Step Into the Light

This month in Cosmo...

nobody@vox.com(Inga) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 20:40:02 +1100

I usually revel in being a single, free and ~~easy~~ independent laydee, but that’s not to say I’m not going to chase after a bit of tail when it hoves into view. I quite enjoy dating. I know a few liberated gals who forgo dating in favour of dragging home a hot inebriated Croatian at 3am, but being a good Methodist lass I’m loath to indulge in that kind of behaviour*.

So I’ve tried internet dating (hit and miss), I’ve tried speed dating (exhausting), I’ve tried being set up with random friends of friends (heroin in their freezer). I’ve dated a 26 year old who thought it was appropriate to tell me he was a virgin on the first date. I’ve dated a wonderful guy who for some reason I just couldn’t drum up any affection for; I dropped him like a hot potato and spent a few months feeling like a cow. I went out with a bloke who thought I’d made a very bad life choice by deciding I didn’t want to see him again, and sent me a 3 page email (complete with bullet points) detailing precisely why I should give him another shot. He then proceeded to text me every other week for 10 months.

This is precisely why I love dating: the horror stories. There’s nothing better than a fantastic dating horror story, and this is one of the few stages in my life when I’m free to gather them from every single weirdo I can lay my paws on. After all, I won’t get another chance until I’m a 45 year old single mother, divorced with twins.

My latest candidate is a pro wrestler. Unfortunately my weirdo radar is being temporarily scrambled by his magnificent biceps, but once that clears up I’m sure he’ll find a way into Inga’s Bedtime Book of Horrors. My best mate is betting he’s still married, I’m betting on schizophrenia.

*unless there are Jager Bombs involved.

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Inga's All Turkish Adventures Part 5

nobody@vox.com(Inga) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 16:16:39 +1100

The Turkish ‘Multi Trip’ – I was half hoping this involved sitting around a nargile filled with marijuana and shrooms, but it turned out to be fun anyway. It was a very full day, crammed with hiking, mud, beach, ruins and watermelon. It was the most fun I’ve ever had in the back of a Landrover, which the guides repeatedly referred to as the ‘Jeep’ no matter how many times I muttered “it’s a bloody LANDROVER you Mediterranean twit!”

The guides warned us beforehand that in some of the smaller villages, the locals like to throw water in the tour vehicles as they drive through – either through boredom or culture, I couldn’t quite work that out through the broken English. Distracted by the quaint country scenery, we completely forgot about that little morsel until our driver stopped the vehicle next to a little old farmer man, who promptly shoved a running garden hose into the cabin and drenched us all to the skin. We screamed a lot of unladylike naughty words. I hate little old farmer men.

An hour and several similar drenches later, we wound up in Saklikent for the Gorge Walk. Saklikent Gorge is just like any other gorge I guess – big cliff faces, freezing water, strong currents and smoking hot Scandinavian tourists without shirts. For reasons we can no longer remember, Mandy and I had decided to use the soft river mud to paint our faces like members of Kiss, which didn’t seem to endear us to Sven and Co. Honestly, what kind of nation doesn’t appreciate a woman decorated with mud whiskers? Anyhow, a bit later on an old Turkish bloke wading in front of me stumbled on a rock, causing a testicle burst out of his supertight Speedoes. I took that to mean he liked my whiskers.

Saklikent Gorge

All the walking and gonad-dodging left us well and truly ready for lunch at Saklikent village. This place blew my mind – the spring-fed creeks that bubble out of the surrounding cliffs have been turned into the centrepiece of the village. There are water wheels and fountains at every turn, and hammocks and cushion-strewn pontoons all along the banks. I could’ve spent the rest of my life there dangling my toes in the water and nibbling olives, but the guides came and herded us up for the next adventure. Mud baths.

Saklikent village

More Saklikent village

Unfortunately the grown up life I’ve chosen affords me precious little time or opportunity to wallow around in mud. So I made the most of the opportunity.

Oink

Afterwards we had to jump into the river to rinse off. Not only was it freeze-your-tits-off cold, the current was running at about 300 knots. We took turns clinging desperately to the bank while someone else rubbed off the mud. It wasn’t the most effective method, and I’m pretty sure I still have some grey gunk in my armpits.

We got to know our Jeep (it’s a fricken Landrover!!) buddies during the day – two Muslim lads on holiday from Istanbul and one Turkish fella who spoke passable English after spending some time in London. He told us his name which sounded like “I-touch”. “I-touch, you touch, don’t touch! Hahaha!” He told us he was 23, and received a chorus of “awww, you’re just a baby!”. He laughed and said English speaking women always say that. “When I’m 19, London women tell me I’m a baby. Now I’m 23 and I’m still a baby! What does this mean, that I’m still a baby?” We couldn’t answer that. Hell, I even say it to guys who are older than me. It’s a bit condescending, now that I think about it. Bah, who cares about men’s feelings.

After winding our way through more villages and more nasty hose-wielding farmer men, our next stop was the Xanthos ruins. I’m not great at history or absorbing information, so I’m still not entirely sure who lived there or for how long. But apparently they used to get conquered a lot, and would commit mass suicide each time by jumping off a nearby cliff into the river (the same icy creek we were splashing about in upstream).

Lycian tomb

Xanthos

Suicide river - still can't turn photos sideways

Our last stop for the day was Patara Beach. It’s famous in Turkey because it has sand, and it’s 16km long. This probably would’ve been more impressive had we not been Australian. We were fairly wrecked by this stage and couldn’t muster the energy to do more than flop around in the shallows and make lewd comments at topless men.

Another perfect end to the day

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This annoys me.

nobody@vox.com(Inga) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 07:26:32 +1100

Work phone rings

Me: Welcome to [company name] how can I help you?

Caller: Um, I got a missed call from this number.

Me: Ok, where are you calling from?

Caller: Cranbourne.

Me: I mean, are you from a company?

Caller: No.

Me: Can I have your name please?

Caller: Brian.

Me: Right. Do you have any contacts at [company name]?

Caller: No. Who is this?

Me: My name is Inga. And you don’t know anyone who works at [company name]?

Caller: No. You didn’t call me?

Me: No I didn’t I’m afraid. But if you don’t mind holding I’ll just find out if anyone needs to contact a Brian from Cranbourne.

Hit hold button, mutter expletive at stapler, sip coffee for thirty seconds, hit hold again.

Me: I’m sorry Brian, I can’t find who called you. I’m sure if it was important they’ll call back.

This happens at least twice a week. In my next life I’m going to be a tree surgeon. And cut things.

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Friday rants are becoming a habit...

nobody@vox.com(Inga) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 19:54:21 +1100

For the edification of everyone on the interwebs, here's stuff that’s been righteously pissing me off this month:

1. Dragonflies. I have solar powered plastic yellow dragonflies in my garden which are supposed to light up at night and fill my garden with an enchanted LED glow. Instead they switch on when the sun is shining on the sensor, and switch off again when night falls. I don’t know enough about solar energy or gardening to fix this anomaly. Dad attributes it to daylight savings, and because every contraption in his house is run on solar electricity, I’m apt to believe him.

2. My social conscience. I stupidly downloaded the Ethical Consumer Guide, and the guilt is all consuming. I’ve stopped shopping at either of Australia’s supermarket ‘duopolies’, I’m boycotting Nestle, and I check the labels on all my food to make sure it doesn’t contain Zimbabwean orphan liver. Despite all the effort, I still have an ecological footprint that would rival the Sultan of Brunei.

3. Fast food. I’ve haven’t eaten fast food in 5 weeks, and have been cooking myself nutricious meals with vegetables and fish and monounsaturated fats. Admittedly I’ve lost a kilo, but apart from that I haven’t saved any money, I don’t feel particularly energetic, and I’m definitely crankier than usual. Clearly I have one of those metabolisms that run most efficiently on trans-fatty acids, carcinogenic preservatives and tequila. First thing tomorrow I’m stopping in at Hungry Jack’s for a pig carcass cholesterol wrap and three grease laden hash browns dipped in a crust of salt. With a side of Zimbabwean orphan liver.

Bugger it, I’m going to the pub. Happy Friday, y’all.

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T.F.I.F

nobody@vox.com(Inga) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 21:46:19 +1100

A month ago my company axed our receptionist, technically because the position is redundant but realistically because she was a spiteful, venomous, incompetent old weevil with a bad facelift. The place is much jollier without her, however this poor little worker drone has been given the privilege of taking over her workload. Granted, it’s not a huge workload, but this week our sales team has been poncing about at some innovations exhibition in Canberra, leaving me to pilot the front desk, field sales queries, and squeeze in my own 45-hour-a-week role somewhere in between. I must’ve performed my Demonic Overworked Harpy act to perfection, because late this afternoon my Managing Director wandered in and said:

“Thanks for putting that information together for me today. I know you have lots to do.”

Woah. Anyone who has an MD will know the significance of that.

So I figure I definitely deserve one of these:

Jose Cuervo's Mule

That’s Tequila, dry ginger ale and fresh lime. Or a Jose’s Mule, if you happen to order one at The Pub at Crown Casino. Mmm. Here’s to Friday!

(...and Monday only 60 hours away. Sigh.)

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That poor parakeet...

nobody@vox.com(Inga) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 20:26:37 +1100

Not sure if everyone knows about this and I’m just an idiot (quiet, up the back), but:

Open Google, type “why won’t” in the search bar, and then laugh hysterically at the first auto-fill option that appears.

What the hell, Google?

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Maybe Jamie Durie will marry me now?

nobody@vox.com(Inga) — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 17:48:13 +1100

I don’t have green thumbs.

My dad has a stunning assemblage of bromeliads in his nursery. Each time I visit he unceremoniously tears off a few pups (or baby brom shoots, for those not down wit’ da lingo) for me to stuff in my baggage and bring to Melbourne to “see if they grow in those conditions”. I’m not sure if he’s referring to Victoria’s woeful weather or my woeful agricultural skills. Probably both.

Anyway I have quite a random assortment of potted plants living around my patio, which sit dejectedly through 40 degree summers, freezing downpours, wind, insects and complete, utter neglect. Usually they look positively mournful, but lately something wierd has been happening:

Bromeliad doing something strange

Succulent looking like a succulent

Peace lily with flower

What the hell, Mother Nature. Crazy old broad.

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Inga's All Turkith Adventureth Part 3

nobody@vox.com(Inga) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 22:25:54 +1100

On day three in Turkeyland, our other two partners in crime, Ems and Susan arrived and completed our little quintet. Ems is a Nottingham girl and confused me immensely for the first day or so by exclaiming “alright?” whenever she greeted me. I later learnt this is Pommish for “how ya going?”, and we got along fine after that. Susan is an Aussie ex-pat who’s been living in the UK for a decade or so, and hence has one of those bizarre Minogue accents.

After our mandatory morning trip to the ‘beach’ and swallowing huge amounts of Mediterranean sea water because inflatable water toys hate me, we did some more exploring through the village. We took the new girls over to meet Creepy Rugman Shonel, who nearly weed himself at the sight of tall, blonde Ems. Mandy and I snuck away and ended up in a cute little trinket shop chatting up the store owners Murat and Mehmet Ali. Turkish blokes are fabulous to flirt with, because unlike Aussie blokes they’re not dickheads.

Inflatable water crafts hate me

Allow me to make a sweeping generalisation: Aussie men under 35 are socially inept, conversationally retarded and charismatically stunted. They’re either so tentative and delicate that it makes me want to grab them by the shirt front and scream “dude! What did your Mama do to you?!”, or they’re artless, sleazy hunks of machismo, spitting out lewd comments that make me want to shove their head under the bonnet of their R8 Maloo, slam it shut and set fire to it. There ain’t no middle ground in this town. Turkish lads, on the other hand, will smile at you to get your attention rather than leering down your top. They’re capable of making casual chit chat, and have a knack for letting you know they’re interested without making your skin crawl or setting off your gag reflex. All this, despite the fact they’re all very, very short. Leprechaun short. Tom Cruise short. I’m guessing it all comes down to self esteem, which is something my Melbourne bruvvas appear to be lacking, even though most of them are twice the height of your average Kaş man. Get it together boys – I’m one bad date away from going all Portia de Rossi.

Holden "Dickheadmobile" Maloo

Enough bitter-single-girl ranting, back to Murat and Mehmet. Mehmet Ali was the spitting image of Sylvestor Stallone, if Sly weighed 60 kilograms, was Turkish and had mild homosexual mannerisms. He even spoke with a lisp, which is why Mandy and I probably shouldn’t have been taking Turkish lessons from him – we spent the next few days in the belief we were asking “how much is this please?” in perfect Turkish, when in fact we were saying “how much ith thith pleathe?”

Trinket shop

Murat was a deep, artistic kind of guy – he told us his name means ‘Wishes’, and when the tourist season finishes he spends his free time painting images of human emotion for art exhibitions. How’s that for a pick up line. I had a terrible time taking him seriously, and Mandy and I were probably a bit more evil than we should have been with our dry Australian humour:

Murat: I hope you find everything you’re looking for on your holiday!

Mandy: We’re actually looking for rich husbands.

Inga: Do you know anyone with a helicopter?

Whereupon we were treated to stern rant about love and materialism, while Mehmet pottered around in the background mumbling “I with I had a helicopther.”

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28 Dresses

nobody@vox.com(Inga) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 21:32:00 +1100

Bridesmaid gig on the weekend again, my fourth trip down the aisle. I love, love, love being a bridesmaid – being primped, pampered, photographed and drinking champagne until in comes out my ears, then having a big ol’ sook because the bride is beeeyoootiful and I love you soooo much and you desherve to be ha-ha-happy...uh oh, where the hell is my uvver shoe? Hic.

But most of all I loved this:

Chocolate fountain

This is the reason I didn’t wake up on Sunday with a sizzling hangover. I alternated my tequila shots with surreptitious gulps from the chocolate fountain, which is clearly the sensible thing to do on a night out. In fact by the end of the night I found myself sober* enough to be babysitting the other two bridesmaids, the best man, and one random Phillippino guy who introduced himself as Arnie. I shoved everyone into a taxi, directed it to the closest 7-11, fed everyone microwave chicken rolls and convinced Best Man to keep his hands off one of the bridesmaids because dude, she’s REALLY not interested. Plus you’re married and have a child, you jerk. Then bridesmaid vomited out the side of the taxi and Best Man suddenly lost interest. Ah, young love.

I don’t think I’m too keen on being a bride. They’re unfailingly tense, weepy and strung out. Cheer up girls, it’s a husband, not breast cancer. Husbands are a lot easier to dispatch.

*According to the Rye Pub breathalyser, I had a healthy blood alcohol level of 0.07. Another bridesmaid blew 0.18 then cried because she’d wasted $2 on a breathalyser.

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Inga's All Turkish Adventures Part 2

nobody@vox.com(Inga) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 21:55:38 +1100

Day 2 in Turkeyland began with a trip to the ‘beach’. There was no sand, which I can’t say is an entirely bad thing. I never enjoyed coming home after a trip to Gunnamata and dumping 3 kilos of sand out of my undies and sweeping the sand dunes out of my car. There were also no sharks, stingrays, rip tides, stonefish, poison cone shells or irukandji jellyfish. None of that beachy stuff, just sunbeds and umbrellas and a cute cafe owner who scurries around to serve you chips and beer while you’re sunbaking. Gunnamatta can kiss my Mediterranean suntanned ass, thank you.

Better than Mornington

Once we’d roasted ourselves to perfection (apologies to 50 year old Inga – I know you’re going to wind up wrinkled and melanoma riddled, but bugger it, this mocha skin is worth it!), we went in search of food and found ourselves at the Bay Bay Cafe Bar.

It's pronounced 'bye bye'

Let me say this about Melbourne: yes, there is an extraordinary range of bars, clubs, cafes and restaurants in Melbourne. It’s our fair city’s drawcard. There’s something for everyone. Chinese, Japanese, cosy, pumping, jumping, bohemian, singles, swingers, younger, older, decrepit – there’s something for every taste and budget. However, if your something is nice ambience, nice decor and great hospitality, expect to pay an arm and a leg for it. Heaven help you if you want a smile as well. For my entire stay in Kaş, I didn’t walk into a single place that wasn’t oozing with atmosphere, friendliness and amazing customer service – regardless of menu prices. Bay Bay is no exception; it consists of three landscaped levels built into a hill overlooking the marina. Taking the lushness of my surroundings into account, I scanned the menu with my Melbourne brain – pizza toast, 5 Turkish lira. In a place like this, at that price, it must be miniscule, therefore I’ll order two of them. Mistake. Pizza toast in Turkish apparently means massive toasted sandwich the size of my head, overflowing with every kind of smoked meat and grilled vegetable imaginable. I ended up feeding most of them to some random kitties that clearly sensed my distress.

Opportunistic scavengers

(Apologies in advance for any neck problems, I really don't know how to turn photos around on here)

Feeling a tad bloated, Fi, Mandy and I set off for walkies up the hill. Mandy and I are both suckers for fuzzy creatures, so when we found a herd of cats hanging out under a picnic table we leapt in cooing and stroking - scabies, rabies and fleas notwithstanding. Shortly a very fat, sweaty man came jiggling up to us. “Hello ladies! You like cats, yes? This my cats!” He then grabbed Fi’s wrist and fastened a bracelet to it. “This help feed cat – I look after, you give me ten Turkish lira, I feed this cats!” Before we knew what had happened, we each had a bracelet around our wrist and found ourselves relieved of 10 lira. Luckily Mandy was on the ball:

“This money goes towards feeding these cats, is that right?”

“Yes, yes! See, I give them food, water, they happy cat!” (they did have food and water, and looked inarguably content)

“And you also de-sex them, so they’re not producing more strays?”

“Yes, yes! Why not!” (clearly skirting the language barrier)

“No, do you use the money to have them DE-SEXED?” (here Mandy performed an amazing mime of a cat getting its bits chopped off)

“Ah, of course! No kittens!”

At which point one of the ginger cats turned around to display a stunning set of feline testicles. The Cat Man was unperturbed:

“No no no, I only do lady cats!”

Mandy rolled her eyes and we all stormed up the road. Examining the bracelets later, we realised they were actually quite pretty and decided not to return in the morning to thrash Cat Man into liquid.

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