This is why I love working with librarians...

Working in a library definitely has its benefits, one of them being that from time to time a new book will come in that will have all of us crowding around like a bunch of twelve year old boys with a Penthouse.  Take, for example, the day that a coffee table book called "Homme" arrived, full of beautifully shot pictures of men in interesting positions and absolutely no clothes.

The conversations during morning break were hilarious.

Librarian 1:  God, he's gorgeous!   There's no way I'd push him out of bed. 

Librarian 2:  Hmm, maybe afterwards.  He's way too pretty to be someone you'd want to have a conversation with. 

Librarian 1:  I don't know ... even if he wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier I'd forgive a lot for that.  

*points* 

Librarian 3:  Come to Mamma!  Look at that thing, it's enormous! 

Librarian 1:  You have to be careful though, pictures like that give you unrealistic expectations.  No real guy has one that long. 

Librarian 2:  I know, it's probably digitally enhanced anyway. 

Librarian 3:  Who cares!   He's built, he's endowed, and he's wearing a fireman hat and waving a hose around.  Works for me!

I've said it before and I'll say it again ... it's a very good thing that people don't know what goes on out the back of a library.

A pair of double D's does not a model make...

You know that plastic surgery I was talking about saving up for the other day?  Turns out there's no need.  If I go and tell a doctor that my crows feet are causing severe emotional distress and my wrinkles are plunging me into fits of depression, I can probably get a face lift on the public dime.

Or at least that's what I'm led to believe based on this article about a Yorkshire woman who convinced a doctor to let her get a boob job through the public health system by bursting into tears in his office and telling him that her A cups were ruining her life.

Yeah, I couldn't believe it either.

Now I'm a huge supporter of public health systems.  I believe that everyone should have access to medical assistance when they need it, regardless of whether they can pay.  And I know that sometimes cosmetic procedures are important if the person's quality of life is affected by certain aspects of their appearance.  But when some twenty two year old decides that she needs a boob job because she wants to be the next Katie Price (her words, not mine), I hardly think that fits under the definition of necessary medical attention!

Apparently this girl is so happy with the results of her surgery that she went out and got brown highlights in her hair, started collecting Louis Vuitton bags, and has bought herself one of those awful little yappy dogs that I'm always tempted to kick.  Oh yeah, she really sounds like she's got her priorities sorted.

She didn't even have the grace to keep up the appearance of it being purely about correcting what she claimed as a serious physical malformity!  Oh no, instead she just went on and on about how she was going to leave her two kids, aged five and two, with her parents so she can go to London and try to become a model.

Oh sweetheart ... if all it took to be a model was a pair of double D's, I'd be a model.  But I ain't, and it's unlikely you will be either.

Does it taste like chicken...

I suppose it's my own fault. I'm the one that voluntarily sat down in front of that television set at midday and turned onto a channel I knew would have a movie on. There's no one else to blame for the emotional scars.

A bunch of pioneers, all of them talking earnestly about how they needed to get to California. I expected the usual drama and angst. The odd person falling off a precipice, an Indian attack or two, just the usual.  But I wasn't prepared for what it turned into.

About three quarters of an hour into the film the band of people split up into two, one group going one way and another going a more risky route. When they named themselves the Donner Party, cold dread filled my heart. I couldn't remember why I knew that name, but I knew it wasn't because they went on a rollicking road trip adventure that resulted in life lessons learned and unbreakable vows of friendship.

As the movie progressed, I began to get a few clues as to why the name sounded so familiar. Snow, blizzards, trapped in a cabin, nothing to eat. Oh my god! This was the story about that group who had to turn to cannibalism to survive!

But it was too late to switch off. I was already trapped in the film. I had to see the end otherwise I'd always wonder how it finished. So I sat there for another hour watching as they got snowed in, slowly starved, then chowed down on their dead friend like he was a Happy Meal.

The fact that it was based on a true story, that it actually happened, is bad enough. But why did I have to live through it via a badly acted midday movie?

Haven't I suffered enough?

Conversations with St Clare...

"Oh St Clare, patron saint of boob tube watchers! Why hast thou forsaken me?"

But I suppose it's not really fair to blame her.  No one made me watch Toddlers & Tiaras.  Nup, I got myself into that fix all on my own.

I've always had a love/hate relationship with reality television. Some of the shows, like the 1900 House series or Hoarders, I love.  But unfortunately these gems are few and far between.  If I sit down to watch a favourite sitcom, you can bet it's bracketed by a couple of inane reality shows, if it hasn't been replaced by them altogether.

It's not uncommon to find me sitting in my lounge room of an evening, watching my reality saturated television, and whining to St Clare.

But she's surprisingly unsympathetic.

St Clare: Would you please stop your belly aching! Didn't I give you Glee? Didn't I give you Criminal Minds? I worked my arse off so you could drool over Shemar Moore, but do you appreciate it? 

Kellie: Of course I do, St Clare, but you've got to admit this really isn't one of your better works. 

St Clare: Look, I can't patrol the channels 24/7. Every now and then a Toddlers & Tiaras is going to slip through. I'm only human you know! 

Kellie: I'm not criticising your work. You did a great job on Merlin, and you know you'll always have my eternal gratitude for Star Trek. All I'm saying is if I have to watch another middle aged, over bleached woman shove her four year old into a pair of Spanx and a ball gown, I'm going to scream. 

St Clare: Give me a few days, okay?  I'll slip something really choice into Supernatural for you, maybe something with Dean and Castiel. Will that shut you up? 

Kellie: Thanks, St Clare. That's all I ask.

I'm going to reserve my judgement though.  Lets see if she delivers.

A girl and her bloodlust...

Today I was watching The Mummy Returns, it had been a while and I felt like watching Brendan Fraser back when he was still cute, and I couldn't help noticing something rather disturbing.

I hve this unnatural tendency to laugh uncontrollably when people get injured or killed in action films.

It's really starting to become a problem. I mean sure, in the privacy of your own lounge room watching a video, of course there's no one to hear your mirthful glee as someone on the screen has their intestines ripped out through their navels.  But in a cinema it's a different story. People give me the most unusual looks in there. 

 I suppose it's not surprising, they no doubt think I'm a serial killer in the making.

I'm not a total monster though. It's not like I sat through Beaches or Steel Magnolias giggling my head off. It's just the action/adventure ones that do it to me. Oh, and the horrors, they're also a scream (pun intended)! Honestly, I really do think we're supposed to laugh at them.

I'm not really concerned about the attention I get from the other cinema patrons, though. It's my friends I'm worried about. It must be difficult to go to the movies with someone who has a habit of breaking into uncontrollable laughter just because someone was is decapitated onscreen. 

But come on, lets all be honest with ourselves. Aren't you all just little bit thrilled when someone bites it in the movies? I think it's that whole living vicariously thing that does it to us. We can't exactly go around killing peole who piss us off, so seeing it on the big screen can be kind of cathartic. 

 And really, is bloodlust really such a bad thing as long as it's kept in the movie theatre?

How girlie can you get...

I've never really considered myself a girlie girl.

I mean, I'm definitely feminine about most things, I hardly ever wear pants and I rarely go out without make up on, but I'm not really interested in a lot of things that other women are.

I don't shop, I don't like shoes, and women's fashion magazines give me the heebie jeebies, so I'm sure you can see why I've never considered myself to be overly girlie. I'm just a down to earth, honest to goodness, no holds barred, woman.

Then the contents of my bathroom came to slap me on the butt.

I was in there this afternoon looking for something when I realised the awful truth.  As I was rummaging through the medicine cabinet it struck me ... I've got enough beauty products in there to poison a small elephant.

I have no less than seven, count them, seven different types of gel, mousse, and spray, just for styling my hair.  There's one gel to get rid of the frizzies, another to add texture, and another to add body. There's a spray to condition and another to detangle and a third to hold. Finally there's a mousse that miraculously claims to cure split ends. I'm not sure if it actually does, but it sure sounded convincing on the ad.

Needless to say, I should probably avoid open flames.

It scared me a little, I do have to admit. I've never considered myself to be overly obsessive about my looks, but it's hard not to wonder when you realise you have five different types of moisturiser in your bathroom, and you actually use them all.

I added up the total cost of all the stuff in the cabinet, and it came to well over five hundred dollars. That's a lot of money, especially when you consider that none of these items are what you'd call essentials.  But I'm only human!  They all promised to do all sorts of black magic and jigerypokery and make me look pretty and young!

Yeah, I know.  Marketer's dream, standing right here.

Maybe I should just accept it, I'm thirty mumble years old and looking the dreaded 40's in the face.  I guess for the rest of my life I'm going to be buying beauty products that promise to make me look younger, prettier, more alive and energetic.

Then again, maybe I'm approaching this all wrong.  If I just saved all the money from the creams and lotions and sunk it into a long term deposit ... I could probably afford all the plastic surgery I want when I turn 60.

Death by polar bear and other convoluted schemes...

Who's a ferocious killing machine!
You are!  Yes, you are!

I'm pretty sure someone is trying to kill me by having me eaten by a polar bear.  Or maybe walruses.  Either way, I'm pretty sure death by North Pole is the plan.

At least, that's the only reason I can come up with for the sheer number of pamphlets I've received lately from Quark Expeditions, a company that specialises in holidays to The Arctic.

When the first one arrived, I assumed it was some sort of financial investment scheme and tossed it away without even looking at it.  The second one caught my eye though with the huge picture of a white furred death machine on the front, and that's when I started to wonder why I was getting them.  I hadn't signed up to anything that would put me on their lists, not even a pair of thermal undies.  Then I got a third.  And then a fourth.  That's when I realised someone was trying awfully hard to get me to go to a remote, climatically unfriendly location that is crawling with dangerous animals.

And that, gentle readers, is why I think someone is trying to kill me.

Obviously someone with an axe to grind has signed me up to their mailing list, hoping that pictures of adorable Arctic foxes, seal pups and rabbits will tempt me to take them up on the offer.  Then, once I'm there, I'll be torn limb from limb by a polar bear.  If I'm lucky, it'll be an adorable polar bear.

Of course, that's assuming I don't freeze to death before the adorable killer polar bear finds me.  I live in Queensland!  As much as I love the cold, I don't have the same tolerance for it as those of you who live in places were it regularly gets lower than 60 degrees fahrenheit.  I'm pretty sure that I'd be a human ice cube within the first half hour.

So, person who is trying to kill me via the convoluted medium of adorable polar bear, I just wanted to let you know that your evil plans aren't going to work. I won't be going on a trek to the Arctic, no matter how many shiny coloured brochures you have Quark Expeditions send me.

But if you want to try death by Las Vegas five star hotel, I could probably get on board for that.

So, have any of you guys ever received something completely weird and unexpected in the mail?

So, it turns out it's easier to transfer everyone to Bloglovin than I thought...

Hey all you gorgeous people!

I know this isn't my normal type of post, but I thought that in light of all the drama about Google casting us off the raft and into shark infested waters, I'd just take the opportunity to share a link to the page that lets you transfer all your Google Friend Connect favourites to Bloglovin in one easy push of the button.  Just go here and the clever clogs at Bloglovin have set it up so we don't all drive ourselves to distraction about this whole Google reader issue.

Thank god, I was thinking about how I was going to do it and had just about decided to commit seppuku instead and save myself the trauma.  But now I don't have to ceremonially spill my own intestines, so yay!

Alternatively (or in addition), feel free to follow me on Twitter.  I finally worked out how to do the whole syndication thingamabob, so it's another option.

And remember kiddies, just because we're losing Google reader and possibly losing GFC, it's not like it's the end of the world ... if anything bears more of a resemblance to a post apocalyptic wasteland where we all battle for control over natural resources.

Dibs on the stockpiles of bottled water!

From Control Headquarters...

From my friend's kitchen...

Sue: Kel, could you do me a favour? 

Kellie: Sure, what? 

Sue: (handing over a leaflet) This is one of the houses in the street that's up for sale. Can you call up the real-estate and find out how much it's going for? They didn't put a price on the sheet. 

Kellie: Um ... okay. But why not do it yourself? 

Sue: They might recognise me! 

Kellie: The real-estate people? But why would... Okay, whatever. So, what's the number? 

Sue: Here you go, and don't forget to block the number so they can't see who's calling. 

Kellie: No problem. 

Sue: And don't use your real name. 

Kellie: Okay. 

Sue: And don't give them my number! Or yours! 

Kellie: Alright, calm down! It's not like I haven't done this before! 

Sue: (raises eyebrows) 

Kellie: ... but this isn't about me, it's about you. Okay, it's ringing. 

*Real-estate agent answers* 

Kellie: Oh, hi, my name is Kellie ... uh ... Smith, and I was wondering about the price of the house you've got up for sale on Roberts St ... yep, that's the one ... uh huh ... three fifty five ... okay then, that's great ... my number? 

Sue: (gestures wildly not to give it) 

Kellie: ... Ah, well I'm afraid I can't give you this number ... no, I don't have a work number to give you either ... or a home number ... oh, alright then ... 0414 729 337 ... yep, great ... okay then, thanks a lot. 

*hangs up* 

Sue: You gave them a number! I told you not to give them a number! And what number was that anyway? I don't recognise it! 

Kellie: Calm down, crazy woman! That was the real-estate agents number. She was giving it to me and I was repeating it.  

Sue: (relaxing) Oh, thank god! When you started to reel off those numbers I wasn't sure WHAT you were doing.  You really should have made it clearer.

Kellie: You know ... maybe next time you should do your own recon work.

Sometimes it's just easier to go along with a friend's insanity than to argue ... I'm just not sure whether this was one of those times.

There's nothing louder than an outraged possum...

So, this weekend just gone I made a possum homeless.

Yep, I'm a marsupial homewrecker.  The slum lord of the possum world.  I'm sure they mutter about me and what an awful human I am while they do whatever it is that possum's do.

Sorry, you'll probably need a bit of back story on this one.  You see, I've lived in my current place for the past twelve years.  I like it there, the neighbourhood is good and the rent is cheap.  But pretty much from day one I worked out that, regardless of what my lease might say, I wasn't living alone.

I think it was the first time I hopped in the shower that I realised I had a flatmate.  Every time I made a noise, I'd hear a corresponding little tap against the bottom of the tub.  My first thought was "Holy crap, my bath is haunted!  What the hell am I going to do?  Can you get a bathtub exorcised?"  But a quick trip down to the carport told me what the real story was.

A possum the size of a small cat had moved in to the crawl space between the ceiling of the carport and the floor of the bathroom.  When I went down there, he poked his furry little face out, glared at me, flicked me the bird, then turned around and went back to sleep with his big fuzzy butt hanging out the hole in the fibro.

Charming.

But he wasn't hurting anyone by being there, so I just named him Fernando and we proceeded to co-habitate peacefully for the next twelve years.  Sure, occasionally I'd wake him up suddenly by driving a little too quickly into the carport, only to be met with a hissing furball, and sure from time to time he'd knock fuses out of the power panel and plunge the house into darkness, but for the most part we got along fine.

At least, that is, until my landlady called the other day to tell me that she was removing the ceiling in the carport because it was starting to sag.

Two hours.  That's all it took to remove the fibro.  Two hours to make Fernando homeless.

I haven't seen him since, but every evening now I can hear him, coming back to the carport, obviously hoping that his home will have been magically restored, only to find that he's still homeless.  I'm not sure what exactly he's saying with all the snarling and hissing, but it doesn't exactly sound genteel.

The guilt is overwhelming.  Twelve years is about the lifespan of a possum, and he's probably only lived that long because he had such a safe place, but it kind of feels like I've tossed a senior citizen out onto the streets to live.

I'm sorry, Fernando, it was out of my hands.

Pinch that penny until it squeals...

I only made one New Years resolution this year (and yes, I know I said I wasn't going to, but peer pressure's a bitch) and that was to try and not waste money.  I like to think I'm doing okay with it so far, I've managed to cut a few expenses out of my budget that I didn't really need.

But if I ever get to the point where I'm acting like this woman, would one of you please shoot me and put me out of my misery?

Because as much as I'd like to not spend money I don't have to, I also don't want to become like the woman in this article who thinks it's okay to steal roles of loo paper from public toilets to save herself a buck.  Or to send her kids to school with stationery supplies pinched from places that have them out available for use to their customers.  Or to make her family sit around in the cold rather than turn the heating on.

Sweetheart, I can see where you're coming from.  It costs a lot to live in the depraved modern age.  It's practically impossible for a family to live on one income ... unless of course that income is enormous.  But is it really necessary to reuse aluminium foil?  Or wash out sandwich bags?  Or recycle a tea bag three times?

What's next, saving on electricity by running an extension cord next door?  On food by optimising your free sample collection at the supermarket?  On petrol by hitch hiking?

But the thing that this woman did that really got me was her method of going back to the store to complain about things she'd bought to get discounts.  Okay, I can see how that would be beneficial, if a bit skeezy.  But to complain, get the discount, and then return the item to the store for a full purchase credit at a later date?

Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's actually illegal.

I've done my share of money saving in my time.  I've taken advantage of the $3 counter meal that the pub offers in the hopes that you'll spend a fortune on their poker machines, and I'm not too proud to buy things from the dollar store if they're cheaper there.  Hell, I currently do the majority of my shopping at the supermarket where all the groceries look kind of familiar, but the names are just a little bit off.

But I can swear, with God as my witness, I will never ration toilet paper to six sheets a visit!

So, 'fess up guys.  What's the weirdest or most embarrassing thing you've done to save a buck?

Criminy, that strumpet caused a kerfuffle in the boudoir. I'm flabergasted...

I know back in December I wrote an entry about how those language stifling little so-and-so's over at Time Magazine wanted to remove words from our vocabularies.  The bloody nerve of them, hey?  But today I'd like to put forward a language related idea for your consideration.

There are so many great words I read in old books that we just don't use anymore ... really good, expressive words that are fun to say ... can we please bring some of them back?

I've compiled a list of words that I believe we need to resurrect below, conveniently put into a sentence to give you an idea of how you might incorporate them into your every day speech.

You're welcome.

* Criminy .ie. "Crinimy, that girl's skirt is so short it could be a belt!" 

* Strumpet .ie. "Can you believe that strumpet? If her skirt were any shorter it'd be a belt!" 

* Kerfuffle .ie. "She's creating quite a kerfuffle with that belt-like skirt." 

* Boudoir .ie. "Couldn't she have picked a less belt-like skirt when she was in her boudoir?" 

* Flabergasted .ie. "I'm flabergasted that she managed to squeeze into that teeny little belt skirt."

So, my dears, you mission is to adopt these words and use them as much as you can in your day-to-day conversations. If we all work together, I believe we can bring them back into popular use, despite what those word haters over at Time would like us to do.

Yeah, sorry, I'm still a little sore about that.  You're on my list, Time Magazine!  I've got my eye on you...

Who'd have thought we'd count ourselves luck to ONLY get horse meat in our Ikea food...

Alright, it's decided.  I'm never, EVER eating in an Ikea cafeteria again.  I don't care how cheap their food is.

It's bad enough that they found horse meat in some of the hot dogs and meat patties in your European stores, but at least that wasn't dangerous to anyone's health.  Cringe worthy for sure, no one wants to find out they've been eating Mr Ed during their lunch break, but not dangerous.

But now China have found faecal bacteria in their Ikea store chocolate cakes?

How the hell ... how is it even possible for that to happen?  How is it possible that high levels of coliform bacteria could be found in baked goods?  What, you're using the same machinery you use to process the cow's intestines?  Your bakers don't wash their hands after they go potty?  You're being creative when you advertise that you use all natural colourings?

Eww ... grossed myself out there.

Like most people I've had my issues with you over the years, Ikea.  Sure, I've sacrificed hours of my life (and came close to fisticuffs with my brother) while attempting to assemble some of your furniture, I've gotten lost  almost every time I've gone into your stores and had to have a sales assistant show me the way out, and the great lampshade fiasco of 2003 is best not revisited.

I was willing to overlook all that though.  You did, after all, sell me my beloved pet cactus, Pedro, who has been my constant companion over the past seven years, and your Christmas gingerbread house kits are both cheap and delicious (although I'm trying very hard not to think about what might have been in them).

But this ... I'm not sure I can overlook this.  You've changed, Ikea.  You used to be about the flat packed furniture, not the horse patties and poop-cakes.

Fantasy movie dwarf deaths are ALWAYS funny...

Dead dwarf walking...

Really, I shouldn't be allowed to watch The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.  

Bob: I know that The Lord of the Rings had better battle scenes, but there's just something about watching a giant rhino gouging a polar bear, isn't there. 

Me: I know, it's like poetry. Pure Narnian poetry. 

On Screen: Edmund gets stabbed by the White Queen 

Bob: Ouch! That must have hurt! 

Me: They're not pulling the punches. 

Bob: No shit! They just stabbed one of the main characters through the stomach! 

On Screen: Edmund lies on the ground, wheezing and clutching the grass 

Me: You know, for a thirteen year old he's doing a pretty good job of acting like he's dying of a stabwound. Of course, he's acting more like he's got a sucking chest wound, but I'll overlook it. 

Bob: (looking askance) How the hell do you know what a sucking chest wound looks like? 

Me: (eyes glued to the screen) Too many episodes of MASH. 

Bob: Oh! Here's the good bit! 

On screen: The Dwarf gets shot in the chest with an arrow and falls backwards 

Me: (fistpunching) Yes!!! Hilarious!!!! 

Bob: It's not politically correct, but damn that dwarf's funny when he dies! 

Me: I know! It's like "I'm gonna kill you ... sweak ... thump!" 

Bob: I can't believe we're sitting here laughing about a dwarf being shot by an arrow.  We're probably going straight to hell, aren't we. 

Me: (with mouthful of popcorn) No probably about it.

Grading on the curve...

I love stories about students all banding together to say "fuck you" to the establishment.  There's nothing like being one of a bunch of rebellious, belligerent students to make you feel ten feet tall.  I remember back in my far flung High School days we used to get righteously indignant in the way only a sixteen year old can.

A fellow student gets into trouble for getting a crew cut?  Protest to the administration!  Students get told off for holding hands and kissing?  Insist that a no PDA rule should then apply to teachers too (we had a married couple who taught at our school ... the PDA was mild, but present).

So I have to admit I had a bit of a giggle when I read about of bunch of students at John Hopkins University who decided to see if they could beat the curve used to determine their grades.

Apparently these clever little chickadees worked out that if every single one of them refused to do the test, thereby getting a zero for it, then they all would essentially have the highest mark, meaning they would all get the highest possible grade based on the rules of the system.

Ha!  Didn't see that loop hole, did you, Mr Professor person!

In fact, the professor who set the exam was surprisingly cool about the whole thing.  I suspect he was actually proud of them for managing to co-ordinate it all and get that many students to all agree to sit out the exam.  I'm pretty sure battles have been fought that would have required less organisation than getting a hundred or so students to all agree to risk their grade like that.

I'm Australian, so I never really understood the concept of grading on the curve.  When I went to school you got a mark out of a hundred and that mark determined what your grade was.  There wasn't any complicated tables or graphs needed to decide whether you fell into a certain percentile.  If you failed, then you failed!

And we had to walk uphill to school ... in the snow ... carrying approximately thirty seven kilos of books ... and wearing paper bags instead of shoes...

Sorry, I let my inner grumpy old man take over for a bit.

But my point about grading on the curve still stands.  It hardly seems fair to me that you could get a 95%, but if everyone else in the class got 96% then you're going to fail.  95% is not a failing mark!  Hell, I can say that any time I ever got 95% on anything I did heel clicks up and down the street while singing an a capella version of Knees Up Mother Brown!

Besides, I don't know if I would trust a marking system that's more complicated than the exam itself.

Sexism and Telemarketing: finally, something that works...

Here's a hypothetical question for you all. If a telemarketer hangs up on me because I don't have a husband, should I be insulted that he doesn't see me as a valid potential annoyee, or should I just be glad I got rid of him with so little fuss?

Okay, so it's not really that hypothetical, but I'm serious.  I just got a call from a telemarketer who, in a very thick accent I might add, told me he was from some company I'd never even heard of and could he please speak to my husband about mortgages.

Now I'm a renter so I don't have a mortgage, but I didn't even get a chance to tell him that because as soon as I said "Oh, I'm single" he just thanked me for my time and hung up! Sure he was polite, but polite sexism really isn't better than any other sort.

It was as if I couldn't possible talk business because I'm a woman. Must be the ovaries, you obviously can't discuss mortgages if you've got ovaries.

But why on earth should it matter if I'm a woman?  Were they specifically looking for male mortgage holders?  Was it some sort of questionnaire and the'd already met their quota for women?  Was he suffering from Caligynephobia and my obvious extraordinary femininity overwhelmed him?  Well, he's only human.

But then I started to think about it a bit more. Why on earth was I getting upset about it? I may have just discovered the quickest and easiest way to get one of those annoying people off the phone without having to tell them half a dozen times that I don't want to change long distance providers and if they don't stop hassling me I'll ... well, probably do nothing if I'm completely honest.  I never have found an effective way to deal with these pests.  At least until now!

So from now I whenever a telemarketer calls, I'm just going to reply to their first question with "Sorry, I'm single" and hang up. I'll let you all know how it goes.