorry you suck.

Step Six: Continued to take personal inventory and when I was wrong promptly admitted it.

Yep, that was my fault, I caused that wipe… missed the interrupt. My bad.

Step Seven: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps.

I Heart WoW. I understand the theory of the compulsion loop, Blizzard is particularly brilliant at it and yet it isn’t necessarily the loop that brings me back daily to the game. Yes, WoW is my escape from the pressures of real life, family drama, the reality of working to live, paying the tax man and mediocrity. But spiritually and emotionally it has allowed me to create some real and beautiful friendships; bringing to me a cacophony of laughter, wit and stories that fill my heart; brewing a storm of sorrow and tears that has the potential to fill a salt mine with a years supply. My Mentor, God and Overlord have assisted in my spiritual journey and I often find myself sitting under a Bodhi Tree preparing for the awakening.

Intervention or rehab? Not necessary. I love my WoW addiction and, between Ianthee and I, we have it completely under control.


dc = disconnect; meaning = when your internet connection craps out for no apparent reason

pvp = player versus player; meaning = exercise in pain, caused generally by lack of skill but includes playing against another player

wipe = when all your raid members die as a result of an oops

Bodhi Tree = the tree Budda sat beneath while  having a spiritual experience and epiphony.

Need for a little speed

God I love driving. Nothing gives you more of a feeling of independence and freedom than the ability and capability to hit the road and have it direct you to wherever or whomever.

Cruising along, the mellifluous engine sound melting into bitumen, music turned up loud because that’s what relaxes you – and it scares other motorists so they stay away, the scenery glancing back at you as you wiz past; mountain peaks poking holes in the sky; wind turbines turning its arms rhythmically and slowly – almost too slowly, like its trying to swim through soup-like air; cattle grazing and all facing in the same direction. I don’t know why cattle do that, personally, I’d rather look at someones face when dining; and travelling at +9% above the speed limit, a legally acceptable speed… unless of course you live in Victoria, in which case if you are at +9% and you see red and blue lights behind you just floor it and make your escape before they shoot you (of course Sam Newman is the exception to this guidance).

But, sadly, the perfect drive is interrupted by other motorists, that is, motorists who drive v e r y  v e r y  s l o w l y, the speedometer plummeting to well below the minimum speed limit. My cruisiness comes to an abrupt end and I am forced to apply pressure to the brake. This never ends well. I try to be patient, really I do. I try to be nice and point out the “minimum” speed limit signs concreted into the sides of the roads as we crawl past. I’m pretty sure they see me gesturing, almost leaning out of the car to draw their attention to it. Do they not understand numbers? Maybe I can give them a different gesture. The translation of “OMFG you f*%#ing tool, move your f*%#ing arse, ffs a speed walker could go faster you f*%#head” may be lost in its interpretation. Motorists that speed up, overtake and then immediately slow down to take a corner also receive some form of expressive communiqué as do ‘P’ platers who believe their overpowered vehicle is the epitome of masculinity/testosterone and driving mastery. When your overpowered vehicle duco is bright orange, purple or lime green it pretty much guarantees that your masculinity is questionable. The good news about young men owning such vibrantly coloured cars is they have effectively removed themselves from furthering their gene pool – no (sane) girl is ever going to think the car is sexy enough to even consider procreating with them.

I drive defensively – I defend my right not have to suffer idiots on the roads. Any yelling involving expletives and erratic arm waving is merely a good work out, removing all frustration and aggression before getting home. I save hundreds of dollars a year using defensive driving techniques over gym membership. My husband, Robert, hates travelling with me if I’m driving, my explosive vocabulary gets him quite wound up… go figure. But when he drives, it’s like driving underwater, just too slow (read: smack bang on speed limit) and he’s so very patient with all those who seemed to have won their licence in a pub raffle – hmm win a meat tray or a C Class licence, ooh tough choices.

Of course, I don’t claim to be the best driver in the world, although I am the queen of reverse parallel parking and, from what I’ve witnessed, this alone puts me at the top 0.01 percentile of all drivers. I have never had a speeding ticket thanks to my ‘guys’ (little angelic voices who tell me when to slow down – normally within 2km of an upcoming speed radar – infallible), nor a DUI. I have only crashed twice and neither were my fault – one being a successful suicidal roo (quite possibly depressed over climate change) and the other, well, it involved my very first car – 1971 VW Superbug, full of rust, no air-con and possessed by a masochistic demon. I named the VW ‘Christine’ after novel of same name by Stephen King. Christine delighted herself by never agreeing to go into second gear, so all corners and roundabouts became 3rd gear chicanes and a race against other oncoming traffic. She also made an attempt on Robert’s life by annihilating the letterbox he was standing next to, just to prove she was mightier than either of us. Yes, chunk of metal usually stronger than flesh and bone. You have life insurance right hun?

Be safe and remember if you see me driving up behind you, just gently pull over on to the shoulder and let me pass, that way no one gets injured.


Dalai Llama

A road trip to Wagga is usually uneventful with only sighting road-kill and playing the ‘what animal was that?’ guessing game being the most interesting part. And this was half the trip – getting there. The return was more entertaining, if not a little absurd.

Spending time with family is good food for the soul, that hug, touch, weird little looks you share with another when something goes askew or when your sister pulls out her soon to be 5year old sons birthday present, a battery operated Superman cape that makes flying sounds when you race around in it and you instinctively know she’s secretly been wearing it in the absence of the birthday boy. The nice thing about family is that it grounds you, it’s the earthing you didn’t necessarily need but received anyway. My closeted superhero sister made an amazing lunch which was loved by all, but more so by my Dad, which he enjoyed with a smooth bottle of cab sauvignon. I travelled to Wagga with him, so the beauty of this lunch meant I drove the Mercedes back. I’m not a car enthusiast or a rev head but there’s something just so amazing and liberating about being behind the wheel of a powerful, sleek panther that just purrs down the highway. And on the return trip it was exactly as I expected but with Dad softly snoring in the seat beside me.

His snooziness meant I was left alone with my thoughts and he missed seeing my entertainment, a llama farm where two were getting pretty friendly. I didn’t know whether to slow down and watch this exchange, as perverted as that sounds (‘doggy style’ universally known to all species as it turns out), or drive faster to give them privacy and so not to embarrass them in this intimate moment with their 30 other llama friends looking on.

I wish I had a llama, a chocolate coloured one with white patches. I’d call it ‘Dalai’ and take it for walks in Canberra CBD. I’d train it to chase children, pick pocket the elderly, hide its loot in his long wool and fetch me coffee. I’d also give it growth hormones, so that in the event the boffins get it right and the world ends, I will have llama kebabs to sustain me. Perhaps a more suited name would be ‘Jic’ – Just In Case of emergency or famine. I wondered if people ride llamas, like a horse. Surely the growth hormone would help in making it a viable form of transport. I know people ride and race emus but emus terrify me. A result of a childhood trauma where several emus chased us from our bbq picnic and tried to enter our car via an open window, located optimally in the back seat, where I was unfortunately hiding. The sharp beaks, soulless eyes and the animalistic desire for food being driven by a brain the size of a peanut meant that I was in no position to calmly explain that I was not included in their diet. Ahh Canberra Tidbinbilla Reserve – enter at your own risk, take weapon.

Dad did wake up after a while and argued with me about whether or not I liked his music. I am quite eclectic when it comes to music, I appreciate all genres, classical, blues, funk, dubstep, however I am quite partial to grunge rock. ‘Your music is fine dad, put it on’. My agreement to Dad’s music, although quite an innocent comment at the time, has now made me reconsider my CD collection. Jazzy show tunes belted out by Robbie Williams at 120 decibels just undoes any likeability, drowning out the soft purr of the car, drowning out my Dad singing in his tenor vocality range and scaring my imaginary pet llama who, winking occasionally at me in the review mirror, was stretched out on rich leather seat behind me. I drove a little faster.


There’s nothing quite like sitting in your pj’s under the afternoons winter sun, it’s warmth a blanket against the cool wind. Then a smell hits you – a musty odor, and you realise it’s you because you are still in your pj’s half way through the day. But the sunshine is like a big hug. So you stay, embraced in its arms, allowing it to curl it’s fingers through your hair and stroke your face with tenderness. Inspite of smelling a little funky you realise – at this very moment – life is good and you are blessed.

Part of my blessing is marrying Robert. Our wedding day went off without a hitch, surrounded by family and friends. So here are a few photos from some of our guests. Robert is the extra tall guy – I’m the shorter person, in white.

Our Transport

Needed a hand to get out of the balloon

A regular day in the field

Cake Cutting

Bits of Tahiti

(the below post actually written 21 Apr)

Since starting on our honeymoon I have been sick, contracting an evil cold the day before embarking on a Tahiti holiday. I hate sick people and I especially hate being one of them. But today, half way through the holiday I managed to get to a ‘Pharmacie’ (French for Pharmacy) to obtain some feel better drugs. How awesome it was to get pseudoephedrine handed to me over the counter without the need for a police check and registration. Oh Australia, have we gone too far in regulating pharmaceutical drugs? Considering I failed chemistry, amongst a few other school subjects, my cability or capacity to manufacture methamphetamines is limited indeed.

So this blog is written from a cold and flu drug induced state, made exceptionally happy with the additional consumption of a pre-dinner cocktail, a glass of cab-sav merlot and a bottle of Krug champagne. Life is so much funnier and I haven’t fallen over yet (which surprises me no end)! So let me tell you of today as I sit on my balcony overlooking the warm waters of Tahiti…


Today I went snorkelling for the first time ever. It was amazing! I have never seen so many varieties of tropical fish, their vivid colours a kaleidoscope of pure beauty. It took me a while to work out the breathing, which made me sound like Darth Vader and, consequently, it meant every fish encounter began with ‘Luke, I am your father’. All fish are now named Luke and I have somehow managed to change gender as a result of this one little phrase. The snorkelling goggles are completely illusionary – on numerous occasions I reached out to the fish but my arms only appeared to be 8 inches long. Now, normally 8 inches isn’t anything for a girl to complain about, but OMG WTF happened to my arms?!!?


People watching is a fascinating past-time. Being at such a stunning resort all walks of life are represented, however, I have observed the following cultural differences. The French nude up, the British cover up, the Americans can’t decide and the Australians follow either the French or British depending on how much alcohol has been consumed. So, in my drug/alcohol happy I can confirm skinny dipping under the cover of a midnight sky is extremely liberating, I can further confirm that my lily white Canberra skin acted as one freakishly extraterrestrial beacon of light – illuminating the water, attracting fish (which, quite honestly, had a very Hitchcock feel and scared me a little) and ruining any chance of remaining unseen veiled in darkness.


The Sofitel on Moorea island is an exceptionally stunning resort, it’s the screensaver almost everyone has seen with the coco palm trees and turquoise waters lapping the edges of white sandy beaches. The resort provides luxurious accommodation, the finite details exquisite – even down to the softest of pillows to rest a weary head, like sleeping on a cloud. Unless, of course, your head is heavy with a head cold and resembles a 12 pound bowling ball, which, when laid down makes the sides of the pillow explode with a WOOF sound and covers your face in an attempt to suffocate you. The assassin’s pillow, a great gift for your enemies but not recommended for children. Sofitel on Moorea – breathtaking in so many ways.


Tahiti lies in the French-Polynesia belt and, not surprisingly, almost everyone speaks French. I was surprised that I could recall a significant portion of the language I had learnt in my final years of school, very conversational. This little known skill I had even took Robert by surprise, his look of happy bewilderment every time I entered into a conversation made me smile. I can’t wait til we holiday in Nepal and then I can really impress him with my Mandarin Chinese.

Au-revoir mon cher ami


$3.20 is too much

I think I lost at least 50 IQ points today whilst I waited in the checkout queue at my local supermarket. Had I waited longer than 10 minutes, I would have been in serious danger. In waiting for my turn I unwittingly picked up and flipped through one of the ‘women’s’ magazines, strategically positioned in the hope that if you start reading it you‘ll soon realise that you can’t live without it and, clutching it tightly to your breast like a life-buoy, you will need to purchase it. A life changing ‘must have’.

I should have realised in reading the cover that coma inducing text lay within. But, stupidly, I opened it anyway. Little brain synapses began exhaling before filling themselves up with gas and then farting into what was becoming an empty cavern of a skull. My eyes glazing over as I skimmed the glossy pages. I can’t believe Brittney Spears is thinking of getting married a third time! After months of trying to pull together a wedding all I can suggest is: elope.

Do ‘normal’ women really read or want this crap? Perhaps I’m not normal. Where are the investigative papers on the unsolved disappearance of Madeline McCann? Or a journalistic exposé on the central banks involvement in the global financial crisis? Or the biographical articles on Ngawang Sangdrol, a recently released nun and political prisoner in Tibet, for ‘counter-revolutionary crimes’. I sincerely hope she knows that orange is the new black and can update her wardrobe accordingly, so to avoid being a fashion faux-pas. Yes, I am quite enamoured by hard hitting articles, especially ones concerning the law, crime, politics or social culture. Oooh Ashton Kutcher is cheating on Demi. Whoops! There goes another brain cell and all my cognitive function is inching closer to complete shutdown, keeping in pace with the checkout conveyor belt.

Perhaps the design behind these magazines is to keep women ‘fat, dumb and happy’. The magazines are, indeed, a little demoralising and patronising. Please, give me information and words that feed my brain and nourish my soul. And, once I have consumed that I can then go on Christina Aguilera’s diet and lose 30 kilos in 30 days simply by reducing all food intake to only consist of celery. Or perhaps the magazines are all about escapism, getting lost in the epic tales of celebrity and the dazzling fashions that are ill-afforded. What are women escaping from exactly?

The apparent need for security; physically, socially, professionally and financially, means we have become increasingly voyeuristic, too busy to really live, too frigid to really love, caged in our homes and yet desperate to be part of the world, it’s people and history. I say, put down the trash filled magazine and walk out your front door – but only if your star sign is Capricorn. In today’s horoscope Capricorns are encouraged to ‘walk on the wild side’. All other star signs are to remain indoors, relatively safe from harmful intelligence.

Oh goody, a sodoku.

Colour My World

I finally had the opportunity to catch up with a friend yesterday, after several months of agreeing to do so but never getting around to it. It must be inconvenient for my friends that I am the most punctual person that I know, often arriving at the designated rendezvous at least 10 minutes early, only to bitch at them for being 10 minutes late. Time is money my friend and I could have spent hundreds of dollars in the accumulated 20 minute wait… My bank balance thanks you for your tardiness, although that stuffed and mounted polar bear head would have been a nice addition to the bedroom wall. I wonder if taxidermy is lucrative.

When my friend, Anna, did finally arrive I was instantly concerned. She’s yellow. I didn’t know whether or not to ask if she had scurvy so I kept my mouth shut and just pushed my orange juice toward her. I found her Simpson-like skin fascinating and phased out of conversation where I see her mouth moving but my imagination had her running around Springfield and simultaneously dating Apu and Moe… one has a 7/11 food store, the other has alcohol on tap, so I can appreciate the dilemma of choosing one over the other.  Anna, unfortunately, had asked me a question during my phased out period, one based on intellectual property rights and I answered her incorrectly completely giving away my non-attendance. ‘Yes, pirates are super cool’ I stated ‘I want to be a pirate’. She just looked at me blankly and I thought she wanted more information so I continued ‘but I don’t want a hook or a peg leg… and I’m a little scared of birds so don’t want the parrot either… I’d like a monkey instead’.

After a few hours of looking at Anna I had had enough and ended up asking her if she was feeling ok. She said yes but I didn’t believe her – no one can be that yellow and not be healthy so I rephrased the question thinking I might catch her out in a lie. She insisted she was healthy until I said she looks like she’s been marinating in some indian cumin spice, giving the appearance of severe jaundice. I began to think if I were to cook her would she taste like butter chicken. As it turns out her discolouration was due to her fake tan and it was all ok because in a few days time she’ll turn a nice orange. Oh joy, the soft purple skirt you just bought will clash fantastically but your animated look will likely increase your chance of becoming a children’s television icon.

I will never understand fake tan, nor the excessive use of make-up. Is it considered a different form of sun protection? I suspect its protective properties to be as successful as using glad-wrap and a rubber band as the alternative to a condom. Entertaining and fun at the time but hazardous to your health.


Your lucky numbers for this week are:   9, 37, 26, 4, 11, 18… Disclaimer: I provide no guarantee of these numbers winning, but if they do please send me 20%.

Jodd & Me

For my WOW family.


#2 Sport… over-rated.

Arrgh! Well, Hell has truly frozen over as I am forced to endure and participate in the annual work Footy Tipping competition… never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever be in this position.. Note to self: find another job where the team building activity bar is raised higher than the combined IQ of footballers. I know nothing about the AFL (the actual sport), nor do I really want to know. The extent of my knowledge is reflected in my ability to read the paper whilst reconnecting my intravenous espresso line. Given my non-existent knowledge (and interest) I do plan on using my extensive network to point me in the right ‘tipping’ direction so I am not ridiculed. This might be viewed as cheating – I see it as fair and opportunistic given my circumstances. Winning the competition is not everything though as I believe I get to be spanked with a wooden spoon should I lose. Unsurprisingly to most, I find this hot and extremely exciting and request the provision of handcuffs as well.

The full extent of my AFL knowledge is based on what I read in the paper, providing its front page material, because anything past page 6 goes toward the kitty litter tray. My contempt for the AFL is completely supported by the fact that a committee (of adults) cannot define the meaning of ‘inappropriate’ dealings… Perhaps ‘stupidity’ is easier, or ‘extreme bad judgement’. Please, take my Macquarie Dictionary, it is very big and heavy with a thesaurus toward the back. Once open you will find a plethora [many, much, plenty, abundance] of words that can educate you. I sincerely apologise for the lack of pop-up pictures. Sports, generally over-paid idiots and completely over-rated.

I have a friend who has started mountain bike riding in an effort to ‘get fit’ and shed the entire five kilos he has stacked on his body, somewhere naked to the eye. ‘Truly inspirational’ I think to myself as I log into WOW. Personally, I find running around Azeroth completely exhausting. Seriously, there are safer ways of getting fit, like base jumping or bull fighting. I will keep my word to him, however, and ensure that in the event mountain bike riding has fatal consequences I shall lead the congregation in some fun karaoke. I am also hoping for an open casket so he can still participate in a Mexican wave, having attached fishing line to his arms and through a pulley system raising them at the correct time. This would be most entertaining. His final (yet awkward) wave goodbye and an unforgettable memory for his children.

Rachael, one of my dearest friends tried to get me fit after I announced that I need/want to lose 10 kilos prior to the wedding. My over-complaining about every little thing coupled with hocking up a lung was enough to make her quit the ‘personal trainer’ role after the first 20 minutes. The ‘Get Kate Fit Campaign’ must have been completely anti-climatic for her as I rolled on the floor clutching my chest and praying for mercy, despite the fact we had only achieved 2 repetitions of 5 push-ups. Sports, clearly not for everyone and, still, completely over-rated…

Dear IOC, please make World of Warcraft Arena-ing an Olympic sport by 2016. I will be brilliant by then and wish to demonstrate my all powerfulness. I think a gold medal would be the perfect accessory and I promise never to sell it on the auction house…  Sincerely, Ianthee.