My Kingdom for a finial.

A few days ago I attended a mediation session with the council to discuss my proposed house plans and to find a way to get their approval to include a walkway from the balcony to the bungalow and to allow us to gable the roof. I met with our Town Planner the day before and we went through our case. As soon as he told me the main objector, the architect from no 5, wasn't going to be there my optimism soared. Without his vitriolic input we only had to fight the council and as far as I was concerned they didn't have a case.
So armed with a photographic representation of my street and photos of several houses in the immediate area that supported our case, my town planner and I met with the VCAT mediator, the council rep. and the remaining objector - the woman who lives behind me and is worried about her privacy.
I had no problems offering to do anything to appease my neighbour's privacy concerns - I was willing to raise the screen height of the walkway, make it totally opaque and even move the walkway to the south border so that the bungalow itself blocked any view. The council wouldn't allow the walkway to be moved, said maximum screen height is 1.7m and it has to be 25% transparent. My neighbour changed sides and was my friend again. They did say we should narrow the walkway by 20cm and that satisfied them, we were now allowed to keep the walkway.
The second item up for contention was the gabling of the roof. The council had denied us this and insisted we have a hipped roof to "keep with the original roof". Well, bollocks to them, the Victorian era was all about mixing it up, mashing styles together and making it as ornate as possible. I was ready to fight. But then the council girl pulled out her copies of the plans with the gabled roof, lowered, already drawn on. So she had arrived ready to give in. It was almost disappointing, until she started going on about the finials - the pointy bits on the end of the gables, saying how they were an Edwardian feature and not suitable for a Victorian house. Seriously? Is that all you're worried about? You've delayed my plans for over seven months, costing me $1500 and forcing my family to live in a half demolished house, with no bathroom and no safe space for the dogs - because of a finial?? A 30cm piece of pointy wood? I gritted my teeth and said quite sweetly "that's fine, I'll delete those from the plans". I asked about fretwork - no, she said, that was not acceptable. Fine, plain it is.
Then she starts on about the screen on the walkway/balcony, she doesn't like the picket style we had suggested, she wants something more modern. You mean, like something Edwardian??!! I silently shouted, but I bit my tongue and just agreed to whatever she suggested. It will have wysteria growing all over it anyway.
The third problem was that they want us to include windows along the second storey south wall. We don't want windows, we want nice, thick insulation and internally we want a built-in wardrobe and many, many bookcases. "But the expanse of weather board is too much!" She exclaimed, "we need to break it up somehow to reduce the visual bulk!" I offered that we could paint a nice mural on the wall, but for some reason she didn't think I was serious. Eventually I agreed to put a small, highlight window in opposite the upstairs bathroom. So that was it, we had reached an agreement.
So now the planning permit will be reissued, then we apply for a building permit, a hoarding permit so we can block the lane way and the building company needs to buy in supplies and we can start. So maybe the end of January? About the same time as we are moving in. We should have been moving into a house that was almost finished not two rooms, a kitchen and a big hole. I worry about how we will live, we have no idea what to do with the dogs and it's all too hard to comprehend. But at least it will start now.
And the council cannot control what colours we paint, I'm thinking those gables will look nice fire engine red with a spider web painted on. Read more!

An exercise in unnecessary maintenance

My car was over-revving when it was trying to change gears, so I decided it may be time to change the fuel filter. Why oh why didn't I just leave it alone?? I changed the filter, even changed the clamps. The car started, there were no visible leaks, it all seemed good. Too easy. Next morning, the car wouldn't go. I figured the filter was empty and there was an airlock of some sort. I removed the filter, filled it with petrol, put it back on and the car fired up. I drove into the street and it stopped. By tipping petrol into the carby I was able to get the car back into the driveway. I was baffled. There was petrol in the fuel line but it wasn't getting to the carby. My conclusion was that the fuel filter must be dodgy. Buy a new one. I filled the filter with petrol, made sure the clamps were tight and tried again. The car wouldn't go unless I tipped petrol in the carby.

A phone call to my auto genius uncle later I was kneeling behing the EK. A quick check to make sure no-one was looking and I wrapped my lips around the fuel tank inlet and blew. There was quick resistance so I stopped and collapsed laughing on the ground. I've often said I love my car, but giving it a blow job? That's beyond weird. So I ascertained there was no air leak in the fuel tank, petrol had come out of the fuel line so there was no blockage. What next? Maybe fiddling around with the filter etc had thrown some gunk into the fuel pump so out with the spanner and take off the fuel pump. Pushing on the pump arm resulted in air being pushed out of the pump so I figured it was OK and bolted it back on - after making a new gasket. But still no fuel was getting through. I removed the pump again and dismantled the whole thing. It was so full of crud I couldn't believe it had worked as long as it did.
I scraped all the crud out, got it all sparkly clean, remembered to push on the arm to stretch the diaphram while tightening the screws and bolted it back on again. No joy. So pull the pump off again - now the return spring was missing. So off I go to AutoCo to buy a magnet on a stick. After about 30 min of fishing around in the block I managed to snap the stick. Great, I thought. Now I'm going to have to go buy another magnet on a stick to retrieve my magnet on a stick. But I was able to fish it out with my finger. I declared myself beaten and made a plea for help phone call to one of the car club guys. Fortunately the wonderful, generous man not only brought around a spare fuel pump but stayed to help me get the car going. He took the return spring off his fuel pump, put it on mine and after we worked out I had put the pump back together backwards, took it apart and put it back the right way, bolted the pump back onto the block. Not working. Take the pump off again and.....the return spring is missing. I collapsed. Fortunately my Saviour was able to fish the spring out with my mended magnet on a stick. By comparing the two pumps we discovered that the arm on my pump had much more slack than on his pump so we swapped some bits around, made one good pump and put it back on the block. Fired up the car and decided we had won. My friend left and I went about cleaning up the mess. Tried to start the car again and NOTHING. I was starting to go a bit loopy at this stage asd was ready to start screaming and crying, but I pulled up my big girl pants and continuted to investigate. I worked out that the two inch piece of rubber fuel line from the pump to the metal fuel line was perished and cracked. It had been sucking air the whole time!! OK, it was 4:30pm on a Sunday, I figured I could make it to AutoCo by 5. I jumped on my bike and peddled off, arrived at their door 10 minutes later bright red and gasping for air only to discover that AutoCo close at 4:30pm on a Sunday. I was beaten. With a grey cloud over my head I slowly peddled to the house where my daughter was visiting a friend to take her home. I was babbling to my daughter's friend's father about my ordeal and he says "I think I've got some fuel hose you can have" and proceeded to pull about 4km of hose out of a cupboard in his garage. I made my daughter's day by dinking her home on the pack rack of my bike and set about putting the new fuel hose in. It worked. I had won. I was utterly elated, my week long saga was over. I patted myself on the back and opened a celebratory beer, forgetting that pride goeth.
The next day, driving home from work the smell of petrol filled the car and I knew I was in trouble again. The connector between the metal fuel line and the carby had come lose. Easy! Grab the spanner out of the boot but then to my dismay discovered that it wasn't lose - it had snapped.
I drove home praying the engine wouldn't burst into flames as petrol dripped onto the manifold.
The next day my husband dropped me at work and drove up to Speeds to get me a new connector. That night I went to put the new connector on the carby and discovered that my old connector had been straight, the new one was L-shaped.
It fit, but the metal fuel line was completely the wrong shape to connect to it. I carefully bent the fuel line, praying it didn't break and finally, finally got my car working again. Now I am back to square one - the car is still over revving on the gear changes. I'll leave that one to the professionals when I win tattslotto.
Next time I decide to do some maintenance I'll tell myself to shut up.
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Pardon me, your political correctness is stepping on my toes..

I am a snob. This is a fact I have never been ashamed of. But my snobbery doesn’t include brand names or private schools; I simply appreciate quality and don’t understand people who don’t. My snobbery made an appearance this morning when I was dropping the girl off at school. They are celebrating book week and all the kids were asked to come dressed as a character from an Australian book. As I walked through the school yard I saw Spiderman, Indiana Jones, Cinderella, a multitude of fairies, a cowgirl, Peter Rabbit, Mickey Mouse and a possum. I overheard a few parents saying “we don’t own any Australian story books”. I was outraged. What’s wrong with these people? Are we so resigned to the Americanisation of our country that we don’t even try anymore? Disney is not the whole of children’s entertainment!!
In this ultra conservative city of middle class public servants it seems that my brand of political correctness is a dull flicker compared to the blinding glare of the mob mentality. I was reminded of my rant at Christmas last year when a card informed my daughter that “Jesus sends Angels to look after us”; this is apparently an acceptable card to distribute amongst a school that prides itself on being multicultural. Then again, I was equally annoyed when the day care centre my girl was at in Melbourne had an “end of year party” with a clown distributing presents. OK, so “Christmas” isn’t in the Jewish calendar, but which religion does Santa belong to? Christmas is such an integral part of the Australian culture and these days it’s so far removed from religion that I don’t understand why it is any more offensive than Melbourne Cup day.
The Chaser’s recently received so much abuse for their “Make a realistic wish foundation” sketch that their show was subsequently axed. Apparently making jokes about kids with cancer is over the line. Mind you, on the same show they did a sketch comparing the Fritzl family to the Brady Bunch and no-one said a word about it. My eldest step son was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma when he was 12 years old. He spent a year in and out of hospital and underwent a rigorous chemotherapy regime. During this time his father was a single parent and struggled with a non sympathetic work place, a dilapidated car and the 2 hour drive to Sydney to spend time with his sick son. My step son was granted a wish by the Starlight Foundation - he asked to go to Monkey Mia in Western Australia to swim with the dolphins. At the time he made the wish he was very ill. By the time the wish became a reality he was in remission and wasn’t comfortable with accepting it. His mother insisted and so an embarrassed boy went swimming with dolphins while other kids he had been in the oncology ward with died. The reality is – these foundations don’t have unlimited money or resources. For every child that receives a wish there are others who miss out. When watching the Chaser’s offer a child in a hospital bed a stick instead of a trip to Disneyland the husband and I were laughing so hard we could hardly breathe. The recovered cancer child was also laughing heartily. Then the PC brigade began their campaign to bring the Chaser’s down. My husband commented on the fact that during his time travelling to Sydney to support and care for his sick son there was not a single offer of help from the (private alternative education) school, the community or his workplace. No doubt the same people who were “offended” by the sketch were the same ones avoiding eye contact with him in the car park years earlier. If we can’t laugh at a situation as tragic as a child with a terminal disease then how do we deal with it? At least laughing at it is acknowledging its existence, not staring at the floor hoping it will go away.
We made a big deal of apologising to the indigenous Australians about their poor treatment in the past but their present remains unchanged, we buy Fair Trade Coffee but it’s served to us by 14 year olds who get paid $6 an hour, we will pay $100 a litre for boutique olive oil at a farmer’s market but won’t support local business and we would rather buy Disney merchandise than support local writers.
I continue to live in my own fantasy land, a land where people think for themselves and actually give a shit. Where political correctness is executed with some thought and reasoning, not just a knee jerk reaction to a fashionable cause.
I am very proud of my little Josephine the kangaroo who wanted to dance (Jackie French), and say “well done” to the parents of the little Korean girl who came dressed as the possum from Possum Magic (Mem Fox).

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Understanding Youth

When I was 16 I applied to Youth For Understanding, an organisation that shuffles students around the world, to go to Denmark for a year. . I was a miserable misfit of a teenager, living in a country town with a dysfunctional family and victim of an oppressive education system. I was bullied at school, had very few friends and yet was convinced that there must be something else out there.

In spite of a poorly disguised Mohawk, bad behaviour at school and my shy, sullen attitude one of the members of the selection committee took a shine to me and a few months later I was on a plane with about 50 other over excited teenagers. It was 1985 and Frankfurt Airport had recently been bombed, we walked past the rubble to our connecting flight to Copenhagen and I realised I was out in the real world and I was alone. I have rarely felt so alive.

I settled in with my host family and went about the business of being a 16 year old in a foreign country. One evening my host father said to me “why haven’t you been to the pub yet?” Realising that this was acceptable behaviour I grabbed the American girl who lived up the road and we nervously wandered into the local tavern The Horseshoe. We were overwhelmed that we could buy beer legally and sat there thinking we must truly have landed in heaven.

I was wearing a tartan skirt, an oversized white shirt and a long tartan vest, cinched at the waist with a wide belt.* Hey, it was the 80’s. A very cute boy sat down at our table and asked me if I was Scottish. Many beers and many hours later he walked me home.
It was one of those clear Scandinavian nights, the moon shone over the trees and reflected on the bay the small town was centred around. We stood on the steps of my house and he kissed me. His soft moustache ticked and I was drunk and giggly and giddy with the romance and possibilities.

I don’t remember the progression to coupledom, but it happened rather quickly. We were head over heels with the wild passion and abandon that only teenagers are capable of. I was a (somewhat) naive girl from the country, raised in a culture of taboo subjects, stiff upper lips and denial of any positive emotion. He was from a culture of self expression, freedom of speech and permissiveness. We would regularly go to the local nightclub, Silvers I think it was called. The dance fashion, back then in Denmark, was for couples to hold hands while dancing – sort of a disco/swing dance mix. He was a good dancer and I learned quickly. It was so much fun, twirling around the dance floor until we were exhausted and needed to refuel with more beer. We would dance until dawn then stop at the bakery on the way home to buy pastries for breakfast.

I’d known sex, but was completely unaware of sensuality. He slowed me down, taught me to enjoy the journey. The journey from sleazy bogun chick to sexually confident young woman. I can still remember the feel of his skin and the soft, fine, pale gold of his hair and the way our bodies fit together so easily. His love enveloped and empowered me. I was blissfully happy.

Then one day he told me he wanted to end it. I was gutted, confused, bewildered and terrified. He had spent months beating his head against the brick wall of my emotional repression and had finally had enough. He walked away and I thought I would die. I pursued him for days, begging for a second chance. He steadfastly refused, finally saying “I need you to change and people can’t change”, I looked at him through my tears and insisted that I could and would if given the chance. He gave in and for first time in my life I told another human being that I loved them.

Together we broke through the barriers I had hidden behind for so long. I opened my heart and finally learned the most important lesson: how to love.
We had many adventures (see Faith, Sept 2007) I remember being on a train and him jumping from seat to seat with a curled paper megaphone shouting “I love Larissa”, another time dancing, pants down, on a table in a restaurant to “prove his love”. I also remember him kneeling before me, in a laneway outside the nightclub, and asking me to marry him and offering a tap washer as a ring. Of course I agreed, but being only 17 was unable to.

We made plans, I organised a job for him in Australia and investigated visas. He had finished high school and was going to work and save the money for his ticket. But then he got called for 12 months National Service, he was unable to leave the country until his obligation had been fulfilled. The day of my departure arrived and I was collected by a bus and driven to the airport. He was supposed to meet me there for our goodbye, but as I wandered the terminal looking for him I was called to the phone. He was still at home, unable to bring himself to face the goodbye, he apologised, and with his voice breaking told me he loved me, said goodbye and hung up. I collapsed in a flood of tears and near hysteria. I had to be half carried onto the plane I was so distraught. I cried all the way to Frankfurt, drank all the way to Dubai and by the time the plane landed in Melbourne I was hung over, jet lagged and completely numb. I managed a smile for my excited family and pretended to sleep in the car so I didn’t have to talk to them.
We reached my Grandparents house and I crawled into bed and slept several hours. When I woke there was a cow looking in the window at me. I looked around the room and everything was familiar – I even recognised the cow. It occurred to me briefly that it had all been an elaborate dream, but then there was my suitcase over flowing with Danish souvenirs. I felt so strange, a stranger in a familiar land. How could I have changed so much yet all here was still EXACTLY the same? It didn’t make sense and I carried the sense of disorientation with me for several years.

We spoke on the phone a few times, for hours on end. Eventually our phone got disconnected because my Mum couldn’t pay the $700 phone bill. I wrote to him but he had disappeared into the army and contact faded. It was a year before I could bring myself to go on any dates. Then 18 months later I got a letter from him, his service had ended and his letter told stories of his time as a soldier and declared his undying love. I excitedly wrote to him several times, but I never heard from him again. It was another two years after that before I was able to open up again and let someone else into my heart and I surprised myself by discovering I was able to love another with almost as much intensity.

Years passed, life took hold and I grew up, got a mortgage, a career and eventually a husband and child. My Danish boy became a part of my past that I thought I would never revisit. Then at work the other day, bored and aimlessly surfing the net I plugged his name into Facebook and suddenly there he was on my computer screen. Older, a bit less hair but still the same cheeky smile and sparkling eyes. I stared at his picture for several minutes trying to think of something to say to him – I had nothing! What could I possibly say that didn’t make me sound like a bunny boiling stalker? Eventually I just wrote “You shaved your moustache” and clicked send. I spent a nervous night wondering just how psycho he would think I was but the next morning got a message full of surprise, mirth and joy at the contact. We have exchanged email addresses and promises to tell our life stories. 24 years is a long time. We were children; in fact, our children are the same age now we were then. I know we have nothing in common apart from our shared ancient history and once stories have been told there will be nowhere else to go but back to the pages of history. Am I making a mistake? Will the fantasy of my youth be revealed as a romanticised teenage half truth? I hope not.


When my friends and I were leaving high school to go to university several of us were given big cheques by our families to cover our rent. I very sensibly deposited mine in the bank and used it only for its intended purpose. One of my friends cashed his, bought a combi van and drove to Cairns. His family forgave him eventually and he had adventures worth much more than a year at Uni. I’ve never been capable of that sort of recklessness. When friends were hitchhiking to Confest, on acid, I was working in Hungry Jacks so I could pay my bills. I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I’d taken that cheque, my passport and a taxi to the airport.

*How come I can remember what I wore to the pub one day in 1985, but I can’t remember where I put my car keys?
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Every lab should have some

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Detox me

I decided to do a detox diet. I've always been devoutly anti-detox but my "lifestyle choices" (read: drinks like a fish) and the new found knowledge that bowel cancer is in my family tree got me thinking about making some changes. I decided to make a fresh start, give my body a clean out and ditch some bad habits. I investigated what detox diets were out there and discovered that as I had always suspected, most of them are a crock. There's the lemon detox - you pay a fortune for a syrup mix of maple syrup and palm sugar that you make into a drink with lemon juice and live on that for a few days. Sounds ridiculous, and dangerous. Then there's the herbal concoctions that apparently remove the "plaque" from your bowel - people on this detox poo out black stringy stuff then photograph it. I searched the medical journals for this plaque and could find absolutely no reference to it anywhere. It doesn't exist. The black stringy stuff is probably just a product of the herbal mix. Then I remembered that a friend of mine swears by the Blackmores detox. So I researched it and it actually made sense. It's a regime of digestive bitters, milk thistle and acidophilus capsules and skin exfoliation while eating a wheat, dairy, red meat and processed food free diet. Milk thistle has been shown to have beneficial effects on the liver and acidophilus is good for your gut, exfoliating makes sense too as you excrete a lot of stuff through your skin. So last Saturday I went and bought the kit, studied the menus, wrote out a shopping list and went to the market. The next day I began:
Day 1. 15 minutes before breakfast take 5mls of digestive bitters. OH MY GODS! That is the foulest tasting stuff I have ever experienced! And the taste lingered, but wait, while I was screwing up my face and going "ug!" my stomach started to feel really good. It felt settled and calm and comfortable. OK then, maybe that stuff is worth the horrible taste. So on to breakfast..two poached eggs on rye bread. Nice, add some smoked salmon and hollondaise and it's even better. I rationalise that the smoked salmon was in the fridge and was going to go bad and the husband won't eat it and it would be such a shame to waste it.
By 12 the caffeine headache kicks in and of course I can't take anything. I try to appease the pain with dandelion tea, add soy milk and it's still yuk, so I add forbidden honey.
Lunch is a chicken and salad sandwich with rye bread. Nice.
15 minuted before dinner take the horrid Bitters again, my hopes that I would get used to the taste fade. Dinner is chicken and veg stir fry on brown rice. Again, very nice but needed chilli and soy sauce (forbidden as it contains wheat)to make it interesting. So, day 1 went OK, some deviation but not tragic. I can't find the exfoliation glove that came with the kit. Before bed take a spoonful of Colon Cleanse, which is awful, but not as bad as the Bitters.
Day 2. Muesli for breakfast, chicken and salad sandwich for lunch, mango chicken and brown rice and steamed vegies for dinner. All good. I'm struggling without my morning coffee and mid afternoon can of diet coke but I'm determined to do this properly. Still very headachy.
Day 3. Berry smoothie, rye toast with cashew nut spread for breakfast, pumpkin soup for lunch, veg and tofu stir fry for dinner. About mid afternoon I get wind pain that has me doubled over at my desk, but otherwise I'm going good. The headache's gone!
Day 4.Scrambled eggs on rye bread for brekkie, salad and goats cheese for lunch, chicken and veg stir fry for dinner. I have now purchased some tamari so I can season the stir fry legally. Generally I'm feeling pretty good, getting up earlier each day and not being so sluggish in the mornings. Still can't find the exfoliation glove.
Day 5.Buckwheat pancakes with strawberries and yoghurt for brekkie - I could get used to this. At lunch a girl I've been helping in the lab insists on buying my lunch as a thank you. We go to the Asian place and buy some take away, I try to be good - brown rice, steamed vegies, stir fry tofu and then at the last minutes 2 dumplings because they are so yummy. I take the food back to my office and the girl who bought it for me gets called away. I now have a choice - I can put the purchased food in the bin and eat my salad, the girl who bought it would never know and she feels she's done the right thing by buying my lunch and I can stick to my diet. I rip the lid off the food and eat it.
Salmon patties with tabouleh for dinner. It occurs to me later that this is contrary to the no wheat rule, I make a mental note to ring the help line and ask them what the deal is with that one. I find the exfoliation glove in the back yard, ripped to bits. Apparently Bela wanted to help me.
Day 6. Muesli for brekkie again, the salad I should have had yesterday for lunch and I'm feeling really good. I feel virtuous and in control. I have energy, I've lost some weight and I start thinking I could eat like this all the time.
That afternoon I get a message from my Mum, I ring her and she tells me the oncologist has upgraded her cancer to grade d and says it's aggressive. They want to begin chemo as soon as possible and he suggests that my sister and I get colonoscopies too. What was a probable good outcome has suddenly become a very serious situation that might all go horribly wrong. I'm shocked, I'm scared and I don't know how to deal with it.
I go home and have spicy wedges with sour cream for dinner, drink two bottles of red wine, eat half a packet of raspberry shortcake biscuits and a freddo frog. I watch silly chick flicks, immobile on the couch until the husband makes me go to bed and I pass out.
Day 7. I am hungover and my head is killing me. The husband lets me sleep all day and takes care of the home and the children. I spend $200 that I don't have on a psychobilly swing dress with petticoat and a handbag on ebay. I have a burger and wedges for dinner followed by a chilli hot chocolate and resolve to start detoxing again tomorrow. Or maybe on Monday. Read more!

It doesn't rain...

The next time I complain about being bored I want someone to slap me.

Three weeks ago my Dad was walking my brother's dogs (don't get me started on that one) and the pit bull (again..) crashed into him and knocked him over. Pit bulls, as anyone that has ever met one knows, have a specific gravity of 27.9 (lead being 11.35) and the crash resulted in a fractured fibula. Six titanium screws were required to put the bone back together.
Two days later my Mum was diagnosed with bowel cancer and scheduled for surgery. Being a dutiful and loving daughter I donned my saintly robes and an hour on a plane, two hours on a bus and 20 minutes in a taxi later the girl and I arrived at my parent's house.
The first few days were spent cleaning, cooking, shopping and visiting my Mum. It became apparent that asking my brother to chop wood was a futile past time, so I began a morning routine of walking the dogs, feeding the horses and then chopping wood for the slow combustion stove. After a couple of mornings of this I started to feel more confident with the wood chopping and decided to try using the splitter. It was very cold so I was wearing gloves – the splitter got stuck in the wood so I was using the axe, upside down, to hammer the splitter. The axe bounced, my grip on the axe slipped and the axe head landed on my left index finger which was on the splitter handle. At first I thought “it’s OK, I’ve only knocked it, it’ll stop hurting soon”, but when the pain only got worse I thought I had better take my glove off to have a look. My fingernail had been completely ripped off and the nail bed and part of my finger was mashed. I put the nail back and holding my finger with blood dripping I went into the house to call an ambulance. I called the husband while I waited and he was horrified that I was going out in public wearing grotty old trackies and insisted that I get changed immediately into corset, boots and full make-up. He then flew into a rage about why was I chopping wood and he threatened to get on the next plane and smack my lazy brother in the mouth. I didn't argue.
Four hours later I walked out of the emergency department, still in my grotty trackies, and crossed the road to visit my Mum. She was finally recovered enough to laugh at my bad jokes and it was really good to see her smile for the first time since I’d arrived. Not quite worth maiming myself for, but good.

That night my brother-in-law came over and chopped a heap of wood, enough for the rest of my stay. That was a huge relief. I began to understand why I was such a moody, disagreeable teenager: I was cold! My parent’s house is uninsulated with poor window coverings and the only source of heat is the slow combustion fireplace in the lounge room.
I had suffered the cold for two nights and then told the girl to move over and got into bed with her. We topped and tailed in the single bed for the rest of the two weeks, she would snuggle up to my feet in her sleep and I was glad of the warmth.
On Saturday I took my Mum’s car, a white Mercedes may the Gods of Goth forgive me, and drove to Melbourne. We went to my house, which is now occupied by the older step son and his friends. We checked out the new lounge suite that I had bought on ebay and the girl got to see her old bedroom.

She doesn’t remember much about the house and was excited to see the colours and sparkles on the walls of her room. I reminded her that we used to put fairy lights around the ceiling and her face lit up when she discovered that she did remember her little room. Her Dad arrived to collect her for the night and I headed over to Northcote for an evening of catching up with dear friends, good food and lots of wine. My friend and I sat up drinking and talking until 6am and it was just what I needed.
On Sunday, after too little sleep and feeling more than a little seedy, I went to a cafe in Brunswick to meet up with more friends – this time the ones with babies. There has been something of a baby boom amongst the gang in recent years and it’s so nice to see the next generation emerging. And I must say - we've all made some good looking kids! The food was excellent and reasonably priced. I wanted to steal a menu to take back to Blandberra to show people and say “look! This is what proper cafes serve!” Our previous attempt to go out for breakfast in Blandberra resulted in us being turned away from a cafe at 11:30am because “breakfast is over!” Seriously, everybody else on the planet has been doing all day breakfasts since the 90’s, I guess it’ll be the 20’s before Blanberra catches up.
Driving back to Ballarat I was pulled over into a breathalyser stop. I was scared shitless – I was sure I’d still be over the limit. But apparently I didn’t even register and was thankfully free to continue.
The next morning I was in at the hospital at 8:30am to talk to the surgeon and the oncologist and then Mum was able to come home. She has had over half her large intestine removed, which contained a large tumour, and also 27 lymph glands 9 of which were malignant. She will need chemo every two weeks for the next six months once she has recovered from surgery but her prognosis is good. We are optimistic.

At home I got frustrated with my Dad for being so helpless and demanding (e.g. "..for breakfast tomorrow I’ll have a poached egg on toast, cheese on the other piece, a glass of milk and a coffee and half an orange cut into thirds..") and my Mum for insisting on doing too much. I threatened to break her leg too if she didn’t rest more.
My list of things to do became significantly smaller with my injured finger hampering my efforts to clean. At one stage I dragged out the vacuum cleaner, discovered it had the little upholstery attachment on it. Apparently they had been using the 8cm piece for two years! I exclaimed “what do you mop the floor with? A toothbrush?”. “No”, my Dad replied indignantly “we have a mop”. I had to remind myself it was their house and their lifestyle and if I didn’t agree then I should get myself a big dose of Shut-The-Fuck-Up.
My sister had been dropping her kids off at 8:15am. The story was that she started work at 8:30am and the school bus didn’t arrive until 8:40am so Mum had been driving them to the bus stop. I had inherited the job - without being asked or thanked I should add. When I discovered that the reason she did this was not because her boss was an unreasonable arse but because that way she could have a full hour for lunch my head exploded. The next time she arrived I ripped into her and told her exactly how full of shit she was. Having previously screamed at my brother about his dogs and his parasitic girlfriend I AGAIN reminded myself to calm down. I informed my mother that she should stop letting her children boss her around, me included. I figured it was time to book some tickets home. Meals on Wheels and Home Help had been organised and I had the freezer well stocked with frozen meals, soups and casseroles. I had cleaned and organised as much as I could, stocked the fridge and shown Mum how to grocery shop online and set up an account for her. Another friend that I had managed to catch up with was travelling from Ballarat to Melbourne that Friday with her two girls and offered to give me and my girl a lift. I was very grateful as we both had big suitcases and the thought of struggling on trains and trams sent my anxiety levels soaring.
The X, who was in full sympathy and what-can-I-do-to-help mode was picking us up from my friend's house (friend 1) and dropping me at another friend's house (friend 2)on his way home with the girl. It was all sorted and went mostly to plan.
As we were leaving friend 1's house friend 2 sent a text asking where I was. We were running a bit late as X had wanted to chat with friend 1 and the girls were playing. I replied to the text that we were on our way and as I pushed send the two little girls collided in the hallway and much crying ensued. Once we had calmed the girl we loaded her into the car and set off. The X dropped me at friend 2's house and drove away. It became apparent that she wasn't home. I pulled out my phone to ring her and discovered a second text informing me they were leaving in 5 minutes. Of course I hadn't heard Worf announce that I had a message as I had a wailing child in my arms at the time. Still, I had said I was on my way so I thought to leave without me was just plain rude. I had travelled 150km with a small child, relying on two other people for transport, through Melbourne peak hour Friday night traffic - and they couldn't wait 15 minutes? I was angry and hurt and rang the husband to say I was getting a taxi to go to an expensive hotel and order room service and that my friends could all go fuck themselves. He said if that was what I really wanted to do then OK, but then reminded me that I was already over $600 out of pocket with groceries and plane tickets and maybe I should take a deep breath and think for a minute.
So I handed myself yet another dose of STFU and made my way to the bar. After a few drinks I was calm and forgiving and even enjoyed myself.

Finally back in my own home, with my gorgeous husband who had cooked me a curry and filled the fridge with my favourite things including cherries (in the middle of winter, what a luxury - and I don't care if they are imported from the USA) and sparkling shiraz. What a joy, to finally be the one being cared for and cared about!

So I have learned that most of my family are useless and selfish, most of my friends are wonderful but have selfish tendencies, my X can be a decent person in spite of his past selfishness and that my husband, above else and all, loves me.
On Monday morning I took the girl to school, came home and crawled back into my big, warm, comfy bed and finally, thankfully slept.

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No, this is wrong.

My Mum has bowel cancer. I feel numb, like I'm on auto pilot. This shouldn't be happening, it's not right. The surgery is on Tuesday, I'll be there to look after her while she recovers, because she will recover - right?? Read more!

Hey!

I fixed the comments thingy. So go on.. Read more!

Time off

With the Girl safely in Melbourne with her Dad for the school holidays, the husband and I are trying to enjoy some adult time. Unfortunately the 'flu (oink oink) has also decided to join in. Just as I went into recovery the husband crashed. We did manage to get out on Saturday night to my friends (a Mum from school) 40th birthday party. I got wasted and sang karaoke for hours with another wasted Mum with a night off from kids. It was fun. The husband was mortified but showed good grace and didn't disown me - which would have been difficult as the only two Goths in a crowd of 50 middle class Blandberrans. I'd bought a new shirt, paid WAYYY too much for it, but it's purdy and shows off my boobs. I spent the next day feeling guilty, thinking about the other Mum that I had led astray and how bad her hangover must be. I was relatively OK, having the tolerance of a third generation alcoholic, but puppy school at 8:30am was something of a chore.
The dog training school we are going to uses the clicker method of training. Basically, every time the dog does as it's supposed to you click the clicker then give a treat. This worked fine until Bela realised that he could either work for a tiny bit of dried liver or he could partake in the duck poo smorgasbord all around us for no effort. So I stood there in my hangover haze while he wandered about eating poo. The trainer was not impressed and I had a flashback to the back row of physics in high school. Unfortunately Bela gets car sick so on the way home he sprayed the backseat with a mix of semi digested duck poo and dog food. It made me thankful for the faux leather upholstery in my car.
During the week I watched the latest Torchwood mini-series. Damn it's good, but unfortunately the last one since most of the characters have been killed off. On Saturday we went to the market and bought all our favourite foods: the husband bought oysters and steak and I bought 4 cheese ravioli and a duck breast. We had a gorgeous meal and enjoyed each others company. This morning I woke and thought "well, I better go to puppy school" but looking at the clock discovered that puppy school was over, so snuggled back for several more hours sleep. What a fabulous luxury. We eventually emerged from the house and went out into the world to go see the new Transformers film. It was utter rubbish, but highly entertaining. Apparently it was nuclear family night at the cinema and we were the only couple there without a disgruntled child with them. But we enjoyed the film and saw ads for the new Where the Wild Things Are film (one of my favourite books as a little kid) and Coraline, which look good. We struggled to find a bottle shop and take away that was open, I mean, it WAS after 8pm (my gods this place shits me) but managed to arrive home with a bottle and a semi decent chicken laksa.
So life goes on. We are well rested and well fed and have new movies to look forward to. The dog isn't learning much but the backseat of my car is very clean and I can add "unresolved classrooms issues" to my list of neurosis.
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The City, the girl, the life.

I've just watched the Sex and the City movie - twice, I also saw it at the cinema about a year ago. As unrealistic as it is, it resonates. For the first 20 years of my life, I was convinced I was a country girl. I was raised on a farm and I loved the farm life. For the next 20 years I was convinced that I was a country girl living in the city. My dream was to buy some land and live self sufficiently (a.k.a. The Good Life). The film made me realise that I am a city girl that happens to have been raised in the country. End of story. Having spent a large proportion of my childhood and early adulthood with no close friends I was also convinced I was totally self reliant and a loner. I'm not. I miss my friends with an ache that gnaws at me - hence this blog - it's my substitute for conversation.
Living in the 'burbs has been like living in exile. For as long as I can remember I have stated, vehemently, that to put me in a brick venereal house in the suburbs would be my death. Yet here I am, have been for two years. The fact I am still alive and not in jail for homicide, is a testament to my strength of character. I look at the girls on Sex and the City and I look at myself and I say "this is not the script I wrote for myself". My unhappiness is explained. I'm not saying I want to be a stick thin, horse faced fashion victim that spends endless hours in cafes whining about men - but I need people around me - girl friends who understand and sympathise.
This past weekend one my dearest girlfriends came to stay. The husband was away at a course (learning how to counsel people to give up smoking and brushing up on his hypocrisy) so S flew up to keep me company. The husband left on Wednesday and was due to return Sunday night. I asked the girl if she would mind sleeping with me so S could have her bed. She was overjoyed and started sleeping with me from Wednesday night even though S wasn't arriving until Friday.
The weekend was it's usual manic mix of gymnastics, piano, puppy school and domestics except for that weekend I had adult female company. It was utterly wonderful. On Sunday night, after S had gone home and the husband had missed his plane, I had a night to myself and I watched Sex and the City and cried my eyes out.
The scene where Carrie beats Big with her bouquet and screams "I am humiliated!" and her friends gather her up and whisk her away, scowling at Big, protecting her - it gets me every time. When they are sitting in the restaurant in Mexico and Carrie is venting "he couldn't get out of the car! I put a bird on my head!" is another beautiful scene. That exclamation typifies the extremes women go to in their deluded attempts to please their men. I could exclaim "I watched cricket!" or "I drove a Barina!". We put birds on our heads and still it's not enough, our men won't even get out of the car.
Many months ago the husband and I had a huge fight and I jumped in the car and drove off. I got about 5 km away and wondered where the hell I thought I was going. I was wearing nothing but a bath robe, not even shoes or undies. I had no money, no ID and no ideas. I suddenly became concerned that the cops would pull me up and I'd have a lot of explaining to do. I drove to the lake and parked for about 30 minutes. I tried to sleep but it was too cold and eventually I needed to wee so I drove home. If I'd been in the city I would have had a choice of places to go, friends who would have not only given me clothes and money but much sympathy and a place to stay. I guess the point of that story is I miss having options. I feel trapped here.
And now the local council are delaying my return to the city - the longer it takes to get my house done the longer I have to live in exile.
I moved to Blanberra, I put a bird on my head, I need to leave and get back to the city before the bird starts crapping on my shoulder. Read more!

By the way

Does anybody read this anymore?? Leave a comment. And here is the rest of it. Read more!

Saturday Night

Another Saturday night and I ain't got nowhere to go.
Standard Saturday night:
The Girl has been to gymnastics and piano and since she got up at 6am she is tired and cranky, which makes me tired and cranky. I did manage to move a couple more boxes of books into storage and rearrange the girls bedroom, got rid of the last bit of the husbands wicker furniture. Wicker: if you aren't going to shove someone in it and set fire to it - what's it for?
I bundled her into bed having only brushed her teeth (bath smarth), a quick story and seeya later kiddo!
I microwaved a curry, poured a glass of wine and sat down to watch some telly.
So that's it. There you go.
I think I'll do some knitting, maybe watch a bit of Star Trek. Woo Hoo!! . Read more!

Bang

One of the few good things about living in Blandberra is that we can legally buy fireworks on the Queen's birthday weekend.

I gave the husband $50 and sent him out to score fireworks. Since this is (and it better be) our last Queens birthday long weekend in Blandberra, I thought we had better make the most of it.

He did exedingly well, and came home with a big pack of tubes of gunpowder. We later saw the same pack for sale (at Video Easy!!) for $85.

Traditional hotdogs were prepared with fried onions, jalepenos, cheese and tomato sauce (I know, it sounds gross, but it actually works) and the girl, the delinquent and I sat and watched the nervous husband lighting the firecrackers. Some shot up and exploded in the sky, some fizzed on the ground but most gave a variation of the fountain in the picture above. The smoke from the gunpowder was thick and I wondered how many people got pulled up at the airport for having explosives residue on their clothes that weekend.
The girl (dressed in her Goth gear for the night!!) spent most of the time hiding in her cubby exclaiming "tell me when it's safe to come out!". We coaxed her out with some sparklers and after her inital fear she was soon lighting her own sparklers from the fire. She even lit a (small) firecracker - with assistance. After each bang and shower of sparks we'd all go "YAY!!" or "WOO HOO" and applaude and try to act enthusiastic without being sarcastic - which was difficult since it was so cold and most of the crackers were pretty lame. We later discovered there was communal firework lighting going on in the park on the corner, but it would have involved socialising with the native Blandberrans, and we were happier with our exclusive backyard display. Rose, the Staffy, was close to a nervous breakdown by the time it was all over. She spends every Queen's Birthday weekend and every thunderstorm trembling and hiding under my skirt - bravery isn't her strongest character trait.
Bela, however, proved himself to be a brave and fierce guard dog when he accousted the plumber that came to fix the hot water service. We had to hold him back he was so intent on attacking the intruder. I was very proud and very worried at the same time. Puppy school starts this weekend, and not a minute too soon. How do you reassure a frantic dog that the man is permitted in the house and not here to steal the telly? I shall never be afraid to walk to the 7/11 at night again.

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No thanks

These are the plans we submitted, following is what the council want us to build.

It's boxy, ugly, boring and uninspired. I'm going to war. Read more!

Most of my neighbours are nice..

To whom it may concern,
I wish to address the concerns raised by my neighbours regarding the proposed first floor addition to my home.
The concern raised by R of W street is justified and I agree with her that our proposed balcony would give views into her backyard. As such, the balcony will be fully screened with a 1700mm high picket style fence. The pickets will be closely set together and all views from the balcony will be obscured.
In my opinion, the objections raised by the two other parties, Mr and Mrs G and Mr E, are totally unfounded and without merit.
While the majority of houses in Mc Street are single storey the street is surrounded by double storey buildings and apartment blocks. The first building in the street, although officially a V Street address, is much higher than our proposed first floor addition. There are also several apartment blocks and town houses in B Street which are clearly visible from Mc street and are also higher than our proposed first floor.While I concede that the first floor additions to number 5 and number 12 Mc street are lower than our proposed addition, I disagree that they are "barely visible" and in fact, are clearly visible.
I find it amusing that the objections that the proposed first floor addition is "not in keeping with the Neighbourhood Character" is then followed by an objection to our attempt to recreate a Victorian style which "mimics" the adjacent properties. Our intention is for the extension to look as original as possible in order to maintain the neighbourhood character of the Victorian houses that dominate the area.
The G's claim that our first floor addition will be a "permanent obstruction to the skyline while standing in Mc street". While this is true, I would like to point out that the only skyline feature visible from Mc street are the L Street high rise housing estate buildings. Richmond is an inner city suburb with high density living - an uninterrupted view of the horizon is not possible.

Our proposed first floor is situated as close to the front of the house as possible in order to maximise our living space. The "design benefit" we gain from having a gabled roof is to allow for vaulted ceilings on the first floor which create a larger area that can be utilised by my family. Space and living area was one of our priorities in the design of the extension. Our foremost priority was to create a Victorian looking extension that will blend seamlessly with the existing house, not appear to have been "stuck on" as the extension at number 12 does.

My original brief to our architect was to create an "attic style" upper floor, with vaulted ceilings that were as low as possible in order to minimise the height of the first floor. Although his design does not reflect the attic style I would have preferred, I believe that this is due to minimum ceiling heights stipulated by building codes. If this is incorrect and the roof line can be lowered I would be more than happy to rework the plans accordingly. We have chosen to retain the 3m high ceilings in the front two rooms of the original house as we wish to retain as much of the original character of the house as possible.

In regards to the upper storey link between the house and the existing bungalow I would like to explain our reason for requesting this feature: We are currently (temporarily) living in Canberra and have been for almost two years. During this time the planning application for 12 Mc street was processed. Due to a glitch in the mail redirection I did not receive notification of the proposed upper floor extension. If I had known about the plans I would have lodged an objection and asked that the upper floor on number 12 be set more forward as it blocks the morning sun to my backyard. As the permit had already been issued by the time I became aware of the plans I was unable to have any say on the building. Since our backyard is now significantly darker it will be very difficult to re-establish my garden when we return to Mc street next year. The first floor balcony and the walk way are our attempt to increase the amount of outdoor area that receive sunlight and will be capable of supporting plant growth. My intention is to have the walkway and the balcony lined with planter boxes so that I may continue to indulge my passion for gardening in spite of my darkened back yard.

Mr E's opinion that the extension should be built in "a more contemporary modern design" and that the the design should "be handled more respectfully and cleverly" is nothing more than opinion. When we were looking for an architect to design our extension and oversee the construction we approached Mr E for a quote. We subsequently decided not to engage Mr E as we found his fees to be inflated well above the other three quotes we obtained and we do not like his style of designs.
As I have stated, we do not want a modern looking first floor, we want the addition to look as authentically Victorian as possible. The differences between our and Mr E's aesthetic appreciation is personal opinion and has no place in a town planning objection.

I purchased the house at 14 Mc Street in 1993 and it has been my home since then. As soon as the renovation/extension are complete my family and I will be returning to the house and intend to live there permanently. I have always enjoyed the community atmosphere of Mc street and have established firm friendships with my neighbours. I am determined to maintain my good relationship with my neighbours and will do my utmost to accommodate any reasonable objections to the proposed extension.
It saddens me that Mr and Mrs G and Mr E, relative new comers to Mc Street, are willing to jeopardise the existing good will by criticising our choice of style rather than making constructive comments.
I look forward to hearing the council's decision on the planning application.
Larissa Read more!

This is the life.

My mother's day.
The husband got up to look after the little kid and and I slept until 9:30am - bliss! Breakfast was smoked salmon, poached eggs and hollandaise sauce on toast. Gorgeous. I was presented with 4 DVDs (Repo the genetic opera, Elvis 1968 comeback special, Elvis best of and Blacula) a CD (PJ Harvey's new one) and a card the girl had made. Around midday the girl and I went to a "Mother's Day Picnic" that the Blandberra council puts on. It was advertised as a "free event".

We queued for 30 min so the girl could ride a pony, they required a $3 donation.

She was on the pony for all of 30 seconds - a very quick walk around in a circle - I calculated that to be an earner of about $360 per hour per pony. When she was getting off I said to the girl leading the ponies "the girth strap is dragging on the ground, the pony almost stepped on it", she ignored me. I said "EXCUSE ME! the girth strap is dragging on the ground, the pony almost stepped on it". She looked at me as if I was speaking swahili. I said "LOOK!" I pointed at the strap and said "IT'S DRAGGING ON THE GROUND. PONY WILL STEP ON IT. CHILD WILL FALL OFF. LAWSUIT!" The girl made a vauge grunting noise and went about fixing the strap. Honestly, I don't know why I bother.
We then queued for another 30 minutes so I could spend $4 on a bag of fairy floss for the girl. While she shovelled the spun sugar into her gob and smeared it in her hair I wandered about the market stalls that were selling kids clothing and toys. As we passed the information stand I stopped to fill out their feedback survey - when asked "what would you like to see at the Mother's Day Picnic next year?" I wrote "something for mothers". I also wrote that events advertised as "free" should actually be free. There was not a single ride that didn't ask (demand) for a donation. We boogied to a cover band playing Kylie Minogue songs for a bit then headed for the car.

At home that evening I sat and watched Blacula and drank wine while the husband did the dinner/bath/bed routine with the child then cooked my dinner.
Over a gorgeous marinara pescatore I thought to myself - best mother's day EVER!!! Life is good.. Read more!

When Mum is a Goth...

Our letterbox is overflowing with catalogues advertising pink fluffy dressing gowns, lilac bra and undies, floral teapots and perfumes with names like “Pretty”. But what is a child to do when her Mum is a Goth?

Here’s my list of Mother’s Day presents I would love:

1. Sleep. This is the universal requirement of all mothers. There can never be too much.
2. Black fabric dye. Keep those blacks blacker.
3. Bvlgari Black perfume. Smokey and sexy. Not a hint of floral or musk.
4. Rimmel 60 second black nail polish – I go through a lot of it.
5. Goat’s milk soap – it’s smooth and silky and doesn’t dry your skin.
6. Baby shampoo – the world’s best eye make-up remover (heavily diluted).
7. Lindt dark chilli chocolate.
8. Black ugg boots – for indoor use ONLY! My purple ones are wearing out.
9. Domain Chandon Cuvee Riche – gorgeous and much better than Moet.
10. Belgian waffles with rich vanilla ice cream and strawberries.

11. And some of these...spider web cup cake covers....very, very cool.

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Where are youuuu?

The girl loves Scooby doo. I don't, never did. I do find it slightly amusing that the girl enjoys a cartoon older than me more than she enjoys the modern stuff - but did she have to pick such a lame one as her favourite? Anyway, today we had the honour of seeing this drivel performed live on stage.
The whole day and events leading up to it have been an ordeal, to say the least. When the ads for this garbage first appeared on telly the girl put considerable effort into making sure I saw one of the ads so I knew how to buy tickets. You were supposed to register so you could be sent notice when tickets went on sale. We registered, and then waited. She harangued me about it daily for months. Eventually, at a kitchen ware sales party one of the Mums mentioned that tickets were on sale. So much for this preregistering rubbish! I rushed home, fired up the computer and the credit card, and bought two tickets. Sorted. We had good seats and the girl was ecstatic. There were two shows in Blandberra, both on a Tuesday. Oh well, lucky my boss is very forgiving with this sort of child related stuff. Anyway, it was a couple of months away so I had plenty of time to work it out.
A few weeks ago I was sitting at work and got a text from one of the Mums asking "how was the show?" I thought, "what is she on about, she must have texted the wrong person", replied to her as much then forgot about it. Later, driving home from work, I realised the Scooby Doo show had been that morning. I freaked. I had fucked up big time. I was so upset I felt nauseous. I rushed home without collecting the girl from child care and went to the computer. No additional shows had been scheduled; it wasn't playing in Blandberra again. There was no redemption. I imagined her little face crumpling and the tears and the shattering disappointment I would have to deal with when I told her about my memory lapse. The husband stopped me and said "don't tell her yet, work something out". I was stumped as to how to redeem myself from this. The next show was in Wollongong, a three hour drive from here. I was reminded of my friend’s email that I posted a few weeks ago and her lament "Do I drive to Wollongong in my pyjamas?" At least I would be dressed.
So I hired a car, a sat nav thingy and at 8:40am this morning we set off for Wollongong - I had followed the husband’s advice and told the girl there had been "a change of plans". No fault admitted.
We stopped at Goulburn for a Mc Wee, much to Ms Satnav's dismay please return to the highlighted route, and a coffee and I was relieved to read "All McCafe coffee beans are sourced from Rainforest Alliance Certified TM farms". Oh, I feel so much better now about buying from a multinational, resource decimating, landfill generating, purveyor of coronary-artery-disease-in-a-bag conglomerate instead of supporting local business. Sad reality: it's on the highway and their coffee isn't that bad. The child had a small hissy fit because she couldn't get a happy meal at 9:30am, and I had the frothiest flat white ever. I once worked for McChuck’s rival and was reprimanded for not putting enough ice in the drinks - I was "giving away" beverage - and I figured the coffee was subject to the same padding.

Anyway, thanks to Ms Satnav's clear instructions we pulled up at the WIN Entertainment Centre with half an hour to spare. Once inside we headed to the merchandising stand and I baulked at the outrageous prices (e.g. $20 for a screen print calico bag) then queued up with all the other chumps to spend $50 on a crappy soft toy.

The play (as I may have mentioned) was horrid. A shortage of actors had them playing multiple characters and characters disappeared for no apparent reason and their absence was never explained. I had to constantly remind myself the target audience was average age 5 and I should stop expecting Shakespear. I did smile at one point when Shaggy and Velma and Daphne did a dance to the music of "Two ladies” from Cabaret (Fred was missing). But my mirth was dampened at half time when I paid $4.50 for a drumstick.

The play was scheduled to end at 1:45pm and I pre-warned the girl that we needed to run as soon as it was over so we could get back to Blandberra before the hire car place closed at 5. She was a good girl and we were on the road by 2:10.

The drive through the mountains and the combination of popcorn and icecream had her looking quite green and we stopped briefly for her to get some fresh air.

At 4:45pm at a petrol station around the corner from the hire car place, I sent the girl across the road to the public toilets. I usually would never consider such a thing, road crossing and public toilets unaccompanied, but we had such little time to spare I made an exception. She was ultra careful crossing the road, but couldn't get into the toilet. A kind woman tried to help the poor abandoned child until I eventually paid for the petrol and sprinted (wobbled) across to rescue the girl. One of the toilets was "out of order" and the other was occupied. I did the math and got the girl to wee on the grass. We raced back to the car and arrived at the hire place at 4:56pm. The girl packed up the stuff from the car (she even remembered to get the CD out of the stereo) while I went in and did the paperwork. Then we went to the bar across the road and waited for the husband to collect us.

Over a glass of red wine my stress levels started to dissipate. I reflected on how good the girl had been, how helpful and compliant (except at Maccas) she was and that I was glad I had put in the effort to right my wrong.

Was it worth it?


I think so.

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My Baby love

Meet my new baby - Bela.
And if one more person asks "who's Bela Lugosi?" I will cry. Apparently it's correctly pronounced Bay-la (I have this on good authority from the crazy Hungarian mortuary manager at work), but we are sticking with the western version. This of course, means everybody thinks his name is Bella and that he is a girl. We figure once he's a fully grown 85kg fuck off satanic looking rotty he will not be mistaken for a female. His Dad is very scary looking, we're hoping Bela takes after him. So we now own the two most dangerous breeds of dogs.
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1058122/posts
Although Rose is a Staffy, it's a fine line and most people consider Staffys "pit bulls" anyway. So our member of the most dangerous breed in the world currently has chunks of skin missing from her face as the puppy latches onto her cheeks and hangs there, running after her. She won't tell him off. We explain to her that she should be tough and not let him hurt her, but she just looks at us with a pained expression as Bela launches himself and lands on her head.
As with all small animals and children, he has perfected the look of "me?? Never!!" Last night the two of them were snuggled in the lounge room asleep. We have been locking them in the laundry (dog door to outside) to save the carpet from puddles and our stuff from destruction. But last night they looked so cute and had been so good I decided to let them stay in the lounge. I turned off the lights and left the room. 4 seconds later there was a puddle in the hallway and Bela was racing around with my slipper in his mouth.
He's not quite the toy poodle the girl wanted, but he's soft and floppy and has ridiculous paws. We love him.
Read more!

Applause

Oh dear, V1 is having a '82 night. Oh the nostalgia! They just played Flock of Seagulls. I find myself sitting here thinking "their hair isn't that bad!". Oh dear! Indeed! Last night I sat with two very dear girlfriends and we watched Barbarella then The Party. Funnily enough, as I type this "Hungry like the wolf" is playing on the telly. Duran Duran - mad scientist or bunch of pretty boys playing music? Barbarella - aw, I just can't summarise or comment. It just is.
It was a nice night. Unfortunately, as what usually happens when I have been separated from the child for 24 hours - my tiredness overwhelmed and I crashed out early. I wanted to, and needed to sit up late and drink too much and talk silly, girly shit, but I fell asleep. C'est la vie.
The next day I went to a party, that I had helped arrange, for my Grandmother. She turned 85 in March and I was upset no-one had made a fuss. She's got six kids for fuck's sake - could one of them organise something? Anyway, her brother and I got together and put together something of a party. He invited a bunch of people from the "other side" of the family - meaning her other brother's kids. Her other brother died in the early '70's. I remember him vaugly, remember his grandkids as spoilt shits I didn't like. Anyway, I re-met a couple of them today. Yeah, they're boguns, but nice enough.
A couple of my first cousins were there too. One I had a bonding evening with a few of years ago, not too long after I split with my girl's father. Her and her sister and I had dinner at my house, drank several bottles of wine between us, then decided to hurl the empty bottles at X's house. This was relatively easy as he was living in the house across the road. Bottles hit the house, landed in the yard and on the roof. Unfortunately he wasn't home and all we did was freak out his house mates.
Regardless, the display of solidarity warmed my heart and I have had a particular fondness for my cousins ever since.
In my family we have a tradition: at birthdays we clap out the birthday person's age. I have never met anyone else who does this. It's weird, but it's something that seems to be OURS. My cousin and I laughed about how we love this tradition. She's still young enough to not fully comprehend the humiliation of having your age clapped out and it takes so long the kids get bored.
I have really bad wog envy: I've got so many friends who have rich, cultural family backgrounds. Italians who tell stories of proscuitto making, Greeks who have red egg breaking contests at Easter, Indians who have a family recipe for garam masala and then there's us - we clap at birthdays. It's not much, but it's OURS.
We clapped 85 times for my Grandmother, we clapped 62 times for my mother and we clapped 40 times for me. And I was happy.
We are emotionally bankrupt, boguns and strangers to each other, but we clap. Read more!

Here is an exerpt from an email I received from a friend, it gorgeously describes the agony of being a parent. We had a heart-breaker this morning. J was 1st reserve for the school excursion to Jamberoo Water Park. He'd been looking forward to this for so long. The fact that we’d missed a definite booking had been beyond our control. If someone didn’t show, were they going to call us? We didn’t know. So I said to him you wake me in the morning. He sets his alarm – but forgets to turn it on. At 6.50am I wake up, then he and I are racing. Me in my pyjamas and he tossing ‘last minutes’ into his bag. I didn’t curse any drivers out loud, but in my head they got called a lot of things. We arrived just as the busses were pulling out the end of the street. “2 seats free”, his friend texts back. Were they stopping in Goulbourn on the way? No. So what now? Do I drive to Wollongong in my pyjamas? Run the bus off the side of the highway?

But alas, as the lone tear rolled from my son’s cheek in the car on the way home, there was only the thought that there was a hard lesson to be learnt. If he’d been cranky, it would have been easier for me to justify that it wasn’t meant to have happened for him today. But he had his emotions in check and the false words of “Its okay mum” even though it clearly wasn’t.

What to do for the rest of the day? Go into work late for starters. Eat pancakes at the mall and enjoy our iced chocolate/coffees. We went to play ‘nerds’ with the electronics people in three shops. Hopefully one of the surround-sounds will work this evening. He got his first real adult size winter jacket (someone will appreciate my kidney I’m sure) and then arrive at work..

I read this with tears in my eyes. Fuck this gig!! It never gets any easier! The problems just take on a different twist. How do you comfort your child when they have been ripped off? Pancakes can work in the very short term, but ultimately the damage is done.

Our instinct is to protect our children from all the horrors and pain in the world, of course we can't, but we do our best to delay their introduction to the harsh realities of life. But are we helping or hurting with our insistence on fairies and easter bunnies?
The first job I had when I left Uni was with a company that underpaid their workers and had such bad safety protocols that our health was compromised. I organised to bring the Unions and WorkSafe in. Everybody else got a pay rise and back pay, I got sacked. One person (from about 60) thanked me. I did manage to sue the company for unfair dissmissal and got my back pay and a small compensation. It bought me a very nice, top of the range, mountain bike.
My next job was with Australia's top research organisation (critically stuffed and irreversibly rooted organisation). I made the "mistake" of giving my opinion when asked for it. I was very politely informed I should perhaps leave (no pressure, we're not sacking you, but if you stay your life will be shit).
At the end of all this my biggest source of rage wasn't with the bastards who had shafted me, who had valued their profit over my sinuses (which still give me hell 15 years later), who had supported a grossly incompetent manager over their staff - it was with my mother. Of all the lies I had believed: Santa, Easter Bunny, Fairies etc, the worst one and the hardest one to come to terms with was "work hard, do a good job and you will be rewarded". The realisation that this is complete crap shook me to the core. It destroyed my work ethic and any desire I may have to be loyal to an employer.
So back to my previous point - do I protect my girl? Do I shield her from all the pain and crap we have to deal with as adults? Or do I grab her, shake her and (to quote Long Kiss Goodnight) yell "life is pain!".
No, I can't do it. To destroy the clear and beautiful innocence of a child is truly one of the greatest crimes. She is my first child and she will be my only child, she is the recipient of all my parenting mistakes - there will be no redemption with the second. So, I shall insist to my gorgeous girl: believe in fairies, believe in true love and believe in justice. You have an adulthood of hurt ahead of you, but for now - be a child, remain innocent for as long as you can. I'm here to help pick up the pieces when reality crashes in; I hope she starts liking pancakes.
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Sticky Date Pudding

Here is the world's ultimate sticky date pudding recipe
This recipe is from Andrew Blake, of the now defunct Blake's resaurant at Southbank in Melbourne. He attributed it to someone called Poonie.
Poonie, you are incredible. Andrew, the best meal I have ever had in my life was at you restaurant. I love you both.

POONIE'S ICKY STICKY DATE AND CHOCOLATE PUDDING WITH BUTTERSCOTCH SAUCE

430g brown sugar
240g unsalted butter
250g cream
175g dates
1 tsp bicarb
300ml boiling water
60g unsalted butter
extra 100g brown sugar
1tsp vanilla extract
1 egg
230g plain flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
150g dark chocolate

Line a 20cm sprinform tin with buttered foil - make sure there are no holes in the foil and the tin is lined completely - this is a leaky pudding!!
Boil the first 3 ingredients together for 5 min, or until the mixture starts to go brown and thicken slightly. Pour half of the sauce into the tin.
Preheat oven into 175C.
Pit the dates and place in a bowl with the bicarb, pour the boiling water over and allow to cool.
Combine the butter, extra sugar and vanilla extract and beat with an electric mixer until the mixture is creamed. Add the egg and then stir in the date mixture. Mix together the flour and baking soda and fold through until everything is evenly incorporated.
Roughly chop the chocolate and stir through. Pour into the tin and bake for 30 min, then decrease the temp to 160C and cook a further 60 min. Test by inserting a knife. Serve hot with the reserved sauce.
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From the mouths of babes

I drove for an hour, getting totally lost, to source a bell jar to display Mollie's skull in. The girl sat in the back chatting endlessly, as per usual, until I yelled "OK, you need to stop talking now because we are lost and I need to concentrate on where we are going". She sat, sullenly but quietly, until we reached out destination.Bell jar purchased, we headed off to a teddy bears picnic. Now, I had set the alarm to go early, so I could get organised for our big day. My husband had other ideas. So with only 45 minutes to get ready, a few things got overlooked. The day had a space theme, so girl had decided to go as Batman - yeah, I don't get it either. But anyway, she put her costume on and was happy. The things that got overlooked were money and food. Driving back from the-middle-of-nowhere-bell-jar-hunting we ran out of petrol - at a petrol station!! How good is that? Anyway, three of my brain cells were functioning enough to prompt me to buy drinks when I paid for the petrol. We got to the peninsula where the picnic was, queued up for 20 minutes to get into the car park and then nabbed a spot right out front. Also good!! It was probably the last hot day of summer, it was dusty, and it was crowded. The peninsula was teeming with people and small children clutching teddy bears. Lots of aluminium foil and many coke bottles had been used to make space outfits for teddies (except ours, which was a nudist space teddy) and one teddy had a clear, plastic teapot on its head (I was impressed). The girl found a market stall selling masks and demanded a pink mask with pink fluff on it. She did the pleeeeeeeeese thing and I pointed out the mask cost $5 and I had $6.40 so nothing else after the mask. She enthusiastically agreed. The teddy put the mask on, we checked out the Daleks,
then queued in the sun for half an hour so the girl could spend a few minutes on the jumping castle. Of course, after that she was hungry. I had nothing (potentially my nomination for mother of the year?) except $1.40 in change and all the food was $2 or more. I tried to talk her into going home, but she wouldn't be in it. We wandered about a bit more, she whinged about her hunger and we joined another queue so she could pat a sheep. The third queue, for face painting, was closed. Tears welling, tolerance levels reached, hunger overwhelming and tiredness setting in, the girl reluctantly agreed that we could go home. In the car the tears finally fell, she sat there mumbling about how crap it was, "all I got was a mask that won't stay on". I felt so sorry for her. It must be hard having me as a mum.
The next evening she showed me a dirty, old dog bone that she had found in the schoolyard. She had carefully wrapped it in the cling film from her cut apple. I was horrified "why are you collecting and bringing home dirty, yucky stuff like that?". My brother, who was staying with us, said "she's copying her mother". The girl put the dirty bone on the table next to Mollie's skull. I had to admit I had been trumped. It remains. My organisational skills are rubbish, my foresight is non-existent, but I am not a hypocrite.
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Mollie has come home.

Finally, we have Mollie's skull back.When little Mollie died (see blog "Mollie" 17th June, 2008) we chopped off her head and gave it to the mortuary manager at work. He was going to strip the skull for me so I could keep it. After months of asking him about it, having him change the subject and leave me convinced me he had either lost it or run over it with the lawn mower (he put it in his garden so the bugs could get to it), I got a cryptic (pun intended) message from him to meet him in the anatomy cold room. There was the little skull, he had glued it all together and laquered it so it is beautifully preserved. It is gorgeous. I love it, and I love that I can keep a part of her. I need to make the man a cake and buy a bottle of wine. He has earned it. I'm very happy. Read more!

Sunday too far away

Maybe it's the come down from a month of celebrating my birthday. Maybe it's PMT. Regardless of the cause, melancholy surrounds me. I'm battling my second coldsore for the week and my sinuses are clagged. Perhaps my aching shoulder is disturbing my sleep too much. I feel like crawling into bed and sleeping for a week. Unfortunately when you have a small person to attend to such things are impossible. Tomorrow will be consumed with gymnastics and piano lessons. There is a car club display on Sunday that I would like to go to, but since it will be my only chance for a sleep-in then I'm choosing my health over ogling at shiny cars (and showing off mine). It's one of the major drawbacks of parenting - you own life gets put on the back burner. I'd much rather be choosing tiles for the renovation than watching a bunch of little girls in leotards jump around and I would so much rather be lying in bed reading a book than standing in a circle with the other parents singing "doh rea mi blah blah".
I need to do my nails, shave various bits and do my eyebrows. I need to paint my toenails. I need to eat more vegetables and drink more water. I need to floss more often and exercise more.
Instead, I'm having cheese and biscuits and wine for dinner and going to bed to fall asleep watching Star Trek.

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Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

The film is good. Really very good. Read more!

The start of something beautiful

Fuck! I'm 40! I guess it had to happen eventually. At least I've managed to milk it quite substantially: party with friends in Melbourne, new bike, new clothes, lavish dinner, cake and of course, a tattoo. It is a work in progress and will eventually be about half as big again, and coloured. But three and a half hours under the needle was as much as I could tolerate.
My dear husband designed it and paid for the first installment. The next session isn't until mid April, so plenty of time to heal. And I must say it hurt like hell and the past 48 hours have been very uncomfortable. So all up I'm looking at about 3 months of ongoing pain to see it through. Which brings me to the birthday card that greeted me on the dining table on the morning of the 40th:
I didn't know if I should kiss him or take out a restraining order.
The girl made me an origami whale and a beautiful card that said "Happy Boofta". Cute. The gang from the lab took me out for lunch (I had a very nice potato and salmon fritatta which was nicely seasoned with dill and pepper). And on Friday we are having cake for morning tea. So all in all, I've stretched this boofta over almost three weeks. Noice. I might turn 40 again next year. Read more!

Life is Beautiful

We got just got back from a weekend in Melbourne. It was bags of fun and, strangely enough, nothing went wrong. We arrived in Melbourne at 10:20am and picked up a hire car. We got upgraded to a flash Camry instead of the hatchback rollerskate I had booked - a good start. We met the girl's grandmother at the museum and handed over the precious little creature for a weekend with her Dad. Then we went to the hotel. I had booked a two bedroom apartment (since the delinquent was with us) and it was really cheap, only about $150 per night. I was worried. After the debacle with our hotel in Sydney and considering our luck in general I was expecting the worst. But it was all good, they even gave us a free late checkout for Sunday.
We packed a bag with food (no fruit, it was forbidden), unopened bottles of water and plenty of sunscreen and made our way to the Soundwave Festival. The first thing we saw upon arrival was a young man collapsed in the tram stop covered in vomit. Poor thing, he hadn't even made it in the front gate and it was only 1pm. The other thing I was really worried about was our tickets - they were "print at home" internet delivery and VERY plain. I could have printed them 200 times and handed them out to friends, I was worried some part had got lost in the ether and we would be refused entry. But, no problem. I had read on the forum that umbrellas would not be permitted, so I lamented my inability to carry a parasol and left it at home. I was a bit worried that I wouldn't be allowed in because I was the only one without ink showing, but security didn't seem bothered and were only concerned about confiscating cans of deoderant (??) Once inside we found a good spot in the grandstand and had some lunch. The band playing were Underoath, and they were quite good. The drummer, who appeared to be female, was going off. She made animal from the muppets look like a limp wristed sook. I was impressed. I WAS impressed until the singer started spouting about God and Jesus. Seriously, I'm here to listen to music, not get preached at. FUCK OFF!! We wandered about, listened to music, wandered about a bit more. Poison the Well were very good. That was generally the gist of the whole day.
We were easily the oldest people there, but it was a friendly crowd, and at least we weren't there with our parents (dig at the delinquent, who was very good and not embarrassed by us at all). Unfortunately Lacuna Coil were playing on the only indoor stage and it was hot enough outside, without being in a huge shed with a seething mass of head bangers. I was brave. I was determined. I made my way to the front during the soundcheck and nabbed a great spot. After 10 minutes of "check check" I was ready to collapse. Security came out and sprayed the audience with cold water which revived me enough to convince me I could hack it. Two bars into the first song I turned and ran. Up the back, near the open door, I found some friends and hung out with them for the remainder of the set - the husband having dissapeared in the crowd. Lacuna were great, really very good.
Alice in Chains were good, apparently not suffering without Layne. Nine Inch Nails, not being satisfied with merely causing their audience permanent hearing loss, had decided to blind us as well. The epilepsy warnings on the tickets were justified. The delinquent went off for a mosh with Lamb of God and we hung around outside. At one point Randy called for the audience to "sing along" which amused me no end. How does that song go again? Oh yeah, "roar, scream, roar, roar, scream and wail".
We eventually went back to the hotel, happy.
About a month ago I got a very bad haircut. It was so bad the first thing I did when I got home was look in the yellow pages for wig shops. So I had made an appointment with my old hairdresser in Melbourne, hoping he could fix it. He did. I now have gorgeous gun metal grey and black hair, the man is a genius and I will never be unfaithful again. I will put up a photo soon.
On Saturday night my dear friend had organised a gathering to celebrate my 40th birthday. So about 20 friends joined me in a restaurant/bar type place and we ate and drank and laughed and drank. I snuggled my friends new baby, got a bit sad about my lack of, so drank some more. It was a lovely night.
The next day we met the older son in the city - his wallet had been nicked and he needed his Dad to help him get some more ID. After we sorted that out I took the boys to Max Brenners for a hot chocolate in a vagina shaped cup. The cup was the same but the chocolate wasn't as good. They no longer do the Ecuadorian cocoa with orchid oil, which dissapointed me, but I thought since it was the first bad thing all weekend then I was bloody lucky.
On the way to the airport we stopped at our favourite Goth shop and I bought a new shirt - an oriental style lace and pvc number. The girl's Dad dropped her off on time and she was very excited to see her step father and brother, almost ignoring me. I didn't mind, I love it that she adores her new family. She is really growing up, and turning out to be be a very interesting person. Last week for "news" at school she took a stuffed bat in a shoe box. I was so proud. Life is good. And I have a new bike.
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