My Kingdom for a finial.

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

No thanks

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

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

Most of my neighbours are nice..

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucky I'm an atheist

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.... Read more!

Deck the halls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End is Nigh

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

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

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

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

Self Justification

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

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

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

Read more!

Eyes and Hamburgers

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

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

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

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

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

Earth Hour

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

Automobiles

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. Read more!

Watching Waistlines

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. Read more!

To Boldly Go

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. Read more!

Faith

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. Read more!

The Husband

My husband does social type work, looking after the disenfranchised youth of Blandberra. The other day one of his regular clients, a rather colourful person, arrived at the service and demanded to know "is it fucken' true what they say about you?". My husband, not being one to ever admit ignorance shouted back "FUCK YEAH!". The young person responded "yeah, I fucken' thought so!" and promptly left. My husband is now left wondering who "they" are and what he has just admitted to. The array of crimes or personality traits to choose from are mind boggling. The punishment for being a smart arse.
One of his favourite jokes is…what do you call a youth worker who wears a full length leather coat and drives a Mercedes? A drug dealer. Hee Hee. (He's not, by the way. He looks very cute in his leather coat and the Mercedes is 33 years old).
He does an incredible job, deals with traumatized young people all day, five days a week, looks after them, solves problems. Then comes home to a basket case wife and a demented four year old and continues to take care of us.
Back in the olden days when I worked for a living I would be having a bad day at work because I'd misplaced a data file. He would ring, listen to my ranting and moaning. Eventually I would get around to asking how his day was going and he would tell me about a teenager who he just had to have admitted to the psych ward, or a girl who wanted an abortion because she had been gang raped. I would be instantly humbled; it is so easy to become self absorbed, to think your problems are earth shattering. More often than not they are trivial and not really worth getting so upset over.
At the end of my first year at uni, a year of drinking, drugging and shagging and not very much study I was faced with the prospect of failing. I was scared, upset, mad at myself and worried about disappointing my family. One of my housemates gave me a book of writings by Krishnamurti. I read it cover to cover in a single sitting. It wasn't earth shattering revelations or the secret to the meaning of life – just a reminder that life goes on regardless. It actually didn't matter if I failed Uni or if my local chemist stopped stocking my favourite lipstick colour – life goes on. I stopped worrying. I didn't fail, not very badly anyway and I was able to sit supplementary exams over the summer. I did fail physics, getting a measly 38 to be exact, so I needed to make up a subject. I ended up doing English Lit, quite an unusual thing for a science student to do, in fact the admin computer had to be adjusted to accept my enrolment. But it was brilliant and probably one of the better things I ever did academically. It never paid any bills, like biochemistry ended up doing, but it got a few of the cobwebs out of the right side of my brain, made me grow a few creative neurons. It was the silver lining. What was the point of this rant? Oh yeah, my husband is ace. Read more!

3 mobile

My previous mobile phone was an LG U880. It had a camera and it could play mp3 files. It came with a cable that connected it to the computer via a USB port and transferring files was a cinch. Each of my friends had their own ring tone, which made life much simpler. For example, when my phone started bawling out "I fucken hate you, you're such a liar" (Godsmack) I knew my ex-husband was ringing and I could ignore it. I had over 2 dozen songs stored on the phone and as many photos. My new phone, an LG U310 was supposed to be a "free upgrade". My first discovery was that there is no way to physically connect the phone to a computer, it has Bluetooth. So off I go and fork out $50 for a Bluetooth adaptor for my laptop. So much for the "free" part. I get it all connected, which was quite a bit of fiddling around and a total pain in the arse, and I start downloading songs. After the grand total of 2 mp3 files the memory is full. What?? I read the manual and try to find how much memory the stupid thing is supposed to have. I couldn't. I did, however, discover that an "optional extra" is a memory card. Well, there, as far as I'm concerned, goes the "upgrade" bit. This phone is more difficult to use and requires the purchase of at least 2 "optional extras" to make it as-good-as the previous model. I was furious. I stormed back to the shop and asked them to explain which part of having to pay for extra bits to make the phone comparable to the previous model comprised a free upgrade. They informed me that I could purchase a 512mb card for $50. I argued that they should give me one free in order to meet with the free upgrade part of the deal. They declined and told me to ring "customer care". I realized that there was no-one working in the shop over the age of 17 and they didn't have the authority to do anything, so I left.

Once home I rang customer care, which of course is a call centre in India.
I saw a documentary several months ago about this whole call centre thing. The documentary was apparently presenting both sides of the coin although I felt one side had been polished a bit more than the other. The bottom line was this: call centres in Australia are typically staffed by uni students and backpackers who are doing it merely to make a bit of money on the side. It is in no way considered a real job. Call centres in India are staffed by people who study really hard and compete for the jobs. It is considered an honourable career and they exampled a woman who had given up being a surgeon to work at the call centre because the pay and benefits were better. The final polish was the statement that often the workers at these centres were supporting their entire family. OK, I was convinced. I stopped complaining about the damn call centres and tried to be nicer whenever I had to deal with one.

So I went through my rant with the Indian girl, stating that I had been mislead into signing a further 24 month contract with the free upgrade which was in reality a downgrade and if I paid an extra $100 was at best a replacement. I said I wanted a free memory card and/or a substantial discount on my plan as compensation for being ripped off. No. So I asked to speak to somebody else. She put me on hold for at least 10 minutes, probably hoping that I would go away, then her supervisor picked up the phone. She was even more pedantic. Did I check the memory specifications and features of the new phone before I purchased it? No I didn't. Well then it's not our fault. We debated the meaning of the word "upgrade" and the responsibilities of sale staff under these circumstances. She would not budge. She would not help me. There was no-one else I could talk to. End of story. I was basically being told to piss off.
I went to the phone book – there is no other number for 3, just the call centre. I went to their website – no other contact was available. Finally I decided to ring Hutchinson, the company that owns 3. I asked to speak to somebody regarding a complaint about my 3 mobile. The girl said, very sweetly, "certainly, putting you through"….to the fucking call centre in India. My head exploded. I rang Hutchison back, explained to the very sweet girl that I DID NOT want to speak to India, I wanted to speak to a company representative in Australia. "The are none" was the reply. "There is not a single representative of 3 in Australia?" "None that deal with customers". I persevered, finally she asked me to hold and transferred me again.
Another Indian voice on the phone. I asked, in a less than sweet voice, if I was speaking to Customer Care in India. "You are speaking to the Priority Care centre, we deal specifically with complaints" – geographical location undisclosed.
So off I went on my tirade again. I explained that a free upgrade should in fact, be FREE and an UPGRADE. She agreed and offered to give me $100 credit on my account to cover the cost of the additional accessories and took down the details of where the sale was made so the staff could be informed of their mistake. She also explained that if I ring the technical help line any problems I have connecting the phone or using the handset would be dealt with, in fact, they would be "delighted" to help me. She then gave me the number of this call centre, this secret call centre, the number of which does not appear anywhere on the 3 web site, this centre which is not mentioned by the other centre. This centre which actually solves problems and tries to keep customers happy. This centre that you have to walk over hot coals to get to.

Unless of course, you are reading this……3 Priority Care Centre 1800 426 717. Pass it on.

Read more!

Never say never

Last night I did something I said I would never do. This is not too unusual; I often make proclamation of "never", only to discover that "never" does not always fit the conventional interpretation.
There have been times when I have had a jolly good go at "never". In the mid 80's I decided "never" to eat at McDonalds again (them being one of the evil empires). This lasted until the late 90's. Not bad, and then I only gave in because I was drunk and hungry and the victim of peer group pressure.
Some "never"s that have been much less successful were: mortgage, career, marriage, children, track pants, living in the 'burbs, short hair, drink that much again, marry again and PVC. Obviously most of those were the declarations of an idealistic, naive young person. I mean, what did I think I was doing at uni if I wasn't going to end up with a career? And no-one can predict the force by which the old biological clock grabs you and shakes you until you consent to conception.
A few "never"s that I have maintained for sometime now are: to sky dive again, to go in the sun without hat and/or sunscreen, wear yellow or orange, join the army (that's too easy) or buy shares in BHP. Others that I mostly stick to but make occasional exceptions include watching blockbuster films, reading books written by men, listening to anything that has made the top 20 or buying merchandising crap for the child. I view these as guidelines more than rules and it is with that view that I gave in last night.
I watched Alien V Predator.
Actually, it was pretty good. Read more!