Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

The dating game is more confusing than the rules of Deal or no Deal to the Bondi blonde and my strike rate of turning a frog into a prince is pure Ugly Sister. But even when I am dating a hairy-backed halitosis Harry, I know that there are certain situations when I should stick like flypaper to Mr Wrong, which I share with you in a spirit of love and enlightenment:

1. Within a month of a major present event; Christmas, your birthday or Valentine’s Day.
Even if you can’t stand the smell of your partner anymore, if you’ve invested more than three months, body fluids or googly-eyed dinners with a significant other, you’ve got to stick around if it’s close to a “show me the pressie” time. Nothing makes my heart or legs open wider than a Jo Malone gift pack. The scents are mostly unisex, so you can share the spray and Mr Stinky will smell nice for the requisite snog or other necessary trade. And the Vaseline effect of the expensive Malone candlelight will make even Shrek look do-able after a Cosmo or five. The only proviso I offer is if you’re dating a Mr or Ms Scrooge. Here’s a story of a lovely lady, who was busy with three boys of her own….

Mr RSVP1 was the cheapest man this side of the ALDI Alps. He was a finance wizard and every restaurant we went to was chosen on it letting him bring a BYO bottle of $10 booze. I would snooze over the shared starter – we did a lot of Thai me ups and Thai me downs – it was pure masochism. He whispered sweet and sour nothings of superannuation and taxation. I knew it was all over Red Rover by November, but hung in till the New Year purely for the double whammy of birthday and Christmas present,the events being one week apart for me. I did the math over the shared chilli squid. I figured, one shag a week to the big present. That would be six shags max, plus three blow jobs thrown in as sweeteners. Voldermort was worth more than $50 million – he loved telling me his net worth as we went Dutch and he asked for French. At conservatively $200 bucks a shag and the blow jobs at double value I worked out would get at least a $2,000 stocking filler – either a wonderful mini-break or a nice piece of significant jewellery. I GOT A CHARLIE REVLON GIFT PACK!!!! He also bought one for his 12 year old daughter as they were doing a two for $40 deal at Price Line. Boy, did I choke on that one. And I couldn’t even recycle a gift that bad to my mum or neighbour; thank God for the school Mother’s Day stall.

2. Close to your high school reunion.
It’s better to go with your gay hairdresser to one of these things than fly solo. I graduated Magna Cum Laude from the School of Hard Knocks so my school reunion was for all those who finished grade 10, as only about 30 of us made it through the HSC without being knocked up. And about 20% of those didn’t show cause of jail commitments. If you can’t stand the person you drag along, make them rent a Porsche Cayenne for the night to arrive in style and piss off the suckers you left behind. If your date is butt-ugly tell everybody they’re rich. If they’re male, good looking, shag like a freight train but are as stupid as mud, give me their number. Now.

3. When you need free labour.
If you need work done around the house but you know that the big “it’s not me, it’s you, arsehole” chat is inevitable, make sure you get in one more sleepover. It’s better to get the light bulbs changed, weeding done, furniture moved or general household clean up finished before the bust up rather than handing over vital shoe money to a “Hire a Hubby” professional. With a bit of luck, you’re not so loved one will get pissed off with all the manual labour and get narky – giving you the perfect excuse to break up with them, bastard.

4. In winter.
It’s too cold to sleep alone. It’s too cold to go out on a human hunt, dragging home a new kill for a night-time feast. It’s too cold to wax your legs or higher up – Brazil is purely a summer fun investment. And if the current squeeze will put up with a cold-footed, flannelette-swathed, housebound, hairy Yeti, they might be worth keeping into the first few weeks of spring, if the cold snap continues.

That’s about it, I reckon. Otherwise don’t waste your time trying to make a silken purse from a sow’s ear, even if the result is very this season Prada-like. Too many of us spend our glory days squinting, trying to soft focus Mr or Ms Wrong into a maybe Right in the right light. Invest in the real deal.

Remember, it don’t mean a thing, if it aint got that zing. Do wop, do wop, do wop, do wop, do wop.

On another note, I got quite a few comments from taxation experts on my last blog – Go ATO! They were very nice and appreciative of my David vs Goliath swipe at Mr Lowy – Australia’s second richest man and by recent accounts, a bit of a hand down the back of your sofa for the loose change kind of guy.

So, should the Bondi blonde stop writing about sex and start writing about tax and corporate espionage?

I can stop telling you about orgasms, vaginas, vibrators, frocks. And I can easily kill my next blog, about my recent dating adventures with a man whose penis was sooo big it needed a road crew with yellow vests whenever it ventured out of its pants. I just had to recover enough to sit down at the keyboard without wincing. Instead, I can regale you with great stories of EBITDA and allowable deductions, relieved with the odd golfer jokes or two.

So gentle reader, the balls are in your court. Tax or Sex?

Subscribe to Confessions of a Bondi Blonde by Email

Here’s a weird one.

I’m really liking the ATO at the moment, and I don’t mean the Automatic Teller Overpayment (though I wouldn’t say no).

The Australian Tax Office is doing a Robin Hood and trying to get the bad guys to play nice.

Allegedly Mr Westfield forgot about that holiday he had once in that haven Lichtenstein. Apparently it makes Gympie look like fun, so I could understand his ability to remove from his memory bank any dealings he may or may not have had in that flyspeck of a Eurospot.

But really, Mr Lowy, how low can you go?

You’ve got more cash from me than I knew what to do with. And the same goes for all of my friends. If I buy my essentials at WBJ and linger longer than two hours, I get hit $6 for parking for the pleasure of playing in your Westfield.

Your temples of spend have sucked the life out of surrounding shopping precincts and they echo like country mining towns after the rush has passed. Going to WBJ is a bit like a few hours in Star City; there are no clocks, it’s impossible to get to the street and there are only brief glimpses of the world outside the retail windows. A trip to the Medicare Office is a Ground Hog day; escaping from Westfield, waiting in the Medicare queue and somehow finding my car again gives me a migraine so bad I need a doctor’s appointment and another trip back to Medicare.

The high street has been decimated and you’ve built a community of consumers but provide no social infrastructure. Where are your parks, community noticeboards or free pensioner buses? What services do you provide to serve the people who spend freely of their cash and time at your malls other than a information desk to direct us to shops and a crappy microwave in the parents’ room?

Your success has bred power and your allegiance has been sought by others that matter. You’ve been graced with appointments like serving on the Board of the Reserve Bank of Australia and was awarded a Companion of the Order of Australia. Next thing, you’ll probably be made one of Australia’s Living National Treasures. Well, maybe that treasure is bigger than it should be, hey?

I have always paid my taxes. All of my friends pay their taxes. We don’t have a choice, but feel that the hospitals, schools, roads and mostly good political system we get in return is a fair-ish trade, excepting pollies like Belinda Neal, Morris Iemma and Troy Busswell.

And though your largesse as a philanthropist is legendary, why is it up to you to decide where, what is rightfully all of ours – via taxation – goes? Surely that is best left to those we elect to make those decisions in the first place?

Here’s some news from the front line of the average taxpayer – the Bondi blonde. Because of my separation I have a tax bill I just can’t pay right now if I want to feed the brats anything more than baked beans – which would I wouldn’t do to those in Bondi who want to keep their olfactory senses in place and their windows intact. But I can pay the taxman, when all the muck has been raked. I was really scared when I called the ATO hotline; looking for a solution of partial payments or something like that (they’re the experts of getting us to cough up in painful chunks, after all). Well, nice ATO lady Larissa was ever so helpful. She gave me until December to pay without asking too many questions and wished me luck for my future. They even removed the interest payment that had accrued on the outstanding balance. The only hairy bit was when Larissa asked how I knew that the money well would run again by year end. When I explained that my clairvoyant told me, there was a bit of a silence. I have no idea what she wrote on the paperwork, but my sphincter released gently when the ATO letter arrived three days later with a nice December reprieve. If I get that Powerball win the clairvoyant also predicted, it definitely will begin to look a lot like Christmas.

So to all those big wigs out there who give to the opera and arts councils while forgetting to pay taxation on their earnings, keep your cruddy kudos pennies and pay up the tax dollars that you think you have a right to keep.

So, if the allegations are proven to be true, stuff the Socceroos and give us our buckeroos, Mr six billion dollar man.

Subscribe to Confessions of a Bondi Blonde by Email

OK. I’ll come clean. I’ve been on a dating website, once, twice, three times, as a different lady.

It’s fun to have internet alter egos that are sexier than you. And it’s really, really interesting to see what the responses will be. One profile was vaguely truthful. I was Delilah, a 35 year old buxom blonde business owner from the Shire who travelled the world promoting a new cure for male snoring. Hey, I’m blonde and have a valid passport. The second profile was of Sheryl, a boot scooter from Parramatta who ran a Pomeranian dog breeding business from her backyard. I own boots though they are too high to be of the scooting variety. The third persona I tried on for size was way off-field. I was Irina, a Russian migrant who liked to party in her lingerie and clean, preferably at the same time, singing along to Kraftwerk. I like parties and lingerie, but cleaning? Pure fantasy.

It was a hoot to create these new profiles – like I was all three of Charlie’s Angels in the one body – no wonder I’d recently put on five kilos. I had learnt two new languages overnight and developed skills that I could hardly spell. Ever tried campanology? As Irina I’m an expert campanologist, or bell ringer, having practiced in all the churches in Leningrad while busking in train stations, playing the ukulele along to my Kraftwerk repertoire. And, as Sheryl, I can tell you that for $1,000 Pomeranians – or pom-poms, as I like to call them, make wonderful pets. Just vacuum them daily and you’ll have no pet dander worries. Male snoring cures abound, but Delilah’s works a treat. Just tell the guy in question that you’ll cut his gonads off it he doesn’t stop right now. You’ll have a peaceful night as your Samson will too be scared to fall asleep in case he wakes up with more than a haircut. Snip, snip.

I never knew I had them in me. And the accompanying dating site photos were easy enough. I just pulled apart a very sticky old Playboy from the neighbour’s recycling bin (morning Vicar, thanks for the mag!) and scanned in the photos. How gorgeous I looked, as a red-headed Russian, blonde business bombshell and brunette dog breeder. And my collars and cuffs matched in all three shots – not like real life at all! Well, obviously I had to change the photos to more sedate ones from The Women’s Weekly “Farmer Wants a Wife” story to get them past the dating site sensors; those boring spidermen web-police.

So – of Irina, Delilah or Sheryl – who do you think was the most hit upon in world of on-line dating?

It’s not what you’d think and not what I expected. Irina definitely led the field for the first 24 hours. Probably from blokes who couldn’t afford a cleaner. And my, my, my Delilah was certainly popular among the business owning gents from the Lower North Shore; they probably wanted to talk about offshore tax havens as it was approaching the end of the financial year. But it was the wholesome Sheryl who proved the stayer over the course of a week. Although her picture was no more attractive than the other two potential farmers’ wives, she pulled over twice as many hits as the other two make-believes combined.

The difference was that she seemed nice, not scary, and was in no way exotic. Sheryl liked boot scooting around town, Top 40 music, watching sport, playing X-Box and her favourite film was The Shawshank Redemption. She read biographies, the Saturday edition of The Sydney Morning Herald and the odd Bryce Courtenay. She liked watching CSI and House. Apart from her Pomeranians, Sheryl also liked gardening and camping. Compared to Delilah’s bulletproof, Exocet missile life and Irina’s suspicious lack-of-visa- style profile (who goes fruit picking three months a year?) Sheryl was relatively normal.

Alas, not like the Bondi blonde. Compared to me, Sheryl’s wholesomeness was like a piece of Vegemite toast versus my lifestyle of meal replacement low-fibre, no-fat, organic chocolate and summer berry slimming bars. If the Bondi blonde did any of the normal things that Sheryl embraced – like cooking a Sunday roast – I’d be so far out of my comfort zone, my head would swivel 360 degrees and I’d be singing The Best of Beelzebub, backwards.

So. I looked at my RSVP profile (a different on-line dating provider to the one I had so shamelessly exploited) and decided to airbrush my profile to up my hit rate. I had been approached five times in the past three months; Sheryl got that in a morning. Two of my hits were from Eastern suburb guys under 23 who want to have a root, now (probably because their mum was at Coles WBJ buying the tissues and oven pizzas), and who think single mums are gagging for it, all of the time, like them. Two hits were from men with comb-overs. I don’t mind bald, but I draw the line at waking up next to a guy with a ponytail down his back and no hair on the top. I never want to do the Time Warp again. The other hit ended up in a luncheon date at a local cheap and cheerful. I went in with high expectations. The guy’s photo was lovely. He had teeth and hair and a neck too. In the photo. Which was of his brother. What goes around came around and I’d been caught in the same trap I’d been having fun with. I’m pretty sure this gentleman had a few different profiles on the internet, and I’d scored James the photographer. I really think he was Barry the builder, judging by the state of his nails and the name on the side of his ute (Barry the Builder – Can he fix it? Yes He Can!) He sped off after an awkward hour, without a backward glance and going through red lights with obviously gay abandon, talking on the mobile while scratching his cattle dog. And James/Barry accepted my completely insincere offer to go Dutch. Mongrel (man not dog).

So I figure if I want a normal date before I heal over down south, I better zing up my profile. Hmm. Favourite Literature? Delete Serious Feminist Tomes, He’s just not that into You and Astrology for Dummies, replace with sporting biographies.

Sport? Delete surfing and two-up. Replace with sunbaking in my bikini, working out at the gym and watching NRL, AFL and rugby (go the Nullabys!)

Movies? Delete Beaches and Eyes Wide Shut, replace with The Shawshank Redemption.

Ideal male profile? Breathing unassisted, straight, no police record, owns shoes – both the same type and colour and not stilettos.

That should be a good start.

So I think I’ll take down the profiles of Delilah, Irina and especially Sheryl for now. I don’t need the competition or want to break the hearts of too many men thinking they’ve found the perfect princess pom-pom breeder.

Soon, I’ll report back from the trenches of modern, internet dating life. Wish me luck!

Subscribe to Confessions of a Bondi Blonde by Email

Just got my first text asking for sex.

The background

I met this ultra cute guy late three Friday night’s ago. It was a lovely night, totally unexpected. I had been stood up by Mr RSVP2. A man who I had been dating and whose potential was outstripped by his reality. I was so hung up on the potential; I had fallen stickily into the love trap and was trying to emerge without too much pain. I had been planning what wedding dress number two would look like and how I desperately wanted to break the 60 kilogram mark (downwards of course) to fit in said frock. I was so busy dreaming and scheming, it took a while to work out that RSVP2 failed to return my calls, never dated on a weekend and basically, just wasn’t that into me.

On reflection, the stand up wasn’t totally unexpected. What followed was.

Sitting at the hairdressers at 6:00 p.m. that Friday late afternoon, knowing that I would likely have the best hairdo for a night of Midsomer Murders in my fluffy slippers, I desperately scanned my contact list, looking for a friend who would welcome me into her snug family unit, as long as I bought a decent bottle of anything or paid for the takeaway.

Pay dirt on text one.

“Cum to party with me. Nice people. Writers, artists, etc. Loft in Redfern. B @ mine at 7:30.”

Speedy was the word for the next hour. Home. Protein shake 4 dinner so I wouldn’t have a pot belly. Never fail to be fancied in (but not fucked – not on the first date, anyway) frock. Drive to friend’s happy family Randwick home.

8:00 p.m. Redfern

Sexy, minimalist to the max loft. A huge artwork installation of grey resign so crap it must have cost a bomb hung like a drop of giant’s snot from the ceiling. Who has an installation in their home?  Luckily the owners were trekking in Nepal, so the party was being held by a gracious, funny woman (who was house sitting the cat and art). The crowd was sparse to begin with and the too bright lighting made us all uncomfortable, till my friend hit the dimmer switch and we all relaxed. No matter what the lighting, the eclectic mob of metrosexuals and models was too cool to be obviously drinking grog, excepting me. I was lushing around with a bottle of real champagne, offering it to cold shouldered, not the friendliest girls, in an effort to break the ice, work the crowd. Finally it twigged why they accepted the fizz but not the bubbly banter. Lights on! I was competition! For me the party was an amazing reprieve from crap television and a luscious block of Orange Intense Lindt (having eaten the Coffee Intense during the last RSVP2 stand-up). Tonight was all good for me. For some of these late 30’s women, they had been planning their outfits and strategy for days. Well I would gladly leave the floor open for them to find any straight man in the room. I had no intention of finding a guy. I was off men. For always. A not great husband, bad experiences with Mr RSVP1 and a suspiciously bruised heart from Mr RSVP2. Off men.  Period.

Isn’t it always the way?

So there I was (sorry it has taken me so long to get to the money shot). Sitting on the sofa, when Mr Handsome saunters up and sits down. (Well it was the other way, I almost sat on him, but that doesn’t sound so sexy). Anyway, after protein shake and four glasses of champagne, I was pretty much off my trolley. Didn’t know he was an apparent sex god till my friends told me later, lost somewhere along the Parramatta Road. Focusing was really optional at that time of night; especially as my contact lenses desperately needed a clean.

Chat chat chat.

Single?  Single.

Single? Single.

Silence.

Me: Book clubs are fun, you don’t even need to read the book. Champagne?

Him: Meditation is the key to unlocking the stresses of Sydney life. Ahh…. herbal tea.

Silence.  

Me to self: Nice night. Great night. In cool loft in Redfern. No kids toys anywhere. This one is too young. I’m no cougar. But he does have a great profile.

Him to me: “Shall I meet you back at yours at 12:30 p.m?”

Pick my jaw off the floor.

Are people really this cool? I thought this kind of Je ne sais quoi was reserved for French films. My first outings into the dating arena decades prior had involved a bottle of Stone’s Green Ginger Wine and snogging under street lights because we both lived at home with our oldies. Recent experiences had replaced the ginger wine with real stuff (though still with a screw top) and the parents with kids, tucked up in flannelette sheets and pyjamas.  Street lights and car seats still featured prominently when snogging occurred.

But tonight one of us is sober and he was drinking herbal tea and talking about his twice daily mediation sessions.

I definitely wasn’t in Kansas, or Gympie, anymore.

So, I said yes, didn’t I?

I got lost on the way home so only had 10 minutes to hide slippers, The Rules of Dating and stuff of single motherhood (Lego and the like) which would scare off any man – lust crazy or otherwise.

Ding dong doorbell at 12:30 p.m. We chatted (over another cup of herbal tea), then made out and made our way upstairs. Nice night, no sex (me finally knowing – very slow learner – that boundaries are acceptable), lotsa cuddles. Perfect evening.

He took my number and that was it for me. Good memories of a night that could have been so much worse. Didn’t want or expect anything else.

Till 30 minutes ago, when Mr Handsome texted:

“Hi Blondie. Hope you had a good weekend. M I being 2 forward in asking for some bedroom action. Soon?”

Ker-ist.

The oxygen is different up on the dating slopes this time around. Decided I need to spend a little more time on the learner levels till I get my balance.

“Thx,” I texted back. “Sex 4 sex sake way too grown up for me. I love love, but good luck 2 u.”  

“We’ll always have Redfern.”

Subscribe to Confessions of a Bondi Blonde by Email

Look. Don’t take this personally and it doesn’t really bother me either way. But would you like to have sex?

It’s not Shakespeare is it? But two men in the past four weeks have offered me a night of their valuable time with a line pretty similar to this one.

 The first time I was pretty shocked and had to look over my shoulder. Was he talking to me? Seeing that Jennifer Hawkins was not in the room, I thought my animal magnetism must be kicking in if a conversation about Kev07 turned in an eye-blink into an invitation to bump uglies. Hot mama! Spicy tamale Bondi blonde.

The second time I wasn’t in the mood for this kind of love was when a pleasant enough guy with all his own teeth and I chatted for about 15 minutes about land tax or group sex or something like that before he asked for a shag, please. There was no touching or tasting going on and there had been no frisson of sexual tension between us until he asked to do the dirty deed, to be done dirt cheap.

Both guys expected to do the act at my house, for a quick getaway and no CSI traces in their abode, I suppose. There was no way I was going to let their casually offered DNA anywhere near my children dreaming sweetly in their beds, so it wasn’t something I would consider, even if I wanted to.

In both cases there was no invitation for a date, dinner or even a bloody drink. I may look like a cheap root and dress like a superannuated whore (a high class one), but really.

What is this about?

Well, I’ve done some intensive pub-based investigations and it’s called transaction sex.

We are all generally gym fit and busy with our lives. We all have decent enough friendships and things to do on a Saturday night that does not involve watching Australia’s Funniest Home Videos too often. So do we need an intimate relationship? Many people say no. But they still have sexual desire and a need to feel flesh on flesh.

When two Sexless in the City types like this bump orbits, they feel no embarrassment or compunction in offering straight, friendly enough sex. It’s an opportunity to open the release valve on sexual tension that single Sydney hums along on. People don’t want the hassle, expense or potential heartache of dating but feel disinclined to give up on physical release. Transaction sex is like an extension of a session at Fitness First, but cheaper and with less clothing.

Well, fine. But as a friend of mine said, her pussy has a direct line to her heart. Giving a man entree to one necessitates consideration in the other. So if a man makes her feel loved, it’s a good chance she’ll consider the horizontal Rumba with him quick-ish. The reverse is true, however in that if she has sex with a guy, the heartstrings will definitely be pulled a little.

Apparently many Sydney women feel perfectly fine participating in transaction sex and are as emancipated as men in asking for it as well as giving it. So lots of girls are out their asking guys for a little bit of sack-action but feel OK if their offer is declined. It’s not personal, just physical.

So shouldn’t I ease up a bit on the cat’s bum mouth of almost disapproval? No-one’s hurt if you say no or probably yes and isn’t sexual release a legitimate requirement of anyone over puberty? An article in The Sydney Morning Herald last month detailed how geriatrics in a Texas aged care facility were going for it like there was no tomorrow (blend Viagra with extreme old age and for a few, there probably wasn’t). Some 85 year old basically said that, oh Lord, women were going to be the death of him, but what a way to go!

The oldies, many suffering Alzheimer’s, had enough nous to shuffle out of locked rooms for trysts among bedpans and on plastic sheeted beds. Romance was alive and well and in a much healthier state than those practicing it. The children and grandchildren of the horny oldies were mostly shocked at the antics the sexy septuagenarians were getting up – and down – to. But some were happy that those having their last gasps turned them into the odd orgasm; still managing to get their kicks, licks and tricks wherever they could.

Is there are difference between the transaction sex happening between Sydney singles and the kind of action going down in the Texas Twilight Zone? I think there is. And I think the difference is passion. The oldies sniff like horny dogs for a chance to break free of the leashes imposed by their tutt-tutting nurses for a bit of slap and tickle and to celebrate the joys of sex. Both times I was offered transaction sex; it was like I was being offered a TicTac. Neither man seemed particularly enamoured (silly, silly men) and, if a hurdle was put up to stop them having their indifferent way with me (like saying a date first might be a nice idea), they lost interest and went off with a friendly wave to wherever their night took them.

So maybe it’s time we listened to the advice of our extreme elders, or their favourite band and wall socket, Air Supply:

“But I don’t know how to leave you,
And I’ll never let you fall;
And I don’t know how you do it,
Making love out of nothing at all.”

Subscribe to Confessions of a Bondi Blonde by Email

It’s the school holidays and I’m excited!

Googling randomly the other day, dreaming of exotic locations, I stumbled across the wonderfully named city of Cumming, Georgia.

Well correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Cumming the best destination ever?

The City of Cumming was chartered in 1845 and is the next Amtrak stop after Chattanooga. With an average age of almost-pensioner, Cumming’s motto is Gateway to Leisure Living. I’ll tell you what, if I spend a 10 day holiday Cumming I’ll be so knackered on my Qantas cattle class flight back to Sydney, I’ll sleep and live leisurely the whole 20 hours home.

But, as I’ll be flying solo, who should I share my Cumming experiences with?

The local Councillors would probably the best people to approach to solve my conundrum.

On Cumming’s official website they look like they all signed the original 1845 Charter. If I get off with these guys, there a good chance of a heart attack or two. I don’t want to upset my official Cumming welcome with a murder charge. The most robust looks to be Councilman Rupert Sexton, a fifth generation native of Cumming. He’s proudly been a member of the Cumming City Council for 73% of his adult life, overseeing major projects like the installation of a state of the art sewer and the establishment of the Cumming Country Fair and Festival. A true Cumming hero.

The Mayor, Henry Ford Gravitt, has been Cumming’s ruler since 1970 and seems a decent guy, maybe with a tad of a Mugabe-like addiction to unopposed power, but there you go.

And boy, are they patriotic in Cumming. In 1991 the city built a Veteran’s Memorial Boulevard, to honour the men who had bombed Saudi Arabia and fought in Desert Storm, adding a 75 flag Avenue of Flags in 1995 – all the same flag, I’d hazard a guess.

In 2000, the citizens of Cumming applied to the United States Army Donation Program for fifteen surplus M-1 rifles to use in patriotic ceremonies. Refused but undaunted, they mailed over one hundred letters to Senators and Representatives in Washington D.C. Bada Bing, next thing you know, Cumming’s Vietnam and Gulf War Vets now have 15 working semi-automatic rifles for use in patriotic ceremonies and  parades or where-ever else the mood takes them. Let’s hope they’re not suffering too much from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

So, if I do go to Cumming this school holidays, better keep any jokes about the pretty City’s name to myself. The Bondi blonde doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of a patriotic bullet.

Subscribe to Confessions of a Bondi Blonde by Email