Electric Spaghetti

There’s this party trick I do. I poke a single friend in the ribs and their eyes roll back dramatically when I say, “Oh he’s naaice, how bouts a hook-up eh? eh? ”

It was at a Heritage Day picnic with Kaye and the gang when it finally occurred to me that I was really just a fedora-wearing interpretation of Yenta.

I am now everything I used to blog snarkily about in my pre-sg33k days.

Friends, it appears that this Bamjee woke up one morning, brushed her teeth, looked up to the mirror and found Auntyjee staring back.

Lord knows how many of you have since been afflicted by my poking, tjatjarag ways.

This, therefore, is my blanket apology.

I am unequivocally stating that my meddlesome poking was not an indictment of the general health of your happiness. There were no implications of half-personhood due to one not being married or attached (doesn’t that word in this context make you think of tumours?).

My God, you are all wonderful, whole, sparky individuals. I have no doubt that should you feel yourself gravitating towards the confetti-lined path to grocery lists and socks-on-the-floor (sex too, sometimes), you will encounter one equally wonderful, whole and sparky.

And if you’re just not interested in that sort of thing, I promise to find a new party trick.