Checklist

Checklist:

Pack a 24cm spring form cake tin, citrus zester, piping bag and nozzles. The husband is packing the knives.
Music – update my iPod, pack the speakers, Elvis christmas CDs.

Presents – stuff for the family, wine, cds. Buy wrapping paper.

Defrost the freezers at work, empty the bins, empty the MilliQ and PBS drums and the water baths, turn off the ovens and incubators and remember to chock the doors open. Change message on voicemail – how do I do that?? Check phone instructions. Throw away last week's agar plates. Turn off all the printers, scanners and computers.

Pack lots of medication to deal with the cat when I get to the city, think about packing gym gear then have a reality check and leave it behind. Shoes, boots? Check the weather forecast. Corsets, skirts and tops, jackets, hats and parasol. Sunscreen and razors. Get nails done. Bathers? Don't be stupid. Confirm flights.

Still haven't decided on an entree for New Years Eve. Prawn cocktail?? Ha! Blini? Rosti? Pate? Thai fish cakes? Something on a stick most likely. Chocolate truffle cake for dessert, hmm, should I make two of them? Will I have enough Margret River chocolate? Check the recipe, confirm guest numbers. Serve with raspberries? Homemade ice cream? Coffee or vanilla? Or chilli chocolate? All three? Make a mini pavlova for the rouge guest who doesn't like chocolate or let him suffer for being a heretic?

Give a key to the chick who is feeding the dog and cat and buy lots of cans of food. Make sure the leash is where I said it would be and that the dog has her tag on her collar. Oh, pay the car rego and the rates. Transfer money to cover the older child.

Stake the tomatoes and spray them with chilli to keep the possums off. Harvest the rhubarb – pack it. Give the veggie patch a really good soaking. Oh yeah, pack the water pistols.

Don't forget to pack the pudding.

I love Christmas. Read more!

Deck the halls

Not much has been happening. Well, life and the general trappings thereof. The past few months, in summary:
· I dragged the child to a car show at 8am in the cold and rain and we stood around with a bunch of other car freaks, freezing. Most were more impressed by my full length, flared skirt, PVC coat than my car. It was so miserable even the coffee vendor decided not to show up.

· Work Christmas party. I behaved myself. Enough said.

· Went to a gig at the ANU bar, which was OK.

The child turns six in a few weeks. Motherhood has certainly given me a new perspective on birthdays, particularly the "birth" part. Ah yes, six years ago I was waddling around like a lame hippo with constant pain from my back, heart burn and unable to sleep. I wanted the baby OUT so I could go back to feeling normal. There's the trap – you never feel normal again. What is normal changes radically. So six years later I am organising a jumping castle and trying to source a piñata. Last year we made a piñata, a little horse which we decorated with streamers and painted brightly. Unfortunately I had underestimated the strength of paper mache and the kids couldn't break it open. This year I will go commercial in the hope they are much more flimsy.

The only thing that has really sent me on a rant recently is the onslaught of Christmas cards. Now, I love Christmas. I love all the food and the presents and decorating the house and wearing silly hats. I adore it. What I don't like is when Christianity gets shoved in there as a way for us to justify our rampant consuming. The sooner people give up trying to give Christmas some sort of Christian significance the better. Try to find any reference to celebrating the birth of Christ in the bible. You can't. The poor bastard wasn't even born in December. Let's just leave him out of it and get back to gorging ourselves with food and drinking ourselves silly.

So let's focus on the original winter solstice celebration - Saturnalia or Yule and acknowledge our heritage. Let's bring an evergreen tree inside the house and decorate it to celebrate the conquest of fertility over the winter cold. Let's kill turkeys and small pigs who are plump with their winter fat and serve them with all the root vegetables that we have stored since autumn. Finish the meal with pudding made from dried fruit, the legacy of summer and a reminder of what's to come. Let's put holly leaves everywhere in homage to the druids who used holly to poison their winter solstice sacrifices and for the Wiccans who see the red holly berries as the red of menstrual blood. And mistletoe - the leaves are an aphrodisiac and the white flowers representative of droplets of the sun god's semen. Oh, and don't forget Santa. This man has become the symbol of what Christmas really is – the merging of a Norse god with a long beard who rode a horse through the sky once a year in autumn, a Saint from 270AD who is the patron of children, fishermen, nudists and prostitutes and an icon created in 1931 by coca cola. Mash them all together then give him the Dutch name "Sinterklaas" and you have the jolly fat man who is truly deserved of our worship.

That's all well and good and totally appropriate IF we lived in the northern hemisphere. But it's not snowing; we aren't triumphing over the winter bleakness. It's 32°C outside and fresh fruit and seafood is in abundance.

My philosophy is – enjoy Christmas, but don't be hypocritical about it. It's a time to get together with family and friends and be thankful for what we have and that we have all survived another year. If you'd rather have prawns and kangaroo steaks on the BBQ, sitting in the backyard under an umbrella sipping cold beer then do it. Why do we still feel obliged to live as if we're English? Moronic retailers spray snow on their windows and even stupider home owners roll out white felt on their roof tops. STOP IT!! We live in the southern hemisphere – deal with it, get used to it, enjoy it!

So when the small child brought home a Christmas card with an angel on the front and "Jesus sends us angels all year to look after us. Happy Christmas" on the inside my blood boiled. I want to send my girl to school with Christmas cards that say "Jesus may love you, but Satan gives you special powers", or cards with pictures of decorated penises that proclaim "May the Goddess bless your womb", or even "Happy Birthday to the Flying Spaghetti Monster". But I can't. There would be outraged parents and the girl would get ostracised. Unfortunately, using my child as a vehicle for my anti-social behaviour goes against my ethics. She is free to choose her own form of rebellion.

I may, however, suggest she draws Christmas trees with red and white balls hanging and that we put "Yule tidings" instead of "Happy Christmas". She has asked that we put a star on top of the Christmas tree this year instead of our usual gothic fairy. Of course we will, but I will explain that it's in homage to the sun god and a celebration of the fertility of the earth, not a beacon to three old blokes wandering about at night, in the middle of winter, looking for an illegitimate baby in a straw filled trough. Read more!

Stupid is as Stupid does

I just finished co-ordinating a neuro anatomy workshop. I've never done anything like that before, it was stressful, but I learnt quite a bit. I've learned some organisational skills, I've learned some neuro anatomy but mostly it reinforced my long held belief that people are stupid. Even people with ridiculously high IQs are stupid.
My first encounter with stupidity was at the supermarket. I needed to buy stuff for morning tea for the workshop and some spare stationary bits and pieces; I also needed to buy something for dinner for my family. I wanted to pay by credit card. I put the work stuff through the checkout then asked the chick if I could get a subtotal, a gap on the receipt then go on with my personal purchases. I needed to keep the work stuff separate so I could get reimbursed, but didn't want to have to go through 2 credit card transactions. She looked at me, blinked, and then said "Oh, I don't know, I'll have to ask". I was gobsmacked. Back in the olden days when I was a checkout chick there was a button on the register that said "subtotal", apparently this is not the case anymore. She called the manager over, he muttered something, asked if it was really necessary, then offered to hand write the subtotal on (the register gives a running total, but doesn't print it on the receipt), then looked pained and pleaded me to just put them through separately. I agreed but I was annoyed. You mean to tell me this state-of-the-art cash register can scan an item, tell me not just how much it costs but exactly what it is and put up a picture of it, then send the information back to a central data base for statistical analysis, but it can't do a subtotal? Stupid.

For the workshop I tried to cover every contingency: I had spare pencils, paper, the pre reading material, pencil sharpeners and erasers. What I didn't have was a way to communicate effectively with the attending scientists. I sent out 5 emails within a week reminding people what they needed to bring with them, including their lunch as the lunch break was short and they wouldn't have time to go to the cafe. I asked that they be early as we needed to start at 9am sharp. I gave explicit instructions as to how to find the seminar room (go up the stairs in the foyer – the ONLY stairs – to the TOP of the stairs, to the seminar room NOT the lecture theatre – which was only half way up the stairs). I put up signs with arrows.

By 9am there was one person there. At 9:05am I found a girl in the foyer unable to work out where to go. By 9:10am several people wandered in. I ran out to get some more paper and found several more people sitting in the common room having a meal. At 9:15am the professor got a phone call from some people sitting in the lecture theatre wondering where everybody was. At lunchtime several of them wandered around like zombies looking for the cafe. I despair. These are intelligent people, academics, much smarter than me, but apparently unable to read an email and follow simple instructions, unable to tell the time or work out the difference between the top of the stairs or half way up. People are stupid.

It was a fascinating workshop, frustrating at first, but when I got into it was I hooked. I could have gone on for longer - I was disappointed when it ended. The best parts were when the professor went off on a bit of a tangent and started talking about neural biochemistry. I was reminded that the reason I had studied biochemistry and pharmacology in third year uni was because neural biochem was the field I wanted to get into. I did Honours in biochem then tried to get work in the field; I ended up at CSIRO working in cell biology. My career has diverged from there, taking me into protein chemistry and then antibody engineering. Now I have come back to neurology - sort of – if it's possible to come back to something you never had.

I have often wondered where my current job will lead me. I'm certainly improving my molecular biology skills, and my histology. I wonder if it will ultimately take me to where I wanted to go when I first started out. I don't know if that's possible. I scored the lowest on the quiz at the end of the seminar. Apparently I'm a bit stupid. Read more!

Blue, Blue Moon

I hate bus trips and I hate Sydney but I felt like a little kid on Christmas Eve as I boarded the Greyhound after work on Friday. We were going to the Under The Blue Moon festival in Newtown, it promised to be a day and a night of shopping, street theatre, music and lots of Goths. Wonderful.

Two hours into our bus trip my back was starting to hurt, I was so hungry I was considering eating the packet of Quick-eze I had in my bag and I was bored because the gothy magazine I was reading had black font on a dark background and the dim reading light was totally inadequate. I looked at the clock at the front of the bus, 8:35, oh it must have stopped, I'm sure it said that ages ago. So I sat, fidgeting, until my annoyed husband told me off. I looked at the clock again, it flicked to 8:36. I wanted to scream.

Eons later we arrived at Central station, hailed a taxi and made our way to the hotel. We were booked into Australian Sunrise Lodge on King St, just up the road from the Sandringham Hotel where the gig was on Saturday night. It was the perfect location for us to be able to wander Enmore road all day, have a home base easily accessible and be able to relax, refresh and reoutfit any time we liked.

As we were checking in the receptionist handed me a phone, saying the manager wanted to speak to me. He explained that although we had a room for that night, the hotel was overbooked the following night and he had relocated us to a "lovely boutique hotel in Darlinghurst". I don't know Sydney, names of suburbs mean nothing to me, and I didn't know if Darlinghurst was around the corner or across town. I asked if it was far away and he changed the subject. The husband grabbed the phone to find out what was going on, got angry, calmed down and finally reached the same level of defeat as I had.

Trying to find something to eat at 10pm wasn't that easy either. We eventually found a cafe that agreed to keep the kitchen open if we ordered quickly. We asked for a mezze platter to share, figuring the chef wouldn't be too pissed off if all he/she had to do was scoop stuff out of jars. It was good. We sat at the table on the footpath with our food and wine and watched the rabble of Newtown going past. Several Goths, a few yuppies and the occasional dero. A gorgeous looking hippie chick carrying her yoga mat sat at the table next to us and proceeded to devour a huge piece of chocolate cake. I hated her.

Pleasantly sated we went back to our hotel. The room was nice, a small balcony covered with wysteria was the highlight, the warm night air wafted the perfume of the bunches of purple flowers into our room and I started to get depressed, the husband got angry again. We decided to argue with the manager the next morning and attempted to sleep. The first rays of light were beginning to creep in the window as I finally managed to drift off. My upset and disappointment at our hotel fiasco had kept my mind racing for hours so it was with only two hours sleep that I faced Saturday.

Dressed in my best lamb impersonation I went downstairs and rang the manager. I made my point, voiced our extreme disappointment, our dismay. Argued that I had made the booking with him personally several weeks prior, made him explain why others got to stay when we were sent away, made him explain how it was possible to overbook in the first place (did you forget how many rooms you have??). It was all futile, he wasn't going to back down, and we just had to accept defeat.

We stowed our luggage and headed out into the rain. The list of things to get upset about was growing. After collecting our festival show bags we walked further up King Street to find some breakfast finally stopping at Cafe C (no, that isn't an abbreviation to protect their identity that was their name). While we waited for our food I went through the show bags, not bad for $5 really. A couple of novels, a few CDs, some velvet gloves, a small, pink teddy bear, stickers and discount vouchers for our shopping spree. Coffee arrived, it wasn't the best but I didn't really care, it was hot and caffeinated and I figured I would need significant amounts of caffeine if I was to get through the day. My image of toasted Turkish bread, fluffy ricotta and lovely runny honey was destroyed when my plate of cold, stale Turkish bread, runny ricotta out of a tub and two little plastic packs of crystallised honey arrived. When my husband's fruit platter appeared - a roughly chopped orange, a hunk of watermelon, a hunk of cantaloupe and a badly sliced apple – all we could do was laugh.


We laughed about the weird hotel manager, only contactable via the telephone and his staff composed entirely of young Asian women. Was he morbidly obese and unable to leave his room? Or deformed in some way? An agoraphobic midget was our final guess. We laughed at the rain and how a bunch of Goths were going to cope with running make-up. We laughed at Cafe Crap and the blind, machete wielding chef who couldn't cut fruit. We laughed at our misfortune and agreed that the next thing would be for one of us to step in dog shit. We laughed at who or what we must have been in our past lives to have warranted the bad luck that seems to follow us both. So trying our best to be optimistic as Adolf and Eva, we went shopping.

Most of the footpaths were covered by verandas, so the rain wasn't too difficult to deal with as we stepped in and out of the several Goth shops along Enmore Road. Most of the shops were tacky and not worth the effort, the best being Reactor Rubberwear and Gallery Serpentine (where our wedding clothes had come from). These shops had put an enormous effort into their decor and the quality of their merchandise - it was a joy to behold. In Gallery Serpentine I purchased an umbrella, a gorgeous Morticia Adams type thing. As I signed the credit card slip the girl said to me "it's not waterproof, so if you want to use it in the rain you will need to scotch guard it first". Of course, it makes perfect sense. Only in Goth land can you buy an umbrella that can't get wet. At the end of our spree I had my umbrella, a pair of shoes and a patch saying "Are you dead yet?" (an appropriate item for my line of work). The husband had a long sleeve shirt with a cobweb design on the yoke, and "Schitzo" a baby living dead dolly.

The market stalls didn't impress us and the events on the "main stage" (an area with a tarp over it to the side of the town hall) weren't thrilling us either so we decided to check out our new accommodation. The hotel we were supposed to be staying in was going to pay our taxi fare to Darlinghurst and the girl at reception gave me $20 (toward what turned out to be a $22.95 taxi ride) and the details of our new hotel. L'Otel may call itself "boutique"; I called it "beyond redemption". It was awful. It turned out we were a block away from the Cross, so we went for a walk, worked out how to get back to Newtown on the train then found a nice pub and had a couple of much needed drinks.

Dressed to impress we arrived back at the Sandringham hotel and asked the boy on the door for our tickets. He didn't have them, in fact he wasn't even aware that tickets had been sold online. Fortunately I had a printout of the confirmation email and we got our wrists stamped. Hunger overtook our desire for loud music and we decided to try a Macedonian place called The Europe Grill. It was good. It was very good. I ate until my corset was bursting at the seams. Perfectly cooked, flavoursome, no-nonsense, top quality food. We were in heaven.

Back at the Sando the bands were loud, the wine was cheap and the crowd was friendly. We were happy. I ran around taking photos of the people I thought were the stand outs of the evening. A girl with elaborate spider web make-up,
a stunningly beautiful amazon-goth woman,
Mr Curly,
a bride in black, a beautiful girl who when I told her she looked like Mina Harker replied "who?".
Oh dear, Goths aint what they used to be. But the commonality that holds us all together remains - we are unusual, swimming against the current. Only one boy refused to let me photograph him (which was a shame, his look was unique and powerful) everyone else was only too happy to pose for a photo. We're a vain bunch. Sadly there was not a great deal of elegance; the romantic Goths were greatly outnumbered by the cybers and the just plain scruffy.
We were easily the oldest people there, by ten years (and then some). Where do all the old Goths go? But as is usual in a Goth crowd everyone was very sweet and very friendly. I could have made some friends if I hadn't been a bit tipsy and didn't think to ask for names or contact details. Nobody seemed to notice I was older than their mother and I chatted endlessly about corsets, PVC, jewellery, hair, make-up, music and shoes. When all else fails, the camaraderie and the look remains.
The bands were good, even Lycanthia who I was sure I hated, were entertaining. We bought CDs and a t-shirt, socialised, drank some more then hailed a taxi.

Back at L'Otel and overcome by alcohol, tiredness, disappointment and the oppressive nature of our room we fought. Our stress won. Another disappointment.

In the morning, convinced that the clocks had gone back, we moved slowly. Had a fantastic breakfast (poached eggs with smoked salmon on toasted brioche and homemade hollandaise sauce which was perfect and coffee served in a bowl was utterly wonderful). At the train station our hung-over and addled brains finally worked out that clocks had actually gone forwards and we were running late for our bus. Fortunately we made it with 60 seconds to spare and even managed to sleep most of the way back to Blandberra.

So with all our Gothic finery in the washing machine, the first coat of scotch guard drying on my umbrella, our new CDs playing and wearing my Nevetherym t-shirt I am sat in front of the computer reflecting on what was the best of times and the worst of times. It was Sydney after all, and I fucken hate Sydney. Read more!

The End is Nigh

The Large Hadron Collider – will it end the world? I don't think so, but it seems many people do. My 15 year old stepson asked me a lot of questions about it last night, he was seriously afraid of what might happen. There are multitudes of people freaking out about black holes being created and imploding our planet.

I've been reading a few blogs and forums about it, people are either laughing or being genuinely scared. I am assuming and generalising that the people who are laughing are the ejumacated ones and the scared people also avoid walking under ladders. It's sad that so many people, the majority of us I think, still live in a world of superstition and religion. We have come so far yet we have barely moved. The giant leap for mankind achieved what? A big conspiracy theory that it never really happened. We are quick to believe in ghosts but can't bring ourselves to believe in technology. It's been 40 years since Neil and Buzz left footprints on the moon and now our mobile phones contain more computer power than Apollo 11 did. Our achievements in the past 4 decades have been impressive, but are we capable of destroying the planet? Maybe, but it will more likely come from some deranged military despot with nuclear weapons than from a bunch of scientists.

Scientists, generally, are a nice people. I say this based purely on personal experience. Sure we have our share of socially and emotionally retarded folk who pull their pants up too high and haven't had a haircut since 1984, but they're all just part of the myriad of personalities that make up the scientific community. Actually, as a group, we are increasingly becoming more "normal" with each passing year. It seems the boffins and eccentrics of the science world are growing old and dying out. This generation are more likely to be into triathlons than triangulating. I'm a bit sad about the trend, we may never see the likes of Professor Julius Sumner Miller again but then we may never see someone like Josef Mengele either. I think greater access to education has opened the doors of the scientific world to people from all walks of life. I know scientists who are not only genius in their chosen field but are also musicians, artists, film makers, writers, athletes and a multitude of other talents.

But judging by the comments on some forums the LHC scientists are worse than Mengele ever was – they are playing God and gambling with all our lives. "Playing God" and "going against nature" are phrases being bandied about, now as they were in 1692 when innocent women were tortured to death for being midwives and healers. Sure scientists are not infallible, sure accidents happen. Included in the diverse world of science are incompetents and idiots as much as in any profession, but they are the exception, not the rule. Are scientists are a bunch of power crazy megalomaniacs who would sacrifice the earth to validate a theory? Seriously people, enlighten up. Read more!

Burning ring of fire

What a weekend. Our first weekend without the little kid and our dance card was full. It was to be an Opeth and alcohol fuelled two days of music, theatre, shopping and eating.


First glitch was at the airport: I had decided that since most of the little kid's textas were stuffed I would buy her new ones at the newsagency at the airport. Except some kind staff member had plonked a very tall and wide stack of heavy boxes right in front of the shelf that housed the textas and the tiny little woman that was serving had no capacity to move them to access the pens. So the girl was trapped on a plane for an hour with no colouring in. She coped reasonably well, I was somewhat flustered however.

Once in the city, the girl having been whisked away by her grandmother, we located our hotel. We had booked accommodation using the points on our credit card and judging from the photos on the net I was expecting something fairly crappy. It wasn't. The room was clean, comfortable and in fairly good nick. The bedspread wasn't hideous and they had foxtel. My only gripe was the Lipton's tea and I thought "if that's the worst of my problems I am doing well". The three levels of rooms looked onto an interior courtyard, which had simple but elegant wrought iron railings and a few palm trees and picnic tables. It would have been lovely – if it wasn't undergoing renovation. We pondered if we had been in a hotel over the duration of our relationship that wasn't undergoing renovation – the only one we could think of was in Venice, but then the entire city was undergoing renovation. We decided it was fine and were happy with what we had.

We headed off into the city to meet with the oldest son and go to the husband's favourite music store. Surprisingly, we didn't buy a thing. Lunch was a pretty good Caesar salad, although the husband's burger was apparently awful. Then more shopping. The new Goth shop in the city had nothing for us so we hopped onto a tram to go to Brunswick Street. At the next Goth shop I bought a hairclip which I can't use because I had my hair cut short last week and a make-up compact which I can't use because my current pressed powder is rectangle and the new compact is round. The son told us that when he tells people his parents are Goths they look confused and ask "isn't that a phase you grow out of when you turn 20?"

After heading back to the hotel for a rest and a shower and to glam-up we attempted to meet my friends for after work drinks but were completely befuddled by the trains and peak hour chaos so decided to give it a miss and go for dinner instead. We chose a Korean restaurant, which was ordinary. They were playing Air Supply and we couldn't decide exactly how bad it was that we not only knew the songs but some of the lyrics.

There was a huge queue outside the Metro, where Opeth were playing, and it seemed to be composed entirely of young, long haired boys having a shouting competition. I asked the bouncer if there was a second queue for old people as I couldn't possibly join those children over there it would just be humiliating. He said "no". I tried to reason with him but quickly realised I was wasting my time.

We went around the corner to a bar for a glass of wine to while away the 15 minutes before the Metro opened. The cheapest glass was $10.50 so we thought why not just get a bottle? Why not indeed. Because there was not a single bottle on the list for less than $100, most of them being several hundred, and even one bottle for $10,500. The waitress asked how we were going with the wine list and I replied "it's highly amusing", she looked down her nose at me and said "I'll get you some water". The $10.50 glass of merlot was very nice and while we were drinking and wondering who the hell pays $10,500 for a bottle of wine, why, and if it could ever possible be worth it. The man at the table next to us finished his drink and bolted. Usually I would be disgusted at such uncouth behaviour, but after the derision from the snooty waitress I just laughed, suggested we do the same then dealt with the disapproving looks from the husband (15 years in hospitality - he doesn't take kindly to disrespecting waiting staff).

So we eventually wandered into the Metro, to be confronted by a sign announcing that the support band was Virgin Black and I momentarily added my wails to the ongoing shouting competition. I can't stand Virgin Black. Their music is boring, unoriginal, self indulgent waffle. I was not happy.

We managed to get a good spot on the balcony and we waited. I heckled Virgin Black as loudly and as obnoxiously as I could. I had a small amount of support from people around me – apparently Virgin Black had supported Opeth at a previous gig and had been booed for the entire time they were on stage. Mercifully their set was short. But by the time Opeth started it was late; I was very tired and had perhaps indulged in a tad too much wine. I sat on the floor and rested my head against the railing. Eventually the husband woke me and we left. He was disappointed in the music, only one original band member remained - he said it was like watching a cover band.

The next morning we were woken by workmen hammering in the courtyard and then our hangovers hammering in our heads. Once out in the world the yellow hurty thing in the sky made us feel worse.

By evening we had recovered significantly and glammed-up again for our night out at The Burlesque Hour. What a hoot! We got splattered with milk and well and truly entertained. The only drawback being that neither the husband nor I can now get the song Total Eclipse of the Heart out of our heads.


Afterwards we found a Schezuan restaurant and gave our mouths and stomachs third degree chilli burns with some of the best food I have eaten for a long time. I pondered on how all the regular endorphin producing activities like skydiving, vigorous exercise, child birth etc only upset me but a good chilli meal – without fail – leaves me feeling elatedly happy. It was a lovely end to a hectic but thoroughly enjoyable weekend.


Back at the hotel we discovered that a mob of teenagers had moved in, were unsupervised and had decided to party all night. We would have gone out and yelled at them but the husband saw signs of ICE usage so we stayed in our room for fear of being stabbed. When we were leaving the next morning I took the "Do Not Disturb" sign off their door and threw it in a pot plant. It was a petty act, but the thought of them being woken by housekeeping amused me.

So now we return to the world of Blandberra, of work and of parenting. Are we too old to go to a death metal gig? Are we too old to stay up drinking all night? Are we too old to dress as we do? Absolutely. Will we ever stop? Absolutely not. Read more!

FIG JAM

I find myself being very reflective recently. Oh, that was a bad start – I'm reflecting on my life, I haven't been chromed and buffed to a mirror finish.
I have been delving into old music, contacting friends, reading through old blogs, just generally contemplating the meaning of life. I wonder if any of this is due to my rapidly approaching 40th birthday. Where did the years go?
I found this list of "40 things to do before you turn 40" on the web, my responses in italics:

1. Don't die!
So far, so good
.2. Write a book.
Does this blog count?
3. Learn a new language.
Did it, forgot it.
4. Visit a new country.
Lived for a year in Denmark – a long time ago, have also been to England, Wales, Scotland, Vietnam, France, Spain, Italy.
5. Pay off all your debts.
Financial I presume? Done. About to go into even more debt
6. Sponsor a poor child.
Done. I need cheap sneakers.
7. Get back in shape.
Have done this one a few times, then lost it again, currently trying again.
8. Try out for a movie…
Was an extra in The Queen of the Damned (what a shit film!!)
9. …sing horrible karaoke…
Done. My friend and I did a duet of "Suspicious Minds".
10. …or do anything to embarrass yourself!
Daily
11. Take one step toward your true passion.
My whole life is about realising my passions.
12. Quit your dead-end job.
Done. Quit several jobs over the years.
13. Stop smoking.
Done, although I was never a nicotine addict I did smoke other stuff heavily for a few years.
14. Rethink your least-favourite food. Taste buds change.
Done. I've tried rabbit, liver and Brussels sprouts. The sprouts I don't think I will ever come to terms with.
15. Go outside your comfort zone.
Like get a new job outside my field of expertise? Move to a new city? Done.
16. Move into the house of your dreams.
Will do in about 18 months.
17. Meet a new friend…
Done.
18. …of a different race…
Done.
19. …and a different religion than you.
Done
20. Forgive your mother. Hasn't it been long enough?
Done
21. Call your dad. Hasn't it been too long?
Can't, don't know where he is.
22. Stop speeding…
Hmm, I don't speed in my car (because I can't) but I did get a speeding ticket recently.
23. …and kill your road rage.
Yeah, when all the dickheads give up driving.
24. Take up a new sport.
Tried Fencing a couple of years ago. Enjoyed it, was even actually good at it, but it was too expensive and too difficult to manage as a single parent.
25. Play around with a new computer software program.
All the time.
26. Drive on Route 66.
That's on my list, along with visiting Graceland, Las Vegas and New Orleans.
27. Confess your affair to your spouse…
Done
28. …or, at least to yourself. Then end it.
Done
29. Take a cruise.
Day trip count?
30. Host a fun dinner party.
Done. Served a whole fish to a vegetarian.
31. Kick your all-day caffeine habit.
Done. Switched to decaf some time ago, reduced my PMT to almost nothing.
32. Find out the major tenets of all major faiths. Pick one. We all need something to believe in.
Done, I believe in myself.
33. Read the lyrics of one classic rap song…
Why?
34. …one popular country ode…
Coat of Many Colours
35. …and one rock anthem.
Khe San
36. Book that plastic surgery consultation you've been wanting since forever.
Hmm..
37. Set up your own website or blog.
Done
38. Live and let live.
Ok
39. Live and let die.
Then turn their skull into an ornament?
40. Live and live and live some more!
This is really boring.

That was too easy. I think I better make my own list; it seems other people set their sights way too low. I mean, "have a dinner party? Give up coffee?" are they serious?

OK, my list of things I've done that I consider an achievement:
1. At the age of 16 went and lived in a non-English speaking country for a year.
2. Learnt a foreign language (see above). Then forgot it.
3. Had a Mohawk.
4. Had blue hair.
5. Fell in love – more times than I can count! Had several passionate and tumultuous relationships.
6. Have had my heart broken and broke others.
7. One night stand – a couple??
8. Had green hair.
10. Read lots of philosophy and classic literature.
11. Went to Uni, got a degree (eventually).
12. Had purple hair.
13. Made love on a beach in the moonlight – and got spotlighted by a fishing boat.
14. Slept in a haunted house (lots of door slamming).
15. Went topless on a public beach.
16. Had red hair.
17. Been a groupie.
18. Been politically active.
19. Co-wrote a song – that nobody has ever heard, I have it on tape though!!
20. Written poetry.
21. Had black hair.
22. Tried to learn how to draw and paint.
23. Held the hand of my great grandmother as she died.
24. Made my own clothes.
25. Posed for a nude life drawing.
26. Attempted to learn how to play bass guitar.
27. Had blonde hair.
28. Lived in a group house – a few actually. The most interesting was a big old condemned house in Glen Iris, sharing with a very eccentric group of people. I eventually got kicked out for not being serious enough.
29. Experimented with drugs.
30. Said "no" to a marriage proposal.
31. Rebuilt the engine in my Morris Minor.
32. Music festivals – lots!
33. Established a career. Since chucked it.
34. Looked fabulous at my 20 year High School reunion.
35. Rubbed my fabulousness and success in the face of the girl who bullied me at High School.
36. Tiled my own kitchen and bathroom.
37. Learned how to make croissants from scratch.
38. Went sky diving.
39. Rode a camel across the Simpson desert.
40. Got married.
41. Had a baby.
42. Had an affair.
43. Got a tattoo.
44. Got divorced.
45. Went mad (briefly, I'm fine now).
46. Tried internet dating (gothicmatch.com).
47. Got married.
48. In PVC.
49. Rode through Venice, at night, in a gondola.
50. Realised that I'm worth something.
That was fun! I think I'm ready to be 40, in six months. Read more!

Ice and Pronouns

The course was starting at 9am. The child and I managed to burst out of the front door at 8:30am; I thought I was doing well. I strapped the child into her car seat and started my car to give the engine time to warm up. I then commenced scraping the ice off all the windows. Once I had done that I was faced with the task of moving the husband's car, which he had kindly parked behind mine. His car was also totally iced up and does not start well in cold weather. I revved and stalled and revved and stalled the car down the driveway, navigating by leaning out of the door so I could see, and finally managed to get it into the street. Meanwhile the child had got out of her seat and was crying because my car "was bumping"- it had choked and stalled. I started the car again and we set off, stopped to clear the windscreen and drove away again. It was 8:50am. After ditching the child at school I hammered the poor, old car to Uni and attempted to find the building and car park I needed amongst the campus labyrinth. I arrived at reception at 9:05am, pretty good going I thought. I then had to wait 5 minutes for the receptionist to get off the phone so I could find out which room I was supposed to be in. She directed me along a path, around a corner, up some stairs and to the tutorial room. The door was locked. I walked to the other door, which was also locked, but was able to get the attention of the people in the room. I was let in and I apologised for being late. Of course, there were no notebooks or pens left so the tutor had to faff around organising something for me. Finally I sat down to begin learning. My phone rang. I jumped up, apologised and left the room. After explaining to my co-worker that I wasn't in the lab that day and they would have to deal with the issue on their own I switched my phone to silent and returned to my seat. Then I started sneezing. I sat there, sneezing, thinking "these people all hate me". My suspicions were confirmed during the day as my attempts to make jokes during the class went ignored. I considered dismantling my pen and firing spit balls at the tutor but decided against it.
So two days later I am now well informed on the intricacies of the correct grammar of the English language. I now know when to hyphenate compounded adjectives and what a split infinitive is. I know that it's ok to end a sentence with a preposition and how to use a semicolon. I can identify an attributive adjective and a past participle. It's all very interesting. No, really! And best of all, I got a certificate.
During the course I pondered on how amazing it is that most of us know absolutely nothing about correct grammar, yet we manage to speak and write clearly anyway. I guess it's like a car – you don't have to know how the internal combustion engine works in order to drive one around. I don't think my new found knowledge will improve the quality of my blog (sorry) but it may make me ever so slightly more pompous, which I am quite pleased about. It is one of my goals in life to become completely arrogant and pompous. I also aspire to become (even more) eccentric, have long, unkempt hair, cackle loudly at inappropriate moments and be able to frighten small children with just a look. The fact that I can work towards at least one of these goals by attending a course paid for by my employer and attended during working hours is pure gold.
In other news, I have applied some of my laboratory knowledge to solving what has become a daily problem: removing ice from the car's windscreen. Scraping at it potentially scratches your windscreen and leaves icy residue. Pouring hot water on a frozen sheet of glass is sheer stupidity. The solution? A spray bottle full of metho: metho melts the ice and stops it refreezing. Sure you go to work smelling like a wino, but at least you can see clearly on your way there.
So my life is improving. I can construct a passive clause containing a modifying adverb and I can clear the ice off my windscreen. Wooo Hoo! Read more!

Self Justification

Last night I watched The World's Fastest Indian since it was on telly and had been recommended to me previously. What a brilliant film! Mostly due to it being packed full of 1960's American cars. Gorgeousness. Fins and chrome and big curvy, sweeping windscreens make a car as far as I'm concerned. I couldn't care less about fuel economy, reliability, compression ratios or how quickly it can go from 0 to 100 – I just want it to look good.

I occasionally feel guilty about driving a 47 year old car that doesn't have catalytic converters and only gets about 19 miles to the gallon (that's about 6km per litre) in terms of contributing to pollution and my carbon footprint blah blah. But I only use about 30 litres of petrol a week which is way less (I think) than all those big four wheel drive things. And another thing to consider is that very little industrial manufacturing has been required to support my vehicle in 47 years! My car has used tyres, oil, petrol and coolant and no other consumables or new parts in 47 years. I think that makes up for the fumes. Imagine if everybody kept their cars for 50 years, took on their parent's cars and just kept them going. That is a very high form of recycling, and imagine the environmental savings of not pumping out 50 squillion new cars every year. AND even better, we would all look very, very cool. But what about the car industry - its high levels of employment, and general contribution to the economy? Personally, I don't care, but if whole economies are going to collapse because people stop buying new cars then I guess it's an issue. Green backs before green trees. Tell that to the frogs.

As I get older and more jaded I become less concerned about trying to solve world problems. When I was a teen/early twenties I was very devout politically. I would go to demonstrations, I would shop politically, buy organically grown produce, ride my bike everywhere, only use vinegar and baking soda as cleaning products. Then one day, standing in the supermarket trying to work out which canned tomatoes to buy it occurred to me that I shouldn't even be buying Australian made produce, given our record of human rights abuses with the indigenous folk. And I thought "fuck it". Was I making a difference with all my efforts? I certainly had good skin and great thighs from the healthy food and cycling but otherwise – did anything I do really matter? How was I to know if all my carefully sorted recycling was actually getting recycled or just going to land fill? So I gave up. From then on I have bought from whichever country gave the best quality or value and I buy my groceries at the regular market (saving myself about $100 a week in the process). My only remaining greeny behaviour is to buy free range eggs and chicken when possible and I still recycle my rubbish, compost kitchen scraps and divert grey water to the garden in summer.
But the car issue I am still passionate about. Most people these days drive around in cars made of plastic which isn't recyclable, produces all sorts of nasty by products during the manufacture and they change cars frequently. I don't know many people who drive a car that's more than 10 years old. It is ridiculous that it becomes more financially viable to buy a new one than to fix the old one. So they end up generating a car sized amount of land fill. If cars were made properly in the first place and made of durable materials (like metal) they would last a lifetime and beyond – as mine has done.
The other problem with modern cars is that people are so spoilt with power steering and ABS brakes and parking sensors and all that other stuff that the average person can't even really drive – they just steer. There are fewer thought processes involved, less skill. I wonder if this de-skilling of drivers is responsible for the ever increasing road toll or just the general idiocy and incompetence that we see on the roads on a daily basis. I can reverse park a big old car that requires decent biceps for turning the steering wheel – so why can't other people reverse park their tiny, light weight, power assisted plastic boxes? The less we are challenged, the less we continue to learn and grow. I never want to stop learning, stop developing as a sentient being. We all know what our final destination is so why not make the journey as interesting as possible? Learn how to reverse park, learn how to change a tyre, learn how to check your brakes and do an oil change. Get involved. No I'm not saving the world, I'm just saving an old car and learning a few things along the way. Sorry frogs.

Read more!

Ding Dong Dell

I'm feeling very frustrated and low at the moment. A combination, I think, of lifestyle and my job. Don't misunderstand, I enjoy my job most of the time. The Uni is a great place to work, there are lots of good coffee shops, I can go to the gym at lunch time and most importantly the people I work with are fantastic. My struggle is that I have worked in labs for over 14 years, I am not junior staff. As far as the Biacore goes I was an expert - my name is recognised at international conferences. Same story with cell culture, I have the magic touch with mammalian cells – a red thumb so to speak. But in this lab I am out of my field, I don't know or understand a lot of what goes on. I am learning and I am getting better, but it's slow and frustrating. Not to mention how badly battered my ego is when an honours student can make an experiment work and I can't.
I have also decided to give up dieting. I have been on a diet for most of my adult life. A chronic yo-yo dieter: diet – lose weight, stop dieting – put it all (and then some) back on again. It's a common story. I turn 40 next year and my metabolism is shot to hell and I have no-one to blame but myself. So my new goal is to just eat well, get plenty of exercise and hope my poor addled body can sort out where it is supposed to be. But part of me feels like I have failed. This has been a life long struggle with the expectation that ONE DAY (soon) I will be thinner. It has been a constant expectation that I have put on myself and now I am trying to take it away. I will no longer diet, I will not count calories or use diet shakes to replace meals or take weight loss pills or eat nothing but salad for months on end. Stop the insanity: live my life. I should feel liberated, but I feel sad. It's like giving in. No doubt I will put on more weight at first when I go through the glee of eating "forbidden" foods, but hopefully with perseverance at the gym I will get fitter and find some balance.
I bought a new computer. It was recommended to me to buy from an online company, as it would be the best deal. And it was a good price. Ordering wasn't that easy: I had to call India a couple of times because I didn't want a monitor (we just bought a new one last year) or a printer. I also paid an extra $50 for after hours delivery and so they could take away the old computer. I organised finance so we could lease the computer and return it and upgrade in a few years – it seemed sensible. So I faxed in the paperwork, they lost it. I sent it again. It all seemed good. About a week later the courier company called to say they would be delivering the computer between 5 and 8pm on Monday, which was fine. The next day I got an email from India telling me that after hours delivery wasn't available where I live so they would refund my $50. This is where I fucked up – I said "OK". I should have been honest but I was sick of their incompetence by then and decided to get the money back.
So Monday morning at about 10 past 7 in the morning (all still asleep) there is a knocking at the door – the computer has arrived. I asked if he was going to take the old one for recycling and he said "no, it's not on my paper work". Mysteriously there were two boxes. That day I got a phone call asking if I had completed the paperwork for the finance yet. That night I unpacked one of the boxes: tower, keyboard, mouse as ordered. The second box contained a printer. Well, I thought, better to get something extra than have something missing. So I set it up and began the process of installing software and configuring the system. I had ordered dual optical drives to facilitate burning. Once I had everything ready I popped a CD into the drive, the computer said "please insert a disk into the drive". I explained to it that there was one there already, I argued, I tried different disk types, I tried the other drive. Eventually I got the second drive to see a disk. I mucked around a bit more, it seemed OK. The next day it was the same story – it could not see the disks. So on the phone to India. Now all of the advertising and sales pitch for this company refers to their help line as being a real bonus. OK, where is the phone number for said help line? It took me about 20 minuted of searching to find it, then another 20 minutes on hold. At this point the 5 year old lost the plot and I had to hang up.
The next day I tried again and after 45 minutes on hold I got through to someone who then transferred me and put me on hold. Another 15 minutes later I finally got to speak to a girl about the problem. She did a remote access to the computer, deleted some filters in the set up and it seemed to work.
Two days later the drives went blind again. Another call, another hour on hold, another distraught and screaming 5 year old that I just ignored so I could speak to the Indian man. Half an hour later of mucking around he informs me that the problem is that the new drives are very sensitive and won't read inferior disks. "But the disk in there is a brand new TDK CD-ROM", "It must be poor quality" was the reply. So I have a new stack of blank CDs that I can't use? I explained that my 10 year old computer never had this problem and how can an upgraded system be less reliable than an old one? He was very nice about it and suggested that I wait a month or so until new drivers are released and see if that helps. I was furious. The small child was, by this stage, collapsed on the floor in the kitchen sobbing and was probably permanently psychologically scarred. My bad karma for taking the $50 back.
I have finally worked out that Windows Vista is fucking up the software, that iTunes doesn't run properly in Vista and that may be all the problem is. So I decided to delete Vista and reinstall XP. I searched the net for "how to" pages, found plenty (apparently Vista sucks and a lot of people are desperate to get rid of it) and tried to fix things. I couldn't. I couldn't work out how to make a boot disk with a CD. I was defeated. Again I was foiled by my own limitations; I just don't have enough computer savvy. Apparently the new version of iTunes will be Vista compatible, so I'll wait until then and see if it fixes things.
So my week has been a mish mash of failures, disappointments, frustrations and non-achievement. I'm getting my hair done tomorrow, so at least I'll look good in my despair. Read more!

Old and New

This is the last blog I will write on my old computer. My new computer arrives tomorrow. This computer has been dying a slow and painful death for a few months now. I thought of paying to get it fixed/rebuilt, but its 8 years old and probably not worth it. This is one of those times when I am reminded of my never ending sentimentalisation of inanimate objects - my love of stuff. As on object, this computer is ugly, of the horrid bone, beigey colour that was popular for computers back then. So it's not an aesthetic thing. I bought this computer for X to use while he was doing his Dip Ed; he set it up and put himself as administrator so I see his name every time I use the computer and it shits me. So it's not that, in fact I'll be glad to be rid of that aspect.
If I think about this clearly, it's been about the things I have written on this computer. I have written long and heartfelt letters, emails and blogs. I have, at the lowest, drunkest, most depressed points in my life, written stuff on this computer. So if I had used a pen, would I be sentimental about said pen? No. Obviously I am being totally illogical. This struggle with materialism is one I fight every day.
While I am writing this, I am transferring files to the external hard drive, making sure nothing is lost. Ah, that's it – the fear of losing something. Something I may need one day. Somehow my grandparents managed to instill their life-during-the-depression mentality in me. Save everything – you never know when you might need it. Certain aspects of this are good: recycling etc. I save the elastic bands off vegetables, I save corks and I save jars. Why? I'm not sure; because I have to, it's how I was raised. You just do. Why throw something away when it has value? Any value? No matter how small, if it's not actual rubbish. Just because I haven't used it for 6 years doesn't mean I won't one day. One day I will wear all those size 10 clothes I have (yeah, if I contract a terminal disease and loose 30% of my body weight).
There have been things I have thrown away and will regret forever: the nude portrait my boyfriend did of me when I was 20 (at the time I thought "I can't put a nude picture of me on the wall!" Now, 20 years later, I would love to. I'll never look that good again.), the suede mini-skirt that matches the jacket I kept (I can't believe I broke up a set), photographs of people I never wanted to see again but now wouldn't mind. Parts of my life that have slipped away.
This is an uncomfortable aspect of my personality: unless I have a tangible reminder of an incident, a time span, a relationship, I feel like I don't have any memories. I keep THIS because it's the first present he ever gave me, I keep THIS because it's the last present he ever gave me, I keep THIS because it's what I wore to my high school formal, I keep THIS because I made it when I was 8 years old, I keep THIS because – oh, what is THIS? I've forgotten. Now it's safe to throw it away.
Let it go, let it go, let it go. Move on. Move with the times. Go forward. Onward and upward. Forward – march!
My new computer isn't purchased - it's leased. After 3 years I will return it and get a new one. Perhaps that will prevent me from attaching ridiculous associations with it. Perhaps.
Perhaps I'll make some jam, then I'll need jars! Read more!

The house in the city

We have the final plans for the renovations of my house in the city. It will be totally different, double storey, open plan at the back and a big balcony over the back yard. I don't like open plan, I never wanted a house with combined eating/living areas. I like rooms with doors. Unfortunately the house just isn't big enough to accommodate my need for isolation.
The architect looked at the sketch I had done of what I wanted and then drew up something completely different. At first I was angry that he had disregarded my wishes, but on reflection, what he had done was actually much better. His plan utilised the space more efficiently and makes the house more liveable. I guess that's what a good architect does. We have kept the style as original Victorian as possible and from the drawings it almost looks like it could have always been that way. I am pleased with our plans. The cost is another story.
My little house has been a significant home for me. I have never lived anywhere as long as I have lived in that house. It is truly my home, I feel comfortable and safe there. Over the years I have put a lot of work into making it mine, using colour and features that reflect my tastes and style. I have never considered "resale value" and have probably devalued the house with my eccentric tastes. I don't care.....
Now we are about to begin a new phase. The husband is making a substantial financial and design contribution to the house; it will no longer be mine but ours. It is time for me to move on and integrate my house and my sense of independence into my marriage and be a couple. It's what I want. I actually thought I would find it harder to let go and give my home to somebody else, but it's been easy.
I miss the city. I always thought I was a country girl living in the city. No, I am a city girl who grew up in the country. I can't stand the suburbaness of Blandberra, there is no sense of this place being a big city - it has no dynamics. I saw the Sex in the City movie last night, the closing scene of a city street at night made my heart leap – I want to be there! Not New York in particular, but the city. Things happen in the city. I always thought I would like to live in the country, I realise now that I don't really. It's the energy and spark of a city that I miss; this place is almost comatose.
The girl is away for 8 days, gone south. We are going out tonight with the people from my lab for pizza to celebrate a birthday. Then on Friday night the husband and I have tickets to see Lenny Henry, he is playing here, which is weird. I have seen touring guides for various bands and they seem to avoid this place intentionally. One band I saw was heading to Nhulunbuy in northern Arnhem Land, but still weren't coming here.
We haven't decided what to do for Saturday night. Probably stay home and watch a movie, maybe dress up and cook a posh dinner. You learn to appreciate simpler things when you have a small child ruling your life. The last time she went away the husband and I sat in the garden and had beer and chips for dinner, it was lovely. So as much as I whine about the lack of things to do in this place, we actually couldn't do them anyway.
Right now I'd like to be back in the bar we frequented in Venice, sipping a spritzer and eating deep fried cheese on a stick. Read more!

Belonging

Today, as I walked through the Uni campus carrying my dog's head in a chiller bag, I started to understand somewhat why some people think I'm a bit weird.
I loved my dog and I'm sad to part with her. It seems natural to me to want to keep a part of her. Skulls are beautiful things, the shape and the structure is stunningly beautiful. To turn her skull into an ornament to keep as a memento seems perfectly rational. The process of getting the clean, white, polished skull however is quite gruesome and a tad disturbing. I haven't reveled in the process. I cried my eyes out as I held her frozen body while my husband (bless him) hacked her head off with a meat cleaver. I was quite rattled as I left the home this morning carrying a small chiller bag with a dog's head in it.
One of the joys of my new job has been returning to a world of science in which my pragmatic nature is accepted without hesitation. When I asked my colleagues how one would go about stripping the flesh from a skull they instantly offered several suggestions, none of them being that I seek psychiatric help. In fact, the mortuary manager offered to do a large part of the process for me. Hence the chiller bag and the walk across campus to the medical school.
When I asked the mortuary manager's advice on my project he instantly told me exactly what I had to do and then offered to do it for me. He is going to remove the skin and flesh then boil the skull in hydroxide to break down the connective tissue. I will be left with some cleaning to do, then the bleaching. He said once I had the skull as I wanted, to bring it back and he will coat it with a preservative varnish. He did not once ask me why I wanted to do this.
Acceptance and a sense of belonging is an inherent need in humans. When you belong to a subculture, like Goth, you make a conscious decision to live outside the norm. But belonging to a subculture means that even your rebellion is orthodox. We still want to belong.
I don't associate with many other Goths; my husband is my main source of comfort. At a dinner party some time ago I asked if anyone thought Tim Burton had modeled Sweeny Todd's look on David Vanian. I was met with blank stares. It was an uncomfortable reminder that my friends aren't Goths, that I don't quite belong there. My life the past year has been very much a reminder that I am different. The women I met at the gym, the other mothers at school that I got to know – many of them I like very much – but I don't think I could ask their opinion on the new Bauhaus album. My isolation has been on many levels. So to go to work and confront a bunch of people I hardly know with the question of how to strip a skull and be met with nothing but suggestions and offers of help is a multiple joy. Firstly that they can help me in my quest, but also that they don't judge me and possibly even understand why I want to do this. I belong in that environment.
My little dog belongs with me; I don't want to leave her in the ground of a random rental home in Blandberra. I will keep her skull with me and I will treasure it forever.

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Mollie

On Friday night when I got home from work my little dog was collapsed on the floor. She seemed to be unconscious so I grabbed the phone and hoped the vet was still working. He was about to go home, but I exclaimed "she's just gone into a fit!" so he said "bring her straight over". I picked up her spasming little body and she went limp, I put her in the car on the seat next to me and was I probably breaking the speed limit before I got to the end of the driveway. About halfway to the clinic she sat up, looked around then looked at me as if to say "are we going somewhere?".
The vet met us at the door and smiled "so she got better then?" he asked. He had the green dream and syringe ready, which he quickly put out of sight. He checked her over, couldn't really find anything wrong. He explained that when dogs get old they can develop a form of false epilepsy, that the excitement of me coming home may have been enough to trigger her into a fit. We discussed options and I took her home.
The husband and I had a reservation at a posh restaurant and we considered canceling, but it had been so long since we had been out somewhere nice that I insisted we go.
When we got home little Mollie wasn't at the door as usual. She wasn't in her bed; we searched around the house then grabbed torches and headed into the back yard. The husband eventually found her, hidden behind some pots. I put my hand on her, she was still warm but wasn't breathing. The husband grabbed her and started hitting her on the chest and yelling "Mollie! Come on Mollie!" but she was definitely gone.
We bundled her into a garbage bag and put her in the bottom drawer of the freezer, lit some candles and opened a bottle of sparkling shiraz. We made a toast to Mollie: she was deaf, blind, senile, incontinent, smelly, annoying, constantly underfoot, stubborn and difficult to groom. We loved her. We were going to the big city the next day so I was ready to put her in my suitcase and take her home, bury her with my other dog. But the husband pointed out that we couldn't a) travel with a dead dog in our luggage and b) turn up on somebody's doorstep and say "Hi, we're here to bury our dog".
So she's still in the freezer until I decide what to do.
So now we can open cupboards or the fridge without having to move a small dog, we can walk across a room without tripping over, there are no puddles in the hallway and no disgusting smells in the lounge room. There's also no little dog on my lap when I'm watching telly. I miss the scrofulous little mutt.

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Microtomes and Madness

Well, I'm into my second week of my new life as a biologist. So far I have dissected a couple of pigeon eyes, embedded them in paraffin and attempted to section them on a microtome. The first two parts of the process I think I have under control, but the microtome is doing my head in. Who would have thought handling a 10μm thin slice of wax could be so difficult? Just looking at the damn thing makes it either curl up and collapse or crumble into a thousand pieces. I guess I shouldn't beat myself up too much, I am new to this gig, but I get so frustrated with myself when I am faced with my own ineptitude. I expect to be good at something instantly and when I'm not I go through the Kübler-Ross five stages of grief:
Denial (there must be something wrong with the machine),
Anger (you idiot! Get it right!),
Bargaining (OK, if you get this right you can have cake for afternoon tea)
Depression (I am so useless, I can't do anything!)
Acceptance (I'm not infallible, I need help)
Eventually I got one of my supervisors to have a go and she couldn't get it to work either, it was a bad prep – so not my fault.
Otherwise I have been pre-occupied with the Uni's Body Donation Program, i.e. compiling paperwork and forms for people who wish to leave their bodies to science. A weird concept, ultimately valuable, but weird. I wonder if I'm the right person for the job. I certainly wouldn't donate my body, or that of my child, for a bunch of med students to chop up; but then I wouldn't hesitate to donate organs. I understand the importance of such donations – med students and surgical trainees need to learn – but it just doesn't sit right with me. I can't understand or explain it - it is illogical. A dead body is just a hunk of flesh isn't it? But if my beautiful little girl died there is no way on Earth I would allow a bunch of spotty, over privileged, pretentious twerps to slice her up. This is one of those instances where my ethics and my ideals are totally over-ridden by my heart. Perhaps even in death the parental protective instinct is just too strong.
But, apart from ethical dilemmas, work itself goes well. I am happy.

This morning I had to drive the girl to school; the husband (who usually takes her) had an early meeting. I didn't arrive on campus until 9:10am – all of the parking near my building was taken. I drove from car park to car park for over 20 minutes before I found a spot. The car park I found was staff parking, but it also had a large sign saying "changed parking conditions". I pondered on the meaning of this cryptic sign. Was the "changed conditions" the mud that has resulted from that day's downpour? Or was it something less obvious? I figured if I got a parking ticket I could contest it on the grounds of their vagueness. I parked, stepped out of the car into the rain and trudged off in what I thought was the direction of my building. I walked for about 15 minutes before I ended up back at the same car park. At the moment I realised where I was I also realised, or perhaps allowed myself to admit, that Blandberra IS in the Twilight Zone. You try to go in a straight line, but end up going in circles. Nothing makes sense. At 9:50am I made it into my lab, soaking wet, frustrated and confused as to why my umbrella was no longer in my car and convinced that the city I live in does not conform to the laws of physics. A Dark City indeed.
The husband and I experienced similar dis-orientation whilst in Italy last year on our honeymoon. After a few days in fabulous Venice we became convinced that during the night all of the buildings shuffled themselves around. No matter how carefully we plotted our course, what landmarks we noted (turn left at the beggar with the funny hat) we were never able to retrace our steps to find that cute shop/bar/pizza place we had spotted the previous day. That, of course, is the only time ANYONE will ever compare the mysterious and stunningly beautiful city of Venice to the life-sucking, vacuous city of Blandberra.
So I sit here, glass of wine at my side, typing my little self-indulgent blog, while the husband cleans the kitchen, and I think that being a working mother isn't that bad when you have the support of your husband and your job doesn't suck.
I may have, at the risk of typing too soon, the best of both worlds. Read more!

Eyes and Hamburgers

Great things are afoot! I am about to become gainfully employed. I have been offered a job in a research group at one of the universities that is involved with the anatomy and diseases of the eye.They study all manner of eyes – birds, fish, rodents, primates…of course the only way to study said eyeballs are to remove them from the animal. OK, I won't have to kill anything and what's the difference between digging an eyeball out of a pigeon and skinning a chicken leg before cooking it for dinner? I have no problem with removing the eyes from dead animals…but can I dig an eyeball out of a dead human? I THINK I can, I'm almost sure I can, but I guess I won't know until I actually try. Of course the idea of working in a mortuary goes with the whole Goth thing and I don't have a problem with it at all; but can I stick a scalpel in somebody's eye socket and dig out their eye? It's a weird one. Anyway, I damn well better be able to because I've accepted the job and will probably be starting next week.

This means the girl goes into after school care, I will no longer have the luxury of going to the gym whenever I feel like it and going for coffee with the girls afterwards, no more sleeping until 8am then coming home for a nap after dropping the girl at school. But – I will get my brain back online and in full use, I will be able to pay off my credit card, get the brakes done on my car, get my hair and nails done whenever I want (as long as it's on a Saturday). It's mostly good. I'm looking forward to it and the husband is now on a mission to find every song ever written about eyes.

Last weekend we hired a little Toyota corolla and drove to central Victoria to attend my cousin's 21st birthday party. What a lark! It was great to catch up with family I haven't seen for ages, mildly embarrassing when a cousin from the other side of the country who I have only met once turned out to have the same hair-do as me (I thought I was unique!!) and the husband and I got terribly inebriated and ran around like idiots until 4am. Not our smartest move. The 6-hour drive is bad enough, combine it with a hangover and a small child who talks non-stop the whole way and you have something akin to living hell. We were so bad we didn't change the CD until we were an hour away from home.

An interesting thing occurred: At Gundagai we stopped at McDonalds for lunch. Now I hate the evil empire, I refused to buy their food until I became a parent and they started serving salad and real coffee. It became a place we could go for a special treat for the child and I could eat lunch in peace while she ran amok on the playground. We have indulged maybe half a dozen times over the 5 years of her life. But I had never eaten a McDonalds burger, and I did so on Sunday. It was tasty, in a weird plasticy, artificial sort of way. The texture was weird, not like food – more like some sort of artificial polymer and what is with the colour of the stuff I assumed to be cheese? It looked like it had ethidium bromide in it. Does it actually glow under UV light? Anyway, I viewed it as an interesting anthropological experiment and didn't dwell on it for too long. Here's the interesting thing – I was driving along yesterday and suddenly I was overwhelmed by a craving for a McDonalds burger and I think if there had been a Maccas nearby I would have driven in, the craving was THAT strong.
How do they do that? What is IN those things? It's weird and disturbing. I hate them even more now. Insidious, malevolent, amoral, evil bastards.

In other news, I'm still sick. Moving into week three of my illness and into my second lot of antibiotics. Hopefully I will be fully recovered before I start work. Read more!

Classrooms

This morning we had "home reader orientation" at school. Today is the first day the girl brings home a home reader, the parents needed to be educated as to what to do with them. Don't we just help the kid read them?? Apparently this idea is old fashioned and potentially dangerous in terms of the childs development. Well, pardon me.
So we arrived at 8:30am, after scraping the first frost of the season off the car window (goodby vegie patch), and sat in the tiny little chairs that had been arranged into a semi-circle for us. We were handed a sheet of text that was coded, and a pencil. I didn't get a pencil and I was reminded of the torture of my school days when I was inevitably overlooked. We were asked to try to decode the text. Yeah, ok I get it: to a child learning to read all text is code that they are trying to decipher. Point taken. But no, we actually had to attempt to decode it. I sat there, head throbbing, coughing and feeling generally shite from the illness that currently afflicts me, and refused to participate (another flashback). One of the girly-swat fathers worked it out and proudly announced to the "class" what it was. I was on the verge of telling them all to stick their patronising bullshit up their arse but I didn't want to have to do detention after school so I kept quiet. We were subjected to 45 minutes of this type of condescending crap before they got to the bit about how we deal with the readers, how we fill in the comments box each night and what is expected of the child. The informative bit took about 10 minutes, we were then given a handout that said all the same things. Could they have just sent the damned note home with the reader and let us work it out? It made most of the parents in attendance late for work, it kept me out of bed and was basically a big waste of time. Yes I know that how my child is treated and responds while she is initially learning to read will set up a pattern for the rest of her life and could mean the difference between her being somebody who reads for pleasure instead of just because she has to, but give me a fucken break! I resent being treated like an idiot, I resent being treated like a 5 year old and even more I resent the arrogance of the teachers who impose this crap on us.
I came home and slept for four hours, I feel a bit better now, I think I am through the worst of it. The husband has been utterly gorgeous: fussing over me, taking over all the domestic stuff when he gets home from work, insisting that I rest. That's what marriage is all about - to have somebody there to look after you when you need it. He is a good husband. He is, as I type this, on his way home from work and will stop to do the shopping and get chicken and chips for dinner. What bliss. Read more!

A poem of sorts

At the airport I smile at his ridiculous car.
He looks tired, but I don't say it, I'm tired too.
My suitcase in the boot, my hand on his shoulder, we drive away.
The headlights flicker - an electrical fault making it's presence known.
I feel a pang of guilt for making him drive such an old and problematic car, but I smile and say "I'll fix it tomorrow".
The dogs bark and wag a celebration for the returning hero.
Familiarity and comfort wrap around me and I begin to relax.
My heart is here. Read more!

Earth Hour

At 7:30pm on Saturday night we decided to participate in Earth Hour, at 8pm. After 25 minutes of peeling about 20 cubic metres of plastic off all our new candles, stabbing myself in the process, we had everything ready.
I used my kitchen blow torch to melt out old candles and melt the new (finally, a use for the damned thing!) into our multitude of holders and a few pewter goblets. We placed candles in each room and then commenced turning off the lights.
The first protest was from the 5 year old, who is scared of the dark, so she was allowed to keep her night light on.
The second protest was from the husband who insisted that the stereo was an essential appliance so the music remained.
The third protest was from the teenager who wanted to microwave his dinner - well I guess food is essential. So then finally I said "stuff it, I’m putting on a DVD!", microwaved my dinner then sat down to watch "Dexter".
An hour later we put a couple of lights on, then the electric heater and I sat and pondered on what we had achieved: we had generated a shopping bag full of (non-recycleable) rubbish from the candle wrappers, I was injured (small wound on my thumb), the teenager had used light from the fridge while cooking his dinner so the fridge would have been working overtime with the door wide open and we burned maybe $15 worth of candles.
I think we get a point for attempting to participate, but overall no points for accomplishment or dedication. Yeah well, we’re Goths - not hippies.
p.s. We recycle, compost, grow some of our own vegies and recycle grey water so we ain’t all bad. Read more!

Another trip 'round the sun

So another year has slipped away, I am now 39 years old. Ouch!
We celebrated on Sunday so my delinquent step son could be there. Actually he’s been really good since he got expelled from school (duh!). He helped me work on the vauxhall on Thursday and on Sunday he played a song for me that he had written. There are no doubts that the child is a genius with a guitar and I hope he becomes a famous rock star soon and we can forget the whole school disaster. He is actually a very sweet kid and when he wants to be he can be good company. It was nice to be reminded that I do love him, it’s been difficult recalling that in recent months.
The husband, struggling with a nasty cold, managed to cook a seafood BBQ extravaganza for me. The poor thing was a bit addled by the cold&flu medication I gave him and at one stage I found him in the kitchen holding a platter of food, crying, because the platter was actually wider than the doorway and he couldn’t bring the food out to us. Later in the evening, after much booze had been consumed, he decided to do a nudie run to the end of our street. Unfortunately our neighbour simultaneously decided to put out some rubbish. Hopefully the poor women will recover soon.
The girl gave me a packet of little, rubber snakes, some pink chocolate coins and a pink and gold hula hoop. Absolutely no projection going on there!
The husband gave me a lovely spider web necklace and an ice cream machine to replace my old one which doesn’t freeze anything anymore. I am convinced that one day I will no longer be on a diet and I will actually be able to eat some ice cream produced in said machine.
On Monday, feeling somewhat worse for wear after two bottles of champagne and a bottle of wine the night before, I slept, ate leftover BBQ and watched dvds. It was nice to be so indulgent.
Today the girls in my pump class at the gym gave me a bunch of flowers and sang happy birthday to me. They are a gorgeous group of women and have been an important link for me. Some weeks they have saved me from total isolation and I’m sure they don’t realise what a difference they have made to my life here. I do have one close friend here, but she works shifts and it’s hard to get any decent girly time. Fortunately she was able to be here on Sunday and I also had many phone calls and messages from interstate friends and relatives so overall I’ve had a rather good birthday three days.
It’s nice to be reminded how much I am loved. I have trouble recalling that sometimes too. Read more!

Religion

My (ahem, cough, splutter) of an ex has finally paid me some money he has owed me for a considerable amount of time. It is a great relief. We now have the money to buy tickets to get the plane to the city to go to the V festival, which we bought tickets for ages ago. The Jesus and Mary Chain are playing, I am very excited. I saw them about 20 years ago, I was totally besotted with Jim Reid, I listened to little else. I bought everything of theirs I could get my hands on, of course it was all vinyl way back then, I even have a "picture disc" which has an interview on it. I listened to it once, then shelved it with my other treasures. I didn’t play my records, I taped them then put them away. They are all in mint condition, these days probably worth oh, I don’t know......bugger all?
All those years ago my friend and I arrived at the concert venue several hours before the doors opened, we weren’t the first there. There was a young man, resplendid with mohawk, chains and big boots, sitting on the footpath with a book titled "Social Anarchy" next to him, while he perused the Financial Times.
Eventually, when the doors opened, we got rushed and almost lost our great position, but managed to run inside and be right at the front, quite literally crushed against the stage - the bruises on my ribs lasted over a week. Died Pretty were the support band and they were great. Our anarchist friend went beserk, he was leaping around, stage diving, going absolutely spako and eventually collapsed and had to be carted out. Poor thing. I didn’t see him again and I don’t know if he actually got to see J&MC after all.
I was, of course, dressed to impress. I was wearing a very tight, low cut mini dress with knee high lace-up boots that had 4" stiletto heels. My hair was HUGE! Towards the interval the pain in my legs got so bad and the air was so thick with cigarette smoke that for one of the rare times in my life - I feinted.
My dear friend organised a chain of people to get a glass of water from the bar to me. I discovered that the air on the floor was much cooler and much less smokey than the air at head height, and I recovered reasonably quickly. I also found a watch. After I had revived I took my shoes off and was able to remain upright for the spectacular performance that I had come for.
The boys were late coming on and were obviously pissed off about something. Life? They wandered about on stage without communicating with each other or acknowleging the audience. They played several songs, then mid song Jim just walked off. Eventually when the other band members realised he had gone, they dropped their instruments and walked off too. That was it. I was elated, I thought it was brilliant. Their sullen disrespect for their fans and their arrogantly short set impressed me immensely. Most of all I was over the moon because Jim, at one point, had looked me right in the eyes and held my raptured gaze for a few seconds. It was pure magic.
In later years when J&MC lost their niave, raw grunginess I lost interest in them; I moved on. I discovered PJ Harvey. I listened exclusively to women for many years having decided I was sick of hearing what men had to say/sing about.
My music for most of the nineties consisted of PJ, Kate Bush, Sinead O’Conner, Cyndi Lauper, Siouxsie, Lene Lovich and few others. I immersed myself in the gutteral screams of PJ, the ethereal beauty of Kate, Sinead’s power, Lene and Cyndi’s shrill individuality and Siouxsie was the bread and butter that all the others were served on.
I have seen PJ three times, she is brilliant, although I didn’t like her last album. Kate, well, only a handfull of very lucky people have ever seen her perfom live and sadly her last album was rubbish. Cyndi I have seen three times now, she is fabulous. Siouxsie I have seen perform with the Banshees and with The Creatures, she is also fabulous and I suspect has a very scary looking portrait in her attic. Sinead is this week playing Melbourne and Sydney, she has never toured Australia before. Unfortunately I didn’t find out about her tour until after I had purchased tickets for Cyndi and I couldn’t do both - unreasonable financially and for the child. I am very sad I won’t get to see her, I know Sinead went totally loopy and probably still is, but I believe she is doing a mix of old and new stuff on this tour and the opportunity to hear her magnificent voice live would have been worth the wierdness.
I have always loved music, it has been an important part of my adult life and is no doubt responsible for my bad hearing. It makes perfect sense that I have married a man who owns over 3000 CDs and it also makes sense that while discussing future renovations we are more concerned about the wiring and placement of the stereo and speakers than the heating.
My love of live music has been diminished ever so slightly over the years by the behaviour of the crowds these days - the commeradere of old is gone. If I feint at J&MC this time the best I can hope for is to not get trampled, I doubt total strangers would assist in the procurement of water or even help me to my feet. Fortunately with age comes a certain amount of wisdom and a love of sensible shoes.

Read more!

Eventually

Why is it, that whenever I find something really, really good it suddenly ceases to exist? I spent half my adult life searching for the perfect shade of purple/black lipstick - I finally found one - in the discontinued stock bin at the chemist. The tiles on my hearth in my little house in the city are the perfect art deco tiles I wanted - also from the discontinued bin. There was just enough to do the hearth but heaven forbid if one ever gets broken... And as for finding parts for my car, well that's just a nightmare. My favourite restaurant in Fitzroy dissapeared a few years ago, I can't get Hillman's roasted garlic mayonnaise anymore, or chilli Tim Tams. Boots no 7 moisteriser isn't available in Australia and Blandberra's only goth club closed down not long after I got here. Trivial perhaps, but important to me.
I recently saw the film Serenity. It had been recommended to me previously, but I'm a bit dim and I forgot all about it until the husband came home from the dvd shop with it a few weeks ago. In short, the film is a work of genius. I then bought the tv series Firefly, of which Serenity was the pilot (sort of). I just finished watching the 14 episodes last night. Brilliant. Sci Fi at it's best. Now I'm a long term treckie, Next Gen and DS9 do it for me, not so wrapped in the others, oh the original of course, but I love the grittyness of DS9 and the smarmy shinyness of Next Gen. Firefly is something else entirely. The first big difference is there are no aliens, just humans spread across the universe. Technology has evolved, but humans haven't. Apparently that was Joss Whedon's premis - times change, we don't. And as such the characters are so real...they have sex (OMG!!!), swear at and insult each other, they are dysfunctional, they make mistakes and even - go to the toilet! It's like, and I hate to admit this, Star Trek for grown ups. The grit of DS9 looks like rose scented talcum powder compared to FF. In one episode one character asks another about the bad guys "what will they do to us?" the reply was "rape us to death, eat our flesh and stitch our skin to their clothes. And if we are very, very lucky - they'll do it in that order." Wow! Not even the meanest, low downest, dirtiest, scariest badie in Star Trek ever did anything like that! These are real bad guys. I love it. It is the best sci fi I have ever seen. And they only ever made one season. Fox axed it and there will never be anymore.
Apparently there have been petitions and campaigns to get more made, but it's not going to happen. The best we can hope for is another movie. I went to one of the fan sites to see what's going on, but it was just endless, mindless conversations about things like "would you rather be Jayne's shirt or Mal's trousers?" I found it all quite annoying. Why do sci fi geeks have to be SO fuckin' GEEKY? Anyway, I digress, my dissatisfaction with my peers is subject for another blog. So how come they will make endless series of tv shows about doctors and lawyers and detectives and seriously, how many more of those damn shows are we going to be bombarded with, yet they can't allow an utterly brilliant sci fi series to flourish? It is quite simply, a crime against the tv watching population. And more evidence of just how short sighted and stupid the Fox execs are.
I lament, I am sad and I think perhaps I should be doing something a wee bit more constructive with my life. Read more!

The only goths in the villiage

We just got back from Sydney, we bussed there yesterday to go to the Cyndi Lauper concert. I put the girl on a plane to Melbourne in the morning, which meant getting up at 6 to get her to the airport by 8 for a 9:15 flight. Unacommpanied minors need to check in 1 hour before departure, I don't know why, perhaps to give the parents time to reconsider. She was aprehensive - she doesn't love going by herself - but she was a very brave little girl and didn't cry. She looked so tiny as she walked off, holding the hosties hand, teddy clutched in the other.

I then came home, ate the scrambled eggs my husband had cooked me, drove him to work, came home again, packed, printed out bus/hotel details, locked up the house, fed the animals, got the bus into the "city", got my nails done, collected the husband and got on the bus to Sydney at 3pm. I dozed most of the way there, being startled awake by some idiots phone going off several times (why do people have to have such loud and annoying ring tones? That said, the husband constantly complains that he can't get hold of me because I never hear my phone ringing.)

At the hotel we got changed into our full goth regalia then headed off down George street to find some dinner. We ended up at a Korean BBQ place, which was really good. The pan fried dumpling were particularly good, mind you, after constant dieting ANYTHING with fat and carbs in it would have brought me ecstatic pleasure.
We then waddled up to the State Theatre. I had never been there before and it is gorgeous, utterly stunningly beautiful. In desperate (literally) need of more female toilets, but one of the more elegant theatres I have ever been in.
As we are now grown up and I had bought tickets not long after they went on sale we had really good seats - the last row of the stalls, so about 6 rows from the stage. I was stoked. This was the third time I had been to see Cyndi, the first was in 1989, I was at uni so couldn't afford a decent seat, she played at the Tennis Centre in Melbourne and I was so far up the back I needed binoculars to see her. I didn't mind, she was brilliant. The second time I saw her was a couple of years ago, I was up in the balcony so had a good view but was still a bit far away. That concert was also brilliant. It was not long after the release of her At Last CD and she did a great mix of old, new and in-between. She performed for two hours and was vey entertaining. In spite of being there by myself I had a ball.

Last night, being night before madi gras and being Sydney, her show was very gay-centric. She did mostly old classics with two songs from her upcoming album but nothing from At Last and hardly anything from any albums newer than True Colours. I was a little dissapointed she didn't do Shine, which I adore, and she played for less than 1 1/2 hours. Don't get me wrong, she was as good as ever, full of energy and her weird, spastic Elvisesque dancing, but I didn't think it was as good as her Melbourne show a few years ago. The husband, who had accompanied me out of loyalty to me and who had no real desire to se Cyndi, stood there with sunglasses on, arms folded and looked more like security than an audience member. I bounced around and danced and got mildly annoyed by the girl next to me who kept clapping out of time and very annoyed by the man behind us who kept bellowing like a cow. Why do people do that? Why do people pay all that money to go to a concert then just drown out the performer with their own stupid noises? Why do people clap and cheer OVER the music, why do they applaude BEFORE the song has finished? Why do people scream out "I love you" at totally inappropriate times - like when the poor woman was mid sentence and had to stop so we could all listen to some random imbecile declaring his stupidity for all the theatre to hear? I paid and travelled to listen to HER not YOU, shut-the-fuck-up you rude arsehole. OK, I don't expect people to sit in silent rapture and I am totally fine with declarations of love and admiration, but at the appropriate time. Cranky old-fartness - here I come!!
I love Cyndi, I have loved her from the minute she hit our screens in the eighties. I had shaved bits of my head and wore elaborate clothes and when I first saw her I immediately felt she was a kindred spirit. Then I read an interview in which she said she was bullied at school because she was weird and I KNEW we were soul mates. She has the most incredible voice, and it's unique, she doesn't conform and she can belt it out big time. But I only want to listen to her music, respectfully quiet while she is performing then cheering my tits off between songs. I don't want to hang around out the back of the theatre waiting for her to come out so I can grab at her and I don't want to loiter around her hotel. People who do that are creepy and a bit sad.
On the way home we did the math: $130 for the bus, $140 for the hotel, $120 each for tickets - that's over $500 for and hour and a half's entertainment.
I'm sorry Cyndi, you're an ace performer and I adore your work, but in hindsight - you weren't worth 500 bucks. And just for the record - Sydney SUCKS!!

Read more!