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Thursday, October 20, 2005

Net-balls to this!

On occasion, I am inspired to do something active and healthy. Like tonight - I had steamed broccoli for dinner. The other week I took out a free week trial membership at a gym (and yes, I did go). Last night, however, might be the last time I ever indulge in that ridiculous sport they call netball.

Since last night I have revised my theory that softball is the most shite sport ever invented. Because now I know that truly, netball is.

To set the scene - I had donated my (admittedly crap) services as a ring-in for my friends' team (incidentally called 'Graham' - the best name for a sporting team ever) in order that they should avoid paying the hefty $90 forfeiting fee. I said I would only play if I could be goal keeper, a position I vaguely remembered from my junior high school days as being relatively slack and easy to do.

Everything was going fine until I got to the court. Everything up until that point had been great - getting dressed, having dinner, driving to the gym - it all went off without a hitch. Everything that DIDN'T involve netball was great.

But then the umpire asked me to take off my ring. My pathetic, plain little silver band had to go. Obviously she was onto my devious plan of using it to reflect light into my opponent's eyes and blind them. Damn her.

Then came the fingernail check. Excuse me, but do you have to be a COMPLETE frump to play this game? No jewellery, no nails, what's next? No sense of style?

Oops, spoke too soon - next up I came under fire for daring to wear shorts that were below the knee.

"Do that next week and you'll be penalised a goal, missy," said the other, old man umpire.

What IS this rule about? Why is it actually a rule of the game that you have to wear skirts or shorts above the knee? It can't be so the male spectators have something to look at - there aren't any male spectators.

Anyway after all of this fashion fun, it was time to start the game.

If there's one phrase I never want to hear again, it's "Obstruction, goalkeeper".

Apparently I wasn't all that au fait with the "three feet" rule, which requires you to be EXACTLY THREE FEET from an opponent before you can try to obstruct their shot. Every time I stuck my hand in some girl's face to stop her from shooting a goal I heard "Obstruction, goalkeeper...obstruction, goalkeeper." (Later on I heard "Contact, goalkeeper", but that was different. Apparently you're REALLY not allowed to punch an opponent.)

Ok, does anyone know what three feet is? HELLO, HEARD OF THE METRIC SYSTEM? WELCOME TO AUSTRALIA, WE USE IT HERE. Maybe they should start charging court fees in pounds and shillings too, just to keep it even. Anyway, unfortunately I had left my old-timey feet and inches measuring tape at home, so I kept breaking this ridiculous rule of measurement.

All this while girls ran around shrieking "IF YOU NEED!" and "UP AND IN!" Lord, spare me.

And how's this for another stupid netball rule: on a throw in, one must step UP to the court line, but not ON it. I don't mean OVER, I mean ON. To be precise - if your foot is touching the outer court line when you do a throw in, the ball is given to the other team.

I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW WHAT POINT THIS RULE SERVES. And more to the point, I would like to know how a girl with size 11 feet can be reasonably expected to step UP to a line and not ON it during a throw in. It's practically impossible - I'd have to stand about a metre back. Or perhaps three feet.

Speaking of which - how is one supposed to stop someone from shooting a goal by standing three feet away from them and waving their hands in the air? You also can't touch the ball until it leaves their hands, not that you'd get anywhere close to doing that in the first place without go-go-Gadget arms.

All in all, I've decided that netball is the most ridiculous sport in the world.

Not quite so ridiculous, however, as this sign I saw this evening at Coles.


Does YOUR supermarket have such an extensive thong aisle?


Clearly, thongs are a big seller at the Port Adelaide Coles. Hosiery too, by the looks of it. To be honest, I can't believe they even had ONE aisle sign that said 'Thongs', let alone three. Bizarre, but it did make my night.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

All that glitters

WARNING: this is a rare emotional post from a slightly inebriated Petstarr.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE FEMALE RACE?

Seriously. Why are we SO FUCKED UP? Don't get me wrong - obviously, I'm a chick and I like being one and wouldn't want to change it (unless some SERIOUS deals were done...and I'm talking SERIOUS). But tonight, I finally caught a glimpse of what men complain about all the time, and ladies - I didn't like it one bit.

Here's the scene: I was invited to a fairly "swanky" event at the Art Gallery tonight, so off I went in my signature sequins (if you want sequins or glitter, come to Petstarr, baby) feeling pretty OK about myself. Sure, I probably shouldn't have had that schnitzel this week, and yeah, I could have done without that curry, and OK I agree, I look much skinnier in those photos from Thailand that were taken two years ago, but hey - I was looking OK and everything was basically alright.

Cue the speed dating. Yes, the event I was at this evening had planned a "speed dating" component, whereby lovely singles got to meet other lovely singles in an artistic arena, having opportunities to discuss the artwork in front of them for a short period of time. So if you didn't like the person you were stuck with, you could just wax lyrical about the lovely painting in front of you for 90 seconds before escaping.

All went well (apart from being stuck with two gay guys and a computer science student for the main part of the exercise) until I finally got to talk to the one decent looking bloke there. As soon as I turned up at his "station" I was unceremoniously cut off by Psycho Bad Roots Girl (hereto known as PBRG) - a crazy bottle blonde girl who badly needed a hair appointment (to address her underdone roots situation). She wrapped her arm around him and slurred "I'm his friend, I've known him for aaaaaages, so I'll just stay here and give him moral support".

Um, right. or you could just make everyone's life easier and FUCK OFF.

Having decided that a bitch fight with a fake blonde was way too much effort for this little black duck (considering there was free champagne afoot) I made a pathetic 90 seconds worth of speed-dating discussion and retreated downstairs to the bar, where I of course bitched at length about the psycho insecure bottle blonde who had cut my lunch.

But of course, it didn't end there.

After a few more champers I decided to give this bloke another go, PBRG or not. I located him across the courtyard standing with some other friends of mine, with PBRG drooling in the background.

I sauntered over with some mates, keen to make a friendly "Hi these are my mates, let's meet your mates" situation, but instead was greeted with TYPICAL PARANOID FEMALE AGGRESSION, which I have now decided is the most bullshit and unnecessary of all attack techniques.

Seeing me approach, PBRG says (under her breath, but not really) "Ohhhh HER. We met HER upstairs in the speed dating thing..... Desperate housewife."

Um... HELLO???? I'm twenty-fucking-five! (But frankly, if you think I look like Teri Hatcher I'm not going to complain.)

Firstly - when did you become so paranoid that you feel you need to put down someone who says "hello" to your "love interest" (I can only assume that's what it was about)? And why are you so goddamn insecure in the first place? Get over yourself for christ's sake.

With the benefit of hindsight (and a few extra drinks) I can say that I wish I had pulled up and said "Excuse me? Housewife? What did you say?" and really see how she dealt with a bit of confrontation. But of course, like the nice Libra that I am, I let it go.

Not only did I have to deal with this, but when I got to the Exeter afterwards some random in the toilet said: "Mmmm. Nice top. Very...sparkly." to which I replied "I had to go a function before this, it's not my usual get up."

"Was it a GLITTER theme then?" she said.

NO, BITCH, IT'S A FUCKING WEAR WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT THEME BECAUSE I DON'T GIVE A SHIT WHO YOU ARE OR WHAT YOU THINK OF ME, GOT IT?

I've got my angry boots on and I'm wearing them to bed, goddammit. Women should just learn to get the fuck along.

End transmission.