Black velvet, microscopes and bed time stories

A spark of life...

2011-11-29T12:48:00.001+11:00

Life's hecticness, dramas and exhaustion had led to me giving up on my blog. But then I got a comment... Nothing radical, just an anonymous reading saying they liked my page. Maybe that's all I needed, a small spark of encouragement. Isn't that all we all need/crave? A bit of validation and acknowledgment? Well, it was enough for me. I hereby declare this blog resurrected! So thank you Anonymous, I hope you continue to enjoy myself indulgent babble.

Forgiveness is not mine

2011-01-15T21:24:00.004+11:00

I deleted this post not long after writing it because it seemed petty. It was, and still is however the sentiment remains. The more things change the more they stay the same. I had a fight with my best friend. She broke my heart. We’ve tried, unspokenly, to mend our friendship but the cracks are still visible. I find I can’t forgive her so I keep her at arm’s length. I want to let her back, to embrace her and forget the things she said, but I can’t. It seems stupid because usually I forgive so readily, I’m always quick to see the positive; I want to believe everything is perfect. But this time I can’t. My husband upsets me every other day of the week and I forgive him instantly. So why can’t I forgive my closest female friend? Because I expect my husband to hurt me – he’s a man, men are stupid, thoughtless, ignorant creatures and they can’t help themselves. I expected more from her, I expected more compassion, more understanding, more INTELLIGENCE. She acted like a man. I can’t forgive that.

Beginnings, Broken Hearts and Building part 1

2010-07-05T18:24:00.015+10:00

So having been unable to sell my car, at 7am on Sunday the 28th February I got into my car and said good-bye to Blandberra forever. I put an 8 hour MP3 CD on the stereo and the pedal to the metal. I had considered buying adult diapers so I didn't have to stop - but given I could only get 150 miles to a tank of petrol stopping was inevitable. 9 1/2 hours later I pulled up out the front of my beloved home and I can't remember ever feeling so relieved, comfortable and totally, blissfully happy.
I had made some good friends in Blandberra, and it had served a valuable purpose - time with my child. But overall I had been out of place, lonely and miserable. We had lived in a small, overcrowded and uncomfortable house that was such a dust bowl my asthma and allergies had been in overdrive the whole three years I was there. My joy at finally being home again was overwhelming. I love this house. Since 1993 it has been my home and my sanctuary. And where I live I have easy access to all the things I love - food, live music, shopping, theatre and park lands. Home, sweet home. I never want to live anywhere else (except maybe Edinburgh).
My step son answered the door wearing rubber gloves, holding a dish cloth and looking stressed. Apparently three months warning of our move had not been enough. He had been living there the past six months. I wasn't worried about the house being a mess, I was 20 once and did the student lifestyle with all it's cliches. What I wasn't prepared for was a trashed house. The restumpers had been through and the floor boards were ruined, which I had half expected. But there was rubbish in every room, piled in the hallway and in my bedroom. Door handles, light fittings, power points and cupboard doors were broken (and also, I discovered later, was the dishwasher and stove), locks on the wardrobe were smashed, the place was filthy. The backyard no longer existed, it had been replaced by an overgrown rubbish tip.
Now I lived in some dodgy places when I was in my twenties but I had never seen anything like this. Seriously, I had been to squats lived in by drug addicts that were cleaner. I did the only thing I could think of - I ran away to my neighbours place to give the step son a chance to clean.

When my dear friend S showed up I went back home and we helped to clean my room so I would at least have somewhere to sleep. I moped the floor several times to get rid of the dirt and rehung the curtains while S helped the step son get rid of the boxes and stuff that was in the wardrobe. Finally I was able to put down the camp bed that S had brought for me to use and we sat down to drink some champagne. By this stage my enthusiasm for celebrating my return had waned slightly but I remained optimistic. My daughter would be returned to me the next day and I had a week before the dog arrived and another few days after that before the truck full of stuff arrived. After that I had three days to unpack before starting work. There was a lot to do but I was confident that with the stepson's help I could get through it all. I hadn't brought anything other than personal items with me - I assumed that since the step son had been living here for six months then things like televisions, cutlery and cooking utensils would be here. But he had packed all that stuff up and I had nothing. I borrowed a spoon and a bowl from the neighbours so I could eat my cereal in the morning. I wasn't worried - if step son chose to remove his stuff from the house that was his prerogative and my mistake for assuming otherwise.
The girl and I lived on our neighbours generosity and take-away food and everyday I cleaned. But somewhere along the way I had picked up a cold and with each day I got sicker and sicker.
A few months earlier the stepson had woken to find someone rummaging through his things - the lock on the back gate had been broken by the restumpers and the back door had been left open. He complained to me about it, quite rightly, and I set about making the house secure as a priority. One night after the girl and I had gone to bed I heard the step son out the back and got up to see if all was OK. He had gone but had left the backdoor wide open and the back gate also. I was outraged. So security is only an issue when he's home? Obviously he didn't consider a woman and small child subject to the same risks he was. I locked up then went back to bed and played on my phone - had a look at facebook. There was a post from the step son "First round of bleach in my hair". That did it. My hair was a mess, my nails were a mess, but I didn't have time to get them fixed because I was getting the house in order before the truck arrived. I had spent days - alone - cleaning his rubbish up, dealing with the mountains of crap he had left in the house, the months of filth that had accumulated, fixing all the broken stuff and he was out getting his hair done???
The next day I left a list of things he needed to do taped to his bedroom door while I went out to do some shopping. When I returned he and his friends were there loading stuff into a car. As soon as I saw him my anger and hurt boiled up and I started yelling: why hadn't he picked up his rubbish? Why hadn't he made arrangements to get rid of the bags of clothes in the hallway and the mountains of rubbish in the yard? Why had he let the house get into such a state? He yelled back: he didn't have any money since he was only getting 20 hours a week work and he didn't have time to clean. It wasn't his fault. I was gobsmacked. Not only did he take my offer of a house for six months - rent free in a neighbourhood where rental was well over $450 a week - and treat it with such disrespect it amounted to vandalism but he had the audacity to throw it back in my face! Later I rang him and left a message saying he had three days to get his stuff out or I'd throw it all into the street.
That weekend my husband flew down as we were attending the Golden Plains music festival. I was quite sick by then and the weather was awful. We were determined to go regardless. We have our little caravan so knew we would at least be warm and dry.

So I spent two days, on a banana lounge in the rain, drinking red wine from a plastic glass, listening to great music. The only time I was less than happy was during the 45 minute wait for coffee in the morning.
Back in the city the husband did a mammoth effort of cleaning up his son's rubbish before heading back to Blandberra for the last time. Before I moved we had done 18 months of commuting back and forth so the trip to the airport was poignantly familiar and we were both elated that it would be for the very last time. I decided to give the step son a chance at redemption and left his stuff in his room and left more messages on his phone asking that he help me take care of all his crap. The only time we saw him that weekend was when we coincidentally got on the same tram one evening, he acted uncomfortable, exchanged pleasantries with his father then jumped off the tram as soon as he could. He made no attempt to communicate and wouldn't answer our calls. He put a post on Twitter saying "would someone please drop a house on the wicked witch of the west?" I tried to arrange meeting with him to discuss the situation but even when he agreed to talk he didn't show up.

A few days later Bela arrived. He suffers from motion sickness and since work was paying for the move we had decided to be extravagant and pay to have him flown down and delivered to the house. He didn't cope well. He had been vomiting, was stressed and wouldn't eat. It took days for his stomach to settle.

But I felt better having a rotty around the home, even a sick one, a dog always makes me feel secure and I was still nervous about the previous break-in.

The day before the truck was due to arrive a note was put in the letterbox telling us the street would be closed the next day due to the construction at the end of the street. I went berserk, rang the council and ascertained it was seven days notice required not several hours and the council would prevent the closure. My stress levels were through the roof by this stage and I was so sick I could barely get out of bed but we do what we must. The street did get blocked, in spite of council assurances, but was miraculously clear 15 minutes before the truck arrived at the end of the day. The removalists had spent the day putting 50m3 of stuff into storage then unloaded another 30m3 at the house. They were lovely guys and worked their bollocks off lugging all our crap around so I decided to forgive them days later when I started discovering the amount of boxes at the house marked "storage" and realising how much stuff was missing - presumably put into storage. I struggled to unpack and get things in order. I really just needed to go to bed and rest but the house wasn't going to set itself up.

To be continued....

Valentine

2010-02-14T11:09:00.003+11:00

I wrote this poem for my husband, he gave me a kilo of scallops. True love indeed.

Release is immanent

2010-02-13T11:14:00.002+11:00

Stacks of boxes are appearing all over the house. Finally, the move is happening. I have one week left at my current job then three weeks before my next job starts.
Here is the plan:
Sell my car.
The girl flies down on the 24th and goes to stay with her Dad so she can start school on the 26th for census day.
I fly down on the 28th so I have time to prepare the house, fix fences etc.
The caravan gets trucked down on the 2nd.
Bela flies down on the 9th, he gets to fly because he gets car sick.
The truck with all our stuff arrives on the 11th then I have 3 days to get organised before I start work on the 15th.
The husband drives down with Rose the staffy some time after that, depending on how long it takes to close up (clean and repair) the house.
In between we have the Golden Plains music festival on the 6th which the husband is flying down for and we have tickets to Emilie Autumn on the 19th and The Pixies on the 20th - these having been purchased when we were still under the misguided belief that we would be moving in January. C'est la vie. The bottom line is.........I'm coming home!!

A Letter to my Daughter

2010-01-30T20:39:00.013+11:00

Today, after arguing with you for about an hour to try to get you to brush your hair, I smacked you on the leg with the hairbrush. I thought it was just a tap, an attempt to bring you back down to earth, but it left a red mark and I realised I had let my anger get the better of me. It frightens me to think I have the capacity to hurt you, even if just slightly.

My relationship with you is complicated, I struggle with it constantly. Motherhood hasn't settled easily with me - which is something I never expected. I look after things, I always have - people, animals (although I've never been that great with house plants)and I just expected to be a natural mother. But there was a whole lot of stuff I didn't anticipate...

I wanted a baby, I wanted to get pregnant and I wanted to be a mother. After two years and two miscarriages though I was defeated and depressed. I'd almost given up on the idea of having a baby and as is usual for cases like this once I stopped trying, I got pregnant. But unlike the previous two - you hung in there. I can't describe the elation I felt the first time I felt you move, you were my little passenger, my constant companion and I felt such a bond to you it was euphoric. But after 14 hours of hellish pain, exhaustion and finally a forceps delivery I was so physically and emotionally wrecked that when we finally met face to face I couldn't care, I just wanted to go to sleep.
Apparently it's not unusual for mothers to not have that instant maternal bond that we hear about. There is supposed to be an endorphin rush that wipes away all memory of the pain and induces a flood of love for the new baby, but it doesn't always happen. It certainly didn't happen for me. I didn't feel like I was your mother, my brain couldn't make the connection between the little passenger and this new baby - I didn't know who you were. Yet I was fiercely protective. When the nurse did the heel prick to take a blood drop I heard your little dolphin squeal and I jumped out of bed and ran straight to you, even though I was in so much pain from the episiotomy that all previous attempts to walk had been unsuccessful.
A few days later I walked out of the hospital with you in my arms and was baffled that no-one was trying to stop me. It felt so wrong, I had no idea how to look after a baby and I couldn't believe I was being allowed to take responsibility for this little life. The mother-baby bond just wasn't there. I felt like your caretaker and if a woman had knocked on my front door and said "thank you for looking after my baby, I'll take her now" I probably would have handed you over.
For the next few months we fought every four hours as I tried to get you to breast feed, eventually just the act of me picking you up would have you screaming in anticipation of the coming battle. It broke my heart that I couldn't feed you, I felt like a failure. The basic instinct of mothers is to feed their young and I couldn't do it. I tried everything to get you to feed - I took you to an osteopath who said the forceps had compressed the skull plates and you had a constant headache. After that treatment your mood did improve, but you still wouldn't feed. I went to a lactation clinic every week and dozens of midwives tried to help us. I took you to a doctor who said you were tongue tied. I remember your little face looking at me with total innocence, then the look of shock as the doctor shoved her fingers in your mouth and the look of total betrayal when the doctor snipped the membrane under your tongue. Your little mouth filled with blood and you screamed - the whole time looking at me not comprehending why I had let someone hurt you.
The battle to breast feed became harder and harder until after 10 weeks I finally surrendered. I didn't want to fight you anymore, I wanted us to be friends. I wanted to try to build our relationship but I felt so wretched, I condemned myself as the worst mother in the world and I've never really been able to shake that.
I also couldn't understand why I couldn't get you to settle to sleep - it took over an hour every time. You cried and I didn't know why and I couldn't comfort you. More failure. Eventually your reflux was diagnosed and medication changed our lives. Suddenly you were a happy baby, the heart burn that had afflicted you was gone and you got on with the business of being a baby.
But by this time my mental health was failing. I had reached a stage where I was convinced you hated me. Usually what would happen is that after an hour of fighting with you to breast feed or trying to calm you to sleep I would give up and your father (if he was there) would take over and be the conquering hero with the welcomed bottle or his calmness would be all that was needed for your exhausted little mind to finally surrender to sleep. I was the bad parent. Also failing was our ability to support ourselves financially. I had changed jobs too recently to be eligible for paid maternity leave and your father had mismanaged our investment property and lost us a considerable amount of money. I was forced to return to work when you were only 3 months old.
I hated leaving you at creche, in the care of strangers, while I went off to work. The first day I tried to relished the luxury of being able to drink a coffee while it was still hot, to go to the toilet at my leisure, of being able to spend a day uninterrupted but the guilt nagged me. When I got back to day care and they told me how good you had been, how quiet and compliant you had been my heart sank. My belief that you hated me and didn't need me was obviously true. Total strangers could take better care of you than I could. I was wrong. The minute we left the premises (how did you know??) you stared screaming and you let loose a whole days worth of fears and anxieties and pain. You gave me what you had been saving all day long, what you had been unable to let out with strangers. For over an hour I sat let you cry and cry and tell me, I imagined, all about how lost and abandoned and frightened you felt. Finally you settled enough for me to take you home.
Eventually we formed a routine and you began to enjoy day care. As you got older I began to realise you would have more fun there than you would ever have with me at home and my anxiety waned.
The stress of work and a baby that was still feeding at night was too much for me, the sleep deprivation and the lack of support from your father wore me out. I fell into depression. Once I realised that there was something wrong with me I went to the doctor and she gave me antidepressants. With the medication, you sleeping through the night and support from my work mates I finally began to cope.

But is was hard. When you were less than 2 years old my marriage with your father ended. His career was in question and I didn't know if he would be employed again soon. My own job was subject to funding and unstable so I accepted a job that wasn't close to your day care and that wasn't sympathetic to my single parent status but it was permanent and paid well. Once your father moved out of the house my bond with you started to solidify. All we had was each other. I realised I had put so much energy into resenting your father for being unsupportive that once that was gone I had more energy for you. However, the conflict that had always existed remained.

I remember one morning we left the house, you were in the car seat in the back and I was driving. It was a cold day so I had put a jumper on you. You didn't want the jumper. In the thick of Melbourne peak hour traffic you started screaming "I want to take my jumper off". You screamed until you were hysterical, then you kept screaming. I couldn't pull over, there was no-where to go in the heavy traffic and I couldn't reach you. Eventually we arrived at day care and I found a parking spot. I reached into the back and ripped the jumper off you then collapsed into tears of my own. You were shocked, I don't think you'd ever seen me cry before. You crawled into my lap, apologised and tried to comfort me.
Another time we were driving to Torquay for the weekend, it was Friday night, it was getting late and I was lost. You were in the backseat babbling as usual and I started getting stressed. You asked me what was wrong and I said we were lost. You replied "it's OK Mamma, I'll take care of you".
Bless your little two year old heart.

When you were 4 years old there was a headlice epidemic at the day care centre and every three days I would comb conditioner through your fine, thick hair with a fine tooth comb. Generally you were pretty good and tolerant of the procedure. Unfortunately your father was less vigilant and when you returned to me after a week with him I would invariably get a call from day care telling me you had head lice and to come and get you. My sick leave and annual leave got used up very quickly. The manager was furious and even though I told her to dock my pay and I didn't let my work suffer she refused to be sympathetic to my situation. The stress at work became so bad I was constantly sick, my ability to cope erroded and eventually the only solution I could see was to quit my job and move us to Canberra to live with Marc.

The move hurt you. You missed your Dad and you missed your friends at day care. The preschool I enrolled you in had only 10 students and 7 of them couldn't speak english. You struggled to make friends, your outgoing and happy nature dissapeared and you became shy and withdrawn at preschool and volatile and uncooperative at home. My efforts to rescue us had back fired.
That first year in Canberra we really got to know each other. We had only had weekends and evenings together your whole life - you had effectively been raised by the day care staff. I knew how to be a part time mother but full time is totally different, I had a lot to learn. I knew how to be organised with food and clothes and how to get you to places on time but when we didn't have to go anywhere, when it was just you and I for days on end I was unsure. But we muddled through and when you started school I stood and cried with all the other mothers. A week later I was still crying and they all started to think I was a bit soft in the head.

Your only friend from preschool went to a different school and once again you were alone and insecure. I went back to work and you started attending after school care, it was there you finally started making friends and some of your spark came back.
We had settled into Canberra but the distance from your father and his inconsistant contact was hard for you - you missed him. When you returned from a visit with him you were always an angel, but as the weeks passed and his phone calls dwindled your behaviour would deteriorate and we would end up fighting.

You're an early riser - I like to sleep late. Marc is a night owl so in order to spend time with my husband but also take care of you I was perpetually sleep deprived and as a result: cranky. Unfortunately you feed off my energy and the crankier I got the worse your behaviour got and we would invariably end up screaming at each other.

I want you to know I've done my best - I've tried to enjoy playing with Barbies and the endless board games you own but it just isn't in me to fake it.
Recently we had a mother/daughter week of activities - my attempt to build some bridges and give us some time together where we weren't bickering. I mostly succeeded but WOW was it exhausting. When we were in the pool I realised that it was the first time I had been swimming with you. You went swimming all the time with your father and I realised I had to start letting myself be the good parent too. I think you're at that age now where we can enjoy more things together and I know I need to make the most of it because pretty soon you'll be embarrassed to be seen with me and trying desperately to get away. But you're still very young. I think I expect you to be more self sufficient that you're ready to be. I get cranky when we are riding our bikes and I have to stop every 10 meters to adjust the strap on your helmet or wait for you to catch up because you had stopped to look at a twig. I need to remind myself that it's the journey.
You are one of the most tolerant and big hearted kids I have ever met. You continue to love me even when I loose my temper and smack you with a hair brush. You are generous and caring and very loving and I will always be fiercely protective of you. I guess the whole point of this is to tell you that I love you more than anything and I try to be a good mother - I'm just still working out how.

We've been together over seven years now and our bond is solid. You are my one and only and you tell me "you are the best mother I've ever had" and can't ask for anything more. Oh, except that you brush your hair.

Are you Vamp enough?

2010-01-08T12:01:00.014+11:00

The first vampire film I remember seeing was the 1979 Werner Herzog version of Nosferatu the Vampyre. I sat mesmerised, enraptured by the most beautiful and erotic film I had ever seen. It was the early 80’s and I was a country town teenager, totally disgruntled with where my bogun upbringing had landed me. That film set me on a road to a different life; it planted in me a taste for the ethereal and the elegant. Over the next year or so I shed my denim cocoon and emerged in black, with my hair shaved into a long Mohawk with my eyes rimmed in black. I discovered self adornment and a passion for beautiful clothes. There were many other influences of course, and I have written about them before, but that vampire film was the spark.
I have since devoured as many vampire books and films as I could find. And I’m the first to admit that most of them are rubbish. The recent surge in vampire literature and film has me again pondering the hold that this legend has over us. I’m not going to rant about the psychology of it all, it’s been done to death (pardon the pun), but I will give my opinion on the best of all that’s Vamp. There are a gazillion blogs, web pages, forums etc about vampire films and in comparison I am a mere amateur, but I have been a fan of the genre for almost 30 years and even though this list is by no means comprehensive it encompasses my experience and opinions.

So the 1979 Nosferatu of course led me straight to the 1922 F. W. Murnau film Nosferatu: A symphony of Horror. This film is a masterpiece.
I recently saw Avatar, James Cameron’s epic 3D fairytale. Sure, it looked fabulous – but that was all there was. The story was Fern Gully meets Land Before Time, the acting was laughable, the dialogue was terrible and the husband and I agreed it was truly an awful film. And it cost $500 million to make! Yet in 1921 Murnau made a black and white silent film that has more impact, more atmosphere and an intensity that has rarely been equalled. And it was probably made with the equivalent of a few hundred thousand dollars. So the Nosferatu films are my benchmark. I was worried when E. Elias Merhige made Shadow of the Vampire in 2000. As we all know, Hollywood’s ability to take something glorious and turn it into trashy shit knows no bounds and I was terrified they would do this with Nosferatu. But no, in this rare instance they got it 100% right. The combination of the surreal nature of the original, the clever incorporation of original shots into the new film and the humour and brilliant performances works sublimely. It is a beautiful compliment to the original.
Of course the 1931 version of Dracula with (my puppy’s namesake) Bela Lugosi is the definitive Dracula. It is a classic. Often overlooked though is the Spanish version which was filmed at the same time with different actors but using the same sets at night. It is a superior film in terms of direction and cinematography, but the actors don’t have the presence of Lugosi or Frye (Renfield) and the film ends up being a bit on the boring side. If only they could have used the English actors with the Spanish director!!
The 60’s and 70’s gave us many vampire films and I personally love the kitschy Hammer Horror versions, although I don’t like Christopher Lee. The Twins of Evil is a personal favourite. Daughters of Dracula and The Vampire Lovers are great, even if just for the clothes. There were a dozen other lesbianesque films made in the 60s, but they’re all pretty much the same. The uber kitsch blacksploitation film Blacula is actually a lot better than you’d think. I love it. The Fearless Vampire Killers, Polanski’s 1967 film, is very funny although in light of recent revelations about the rape charges against him I’m almost ashamed to own it. I feel like I should hide my Polanski collection under the bed. Polanski also made a cameo in Andy Warhol’s Blood For Dracula, which is trashy and outrageously funny. Pair it with Flesh for Frankenstein made at the same time and with the same actors and you have a very entertaining evening. The BEST vampire film of the 70’s however, was actually Australia’s first attempt at a vampire film, The Thirst (1979). Unfortunately it was overshadowed by Mad Max and it is now somewhat obscure. It is available on DVD though if you search hard enough.

I was a very serious teenager and as a new release The Lost Boys (1987) didn’t do it for me. I watched it again recently, having long since removed the stick from my arse, and thought it was very good, a nice spoof. The sequal Lost Boys 2: The Tribe (2008) is quite bad. Another 80’s effort was Vamp (1986), starring Grace Jones. Watch it just for her work. She does an amazing striptease and I bought the DVD simply for that - the rest of the film is trash. In 1988 Ken Russell made Lair of the White Worm, based VERY loosely on Bram Stoker’s novel. It is an absolute hoot, in spite of the Ken Russell trademarks all over it. 1989’s Vampire Kiss with Nicholas Cage is very clever and very funny. But the best of the 80’s would have to be the sublimely erotic The Hunger (1983) and Near Dark, released in 1987 starring Lance Hendriksen who I adore. They are two of the most realistic vampire films I have found and in my top 10 all time favourites.

1992 brought us Wynona’s pet project Bram Stoker’s Dracula (F.F. Copolla). If you can ignore Keanu and Wynona making a total hash of the English accent and the fact that Keanu couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag, the rest of the film is gorgeous. Richard E. Grant is, as always, brilliant, aside from the blaring continuity error in one scene but the reason I love the film so much is Gary Oldman and the costumes. The scene where Dracula is walking the streets of London, wearing a grey suit and top hat and round sunglasses with his long hair flowing down his back is to me borderline pornography. When he looks over his glasses and says “see me now” I melt. Stunning, utterly stunning. When this film was released it was a hot summer, I had a broken heart, it was the summer break from University and I lived near an old cinema. I think I saw that film about seven times in two weeks. It was an escape from the heat, escape from my emotional pain and an escape from the hippy bullshit of the house I was living in. That film took me from cheesecloth-vegetarian-beige-share-house hell and transported me to a world of gentile elegance and glamour. The costumes and the sets are divine. So even though it is fundamentally flawed, it is one of my favourites.
Also from the 90’s we have Cronos (1993) a Mexican film with the fabulous Ron Perlman. Nadja (1994) is very arty and lovely to watch. Razor Blade Smile (1998) is a low budget gem with terrible acting and bad production but the story is unique and clever. Wisdom of the Crocodiles (1998) with Jude Law is an unusual take on the genre but ultimately dull.

The 00’s have thrown a mixed bag of vampire films at us. The best are the Russian films Night Watch (2005) and the sequel Day Watch (2006) they are brilliant. They crap all over the American vampire efforts for that decade, as does Eternal Blood (2007) another Mexican horror. The exception is The Hamiltons (2006) which was an independent release and a very good attempt at realism.

I am Legend, the 1954 novel by Richard Matheson, is undoubtedly one of the best vampire stories around. So good it has been made into film three times. The first being Last Man on Earth (1964) starring Vincent Price. Apparently Matheson worked on the script but was so unhappy with the end result took his name off it. I love it, but then it has Vincent so what’s not to love?? The next was in 1971, The Omega Man starring Charlton Heston. It’s very good and does the book justice as best as Hollywood can – which is to say, not very well. Then there was the 2007 blockbuster I Am Legend with Will Smith. As a standalone film it’s very good. But I can’t help compare it to the book and they just messed with the story too much, and for no real gain other than conforming to the stereotype – vampires bad, humans good and good always wins. Changing a fundamental aspect of the plot also changed the meaning of the title. I live in hope that one day, someone will make I Am Legend as it is written and it will kick arse.
Also released in 2007 was 30 Days of Night which almost impressed me: the scenario was brilliant, the vampires looked great but I just got annoyed with all that blood splattering. Sure all the red splashed on the snow looked dramatic, but really, if you go to all the effort of isolating a whole town in order to harvest a precious resource – why would you then spill it all over the ground?
Let The Right One In (2008) is a Swedish film that unusually uses a young girl as the vampire protagonist. It’s very good but very Swedish.

I am now waiting for the release of DayBreakers starring Ethan Hawke,Sam Neil and the marvelous Willem Defoe. From the trailers I have seen it is something of a spin on The Thirst, possibly due to it's Australian production?

So then we move onto the bad. Interview with the Vampire (1994) is awful, although not nearly as bad as the appalling sequel Queen of the Damned (2002). Even though I was an extra in Queen of the Damned I still can’t bring myself to buy a copy of it it’s just SO bad. The Blade films (1998, 2002, 2004) didn’t appeal to me, neither did Ultraviolet (2006) or the Underworld series (2003, 2006, 2009). That said, I love Bill Nighy and think he makes an excellent vampire and I suspect my husband secretly masturbates over Kate Beckinsale in that outfit.
Dusk Till Dawn (1996) has bored me to sleep twice, Dracula 2000 is dreadful but the notion of Dracula being Judas Iscariot is interesting. And then there is Twilight (2008), which was actually my inspiration for writing this. Twilight and New Moon the 2009 sequal, have made such an impact on tween culture, and have helped bring vampires very much into fashion, yet they are utter, utter rubbish. Well, I haven’t seen New Moon and I don’t intend to but I can extrapolate. Watching Twilight made me feel like I’d been robbed of 2 hours of my life. The best that can come of these films is that some of the more obscure films I have mentioned will get some attention now that vamps are the new big thing. It saddens me that the genre has been so cheapened, but then I said I loved Blacula, so what the fuck do I know?
As far as television series go there’s been Nick Knight with Rick Springfield, the pilot was released as a movie in 1989 and it’s terrible but he drives a gorgeous Cadillac. The TV series wasn’t made until 1992, with different actors, as Forever Knight. It’s awful. Also awful is Moonlight and The Vampire Diaries. True Blood is however, great stuff. It’s tacky, kitsch, very, very silly and I love it. I even love the opening credits. But by far the best TV series I’ve ever found is Ultraviolet (1998), a British police drama about a secret unit who exist only to hunt vampires. It is very well made, and has a British touch of class. The word “vampire” is never used.

So that’s it. Larissa’s guide to vampire film and TV Top 10:

1. Nosferatu The Vampyre
2. Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror
3. Near Dark
4. The Hunger
5. Razor Blade Smile
6. Bram Stoker's Dracula
7. Ultaviolet the TV series
8. The Thirst
9. Cronos
10. Night Watch/ Day Watch

Yule Tidings

2010-01-06T17:11:00.011+11:00

As I have vehemently stated previously – I love Christmas. Last year was something of a dud and with the girl off to Melbourne to spend time with her Dad I expected this Christmas to suck as well. The day would be only myself, the husband and the delinquent 16 year old whose company I have become loath to keep. My usual enthusiasm for baking cakes, puddings, gingerbread and panforte was absent; my enthusiasm for decorating the house and tree was also subdued by the very high possibility that Bela would just eat everything. Finally, I managed to gather some resilience and I bought a small tree – green much to the girls delight – which we decorated with pink balls and white tinsel then hid in the corner where hopefully the dog couldn’t get to it. We then baked and decorated a few trays of gingerbread for the girl to take with her for her other family.
The girl’s birthday party went well and her father whisked her away for her three week stay with him. After an initial few days of feeling lost without my sidekick some of my usual Christmas cheer started to bubble up. I made rude gingerbread people and bats and skulls for workmates. On the 23rd December, my last day of work for the year, I took in little cellophane bags of gingerbread to hand out. No-one else showed up. I hung around for a bit, eating gingerbread, then left at lunchtime. I ran around trying to find one of those reindeer so we could recreate this:
Unfortunately there were none to be found in this crapulous city. I panicked that the husband would be disappointed in the meagre collection of stuff I had as presents for him so on Christmas Eve I set out and bought a Weber BBQ. I couldn’t afford it but I rationalised that it was wanted and given we only had one oven to cook a ham, a turkey and a heap of roast veg it was also needed.
The restaurant where the husband has been working was closing after lunch on the 24th for the staff party. They had a small group booking for lunch and they thought they could get rid of them early enough. Not so. The revellers carried on until 4pm. The staff broke world records for cleanup time then settled in for a condensed two hours of eating and drinking. Note to all restaurant patrons: staff have lives too - have some manners. The chef presented us with several dozen Coffin Bay oysters and a giant ocean trout, served simply with lemon and pepper and chunks of rustic bread. It was the best fish I have ever tasted. Ah yes, on the premise of driving the husband home so he could drink, I had managed to invite myself to the lunch. What a treat!!
On Christmas Eve I prepped food (brined the turkey, boiled then marinated the pork belly in soy and garlic), wrapped presents and drank champagne, ate cherries and relaxed. Christmas morning we were woken by my Mum ringing at 8:30am (damn her early morningness) then went back to sleep for a few hours.
Panettone and champagne for breakfast then onto the business of opening presents.
I had taken a photo of the husband in Venice which I loved so much I had it printed onto a 300 x 400mm canvas, I had also purchases him new earrings (after he lost his but then found them again), a bottle of Amaris DeVin, a Bill Bailey collection DVD and of course, the Weber. He was over the moon about the print, saying it made him look cooler than James Dean.
I received a set of weights (unromantic I know, but at my request), a Soda stream – red, a bottle of Green Fairy Absinthe, and a Bill Bailey DVD. Fortunately the DVDs we had bought each other were different, but it was a cute coincidence. I gave the delinquent an Oxfam chook and some foot powder (ain’t I a bitch?) and he gave us a shower curtain and bathmat set – psychoesque blood splattered. Not a bad haul indeed.
I put together the Weber while the husband and the delinquent watched Bad Santa then we wondered how the hell we were going to cook outside in pouring rain. As the eternal optimist I convinced everyone that the rain would stop and all would be well. I peeled the ham, cut the fat, studded it with cloves and glazed it with blood orange and brown sugar. It cooked beautifully.
But the rain continued. Eventually the Weber was positioned precariously on the front door step and we fired it up. After the coals had burned and the porch hadn’t, we put the stuffed (macadamia, prosciutto and cranberry) and wrapped in ham rind turkey in to cook. While we waited I ate prawns and garlic scallops and gleefully made soda water and the husband ate oysters.
Four hours later we shoved the still raw turkey in the oven. Obviously there were things we had yet to learn about webering. Christmas lunch was served at about 7pm with kipfler and King Edward potatoes cooked in duck fat, roast pumpkin, sugar snap peas and spinach.
I had made cranberry sauce from scratch for the first time and it was divine. Simply frozen cranberries, sugar and a splash of cherry brandy boiled until the fruit was cooked (thank you Nigella, kitchen Goddess).

I will never buy the stuff in a jar again. The ham was gloriously flavoured and the turkey was moist and gorgeous. One of the best Christmas lunches I have ever had.
So after all my misgivings it ended up being a lovely day, in spite of the rain. It was relaxed and stress free. There were no frazzled, over tired children to deal with, no bad food or complaints that what we had cooked was “too rich”. Even the dogs behaved themselves and Bela refrained from eating the tree.

My Kingdom for a finial.

2009-11-23T16:14:00.009+11:00

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.

An exercise in unnecessary maintenance

2009-10-14T19:40:00.009+11:00

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.

Pardon me, your political correctness is stepping on my toes..

2009-08-28T14:35:00.004+10:00

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).

Understanding Youth

2009-08-19T15:55:00.000+10:00

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?

Every lab should have some

2009-08-17T13:08:00.001+10:00

Detox me

2009-08-15T21:24:00.011+10:00

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.

It doesn't rain...

2009-08-04T18:56:00.007+10:00

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.

No, this is wrong.

2009-07-17T23:15:00.002+10:00

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??

Hey!

2009-07-13T15:26:00.000+10:00

I fixed the comments thingy. So go on..

Time off

2009-07-07T22:29:00.004+10:00

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.

The City, the girl, the life.

2009-06-29T01:02:00.005+10:00

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.

By the way

2009-06-13T22:44:00.001+10:00

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

Saturday Night

2009-06-13T22:27:00.004+10:00

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!! .

Bang

2009-06-10T22:43:00.010+10:00

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.

No thanks

2009-06-09T21:59:00.005+10:00

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.

Most of my neighbours are nice..

2009-06-09T17:50:00.005+10:00

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

This is the life.

2009-05-09T21:11:00.005+10:00

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..

When Mum is a Goth...

2009-05-08T21:02:00.001+10:00

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.

Where are youuuu?

2009-05-02T21:09:00.018+10:00

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.

My Baby love

2009-04-30T19:49:00.005+10:00

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.

Applause

2009-04-12T23:18:00.007+10:00

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.

2009-04-08T22:05:00.004+10:00

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.

Sticky Date Pudding

2009-04-08T21:53:00.003+10:00

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.

From the mouths of babes

2009-04-01T19:29:00.009+11:00

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.

Mollie has come home.

2009-03-24T20:20:00.004+11:00

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.

Sunday too far away

2009-03-20T18:17:00.005+11:00

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.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

2009-03-20T18:16:00.000+11:00

The film is good. Really very good.

The start of something beautiful

2009-03-18T20:15:00.004+11:00

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.

Life is Beautiful

2009-03-02T21:44:00.006+11:00

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.

How can we dance?

2009-03-02T21:41:00.002+11:00

So with fires now threatening Warburton and Daylsford the major headline of the day was that Peter Garret is reforming Midnight Oil for a charity concert to raise money for the bushfire victims. I guess we are getting bored with the fires. I mean, they have been burning for over two weeks now, enough already.
It never ceases to amaze me how superficial people are. We all sat glued to our TVs and computers watching updates about the fires; the death toll clicking up almost by the minute. Over two hundred people have been killed and 10 times more homes have been destroyed. We have been bombarded with pictures of wailing women, men with their face in their hands, people in hospital bandaged from foot to head, burnt out cars and dead livestock. I’ll admit I’ve read articles about fire fighters giving koalas drinks, a man who walked away from his burning property leading his horse - beer in the other hand, the 15 year old who drove a tractor through the fires to save his family. I’ve read these stories with tears in my eyes. I’ve donated money, I’ve lamented the tragedy with my co-workers and then I’ve got on with my life. We seem to revel in the drama, but once we’ve had our fill – we move on. Shame those that lost family/property/skin can’t do the same. And tomorrow will be 38°C so the fires still burning will probably flare up. There isn’t going to be much of Victoria left. It does make me grateful that I live in the inner city and am protected from wild fire by thousands of tonnes of cement and bitumen.
So in 38°C heat the husband, the younger stepson and myself will be attending a heavy metal festival. I’m looking forward to seeing Lacuna Coil – I love them. Also the opportunity to see Nine Inch Nails won’t go amiss. I’m half heartedly interested in seeing Alice in Chains but my greater interest will be in the crowd itself. I love crowd watching at these sorts of things. I will post photos next week.

Penultimate

2009-02-07T23:51:00.002+11:00

Apparently today is the second last day of this hellish heatwave. Let's hope the meteorologists are right. It’s almost midnight and it’s still 30˚C. A significant portion of Victoria is on fire: 100 homes have been lost and 14 people have been killed. Meanwhile North Queensland is flooded. Us whiteys should really have thought twice before settling here, we just don’t fit in. Don’t misunderstand me – I love Australia, it’s beautiful, and socially we are better off than most, but the weather!! It’s hell being a Goth when it’s 40˚C! There was a similar heatwave in the early 90’s and I was suffering so much I wore white for a few days (some op shop clothes I hadn’t got around to dying). I haven’t given in this time, although I have spent most evenings and most of today wearing just my underwear - only dressing to leave the house to attend the parent information session at the music school my girl will be attending. It was one of those awful, patronising affairs that made me want to slap somebody. We were asked to introduce ourselves to the person next to us and learn something about them. We then had to tell the class what we had learned. When the teacher was giving us these instructions I almost walked out, that kind of condescending bollocks makes me really angry. I did my best and even managed to smile when the woman I was talking to asked why I didn’t have my daughter with me and said, trying really hard not to sound too cynical, “because it’s a parent information session and we were asked not to bring our kids”. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t know that”. “It was in the letter they sent out telling us about today” I managed to sweetly say through clenched teeth. Myself and one other woman were apparently the only ones who did read the letter as all the others had their kids sitting there. Damn I hate it when people can’t follow instructions! (refer to Stupid is as Stupid does, a late 2008 blog) Anyway, I couldn’t decide if it were me or my “partner” who gave the academy award winning performance as she introduced me as “a really nice lady”.
I’m a bit excited to be doing piano with the girl. A year ago I took her to the same music school and we sat in on a lesson. The parents always accompany the child and play along with them. This is apparently so we know what they are doing and can help them during the week. When we got home from observing the lesson I asked the girl if she thought that piano lessons were something she might enjoy. She replied “Oh, I don’t need piano lessons, I can already play!” and proceeded to sit down at the piano, open up the music book (very professional like) then started banging away on the keys. I couldn’t argue with her. But just before Christmas she requested piano lessons. I was really pleased and enrolled her a few weeks ago. I hope she enjoys it. I also hope I get to learn something too; I’d love to be able to play the piano.

So tonight I have watched The Lost Boys 2 (eh), Monster’s Ball (love Billy Bob) and Pretty in Pink (really don’t get Molly Ringwald). I’ve peeled the doona off the child, who was soaked in sweat and probably about to give herself hyperthermia, fed the cat and written a blog. I will now go and have a cold shower and attempt to sleep. Come on autumn, I know you’re out there.

Lucky I'm an atheist

2009-02-06T23:03:00.003+11:00

http://www.godhatesgoths.com/
"The greatest threat to today's society is the rise of the gothic subculture. Goth is a sinister and violent subculture obsessed with Satanism, Wicca, Vampirism, BDSM, rape, child abuse, Hitler, bondage, sick sexual perversions, serial killers, death, drugs, self mutilation and other sick practices to vile to mention. Goth's are the Devil's Children. In my opinion, Goths are more dangerous to children than pedophiles" - Rev. R.G. Green

WOW! What an amazing site!
But I have a wonderful relationship with all of my children and my parents. I am a respected research scientist and I don't take illegal drugs. I've never raped anybody or worshipped Satan. Gosh, darn it, I've spent the last 25 years thinking I was a Goth but now I find I am seriously lacking in true Goth characteristics. Oh dear, I better go and buy a beige cardigan....

Breakfast with Batgirl

2009-02-06T20:53:00.005+11:00

This is the superhero who greeted me this morning at the breakfast table. I love my girl's randomness, except when it involves shopping centres.

The Cramps

2009-02-05T20:46:00.004+11:00

Lux Interior has died. It is a sad day in the music world. Lux Interior, co-founder of The Cramps, has left us. The Cramps were one of my staples when I was in my mid-teens, A Date With Elvis one of my favourite albums. I moved away from them as my Goth tastes developed but I always remained very fond of them. I recently found a copy of A Date With Elvis on CD, which I was chuffed about as my vinyl copy of the album dissapeared long ago.
Thanks Lux, Gods bless.

Heatwave

2009-02-02T19:02:00.006+11:00

It's so hot... Even the kangaroos are leaving...

Fay Wray, Poe and Burroughs

2009-01-30T15:18:00.001+11:00

It’s hot. We are sweltering through our second week of days that are over 35°C and nights that don’t drop below 19°C. When I tried to get into my car to go home last night, I couldn’t touch anything without burning myself. I wrapped my skirt around the handle so I could open the door then attempted to drive home without touching the steering wheel. No-one can sleep properly and everybody is cranky. So too, it seems, are the insects.
A few nights ago I was sat at the computer, the front door was open to try to get some cooler air into the house, and a big, black beetle landed on the door mat. It waddled up and down making a hissing noise. I’ve never known beetles to be verbal before so I was somewhat intrigued. I explained to it that we were suffering from the heat as much as it was and there was nothing I could do about it. It was obviously unhappy with that and flew into the house and landed on top of the grandfather clock and began hissing again with much greater vehemence. I watched it for a while, waited for it to say “Never more” then decided I probably needed another glass of wine if I was to effectively project literary aspirations onto a beetle. When I returned our visitor was still sitting on top of the clock, still ranting about something and still refusing to say anything Poeish. I turned off all the lights in the house so the only source of light was from the porch and stepped back. The beetle eventually took the hint and flew out the front door. I shut the door after it and I could hear it on the doormat, hissing loudly (rapping?), for several minutes before it flew away.

The next morning I brought the child’s washing in off the clothes line and started to sort through the shirts, skirts and undies. Underneath a pink t-shirt was a large Bogong moth which jumped up and screeched at me. I cupped it in my hands and it wriggled and screeched like a banshee until I threw it out the dog door.

A very industrious spider has spun a web across the middle of the veggie patch. It’s an amazing effort – well over a meter across and very elaborate. Unfortunately I have had to tear it down a few times in order to get to the far end of the patch. Last week I went out to water the veggies and the poor beleaguered spider saw me approaching and ran to the top of its web and stood up on its hind legs and waved its little front legs around. I apologised for destroying its web and suggested that I could probably walk around the corn and not take the easy way on the path and hence through the web. It gesticulated some more then scurried off to its hiding place. I was surprised at how small the spider was, about the size of a 20c coin, and marvelled at how such a small creature could construct such an incredible web. I have kept my word and haven’t vandalised its work since.

Last night the beetle returned. It landed on the doormat and again marched up and down hissing its protests/social commentary. I took the opportunity to photograph it and then poked at it a few times to see if I could upset it more – I could! The hissing increased in pitch and volume and the beetle waddled around furiously flapping its wings. I’m not sure, but I think it said 'I want to see the manager' and something else about Kafka before flying away.

I don’t know why insects are suddenly able to speak, either verbally or in sign – maybe they always could and I just never realised. Maybe I’ve been spending too much time looking for fairies at the bottom of the garden.

I think I’ll reread The Green Brain by Michael Moorcock; sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts.

Invasion Day

2009-01-27T15:28:00.000+11:00

Yesterday, to celebrate the day that in 1770 Captain Cook pretended to discover Australia we had a public holiday. Pretended? Why yes, he already had a map of most of "New Holland", all he had to do was fill in the gaps. I can imagine the Dutch handing him the maps saying "You're welcome to it mate, it's hotter than hell, there's bugger all water and the weirdo fauna will either bite, sting or beat you to death".
"Sounds like just the place we need to dump our social problems" says Cook and sets out to plant a flag and lay claim.
I'm not proud of the whitey history of Australia - our attempted genocide of the native population continues and our devastation of the fragile eco system also continues. I'm ashamed of our prime minister's (any of them) Renfield like snivelling to the USA. The USA rips us off on trade deals and demands we have a certain percentage of American content on our television. They demand that we support them in their war mongering and demand to have military bases (including nukes) on our soil. In return we get the nefarious promise that if anybody ever tries to invade they will rescue us. They have locked up our citizens for years on end without charge and without trial and all our PM does is say "may I lick your bottom again please Sir?"
So I don't buy into the Australia Day stuff, but I'll happily have the public holiday thank you very much. Hypocrisy abounds.
The girl and I took the opportunity to ride our bike (my bike with the tandem attachment) to the National Botanic Gardens. It was well over 30C and the husband scoffed at our stupidity but we trundled off regardless. Last week I rode my bike to work, it's just over 12km and I coped reasonably well considering my current pathetic fitness level, and since the Botanic Gardens are across the road from work I figured I could do it.
And I did.
In homage to the day that was, we went to the cafe and ordered a meat pie (the Australian national dish) with chips and salad. Another thing I'm not proud of - our food sucks! As a token calorie concession I ate the salad, the girl ate the pie and we shared the chips. With the 15% public holiday surcharge a pie, a coffee and a lemonade cost us $23. Outrageous!
After lunch I lazed about on the lawn trying to recover enough for the ride home and the girl went lizard spotting amongst the bushes. I scoffed at the people with their Australia t-shirts and little (union jack containing - I will never get over the Australian public voting to remain a part of the commonwealth in 1999) flags painted on their faces and laughed joyously at the little boy with the plastic colander on his head.
I admire parents who let their kids be weird, in fact, I adore it. My girl would show up to day care in all manner of things - fairy dress and gumboots, odd shoes, whatever she wanted. Parenting is hard enough without fighting meaningless battles.
The pedal home was arduous. It was hot and there were lots of hills. The hardest part of the journey home is actually the last few blocks - it's a long, slow, incline that takes the last of my strength and leaves me collapsed in the front yard gasping for air like a landed fish.
The girl rewarded my efforts by putting The Addams Family DVD on instead of Barbie and the Magic of the Rainbow (ack!) and I lay on the couch for a few hours while my lungs regained their composure.
At dinner time she said "I think next time we go to the Botanic Gardens we should drive because I was falling asleep most of the way".
Later that evening after the girl was tucked up in bed, I flicked the telly on and caught the end of Sicko, the Mike Moore film. An American woman was reduced to tears in a Cuban pharmacy when she discovered she could buy the inhaler she needed for 5c when in the States it cost her $120. She commented that on $1000 a month income and needing two inhalers a month it was a burden. It made me appreciative that the inhaler I need for my asthma is only $30, and even more appreciative that if I was unemployed or on a low income it would only cost me $3.50.
I reflected on the society that we live in: we have access to free health care and if you have no income there is usually some sort of social security benefit you can get. Unless of course you are a student, then if your parents can't afford to give you money you must give up all hope of going to Uni and go and work in a factory - we can't have the working class getting edjumacated, all sorts of riff raff will start showing up at the golf club!
But apart from the exclusivity of higher education and the embarrassingly short life span and high infant mortality rate of our indigenous folk - we actually ain't that bad.
Let me list the good things:
- free and good quality health care
- decent education for primary and secondary
- freedom of speech and religious expression
- very limited access to fire arms
- legalised abortion
- scientists can pursue their research without their homes getting fire-bombed
- an abundance of fresh food and clean water in spite of our mostly desert status
- some of the most spectacular landscapes in the world
- a generally (very generally) laid back and tolerant population.
OK, so I'm not going to start waving the flag, but I will give thanks that I live here and that my not-so-distant ancestors CHOSE to come here and not the alternative.

Today is our two year anniversary of marriage. To my darling husband who took the girl to day care and collected her again so I could ride my bike to work and has just fed, bathed and put her to bed so I could sit here and blog, and who cooked a glorious Tom Yum for dinner I would like to say: "Sure, there are stones amongst the diamonds, but most days I wouldn't swap you for a fully recoed right hand drive Chev Bel Air full of Belgium chocolate".

The Psychology of Cows

2009-01-10T15:37:00.000+11:00

I love Christmas. I really do. But this Christmas I could have done without.
It all seemed so good. I had booked flights using our credit card points and we were staying at my friend's house while they were overseas. Free flights, free accommodation and my sister had offered to do Christmas lunch (usually my job) so I could sit back and relax for a change.

Unfortunately the husband doesn't share my enthusiasm for Christmas and had misgivings about several aspects of our trip. Our first hurdle was my brother offering to pick us up from the airport. My brother is a typical 20 year old yobbo and has, in his two years of driving, rolled a car, been caught speeding and recently rear ended somebody writing off his own car in the process. The husband objected to being chauffeured by somebody with such a bad track record. Unfortunately both my parents had been sick so the question of who was going to collect us was a difficult one. But my Dad dragged himself out of his sickbed and did the 1 ½ hour drive to the airport. I started to worry about him when he missed two turn offs, but we made it home safely and my Dad went to bed early.

Santa had forgotten to pack the present for my girl so the husband and I took my Dad's car into town to find a replacement. The husband was very edgy and moody by this stage and going through the crowds on Christmas eve wasn't helping. We found a present, paid some Salvation army ladies $2 to wrap it for us (so Santa's paper would be different from all the others) and I dragged the husband to a bar to ply him with beer and hopefully improve his mood and strengthen his resistance to my insane family.

It seemed to work and the evening went well until it was time for bed. My parents house is pretty big and even though they have enough furniture to fill 4 houses for some reason they don't have many spare beds, so the husband and I were relegated to the caravan to sleep. My Mum bought the caravan in the early 70's and it's comfortable enough except the fly screens have started to fall apart. My parents place also has lots of trees and my Mum fanatically collects water where ever she can. The result is that their property is a mosquito haven. So before I retired I checked all the caravan windows, closed the ones that had damaged screens, put tape over any holes I couldn't close and climbed into the small bed. The husband decided to stay up and wait for my yobbo brother who had gone drinking with his buddies. The yobbo and his mates had drunk most of their money and were sharing a taxi home. About halfway home the yobbo decided he needed to urinate so asked the taxi to pull over. Unfortunately their funds didn't stretch to a toilet stop so his request was denied. In defiance he wound down the window and relieved himself. Not surprisingly the taxi driver immediately pulled over and threw him out. He walked the remaining 5kms home. So by the time he got there the husband had made his way through two bottles of wine. They sat and talked and eventually the husband wobbled his way to the caravan and fell into bed, leaving the door of the van open.

The next morning, covered in mossie bites, we went through the rituals of Christmas. The girl played with the spirograph from Santa and the adults drank champagne and ate panettone. We waited for my sister and her family to arrive before doing the presents - she was putting the lamb and pork on the spit for lunch.

We all did pretty well present wise: I got series one and two of Star Trek Enterprise and all ten Star Trek films, a beautiful necklace that has a large black stone and a skeleton hand and Nigella's Christmas cookbook. The husband got a stack of obscure Goth CDs I sourced from the States, including two of Crime and the City Solutions, also a pair of spider cuff links and some horror films including "Christine" which was my dig at him for bingling my car a few weeks ago.

The girl, who has been complaining about "all the creepy Goth stuff in the house" opened her present from us, saw a skull on the front of the book and very melodramatically rolled her eyes and then collapsed on the floor. Later, when she discovered that it was a pop-up book of human anatomy and not creepy Goth stuff she was fascinated.

At midday the phone rang – my Grandmother and Great Uncle had arrived at my sister's place to find no-body home. So I hurriedly grabbed what I needed and my siblings and I jumped in a car. I couldn't find the husband before I left and I worried for his safety alone with my parents.

At my sister's house the spit roasting meat smelt fantastic and I busied myself making drinks for my elderly relatives. My sister took a large, raw chicken from the fridge and began prepping it for the oven. "It won't take long" she said. Suddenly understanding that lunch was hours away I asked about entrée "Prawns" she said, and pulled two trays of prawns from the freezer. I was horrified. My mobile rang, my husband yells down the phone "Where are you? You've left me alone!" he was about to get in a car with my parents to make the 4km journey. I reassured him and got back to helping with lunch.

My mother handed my husband a tray of jellies in glass bowls as he sat in the back of the car. She had made "frog in a pond" for the kids, except she didn't have any blue or green jelly so had used red. She also didn't have any chocolate frogs so had used grapes. About 500 meters up the road they discovered their neighbour's cow wandering the road. My Mum stopped the car and jumped out to go alert them their cow was out, yelling at my Dad to get the car off the road. My Dad drove the car up a driveway then got out to go help round up the stray beast. My Husband, still sitting in the back of the car balancing his tray of grapes-in-blood become somewhat alarmed when the driverless car began rolling backwards. Fortunately my Dad was able to jump back in the car and put the handbrake on. He and my mother then proceeded to yell at each other about the cows most likely course of action as they chased it back into it's paddock. Eventually they arrived at my sister's place and my husband, still balancing the tray of jellies looked at me and said from between clenched teeth "don't ever leave me alone with them again".

At this point my Great Uncle asked when lunch was because he had taken his insulin shot some time ago and needed to eat. I panicked. "Mum, where are the Devils on Horseback you made?" I asked, "Oh, I left them at home. Get your brother to drive you over to get them". So I did. (It's only as I type this that I wonder why I needed my brother to drive me). About halfway there we met my Dad coming the other way, he had gone home to go back to bed (still unwell) but had then changed his mind, he had the aforementioned horse-doovers so we turned around and headed back.

I presented the food to my aging uncle, silently praying he wouldn't lapse into a hypoglycemic coma then noticed they were sitting out in the blaring midday sun without any cover. I fiddled around with umbrellas, made a joke about stapling a bed sheet over the eaves then asked my brother to drive me back to my Mum's to get another umbrella. The husband asked me to bring back more wine and I was glad he had found the only coping mechanism available when dealing with my family.

While we were gone my brother-in-law appeared with a bed sheet and a staple gun and they attempted to staple the sheet to the eaves as I had suggested. Unfortunately there was nothing on the other side to support it. So the sheet came down and they fiddled around trying to suspend it between the two umbrellas using clothes pegs. In between the activity my Great Uncle and my Grandmother sat, having a sheet dropped on their heads over and over. At this stage my husband decided his best bet was to remain out of the fracas, under the willow tree in the garden, with his bottle of wine, and make friends with the dog – a boxer named Carla.

By now, the lamb and the pork on the spit was cooked and my sister was reheating the frozen McCain's roast potatoes and steaming the life out of some vegetables. I asked where the turkey was "Oh I didn't get a chance to buy any" was the reply. But hadn't I run into her at the supermarket the day before? I bit my tongue. The gravox and the kraft cheese sauce appeared and I almost collapsed. I decided to join my husband and anesthetize myself.

After the main course (and the meat was gorgeous - home grown lamb) I busied myself reheating the pudding. I asked for a mixer to make the brandy butter with and my sister replied "I'm not getting that out, it's at the back of the cupboard", and she handed me a stick blender. I was about to explain how you can't whip with a blender but decided to just shut up and make do. I was annoyed and the couple of tablespoons of brandy turned into a damn good slug of brandy, then another for good measure.

I had varied my pudding recipe: using glace cherries, muscat raisins, prunes and figs, a block of 75% cocoa chocolate, real suet and lots and lots of rum. It was divine. I will stick with this recipe. After the family had raved about the cauliflower cheese they all baulked at the pudding and complained that the brandy butter was too strong.

We adjourned to under the willow tree, my brother-in-law went and sat in his nearby car and played with his new Navman. We teased my brother's girlfriend about how she could do much better for herself than that idiot yobbo. My husband and Carla the boxer snuggled together on a chair, the kids zoomed around on their new bikes and our conversation was occasionally punctuated by a female, American voice announcing "You have reached your destination".

Two days later, our backs aching from the cramped caravan bed, mosquito bites itching, dehydrated from avoiding the over flourided water, desperate for a real coffee and with a sigh of relief the husband, the girl and I boarded a train for the city.

The house we were staying in belongs to my friends and neighbours. They have a cat so I had been taking antihistamines for a few days and hoped I would be OK. We arrived safely and the girl gleefully set about rampaging through the kid's room. I think there is nothing better than unhindered access to another child's toys. She was also overjoyed at the prospect of sleeping on the top bunk and demonstrated to me how she could climb up and down and "wasn't scared" of falling.

The cat arrived home, looked at us and said "who the fuck are you and why are you in my house?" then walked into the kitchen and demanded to be fed.

I walked past my house, tried very hard not to seem like a nosy landlord but longed to go in and resettle in my home.

We caught up with friends and family and the next day the girl's father collected her and I spent the evening going through that transition wherein I am suddenly childless and have no idea what to do with myself. That night the husbands bowels were gripped with a gastro-like illness that left him debilitated and sick for over a week.

The next day I was leaving to go visit my paternal grandmother; the cat was in the kitchen having it's breakfast so I left the back door ajar as I didn't want to shut it in the house. The husband was home so I didn't think twice about doing it. Unfortunately someone who was prowling the laneways peered through the back gate and saw the door open. They ripped palings off the gate until they could reach through and unbolt it then ran in, grabbed the husband's phone and charger and his backpack which contained all of his beloved rings, the cuff links I gave him for Christmas, an almost new bottle of Dolce&Gabana cologne, his art supplies and the house (Blandberra) and car keys. Even more unfortunately the car keys had the only remote for the alarm/immobiliser on the husband's car. Ordinarily this would be a nasty blow, but as he was already sick and feeling low the impact of the loss was even harder. When you are sick or you've been robbed your instinct is to find a safe place, curl up in your nest and wait until the storm passes. The husband couldn't do that, we were in somebody else's home and even though he could curl up in a comfy bed it wasn't HIS bed and he became more miserable with each day that he wasn't able to enjoy his holiday.

For New Year's Eve we had offered to cook for about 20 people, which between the 2 of us would be a piece of cake but it was decided that the husband would be banned from the kitchen, apart from not wanting to infect my friends with the gastro bug there were also going to be two pregnant women attending and the consequences of them getting gastro could have been devastating. The husband didn't deal with this very well. He knew logically that he shouldn't be involved with food prep, but he loves to cook and the exclusion added to his misery. To deepen the insult I decided to change his menu. My sister had given me a huge leg of the lamb they had slaughtered for Christmas and the husband was going to curry it. I thought that was a waste since the meat was so tender and flavourful without any added seasoning and I wanted to just roast it, keep it simple to allow the meat's own flavours to stand out.

I had two kitchen hands to help me chop veggies, wash dishes and keep my champagne glass topped up. I'd already pre-prepped one of the entrees and the dessert so the day of cooking went relatively smoothly. I had a great time and was secretly glad to be doing it on my own as the husband can be somewhat controlling and bossy in the kitchen and doesn't often let me indulge my passion for cooking. The husband showed up just as the party was starting and having spent the day with his best friend he was in a good mood. The Party was fantastic, it was so wonderful to catch up with friends, to see the poor, miserable husband enjoying himself for a change and to just relax into a social situation with people I love.

Two days later we arrived home. Any money we saved with the flights and accommodation has now been spent replacing the husband's phone, getting the car towed to an auto electrician to have the immobiliser removed and replaced and the husband has started to replace some of his rings. The husband's bowels have started behaving normally and the dog has almost forgiven us for abandoning her. It could have been much worse; no-one died and we have all recovered from our various afflictions. The girl is away with her Dad and Grandparents for the next few weeks so the husband and I have some precious time alone.

I still love Christmas.

What is Goth?

2009-01-02T15:40:00.000+11:00

I have had, over the years, various people ask me to define Goth and why I chose the path. I admit I love the superficial side of it all, the dress ups and make up and silly dancing. But there is much more. I got into an argument in a pub with a Christian (what was he doing in a pub??) once who insisted Goth was an obsession with death. Obviously I disagreed. Yes the main part of the trappings are skeletons and coffins and bats and spiders and all the vampire stuff and the cadaverous make up, but it’s a style that borrows these forms and is no more an obsession with death than wearing floral is an obsession with the reproductive organs of plants. It’s a matter of aesthetics. I happen to think red back spider are beautiful, their shape and intense colour is gorgeous and I also like the implications of them being venomous. Beautiful but deadly. It has a comedic poetry. And I think that is the essence of Goth. To be able to see the beauty in what is conventionally considered ugly, perhaps why the culture attracts outcasts – anyone can be beautiful in goth society: the fat, the skinny, big noses, small eyes – all those things the magazines tell us we shouldn’t have or be.
I grew up in a single parent family, my sister and my mother and me. We didn’t have much money and Mum shopped at op shops and even though she tried her best we always looked a bit odd (no I’m not paraphrasing a Dolly Parton song). This caused me much grief as a child but eventually I became aware that what the other kids had and thought was so cool was actually just crap. I developed an ability to discern quality from quantity. I took to making myself look odder, turned it around, threw it back at them – instead of wearing second hand clothes that looked a bit odd, I went for as odd as I could get. The Goth evolved.
Why do I like old horror films? Why do I like old cars? They have an elegance, a gracefulness that is lacking in their modern counterparts. The loss of form in function upsets and offends me. I insisted on getting a (second hand)claw foot bath, even though it is old and crappy and the enamel is chipping and a new fibreglass one would have cost less but would be just so BORING! A bath may just be a place to wash yourself but it is also a permanent part of your surroundings. I surround myself with as many beautiful things as I can, probably another reaction to growing up without, and now that I have the means I will buy what I like and am happy to pay more for a particular colour or shape. I want my home to be a place of beauty, a refuge I can retreat to and forget the ugliness and blandness of the world. I have never been able to understand or appreciate the aesthetics of modern furniture. Why would I want a craftwood and fake woodgrain table from Ikea when for less money I can get a solid timber one from a second hand shop? Is that a Goth thing? Not really, modern Goths may go for PVC and chrome - there are many styles within the genre.
Horror films, especially old school, have an elegance. There is an assumption that the audience has a few brain cells and can work out a plot, but also retrospectively a humour that is lacking in modern films. Frankenstein is not a story about a monster and a mad scientist, it’s about fear of the unknown and mortality and what makes a man. The tortured soul is such a common theme in the classic horror: the unwilling wolfman, the frustrated vampire. I think as Goths tend to be outcasts they can relate to the emotional turmoil and it is comforting in a strange way. The blockbuster films give most people little they can relate to - people with perfect teeth and flawless skin - but film noir makes us feel a bit less "weird". Therein lies the rub - we are weird, but perhaps don’t really want to be. We want to rebel but our rebellion is in fact quite orthodox - we simply conform to an alternative society.
I will never stop wearing black, dying my hair, driving a vintage car, listening to weird music, watching weird films, reading classic literature and being generally dramatic in style and lifestlye. What is the underlying, bottom line reason for it? I like it.

Checklist

2008-12-24T15:51:00.000+11:00

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.

Deck the halls

2008-12-04T15:56:00.000+11:00

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.

Stupid is as Stupid does

2008-10-20T15:58:00.001+11:00

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.

Blue, Blue Moon

2008-10-07T16:31:00.000+11:00

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.

The End is Nigh

2008-09-12T15:29:00.000+10:00

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.

Burning ring of fire

2008-09-09T13:55:00.000+10:00

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.

FIG JAM

2008-08-14T13:42:00.001+10:00

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.

Ice and Pronouns

2008-08-11T13:39:00.000+10:00

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!

Self Justification

2008-08-01T13:01:00.000+10:00

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.

Ding Dong Dell

2008-07-28T12:10:00.000+10:00

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.

Old and New

2008-07-14T11:40:00.000+10:00

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!

The house in the city

2008-07-10T12:05:00.000+10:00

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.

Belonging

2008-06-25T12:01:00.000+10:00

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.

Mollie

2008-06-17T11:46:00.000+10:00

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.

Microtomes and Madness

2008-06-04T11:35:00.000+10:00

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.

Eyes and Hamburgers

2008-05-15T11:29:00.000+10:00

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.

Classrooms

2008-04-30T11:27:00.000+10:00

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.

A poem of sorts

2008-04-20T11:23:00.000+10:00

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.

Earth Hour

2008-04-01T11:53:00.000+11:00

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.

Another trip 'round the sun

2008-03-19T02:12:00.000+11:00

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.

Religion

2008-03-14T01:56:00.000+11:00

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.

Eventually

2008-03-09T02:54:00.000+11:00

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.

The only goths in the villiage

2008-03-02T02:44:00.000+11:00

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!!

I'm not dead

2008-02-23T02:40:00.000+11:00

Long time no blog.....many things have happened - here is the condensed version:
The vauxhall is registered and going reasonably well. We have had the distributor recoed and it is booked next week to get the electrics sorted out, stereo and alarm installed. Then it's just seat belts and we're done. We've pretty much decided not to get it resprayed (save ourselves several thousand dollars) as we gave it a cut and polish and colour restoring wax and it looks ok.
My car, however, is at a garage, has been there all week and will most likely be there into next week. It is getting the front end rebuilt and several bits replaced. Hopefully after this it will be easier to drive. The front end was damaged just over a year ago when the car was stolen - but that's another story.
The husband and I spent 10 days in Tassie, attempting to escape the Blandberra heat. Unfortunately Tasmania was at the time experiencing a heat wave, it was yuk. We basically ate and drank our way around the isle and I put on 4 kilos.
My girl has started school, much to her dismay. I put the tandem on the back of my bike and we pedal there each morning. Tag-along tandem thingies are commen in Melbourne, I appear to have the only one in Blandberra - we attract quite a bit of attention and the girl loves it.
I've been looking for a job, without any luck. I am restricted to school hours so the jobs themselves are hard to find and the ones I have found I haven't been successful with. I get very angry when I spend ages on an application, email it in and then get an almost immediate reply "the position has been filled", well then take your fucking add down you time wasting morons! But even though the credit card is maxed and we have expenses and bills coming out every oriface, I'm not worried. We aren't starving and something will come up. We are happy and healthy and cask wine isn't so bad these days so why panic?
I've been reasonably good on my diet and at the gym and have lost my holiday 4 kilos. My new goal is to get into my size 14 jeans by my birthday. It is achievable although I would quite happily commit murder for a toasted cheese sandwich right about now.
I am still officially the world's worst housewife, my husband is on the verge of a nervous breakdown because there was a hairbrush on the bathroom floor the other day. My mind boggles....
Oh, and I've started listening to Pink. I think I need to get out more.

Vindicated

2007-12-28T02:39:00.000+11:00

The guy from Lube Mobile just left...and as I predicted the car is purring like a kitten. HOWEVER, the timing was OK - I hadn't stuffed it. The rotor button was shorting and two of the spark plugs were shot. If I had continued to fiddle with it I would have worked out the plugs, but I would never have guessed the rotor. Fortunately the guy they sent was over 40yo and had seen a distributor with points before and knew how to fix the rotor - with nailpolish. As luck would have it we have stumbled onto one of the few mechanics in Canberra who has worked on pre 1980 cars, in fact, he used to restore Morris Minors and Austins when he was younger; needless to say he is my new best friend.Now all I have to do is source a new rotor button, get some new plugs and adjust the tappets and we should be going good. It was nice to have a bit of validation and reassurance that I was doing the right thing, I just needed a bit more information.And he wasn't a high school drop-out. He went to tech.

Automobiles

2007-12-24T02:34:00.000+11:00

It's been quite a while since my last rant, life has been hectic. An update on recent events:..
My husband's car died. It has shuffled off this mortal coil and is resigned to the car afterlife status of "good for parts". We have a 1962 Vauxhall cresta that we bought with the intention of doing up slowly over the next few years. It has now become a matter of urgency.
Having (mostly) always owned an old car I am somewhat accustomed to the trials and tribulations that go with old car ownership. The Vauxhall is 45 years old and has sat unregistered in somebody's backyard for several years, we bought it sight unseen. As far as I'm concerned we are lucky that it isn't a rust bucket with shot rings and burnt out valves. My husband isn't so optimistic, he's more of a glass-is-half-empty type. So far we have replaced ALL of the brakes, which cost $1200. The exhaust needed replacing (common for cars that have sat for some time) that was only $200; various bushes and seals associated with the steering and suspension have also needed replacement. Not totally unpredictable. Overall we will probably get away with around $2000 for the car to get roadworthy. Then we have the leaky transmission and getting seat belts fitted. On top of all that are the cosmetics of a re-spray, a stereo and an alarm. I'm betting we will eventually have forked out at least 12 grand for the whole deal, including purchase price. OK, we could have gone and bought a brand new little chaff cutter for not much more, had a problem free and economical car – but it would have been a characterless, boring little box made of plastic which blends into the background.
Instead we will have a gloriously sexy, winged and sleek car that's made of actual metal and that is unique. It will suit us. In the mean time the husband had almost lost the plot, the loss of his motoring independence and the fact that I have been the one dealing with various mechanics and beurocrats has been frustrating for him. He feels powerless and is convinced everybody is ripping us off. Meanwhile I have been in close contact with all the mechanics, the spares guy from the Vauxhall club and the RTA and I know what's going on. Unfortunately when we took the car back for what should have been its final inspection the mechanic actually found a new fault. The husband is ready to pick up a semi-automatic and climb a tower, I'm still of the opinion that we have managed to buy a good car and all will be well. I predict the car will be on the road (legally) by the end of January.
When I owned a Morris minor I did much of my own mechanical work – I had no choice, I was a student and it was either pick up a spanner and work it out or walk, and you can't be a proper Goth in Birkenstocks. So I learnt how to do the timing, the points and plugs, change the oil and do a lube job (which is a lot less fun than it sounds). I arrogantly assumed that since I could handle a Morris I could also handle a Vauxhall – same vintage, both English. Important distinction: the Morris was a tiny 4 cylinder, the Vauxhall is a massive 6 cylinder with extras.
So far I have managed to take off and replace the manifold without too much drama, but attempting to adjust the timing has brought me undone. I've gone from having a car that was running roughly to a car that is only running on 3 cylinders and has no power. I have raised the white flag. Lube Mobile are coming on Thursday to sort things out (hopefully).
This sort of situation annoys me no-end. I am an intelligent, educated, competent person. I am capable of mechanical work – I have proved this. Yet for some reason I am unable to get the timing right on the Vauxhall. And the thing that really annoys me is that some bogun bloke who dropped out of high school is going to come along and get it right first go. He is going to adjust the points and the timing and the fuel mix and have the car purring like a kitten without so much as raising a sweat.
In my efforts to tune the car I have skun most of my knuckles, caused myself much back pain, aggravated my husband and discovered a whole new world of profanities but actually achieved very little.
Why is that? Why can't I manipulate a machine to run as it should? In my previous job I manipulated proteins at the molecular level and was (usually) able to make them do what I wanted – could a mechanic do that? I doubt it. I guess it is my ego that trips me up – I should be able to do what a mechanic does, given the correct set of instructions and the right tools, but I apparently I can't. I don't understand why.
I will continue to try to learn how to fix my own car and I am sure that one day I will be able to wield a spanner with the best of them, but for now I admit – I'm not that good.

Boobs and High Heels

2007-11-16T02:27:00.000+11:00

I am a feminist. I say this with full sincerity. As far as I'm concerned, a woman who is not a feminist is a masochist – end of story. I have never allowed the lack of a penis to stop me from doing anything except weeing standing up. I can change the spark plugs in my car, hammer a nail, use power tools, channel surf and burp as loudly as any bloke. I can also cook almost anything, knit, crochet, make my own clothes and go to the toilet without half of it ending up on the floor. On the weekend I installed new locking door handles on two of the bedroom doors while my husband pruned the roses. Life is as it should be in this home; we both do what we are good at, not what traditional gender roles dictate. I am glad my daughter is being raised in such a balanced household. I also like Barbie. I like her glamour, her shoe collection and her independence – I mean really, Ken was an afterthought, right?
When I was twenty I was struggling somewhat with the whole feminism thing. I had read The Female Eunuch several years before and thought I had the whole deal sussed out. Then I moved into a share house with a woman who challenged me to become a "real feminist". She wanted me to disregard my male friends, stop wearing bras (easy for her, she was flat chested) and stop wearing make-up. But I am a Goth, and cleavage, long high heeled boots and elaborate make-up was what I did. Yes I understood the implication that stiletto heels cripple you so you can't run away, that revealing clothes distracted from your intellect and that hiding your face under make-up was like wearing a mask and hiding your true self. I was torn.
Then I met a woman, twice my age, a fabulously strong, determined, intelligent, deeply feminist woman who lived her life on her own terms. She had done the whole hippy thing in the sixties and drank and smoked and took drugs, laughed loudly, told dirty jokes and had sex with whoever she wanted. I was totally enamoured with her, I wanted to be like her, I wanted her to be my mother. She also had a husband, a degree in mathematics, a house in the suburbs and a huge Barbie collection. What a revelation!
Feminism is not about following a particular doctrine, about burning bras and hating men. It's about living your life on your own terms, it's not allowing the lack of a penis to stop you from having a go at changing the washer in the bathroom tap. It's about doing things because you want to do them, not because some overbearing male tells you to. If you want to dress like a slut then go for it, but do it because you feel good about yourself when dressed that way and you better make sure you have the guts and the grit to defend yourself if you have to.
Nothing makes me angrier than excuses for removing self responsibility. When I hear that a woman who was raped "deserved it" because of the way she was dressed or where she was I get so outraged my head almost explodes. I don't care if the woman was stark naked in a bar at 3am, no-one EVER deserves to be raped or bashed or murdered (except maybe my ex) and the simple truth is that men are responsible for their actions. I don't care if you're drunk or if your father molested you when you were a child, we make choices. It is a conscious decision to hurt another person and I demand the right to say and wear whatever the fuck I want without repercussion. I know that's not a reality, but that's why I'm a feminist – it damn well should be. The fight isn't over, until a woman can walk alone down the street in the middle of the night without fear we need to keep up the battle.
And as for Barbie, well, there are a few very sick women who have tried to emulate her physically with ridiculous breasts and bleached hair, but generally – what harm has she done? She has many careers, she has been a single parent, she has her own house and car and campervan. She is an accomplished equestrian and she has a killer wardrobe. I'm fine with her and I don't mind that my daughter has dozens of Barbies and a huge box of clothes for them. What I do mind, and what I am very fearful of are the Bratz dolls and their associated merchandise. With my above argument in mind – they dress like strippers, even the babies. There is no glamour, not a single outfit influenced by Hepburn or Taylor or Armani, it's all street trash garb. My husband innocently brought two Bratz movies home from Video Ezy the other day, thinking the girl would like them. I'm sure she would, in fact I have had an all out screaming match followed by a full on-the-floor-limb thrashing tantrum in said store with her previously because I wouldn't allow her to hire a Bratz movie.
I refuse to buy into the sexualisation of children. I will not buy the girl a bra until she has breasts to put in it – even though bras are available for toddlers! She will not wear fishnet or high heels or get pierced until she is old enough to understand the implications and able to deal with them.
Apparently the average age teenagers start having sex these days is 14. That's outrageous. Not only is it detrimental physically, but what sort of psychological damage is it doing? Why can't kids be kids anymore?
I watched a few minutes of one of the Bratz movies, just so I could have an informed opinion, I barely made it through 5 minutes. A bunch of stripperesque girls sitting around saying "what-everrr" and flipping their hand in the air, tossing their hair and bitching about other girls. No. No, no, no, no and no. It's wrong, it's bad, it's obscene, it's far too American and my (almost) 5 year old girl doesn't have the sophistication to see it for what it is. A few weeks ago the girl discovered Cartoon Network and switched from ABC kids. The change in her behaviour was apparent almost immediately. We went for a bike ride and she shouted "looser!" at one bunch of cyclists and then "do you want a piece of me!" at another. After I stopped laughing I was horrified. Suddenly I had "ruined her life" because I wouldn't give her another chocolate biscuit, and she now says "awesome" and "aw maaan!!". I don't like it. Cartoon Network is being discouraged. I don't want to have to deal with a teenager until she is chronologically a teenager. At 5 she can stick with kiddy stuff.
Bratz are banned in this house.

In sickness and in health

2007-11-15T02:22:00.000+11:00

I am sick. Although most who know me would instantly associate me with an Alice Cooper type sickness, at the moment I am physically unwell. Not severely, I have something of a cold, starting as most do in my throat and now settled into my lungs. Basically, I feel like shit. After a horrendous shopping trip this morning I convinced the girl that she needed to look after me and let me lie in bed and rest. Soon I was tucked under a sequined purple piece of fabric, clutching a teddy bear and eating a pear that she had massacred for me. Bless her. I even managed to read a few chapters of my latest Bourdain acquisition (A Cook's Tour) before she got bored and demanded attention.
I am not a traveler. I have been a few places, but I don't really enjoy it. I am a homebody to the core. In my own home I feel safe and comfortable, I can relax. But reading Bourdain's accounts of exotic lands and even more exotic food I imagine that I could enjoy traveling; all it would take is an unlimited budget and the license to eat anything I wanted – this would mean a get-out-of-jail-free card in terms of calories and dysentery inducing micro-organisms.
Bourdain's descriptions of Vietnam brought back many memories of my trip there several years ago, in fact, he was there the same year I was. It was pre-bird flu and Vietnam was still finding its feet in terms of the massive tourist rush that was in progress. I had never been to any Asian countries and I was totally unprepared for the poverty and the constant harassment.
But back to the start…
At the end of 2001, after more than 18 months of trying to get pregnant and two miscarriages I walked into my doctor's office and asked her to try to find out why things weren't happening for me. She shrugged, reached for one of those big books doctor's have on their shelves, and commenced to write an order for every test imaginable. I had blood work done for hormone levels, vitamin and mineral levels, anything that may have been a factor, including genotyping. She ordered all the same tests for my husband. Weeks later we were back in her office as she explained the findings: my husband had a genetic mutation, a translocation of a part of chromosome 8 with chromosome 10. There was a chance we would never be able to have children. We were gutted, the rug pulled out from under, hit by a truck and several other metaphors for devastated. We walked out of the doctor's surgery, turned right and walked straight into a travel agency. "Send us somewhere nice, with beaches and good shopping, nothing too touristy but nothing too primitive, even a bit of luxury" was our request and we handed over our credit card. $8000 later we were booked to go to Vietnam for two weeks. Now anybody who knows anything about travel in Asia will immediately exclaim "$8000? That's outrageous!", and it was, but we had neither the strength nor the will to argue, we just needed to get away and have somebody else organize everything for us. And we did what I called the "rich white bastards" tour of Vietnam, we stayed at the best hotels, had guides and a personal driver for all commuting. We had several stretches of independence so we didn't feel like totally useless tourists, but these proved to be only opportunities for us to argue over what to do.
One of the drawbacks of attempting to run away from problems is that they invariably follow you. After two weeks of bickering our way around Vietnam it should have been obvious to us that our marriage was doomed, but we were both pig-headed idiots and soldiered on. A few months later I was pregnant with the girl.
I brought back with me from Vietnam many things – a gorgeous lacquer dinner set (which we gave to friends as a wedding present), a few lacquer photo albums, many clothes, hundreds of photos and an embarrassment for the excesses of my rich western lifestyle but also a deep seated shame for the damage my country helped the Americans inflict on people who basically just wanted to be left alone.
Also I think the seeds of hatred for my then husband had started to sprout, he was the worst traveling companion I could have imagined and turned what should have been a great adventure holiday into a grueling ordeal.
Anyway, I have decided that when I don't have anything utterly riveting to blog about, e.g. what I gave the cat for dinner last night, I will write an episode of a travel blog from my trip to Vietnam.

Shortbread and Bitterness

2007-11-08T02:10:00.000+11:00

Well, it's been a while since my last blurb….so what's been happening…..We had our first go at making Halloween pumpkins, which went quite well. They looked great at night with the candles going. We had one bunch of trick or treaters knock on the door – in their casual clothes. So I told them their costumes were shit and gave them some of the overcooked shortbread I was in the middle of making. They seemed pretty happy with their brown biscuits. The pumpkins are now sitting in the yard going mouldy and no doubt the boys went home and told their mums that I make really bad shortbread.
The shortbread was for the pre-school stall at the primary school fete. I cut it into Christmas tree, star and bell shapes, and put 9 pieces into a little cellophane bag and put some curly ribbon on it. It looked very naff. I haven't heard how much they sold or how much for, but I can feel good about having contributed.
The veggie patch is going well although for some reason the bok choy, parsley, rhubarb and rocket have all bolted to seed. This needs research and remedy. I am battling some little green caterpillars for ownership of the remaining bok choy and the weeds are just starting to encroach but otherwise it's all good.
There was a rather unexpected and tragic death in the immediate family that lives abroad. The circumstances of the death have rattled us quite badly. My husband has had something of an epiphany as a result and is promising to be the world's best husband and step father from now on. Meanwhile, he had to wear Speedos to work under his jeans because he didn't have any clean underwear. My efforts towards domestic goddess status are not going well.
On the weekend I took the girl to the big city to stay with her father and I spent the weekend catching up with friends and family. Over the past few months the girl and I have traveled south a couple of times due to my grandfather's illness and as such I allowed the X to spend time with the girl without asking him to contribute to airfares, which is our usual arrangement. So to reward my generosity he refused to take the girl on Friday night as he and his wife had tickets to Phantom of the Opera so he picked up the girl from my hairdressing appointment on Saturday morning. This caused several logistic problems with accommodation and travel and ultimately cost me extra money. When he informed me that his wife's sister was staying with them (and I extrapolated that to could-have-baby-sat) I was not amused. Later in the weekend he informed me that his wife was pregnant. Now this is something I have been anticipating and I actually am glad that the girl will have some siblings, but I was very unprepared for just how much the news triggered me into bitterness and pain. Don't get me wrong, I'm not jealous of the new wife, in fact I pity the poor fool and feel little but compassion for her and her naivety. But I feel cheated. I am unable to have more children, my age being a contributing but not the only factor. The X gets to simply marry a younger woman (much younger) and he can go for family no. 2. He carries a genetic mutation which caused us problems when we were trying to conceive and I had two miscarriages before getting pregnant with the girl. It took two years and was heartbreaking. By the time my third pregnancy reached viable status I was already exhausted physically and emotionally from the previous miscarriages and spent the entire pregnancy in super-paranoid mode being totally fearful of more loss.
My pregnancy was relatively easy physically, the usual nausea at first, sinus problems and then reflux/heartburn later and some intermittent sciatic pain and perpetual tiredness. Nothing too bad, yeah? Now, I'm not precious and I'm not a princess but making a person is hard work and puts an enormous strain on your body. A little bit of pampering, sympathy and compassion would have been nice – in fact, it would have been wonderful.
But the X thought it was hilarious to grab my oversized boobs and squeeze them, and when I cried from the pain he would laugh and do it again. He refused to allow me any indulgences, if I was tired or my back was hurting it was just too bad. If we went out at night he would refuse to come home early and at one party stayed until after 1am and even teased me with the car keys and laughed at me in front of his friends when I started asking if we could go. He even started competing with me and I would come home from work (so tired I was almost crawling) and he would already be in bed because HE was so tired/back hurting/not well leaving me to walk the dogs and organize dinner. I wanted to eat well, nutritious food, do the right thing etc but X refused to cook so if I was too tired to cook we had take-away. I used to joke that the girl was made of pizza.
The labour was difficult and ended with an extended episiotomy and forceps. I was badly damaged and actually totally incontinent for days after. The pain lasted six months. I was determined to breast feed as I had bought right into the "breast is best" propaganda but of course the baby had other ideas and fought me all the way. After 10 weeks of every feed being a fight I finally gave up and I was heartbroken and felt like a failure.
For the first month X was great, he helped with preparing formula and bottles and would even do his share of night feeds, I wouldn't have coped without him. But then he went back to work and the help stopped. He would put in token amounts of help but was basically emotionally and almost totally physically absent. The more I asked for help the more excuses he came up with to stay out at nights. Due to our financial problems (not entirely X's fault, but largely) I returned to work when the girl was only 3 months old. I was still only getting 4 hours of sleep a night and after six months of this I reached breaking point and considered suicide. I was diagnosed with Post Natal Depression and put on medication, which helped. Did the X change his ways? Did he offer any help, support, affection, compassion even a cup of tea?? No.
I was very isolated, ashamed and scared. When the girl was almost two years old I had finally had enough of his bullshit and told him to leave. My life hasn't stopped improving since.
The point of this tirade is to say – I didn't get to enjoy being pregnant, I didn't get to feel special. And I didn't get to enjoy having a baby. It was an ordeal; I was constantly stressed, deeply unhappy and very, very lonely. I blame him for this. If he had just helped me more, if he had just loved me as he said he did, if he had just shown some concern for my welfare if he had just BEEN THERE then things would have been quite different.
I now have a wonderful husband who loves me very much and I'm sad that I won't get to experience pregnancy and a baby with him, that my only experience was with a totally selfish, heartless bastard who ultimately didn't care if I lived or died.
So on Tuesday when they returned the girl to me, I looked at them and knew I should say congratulations, but I couldn't. I know it's wrong, but I resent their happiness. He doesn't deserve to be happy; he doesn't deserve a second chance. I do, but I don't get one. There is no justice here and it hurts me.
Shit happens, get over it, yeah? Yeah.

Watching Waistlines

2007-10-18T00:06:00.000+10:00

I have fallen in love with Anthony Bourdain. He hosts a travel/food show on Discovery. It's basically just him, traveling and eating. He is a New Yorker and has that droll New York sense of humour, but is also very intelligent, cynical and world weary. The only thing I don't like about him is that in spite of the fact that he seems to drinks heavily, smoke constantly and eat enormous amounts of high-carb/high-fat food he is stick thin. I've always maintained that old adage "never trust a skinny cook" and while I probably wouldn't trust him I certainly wouldn't turn him down either. He has that bad-boy thing working for him with a razor sharp wit, and even though he is cynical he also manages to maintain respect for the country he is in and the people with whom he interacts. He seems to only make disparaging comments about his countrymen and their food/lifestyle choices. A scene from his restaurant showed him reading an order which said "no butter, extra béarnaise", he ranted "No butter? What the fuck do they thing béarnaise is made out of? Morons." A very attractive man.
Unlike Bourdain, my love of food and my passion for cooking is very well reflected by my body shape. I am perpetually on a diet, living in depravation (no, not depravity....well...) and lamenting my vast wardrobe of clothes that no-longer fit.
I've always been a fatty, to varying degrees. I was a skinny little kid that developed into a fat little kid, turned into a lean teenager then became a voluptuous but slender adult. If the roller coaster had stopped there, I would be happy. But the combination of my Honours year and a job in a bakery had me spending hours studying and eating bread and pastries. I did Weight Watchers and lost the weight. But I didn't keep up my active lifestyle and soon chubbed up again. I went back to WW and worked incredibly hard at the gym and jogged, cycled and swam for about 12 months and managed to look HOT on my wedding day. But a crap marriage and 2 miscarriages soon turned to depression which turned into blubber. After the girl was born I hit my all time record fatness (and coincidentally depression) level. This time I went to Sure Slim and low-carb/starved my way down again. The past 2 years with my new love have, unfortunately, due to the distance thing been focused on food and wine and my weight has gone up again. I tried to drop some weight for our wedding and spent a fortune on a personal trainer and tried to stick to the Sure Slim diet again. I was eventually able to row 1000m in about 4 ½ minutes, but didn't loose a gram.
I have since moving here been trying to follow either WW or SS eating and have been going to the gym at least twice a week – again, I haven't lost a gram.
So today I embark on the Tony Ferguson diet, again low carb but with protein shakes and more flexibility than SS. By mid-morning I was craving a cheese sandwich, but I have been good and have made it through the first 6 hours OK. Apparently after 48 hours I will stop being hungry and the weight will start dropping. Fingers crossed.
I have no desire to be thin, I like curves and I like softness, I just want to get rid of the double chin, beer gut, wobbly arms and thunder thighs. I don't care if I have a big bum or big boobs, I can live with that, but my goal is to get from the wrong side of size 16 to the other side of a 14 (bordering on 12), that will do nicely thank you.
So Bourdain has now become porn for me: watching an attractive man eating. Like Vogue Travel and Living magazine (of which I have many): gorgeous places I will never go and sumptuous food I will never eat. At least I get to watch.

Old cars and escapism

2007-10-17T23:36:00.000+10:00

The girl and the dog and I ran away from home last week, temporarily. We hired a car and took off to the coast and stayed at a really nice b&b near Milton. We spent a day at Mollymook beach, which after the initial screaming episode caused by my not making sandcastles "properly", was fun. I buried the girl up to her head (was going to go further but people were watching) we splashed in the water – even the dog joined in – collected shells and made sand sculptures.
The b&b was set in lovely gardens with lush lawns so we ran around, kicked the soccer ball, played tag and hide-and-seek. After I worked out that I wasn't allowed to get possession of the ball, catch her or hide effectively it was loads of fun.
The past month or so has been very stressful for the husband and I. I've been dealing will all the stuff with my grandfather, the husbands car (and hence his independence) died and he has been getting quite a bit of grief at work and from his younger son. None of these issues involved the other except when it came to venting. Unfortunately the venting turned from healthy letting off steam to many fierce arguments and much finding fault. I needed a break, I decided the husband did too, hence my decision to bugger off for a few days. The annoying thing is, once I was gone our relationship improved immediately. I was reminded that ours is a relationship founded on distance: we spent almost two years 700km apart with only brief visits every few weeks. So over the phone we work brilliantly, face-to-face we aren't that great. But we are learning and getting better all the time.
The death of the Mercedes has spurred us into action with the Vauxhall. We bought a 1962 Vauxhall Cresta last year, it is black, has fins and is all curves and chrome and is total gothic glamour. Currently it is unregistered and needs minor work but it runs well and hopefully we will have it roadworthy and registered before too long.

In other car news I joined the old Holden car club last week and attended my first meeting. Typical boffin types, pleasant and very enthusiastic people. I will no doubt attend a few club runs and show off the EK and spend time admiring others. http://www.oldgmh.org.au/

On the drive back from Milton I passed the vintage caravan touring club. Magnificent. I have an early 60's caravan which is semi-restored. I am now inspired to complete the job so I can go touring in my gorgeous car with matching van I shall, of course, have to go in costume with a circle skirt and ponytail, Gothabilly style.
This afternoon I am going to do the veggie patch, version 2. The weather has been quite hot so I'm sure it's safe frost wise. It'll be snails next.

Spring

2007-10-11T23:33:00.000+10:00

My first spring in Blandberra.....so far so good. Only one crippling sinus headache and minor sneezing attacks, lets hope November is this good.Yesterday I hooked up the tandem bike for the girl onto the back of my husbands bike (my bike is temporarily out of action) and we rode to the video shop for our Wednesday movie exchange. About 6km round trip, not too bad. The girl is getting the hang of pedalling forwards, although she stills prefers to pedal backwards as she can go fast with no effort. But, to her credit, she did contribute to our momentum several times and was a small amount of help on the hills. The bad part is that I found myself yelling "pedal!!" when she was slacking and eventually realised I sounded just like my ex when we put in one of our very few attempts to share a pastime. I was very into cycling at that point in my life so he went and bought a bike. Now when I say "into cycling" I mean I rode my bike often, used it to commute, I didn't do it recreationally very often. So I wasn't into going as fast as I could or beating anybody, I just cruised. I wasn't interested in arriving at my destination puffing and sweaty and glowing red. My philosophy on hills was that down hill coasting was reward/recovery from the hard slog up the hill. My ex's philosophy was that going down hills is an opportunity to build up more speed. Our inaugural bike ride consisted of him racing ahead then doubling back to yell at me to pedal faster. When he found me coasting down a hill he was furious and screamed "pedal!!" We didn't ride together much after that. I apologised to the girl and she is keen to go again; I will endeavour to improve my behaviour.
Riding along we encountered several clouds of white fluffy stuff floating about, as if some tree or plant had suddenly dumped all of its seeds at once. No doubt it was this stuff that later caused my headache. It is actually very pretty here at the moment, the trees are blooming and sprouting new leaves, many flowers are appearing in gardens and on nature strips, the weather has been fine and sunny but not too warm. Quite lovely really, I may even become brave enough to replant my veggie patch. I am starting to appreciate more about this city; I can understand why some people enjoy living here. As long as you don't want decent live music, restaurants that are good AND cheap or any sort of alternative theatre or cinema then this place is great. I'm still keen to get back to the big city and I promise I will never take being spoilt for choice for granted again.

Coffins and Flowers

2007-10-04T23:22:00.000+10:00

I didn't recognize the little old man in the coffin, until I looked at his hands. They were my grandfather's hands – gnarled and twisted from arthritis and covered in sun spots from years of farm work. Distinctive and instantly recognizable. Looking at his face I eventually saw similarities between my grandfather and the old man in front of me. He was so emaciated, eyes and cheeks sunken and there was no smile, none of his naughty boy cheeky sparkle. Yet it was him, and he seemed peaceful. I know it's a cliché to say "he looked peaceful", but he did. He could have been sleeping, except for the unnatural stillness.
I reached out to touch him, I wanted to stroke his forehead, hold his hand – but I couldn't. I reached out a few times only to pull back at the last minute. I couldn't bear the thought of feeling him cold, the final confirmation that he wasn't sleeping.
I distracted myself by investigating the quality of the coffin, peeking under the lining to pick at the chip board and tap on the plastic handles. I approved of my Grandmother's sensible money saving – why spend thousands on something you are going to bury? But I was also glad my mother had insisted that my Grandfather be dressed; he was wearing the suit that he had worn to my mother's first wedding instead of the pjs he died in which his wife was happy to have him buried in. She refused to put shoes on him though and I giggled at the thought of his bare feet under the satin shroud. My Dad and I debated the correct etiquette for coffin apparel – does one wear shoes or not? I thought since he was in a suit then he should also have shoes.
The service was very respectful and short, perhaps not as many funny stories as there could have been and I missed my chance to contribute because I misunderstood the invitation. Only one of my cousins from the whole family actually did contribute. But that's my family – verbose to the extreme if it is meaningless, but faced with an emotional situation we clam up. We then drove for 3 hours to the cemetery for the grave side service. At the end everyone was throwing flowers in the grave, I eventually did because I thought I should, but I really didn't want to. Not letting go? Maybe. Watching the coffin descend into the ground was bad, really bad. I was very grateful for the presence of my little princess and my husband, they were a great comfort. I am quite sure we have got this whole death thing wrong, it's too difficult. There must be a better way. A process that doesn't make you feel like you've had your guts ripped out.
So now he is gone. He was a character: a man of endless wit, great strength and in his own way – much love. One of the corner stones of my family is gone. I'll say good-bye in my own time.

Pride Goeth

2007-09-25T23:21:00.000+10:00

A week ago I uncovered my well mulched veggie patch and began planting.Over the past 7 days the following seedlings were planted:
20 tomatoes, several varieties
8 beans
16 varieties of Asian greens
8 red chillies
8 basil
8 Thai basil
10 coriander
1 lemongrass
1 Vietnamese mint
4 snow peas.
With the seedlings settled in and mulched to the eyebrows with pea straw, residual weeds hoed and no sign of snails I thought I had done well. I watered, congratulated myself on a job well done and looked forward to the coming bounty.
They are all dead. All brown and shriveled. All (I don't want to add up how much I spent) of them.
I miscalculated and underestimated the tenacity of the Blandberra frosts. The days have been warm for well over a month, all the trees are blossoming and spring is well upon us. I thought it was safe. I thought the frozen earth was thawed sufficiently. I was wrong. They are all dead. Fuck it. That really pisses me off.

Cigarettes and Alcohol

2007-09-18T23:09:00.000+10:00

My grandfather is dying, as grandfathers tend to do. He has been dying for some time, years in fact. He quit smoking at 50, but after 36 years of inhaling tobacco smoke emphysema had already taken hold. Now, at 88 he has malignant tumours in his bladder, shoulder, chest and lungs.
He is currently recovering (unexpectedly) from pneumonia. He is bed ridden, unable to walk or even stand unaided and has developed many pressure sores on his back and bottom. He is totally incontinent and can't feed himself. He is almost deaf. He has had at least 2 strokes. Yet he lives. He hangs on. Is it grit, determination, constitution or simply that his wife won't give him permission to die?
What is it that keeps someone going when their bodies are broken and damaged beyond what seems possible? The medicos are in awe of his perseverance, his death has been predicted by them several times over the past 12 months. Yet against all odds, he lives.
My mother, sister and I lived with my grandparents when I was a child, my sister an infant. My grandfather was my only male role model for my formative years. He was a farmer, all brawn and work ethic. My grandmother was the brain, that was obvious. My grandfather is no doubt responsible for my staunch feminism – I was told he was the head of the household, but even as a small child it was clear to me that he wasn't. He was compliant, he did as he was told. He still does. Every night my grandmother leaves the hospital saying "goodnight, see you tomorrow" and he hangs on. She tells him to stay and he does.
My grandparents' marriage was not an easy one. They had to get married, she was pregnant. They have never celebrated a wedding anniversary (not even their 60th) in case somebody did the math and worked out their oldest child (my mother) was born only a few months after their wedding. Their life was made difficult by his catholacism and alcoholism. Too many children, not enough money – an old story. A life filled with many arguments, much resentment. But finally a bond that neither has the strength to break. Love? Habit? Fear? Guilt? Only they know the ingredients that hold them together (maybe).
I look at my own husband. A smoker for 32 years. Is what my grandmother deals with now what lies in my future? If so, do I have the strength, devotion and depth of love to deal with a husband wracked by lung disease? I don't know. As an asthmatic I know first hand the ordeal and pain of lungs that refuse to work. To struggle for breath is terrifying. It's not a state I would ever wish on anybody. I hope that if the time comes I have the strength, devotion and depth of love to say to him "Goodnight and goodbye, my love. Don't wake up tomorrow".

Since writing this, my grandfather has been sent home for his final days. He is apparently calm and peaceful, which is a great comfort to me as he was scared and confused in hospital.
And now we wait…..

To Boldly Go

2007-09-05T23:06:00.000+10:00

I am happy. I am porcine in excretum. I have a grin on my face that the husband finds quite disturbing. I have Star Trek, The Next generation, all of them. Every one. All the drama, all the action, all the monologues and all the skin tight uniforms I can handle.
Now here is my dilemma: I am an atheist. There are no Gods or Deities that I pray to. I believe in the randomness of the universe and of self responsibility. Yet herein lies the quandary – why is it that so often things seems to "fall into place"?
On the weekend I saw an add for box sets of Next Gen and DS9 for only $280 each. I already have all of DS9 on VHS, as much as I would love to upgrade and save some space as well, I couldn't justify the double up. But owning all of Next Gen has been on my wish list for some time. I looked at the add and lamented my unemployed status, my lack of financial fluidity. Six months ago I would have simply gone straight to the shop and bought both of them and given all the DS9 videos to the Salvos. These days $280 is a truckload of money. So I lamented and dismissed. The next day I received a cheque for $405.45, an adjustment for some shares from my previous employer. Today I own Next Gen. Coincidence? Of course. Or is it a case of "ask, and you shall receive"?
In previous blogs I have typed about the drama of losing my "precious things", my engagement ring and several important items and I have blamed unnamed universal powers for their loss and subsequently their return.
Was it a coincidence that when being faced with the question of my obsession with materialism I should be forced to deal with the loss of that which was most precious – materially and emotionally? Was is also a coincidence that the loss of my engagement ring acted as a catalyst for many fights between myself and the husband and that these fights forced confrontations that while momentarily traumatic exposed vulnerabilities to each other which ultimately brought us closer together? Only when we had both given up all hope of finding the ring did I eventually find it. Life lesson learned - reward given. The Gods spoke thusly. What Gods? Are there Universal powers? I actually prefer to believe in randomness. It is the only way to deal with situations such as two children in a cancer ward – one lives, the other dies. Why? Religious belief would argue divine intervention on the part of the survivor and "mysterious ways" on the part of the child that lost the battle. I'm sorry, but that's not good enough for me. Random variables and the action of chemotherapy answer both. But then we are left with those in our lives that behave in abhorrent ways (for some reason my ex-husband springs to mind) and the only way I can remain sane when thinking about such things is to summon up a belief in Karma. Therein lies the rub: my belief system changes depending on circumstance. I am a hypocrite.
So when the Mormons, excuse me, Latter Day Saints or Jehovah's Witnesses knock I am a pagan (gets rid of them real quick), when faced with mortality I am an atheist and will deal with my own shit but when faced with a bargain and an unexpected cash flow I will thank any and all of the Gods that I can find.
So thanks. Live long and prosper.

Faith

2007-09-02T23:03:00.000+10:00

At the age of 16 I had never seen a frozen lake. The sight of one induced both fascination and terror. It was the mid 80's and The Omen films had taught me to fear Rottweilers and falling through ice. The lake that lay before me was small, more a pond really, about 50m across. It was surrounded by forest; the moon shone bright above the lake and the trees reflected on the ice. It was one of the most beautiful scenes I can remember. The boy that had brought me there took my hand and tried to lead me out onto the ice. I was too scared, I pulled back and yelled my refusal loudly. He picked me up (I was a tiny 54kg, not the fatty I am today) and carried me out to the middle of the lake. I screamed and kicked and protested yet over the noise I was making I could hear the ice creaking and cracking under us. When we reached the middle he put me down and I stood, still screaming, but now also crying from fear. The boy took my face in his hands, forced me to look at him and said very calmly "I have told you that I love you but you still think I would do something that would put you in danger. How can I prove to you that you can trust me?" He then moved away from me and started jumping up and down. The sound of the ice cracking was almost deafening, the splitting sounds rang out and echoed through the forest. I couldn't understand what the boy was doing, why he was trying to kill us. I was crying and begging him to stop, eventually I collapsed to my knees and just cried, my face in my hands. The boy stopped his stomping and sat down beside me. "You need to learn to trust people, you can't live your life alone." He paused for a moment then looked me in the eye "this isn't a lake, it's a flooded field, the ice is no more than 50cm deep. Now will you please relax?" We looked at each other for a second, he laughed and I punched him in the chest as hard as I could, knocking him over, I was furious. I started walking back towards the edge, trying to be as dignified as possible while slipping everywhere. The boy caught me from behind, dragged me back to the middle of the ice and we chased each other, fell over, ran around and screamed and giggled as only teenagers can.
The impact and the significance of that night didn't really occur to me until much later. I had lived my life totally emotionally disconnected from each and all. Partly due to being raised by an emotionally absent mother but mostly as a defense against the bullying I had been subjected to at school. I didn't trust anyone and I would certainly never admit to feeling love. That lovely, charming, funny boy would teach me many things in the eight months that we knew each other. For his mere 18 years he remains one of the wisest people I have ever met. I owe him my emotional sanity.
We lost touch less than two years after I returned to Australia and for the most part I am happy to leave him to the realms of my romanticized youth. Events in my life at this moment have given me cause to reflect on what (indeed who) it was that made me who I am today, why I am able to remain relatively calm and objective while my family rip each other apart. Why it was that a disgruntled young would-be punk ended up with a degree in Biochemistry rather than a heroin habit. The people who influence us, the paths we take on our journey, are many and come in all shapes.
It is easy to look at a young troubled person and tell them things will be OK, it's much harder to look at an old, dying man and tell him the same. We can only speak from experience.

Shoes and Buses

2007-08-27T23:02:00.000+10:00

This morning the girl showed me a badge she had found (somewhere in the house) and wanted to wear to pre-school. It was a pretty pink badge with a fairy on it. Nice, just the thing a cute little girl could wear on her jacket. Except this badge, apart from being very cute, also happened to say "click your heels together three times and go fuck yourself". So I considered her request: the fact that she can't read, none of the other kids at pre-school can read – actually the majority of them can't even speak English – was working in her favour, but in the end I decided it probably wasn't a good idea for her to wear it. I tried to explain that it had a bad word on it and wasn't appropriate for pre-school and eventually she relented.
After I dropped her at pre-school I headed out to Belconnen to go to a shoe shop, the Foot Locker to be precise. I have been doing quite a bit of exercise recently, going to the gym and stuff, and since I spend so much time in exercise gear I decided to upgrade to something half decent. At the Foot Locker store at Woden I found some gym shoes that were black (oh my god!) and had a very subtle gold design in the stripes and were actually quite attractive. Of course they didn't have my size. So I rang the Belconnen store and asked about them, unfortunately I didn't know the brand or the model number but I figured since they were the only black gym shoes (probably in the southern hemisphere) it shouldn't be a problem. Blandberra has a strange staffing thing going on where it seems to be illegal to employ anyone over the age of 15. This is across all areas of retail and hospitality – wherever you go, whatever shop or café you venture into you can be 99% guaranteed to be served by a small child who can barely see over the counter. So speaking to the sales person wasn't so much as akin to speaking to a surly teenager – I actually was speaking to a surly teenager who informed me that his shop stocked several different black women's gym shoes and he couldn't possibly help me with so little information. I said to the husband "I bet they don't have ANY black women's gym shoes" and decided to go and look for myself. I was wrong, they had one pair of cross-trainers that were black, had fringing on them and were hideous. They didn't have any gym shoes at all.
I wandered about the shopping mall, a Westfield (aren't they all?) and marveled at how they can perfectly reproduce shopping malls, much like McDonalds stores, no matter where you go they are all the same. I guess this is supposed to be comforting, the safety of familiarity and all that, I find it unsettling, disturbing and quite sad. One thing Blandberra does not seem to have in any form is strip shopping (stripPER shopping – yes), every shop is contained within a shopping centre. Boring.
Driving back home to collect the girl from pre-school I was following a bus that had a poem in the back window, promoting national poetry week. The lettering of the poem was large enough so that I could read the first bit of it while we were stopped at an intersection, but then had to chase the bus down the freeway and tailgate until I could read the rest of it. It was a nice poem, the first line was something like "he knocked on the hard wood of the casket", so you can understand why I had to read the rest. Needless to say that I was concentrating so hard on tailgating the bus and reading the poem that I missed the turnoff I needed and had to take the very scenic route home. It was worth it though, a nice poem does wonders for the soul, and indeed lack of sole.
Tomorrow at pre-school is a birthday party, the girl needs to wear party clothes and take a present and party food. She will no-doubt go dressed as Snow White or a fairy, I bought some fruit sticks (domestic goddesses have days off too) and the present is a big red spider that has one of those little traction wheelie things in it so it will scoot along the floor. Like the badge says…

The King

2007-08-16T22:51:00.000+10:00

When I was a child I lived with my mother and my younger sister in a flat in Ballarat. My mother was attending teacher's college and she spent long hours at school and longer hours at home studying. I was often left to care for my sister and I soon discovered that if we wanted dinner before 9pm and something of edible quality I had to make it myself. I moved a stool up to the stove and did so. I was 9 years old.
The weekends that weren't spent driving 3 hours to my mother's parent's farm to stock up on food were spent in our little flat watching television. Back in thoose days Elvis films were routinely shown on Sunday afternoons and my mother and I would watch them. Usually she would be in the background doing something else, but we watched together in some capacity. It was just about the only "quality" time I spent with my mother. This began my love affair with Elvis. After less than a year of this lifestyle Elvis died. I remember listening to the news reader announcing the details, I was sitting on the floor in front of the telly and I stretched out my hand to the image of Elvis that was on the screen and felt utter grief. I felt that the loss had diminished the world somehow. My mother was totally nonchalant and insisted she was unmoved by the death. Years later she would claim no memory of having ever watched Elvis films with me at all. I didn't really care if she remembered or not, it didn't change what was. I have maintained my love of Elvis films, my adoration of the sound of his voice, his looks, his eccentric life and eventually the whole Elvis phenomenon. In fact, my first husband (may he die slowly and painfully) bore a very slight resemblance to Elvis and could almost sing like him. I have wondered if this tenuous link to a comfort zone in my childhood was what attracted me to him (fuck knows nothing else makes sense).
So I love Elvis. Elvis's voice has a quality that is soothing and sexy, his face was very sexy but in a non-conventional way that I find very appealing. I have never really gone for the Hollywood poster boy types, I like men that have character: striking and unique faces. Something interesting about them. Elvis was certainly that. As tragic and ultimately as sad as he was, his life was incredible. As a child I cried when I watched his last concert in Las Vegas, when he was fat and unhealthy and forgot the words to Unchained Melody. In hindsight, it would have been better for him to die before he got to that – like Marilyn or James. It is sad that he is remembered as a fat drugged out weirdo who died on the toilet. I prefer to remember him in that sexy leather gear he wore for his comeback special when he was young and gorgeous. Before all the drugs and deep fried peanut butter sandwiches and before the karate instructor started shagging his wife. When life was all about being glamorous and randomly philanthropic.
I used to work near the Carlton cemetery and I jogged through it on my lunch breaks. There is an Elvis memorial grave there that I would stop at, give my regards to, and then shuffle on my calorie burning way. One thing I adored about that fake grave – there were always fresh flowers on it, with cards (yes I read them) that said "I love you always". No other dead husbands or fathers inspired that sort of devotion.
Elvis was special, unique and more than a man of flesh and bones could ever be. He will never really die. I love him always.