An exercise in unnecessary maintenance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

*How come I can remember what I wore to the pub one day in 1985, but I can’t remember where I put my car keys?
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I fixed the comments thingy. So go on.. Read more!

Time off

With the Girl safely in Melbourne with her Dad for the school holidays, the husband and I are trying to enjoy some adult time. Unfortunately the 'flu (oink oink) has also decided to join in. Just as I went into recovery the husband crashed. We did manage to get out on Saturday night to my friends (a Mum from school) 40th birthday party. I got wasted and sang karaoke for hours with another wasted Mum with a night off from kids. It was fun. The husband was mortified but showed good grace and didn't disown me - which would have been difficult as the only two Goths in a crowd of 50 middle class Blandberrans. I'd bought a new shirt, paid WAYYY too much for it, but it's purdy and shows off my boobs. I spent the next day feeling guilty, thinking about the other Mum that I had led astray and how bad her hangover must be. I was relatively OK, having the tolerance of a third generation alcoholic, but puppy school at 8:30am was something of a chore.
The dog training school we are going to uses the clicker method of training. Basically, every time the dog does as it's supposed to you click the clicker then give a treat. This worked fine until Bela realised that he could either work for a tiny bit of dried liver or he could partake in the duck poo smorgasbord all around us for no effort. So I stood there in my hangover haze while he wandered about eating poo. The trainer was not impressed and I had a flashback to the back row of physics in high school. Unfortunately Bela gets car sick so on the way home he sprayed the backseat with a mix of semi digested duck poo and dog food. It made me thankful for the faux leather upholstery in my car.
During the week I watched the latest Torchwood mini-series. Damn it's good, but unfortunately the last one since most of the characters have been killed off. On Saturday we went to the market and bought all our favourite foods: the husband bought oysters and steak and I bought 4 cheese ravioli and a duck breast. We had a gorgeous meal and enjoyed each others company. This morning I woke and thought "well, I better go to puppy school" but looking at the clock discovered that puppy school was over, so snuggled back for several more hours sleep. What a fabulous luxury. We eventually emerged from the house and went out into the world to go see the new Transformers film. It was utter rubbish, but highly entertaining. Apparently it was nuclear family night at the cinema and we were the only couple there without a disgruntled child with them. But we enjoyed the film and saw ads for the new Where the Wild Things Are film (one of my favourite books as a little kid) and Coraline, which look good. We struggled to find a bottle shop and take away that was open, I mean, it WAS after 8pm (my gods this place shits me) but managed to arrive home with a bottle and a semi decent chicken laksa.
So life goes on. We are well rested and well fed and have new movies to look forward to. The dog isn't learning much but the backseat of my car is very clean and I can add "unresolved classrooms issues" to my list of neurosis.
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Here is an exerpt from an email I received from a friend, it gorgeously describes the agony of being a parent. We had a heart-breaker this morning. J was 1st reserve for the school excursion to Jamberoo Water Park. He'd been looking forward to this for so long. The fact that we’d missed a definite booking had been beyond our control. If someone didn’t show, were they going to call us? We didn’t know. So I said to him you wake me in the morning. He sets his alarm – but forgets to turn it on. At 6.50am I wake up, then he and I are racing. Me in my pyjamas and he tossing ‘last minutes’ into his bag. I didn’t curse any drivers out loud, but in my head they got called a lot of things. We arrived just as the busses were pulling out the end of the street. “2 seats free”, his friend texts back. Were they stopping in Goulbourn on the way? No. So what now? Do I drive to Wollongong in my pyjamas? Run the bus off the side of the highway?

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

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

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

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

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

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Life is Beautiful

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

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.

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Checklist

Checklist:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't forget to pack the pudding.

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Stupid is as Stupid does

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

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

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

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

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

Blue, Blue Moon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End is Nigh

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

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

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

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

FIG JAM

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

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

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

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

Ding Dong Dell

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

Old and New

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

The house in the city

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

Microtomes and Madness

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

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

Eyes and Hamburgers

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

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

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

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

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

Earth Hour

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

Another trip 'round the sun

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