I officially have nothing to blog about this weekend. I think my life needs more drama - the position for stalker is now open.

I think parents silently hope that their kids can be refunded. Or crammed into the post box for a mail-in rebate. Reflecting on the people in my life who have kids of their own, I really wonder what my life would be like if I had a kid of my own (hello stretchmarks). If I were a Dad, I'd sure as hell never introduce my kid to the marketing horror that is Santa Claus. That is of course, unless he is dressed in a red leather thong and has more than 'presents' in his sack. In that sort of scenario, Junior would find Daddy doing more than just kissing Santa Claus (losing train of thought here). But seriously speaking, I'd educate my kid on the political horrors of kindergarden and gift him his first pepper-spray for his 5th birthday. Hey, kids at school can be mean - it's every brat for himself!

Of course, there would be the downside of the constant questions, tantrums in the shopping malls, falling sick every week, refusing to eat properly, and most importantly, the complete elimination of my sex life.


I think I'll just stick to having a cat.

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I am now officially listed on blogshares. So you can now trade stocks of my blog and give me money so that I can whore my self out on the Internet even more. Just scroll all the way to the bottom of my blog and click the little button to get trading.

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I never imagined that "Happy Birthday" could be sung to the tune of We Will Rock You. However, the staff at Chillis certainly made my babe's bday a memorable one. Some fantastic food and a very cute waiter was also thrown in the mix to make the night even more fun. Not to mention a trip to The Chill Factory (grazie Carlo!) for some fresh ice-cream and hilarious company. Quite an enjoyable weekend I must say.

With my impending birthday growing ever so close, my annual 'oh i'm single on my birthday AGAIN' moment happened when I was brushing my teeth this morning (why do I have these moments when I'm in the loo?) Staring at my watery-eyed reflection mouthing the words "S-I-N-G-L-E" I stopped and mouthed back "S-O W-H-A-T-?" Truth is, I'm single and ready to mingle, but I've got fantastic people who I'm going to be spending my birthday with (and I know I'd like to snog one particular person), so not having a man-in-tow doesn't seem to bother me any more.

Wow...is this what divorced women feel like?

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My birthday is next month, and I've decided on what I'd like to get - a Traffic Light. They're amazing contraptions that can stop whole rivers of cars dead in their tracks with a mere flick of color. Speed demons loathe them and pedestrians seem to ignore them. So this year on my birthday, I would like to go out with a traffic light strapped to my back which would of course change color depending on my mood. For all you lovely people out there, here's a reference chart for my moods:

red - PMS/Mid-life crisis. If you value your testicles, do not approach me.
yellow - Proceed with caution. Chances of landing a date range from slim to near zero. Expect sarcastic put-downs directed at your wardrobe.
green - Bur-Dubai-whore mode. Take a number and come on in.

Here's a few things that I've learnt this week worth blogging about:
- Coffee with your ex who is now married is a definate no-no.
- Coffee with your ex who is now married and is bringing their partner along is a never-never.
- Giving up sex for Lent was the easiest thing in the world; I'm not getting some anyway!
- Moving 10 users to a new network switch at work was child's play. Actually configuring the stupid thing was a pain in the ass.
- 'Superstar' is my official office nickname.
- People have begun to stare at my orange mp3 player with pink headphones.
- Men who are unaware that they are not alone in the men's room and groan at urinals have severe repressed childhood issues - period.

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Out in my head is now part of the ONE Campaign - the campaign to make poverty history. Adopt a banner or order a wristband, or get a white band for your blog like the one on the top right. It just takes one minute of your time, and you will make a difference.

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I've become addicted to Desperate Housewives. Having finally got the Season 1 DVD, I've been watching episodes whenever I have some free time (I've also discovered that I'm a "Desperate Houseboy" in more ways than one). I wonder what it would be like to live in a suburbia like Wysteria Lane, with scheming neighbors, hidden secrets, and of course, a little dirty laundry. Like many first-time viewers, I'm dying to know why Mary-Alice killed her self, but I have to be patient and wait for everything to be revealed. Watching the episode about Mary-Alice's funeral made me realize that although funerals are supposed to be sad occasions, the one good thing that comes out of one is that everyone puts their issues aside and comes together to mourn for a loved one. On some days I wish that everyday was a funeral...

Next month is my birthday, and I'm already worried about what I'm going to be doing on the big day. I could dress-to-impress and go have a night out on the town, or curl up in front of my DVD player watching re-runs of Queer as Folk. And for those of you who are wondering what to get me for the glorious occasion, please refer to my wishlist link on the left.

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A friend of mine recently wrote about the small barbers that we have around here. Now originally I had dreamt up a fabulous new look for myself, and was attempting to grow my hair longer in a particular direction. But after hearing from my boss that I was begining to look like a 16 year old, I decided to go and get my hair snipped. So, back to the barber shops. These places may lack the plush seating, the glossy hair-stylist-weekly magazine, the 24 different types of conditioner, and the very-out-there stylist - heck these guys must have practiced their first haircut on a friggin goat for all I care, but I'm happy with my hairdo. I've been going to these guys since I was about 13, so they pretty much know what's in store if they mess up my hair.

I think the real sign that a boy is growing up is when they let you sit in the chair at the barber shop. If you're young, you're most likely short, so they make you sit on this plank of wood that they keep on the chair's armrests, so that they can see your tiny litle head and not snip your ears off. When I used to sit on that I felt like I was being served as a rack of lamb or something. But truly, the day of 'teenage-hood' comes when they put that damn plank back in the storeroom and let you sit in the chair. I used to be absolutely terrified of a hair dryer when I was young - the loud roaring noise was enough to bring tears to my eyes. Today, I won't go out anywhere without first getting a nice hot blow.

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