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Tuesday, 10 June 2014

An Interesting Lifestyle Choice

I have made an “interesting lifestyle choice” apparently.

I’m not entirely sure what this means, but people keep saying it to me, regardless.

It sounds like I’ve decided to move to the outback and dress only in the discarded shells of cicadas while conforming to a diet of cabanossi and pickled onions.

I haven’t though. All I’ve done is gone back to work.

Some of you might recall that I had a baby. Which was fine and whatever, and I took a year off to teach him how to be alive. He’s pretty much got that covered now, so I have decided to go back and be a part of the adult world and wear things that aren’t tracksuit pants again.

My husband has left his job and is staying at home with the creature to further teach him how to be alive.

This is where the “interesting lifestyle choice” comes in.

I don’t really see why though. It’s not interesting. In fact, it’s completely boring. I’m going back to work and doing what I’ve always done. Wear a suit and convince people they need what I have. Along the way, I earn money. I happen to get more of that than Husband does. Which is why I am currently sitting at my desk in uncomfortable shoes counting down the hours until I can leave and Husband is at home trying to aeroplane Weet Bix into a mouth that is moving around like a fun house clown.

This is not an interesting lifestyle. This is someone going to work and someone staying home to look after a small child that doesn’t yet know that drinking bath water isn’t the best source of hydration. This is the most routine lifestyle there is. But I am a girl and Husband is a boy and because I’m working and he’s not, this apparently makes it ok for strangers to comment on. (Nosey receptionist at the chiropractor, I’m looking at you.)

Just a heads up though, guys. It’s not ok to comment on. And frankly, if you think that’s an interesting lifestyle choice, you need to get out more.

Wednesday, 28 August 2013

Shake It

Something has happened to my cocktail shaker. It's 1:47 in the morning and its been taken off the shelf for the first time in months. Also, someone has just thrown up on me and my sink is lined with empty bottles. 
Ask most people in their mid 20's about this kind of behaviour and they'll tell you it's excellent form for a Friday night. Only, it's Tuesday and this kind of carry on is fast becoming a feature of my life.
Something has happened to my cocktail shaker. I used to use it to make ironically retro drinks. Mix up a few Rob Roys... Maybe a Gimlet or two... Now though, it's been sterilised. 

You know the guy that threw up on me earlier? That's my son. He's 10 days old. He does it a lot. I don't take it personally though. He throws up on everyone. It's still weird that I have a son. I mean, I know who I am and I'm pretty well acquainted with what I have and when I checked the list 2 weeks ago, he wasn't on it. I have a job and a Pug and a liking for Turkish delight. I have a French Bulldog and a 1979 Datsun named Zee. I have a short attention span and a pure and loyal love of swearing. And now I have a son. I don't know if this changes everything or nothing about me. I still have all the things I had before but now I have extra things like a scar that stretches the whole way across my lower stomach and the most incredible responsibility I could ever imagine. 

Something has happened to my cocktail shaker. It's been conscripted into the formula production line. This thing was designed for a good time. It was designed to get you liquored up and dancing and now look at it. It's in a saucepan on the stove immersed in water at a constant rolling boil. It's got 12 scoops of formula and 600ml of cooled down boiled water in it. It used to make dirty martinis and grown men cry. 

Something has happened to my cocktail shaker. I never thought that this is what was meant for it. How could I have? But now that its here, it kind of works. 

Wednesday, 13 February 2013

I Hate Being Pregnant

I hate being pregnant. There. I said it. I know a lot of women who luuuuuurve being pregnant and you know what? Fuck them. It’s awful. I know I’ve broken the cardinal rule of human baking: Thou shalt be happy about your stretchy uncomfortable uterus at all times, but it’s about time women were made more aware of this shit. I don’t want to turn this into a Mommy Blog, (You guys are aware of the existence of those things, right? “Keeping a Godly home and raising my kids to do right and not eat sugar and not have fun and hate the gays!”) but I do just want to let you know about some of this. I’m not going to post pictures of my uterus and ask who you think the seahorse looks like, but the fact is, I’m growing a human inside me. A tiny one… like a teacup human. It hasn’t been easy. 

My body is resistant to things it should not be resisting. It's low in things it should be high in and pretty much arse backwards for everything else. I have to give myself injections 4 times a day and I'm not going to lie to you: The first time I had to do it, I sat in my bedroom with the door closed blasting inspirational music and sobbing for close to 2 hours. It was the hardest thing I've had to do so far. I am not a needle person. When I was a child up until I was (embarrassingly) in my late teens, I would have to be held down for blood tests and injections while I screamed and cried and the idea of pushing a needle into my own soft, white flesh almost broke me. That was a couple of months ago and I'm pretty good at it now. I'd still prefer not to do it of course, but I get through it with only a mild amount of swearing and one or two baleful looks at Husband.

The thing is... no one warned me that this could happen. I've been told that pregnancy is lovely. It's a happy, glowing beautiful time where you enjoy the last 9 months of your own life before you become a slave to a tiny squalling cone headed shit machine. You know what? Not true. SO not true.
I will tell you some things about pregnancy if you want to listen. And if you don’t want to listen, I’m going to tell you anyway.
I was pretty lucky in the beginning. I didn’t get morning sickness. The only time I throw up is when I haven’t had enough sleep, which at the moment, is all the fucking time. Husband has been very supportive of me during this period, especially in SMS form. 

“Still not well. Today I threw up all my apple juice. :(”
 “Where did you get juice from?”

To start with, not puking up everything I ate frightened me. I mean, that’s how people know they’re pregnant, right? And everyone says that that’s how you know it’s going to be a healthy pregnancy and a healthy baby. The sicker you are, the better it is for the baby they say. I wasn’t sick at all. Not even a little bit. I was living in a constant state of quiet terror. And being a curious person, I did something no one should ever do. EVER. I Googled. I typed in “11 weeks pregnant and no sickness.” You want a tip for pregnancy? Don’t do that. Do not Google things. For the love of God, don’t do it. You know what you should do if you’re worried? Talk to the doctor. Just go and talk to them. Ring them! There’s a pregnancy hotline at my hospital where I can call and ask them all the stupid questions I want and they won’t yell at me. I should have done that. But I didn’t. And you know what I got for Googling? All of the top search results were for something called “missed miscarriage” or “missed abortion.” I didn’t even know that was a thing. It’s pretty much where the baby dies, but your body doesn’t tell you about it. You don’t get pain, or bleeding or anything. You just feel “less pregnant.” As I never really felt pregnant, I was appropriately panic stricken. Seriously, how is that a thing? How is that a thing that they don’t tell you about?
But, I didn’t have that. I heard the heart beat and saw all the doctors and everything appears to be fine. Fine that is, apart from all the shit I can’t do or eat. 

I went to Thailand recently. It was lovely. If you haven’t been, go. I had a great time. I went elephant riding, off road buggying, snorkelling, speed boating, sea kayaking and got massages. All of these things had signs strung up proclaiming “NO PREGNANT WOMEN!” Since I don’t look overtly pregnant at the moment, just a bit fat, I did an excellent job of ignoring all of these signs. Why can’t I do things? Just because I’m gestating shouldn’t mean I’m excluded from fun, should it? I mean, just because I can’t bend in the middle anymore doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be allowed to ride a damn elephant if I should choose to. I’ve already had to give up all of the food I love, so activities are the only things left to me. I’m not going to sit in a quiet room and eat carrot sticks and cry for the next 4 and a half months.
A friend of mine asked me yesterday what I’m giving up for Lent this year. Nothing. I am giving up nothing for Lent this year, much like I did last year, and the year before that and every year I can remember. But, this year, I have a reason. I have nothing left to give up. You want a list of the shit I’ve had to give up?

Hot chocolate mix
Diet soft drink excluding ginger beer
Smoked salmon
Pre-prepared salads
Sandwiches from sandwich shops including, but not limited to, Subway
Deli meats
Salami, chorizo, prosciutto and the like
Any meat that is not cooked “well done.” No pink in the middle at all
Cold left overs
Left overs that have been in the fridge longer than over night
The ability to sleep on my stomach, or at all
The health of my nails

Yeah. That’s right. How lovely and exciting and glowing is pregnancy looking now?

You want to know some other shit about pregnancy? It hurts. Those cramps you get to warn you your special lady flowering moon time is about to be upon you? Yeah. That happens all the time. That’s your uterus growing. It’s not pleasant. Your back also hurts. And your boobs. And your head. Pretty much anything attached to you or inside you is going to hurt. You can take Panadol or paracetamol, but nothing more effective than that, and really, if I can’t crush up Xanax and Valium in my breakfast tea, what’s the point of living?
Also, if you throw up too hard, you will pee. On yourself, on the floor, pretty much on whatever is located south of your vagina. I cannot wait for the day my kid says to me “Mummy, I feel sick, I can’t go to school.” You know what kid? You do not feel as sick as I did when I was pregnant with you, and I projectile vomited tomato soup and meat balls all over the toilet stall at work and then pissed myself a bit. AT WORK. So get your arse out of bed, put on your back pack and get the fuck out of this house, you’re going to school.
Apparently though, at the end of all this they give you a baby and they let you keep it and it’s supposed to make it all worthwhile… We’ll see.  

Thursday, 25 October 2012

The Great Perhaps

Adventures can start with a spontaneous bang, or with a tiny kernel of quiet resolve, like ice in your heart.
Embarking on something new is always terrifying. If you’re not terrified, you’ve not grasped the situation properly. People have told me I’m brave for trying new things, but I’m not. I’m terrified. I’m always afraid of the unknown. I’m afraid that as soon as I try something new that I’ll fail at it, and everyone will know and strangers will point at me and whisper as I walk down the street and say behind their hands “That’s her… That’s the girl that couldn’t.”
But as I sit here at my desk, working at the same company I’ve worked at for close to 6 years, I’m feeling a new kind of fear; the fear of stagnating. It’s like heavy cold water sitting in my stomach and spreading through my veins. I see people leaving and going on to other, presumably better things, but I’m still here. Why? Why am I still here? Because I’m afraid. Here, I know everything. I know all the processes and all the products and all the people. Out there, I know nothing. There’s a common saying in my office amongst the people who have been here a while: “There’s got to be more to life than this.” And you know what? There has to be. What the fuck am I still doing here? Why aren’t I out there in the great perhaps?  I know what I want to do. I know it in my heart, but it’s just so hard to take that first step, to trust in yourself enough to do something. Anything! It doesn’t have to be a big step. Just a tiny shuffle in the right direction is enough. Almost anything in life is repairable. You can get a new job, you can grow your hair back, you can take out the nose ring that once made you look so tough, but now is just a youthful booger collector in a too old face. The only thing that’s stopping you, me, everybody, is fear.  I feel myself getting closer and closer to this unknown, to this point where I must jump. Whether I fly or fall remains to be seen, but I know that I can’t stand here forever wondering. I have to take the chance and see. And it’s coming. My time is coming and I will be out there in the new shiny terrifying world trying things.

Monday, 17 September 2012

If my calculations are correct, when this baby hits 88 miles per hour... you're gonna see some serious shit.

I jumped into my DeLorean on Friday night and commenced my epic drive to Sydney.
About 6 hours in, I realised that I’m too old for this shit. 26 is too old to be working all day, and then driving all night. I used to be able to get by on no sleep at all. Work all day, go out til 5 in the morning, and then be back at work at 9. I don’t know how I did it.
Husband, Small Boy Dog, Small Girl Dog and I arrived in Sydney at 4:45am. Family’s Large Round Girl Dog was startled but seemed quite happy to share her bed with two energetic sneezing creatures at dick fuck o’clock.
We had a wedding last weekend to attend in the Hunter Valley and another one to attend next weekend in Avalon, and I’m staying with my family for a week, and working out of my companies Sydney office. Husband has flown home to Melbourne for the week, but will be back up next weekend to be best man.
The thing that I always notice first when I go back home, is how low down the light switches are. I can’t find them in the dark, because I’m searching the wall 3 inches above where they’re actually located. I know this is because I’ve gotten taller from when I lived there, but it’s like everything in the house has subtly shrunk. I’m sleeping in my old room again which has the brightness of a thousand suns from 5:30 in the morning til about 5:30 at night. It’s a very strange feeling, it’s like I’ve actually gone back in time. I lie in bed in my teenage bedroom and text husband and read books. I get lunch packed for me, and dinner is ready when I get home. There are biscuits in the pantry and white bread in the freezer. There’s real butter and sweet sandwich pickles and the barbeque sauce lives in the cupboard. There’s pork roasts on Sundays and jelly fluff for dessert. My Grandfather comes with me in the mornings to the train station so I don’t have to leave my car there and I can get driving practice in, then I ring him when my train goes past Lidcombe and he drives my car to the station, so I can drive home.
I feel like I’m 19 again and the last 7 years of my life never happened. I’m getting up at the same time that I used to, going to the same train station, catching the same train, fighting for the same seats, getting my hand wedged in (probably) the same sweaty man’s armpit because he thinks it’s appropriate to lean against the pole that other people use to hold on, and when the train lurches around corners he catches himself with his armpits instead of his hands. I’m walking to the same office, stopping at the same coffee shop and drinking the same (terrible) coffee. I’m having lunch with the same people and complaining about the same things. I’m not seeing Husband during the week, just like I used to, back when he was Boyfriend instead of Husband. I’m being fussed over and allowed to go to bed early without anyone making fun of me. I get to hide in my room and read all the trashy sci-fi books I want. I’m going to a BBQ on Friday night with the same friends that I used to spend every weekend with from when I was 11 til I moved to Melbourne at 22.
It all feels slightly off though. A bit like I’m a round peg in an oval hole. I still fit, but it’s not seamless like it used to be. I’ve changed a lot in the last 7 years. I’m more independent, less able to factor in the needs of a lot of people; I’m not as good at being in a fast paced environment or being around crowds. As much as I have bemoaned being a grown up and paying rent and bills and doing grocery shopping, you can’t go back in time. You can’t be a teenager again, even if you do everything the same way you used to. Life changes you, and if you do try to go back, sometimes you realise what you have now isn’t so bad. 

Tuesday, 7 August 2012

I hate you, don't leave me.

I was diagnosed with bipolar affective disorder and borderline personality disorder when I was a teenager. I must have been about 16 or so when it all happened. I have always understood that it is an illness and it's not something that I caused or was really my fault. I've read about a lot of people who take all the blame for it on themselves but thankfully I never had that layer. Maybe Im selfish. Who knows? It's not something I really like to talk about though. I don't say to people " Hi! I'm Kit. Nice weather we're having and by the way, I'm a manic depressive with a weak sense of identity and a fear of abandonment. Do you like gelato?" I don't feel that it defines me as a person any more than having eczema would. It's something that I have and there are steps that I take to manage it. When I was first diagnosed my family were fantastic. My GP diagnosed me with depression and gave me a referral to see a psychiatrist. I was put on medication to treat the symptoms while I went regularly to counseling sessions to try to understand why I was feeling this way and to learn what trigger events were setting off my episodes of depression and mania and my unfounded fear of rejection.
My Mum bought a book to read to try to help herself and me understand what was happening a bit better. It was called I hate you, don't leave me. I never read it, but the title was always something that stuck with me, even now almost 10 years later. It's hard when your feelings are such a complete mess that even thinking about it makes you exhausted. I hate you, don't leave me is how I felt about most people in my life around that time. I hated them, everything they did and said annoyed me and I was 90% sure they were only put on earth to piss me off. I couldn't be without them though. I would actively seek people out and want to spend time with them and talk to them only to become enraged minutes into the conversation. It wasn't their fault and in most ways it wasn't my fault either. I was so new to these feelings that I didn't know how to express them and understand them. It was hard for me because I couldn't articulate what I was going through and it was hard for my family because they didn't understand. I kept a lot of the really bad stuff from them too. At the time, and even now it's not stuff that I talk about.
I went to counselers and psychologists, psychiatrists and psychopharmacologists and was prescribed antidepressants, antipsychotics, mood stabilisers and was told I might have to spend some time in hospital if I didn't improve. I hated it. The medications made me physically sick and a lot of the time I was unable to get out of bed. I was trying to study for my HSC but couldn't focus on anything. I had a boyfriend and we treated each other appallingly because neither of us understood. I took myself off all the meds, which isn't a safe thing to do, and spiraled out of control.
Eventually I learned something called Cognitive Behaviour Therapy. I don't think they do that anymore, but it was the only thing that has ever helped me. I've had 2 really bad episodes in the last 6 years which is incredible because I used to have 2 really bad episodes a week. I think it has to do with growing up and my brain maturing but also a lot to do with recognising the onset of it and distracting myself from it. I've always written and that helps a lot. I bake now when I'm frustrated and angry. It calms me. I play with my dogs or I read a book. I'm not cured. As far as I know, there isn't a cure. But that's ok. I'm not ashamed of my illness and having it has made me who I am and I'm stronger for it. My brain doesn't work quite the same way as other peoples do but if it did I wouldn't be someone who bakes and blogs and always says exactly what she thinks. I apologise if sometimes it seems like I hate you, please though... Don't leave me. 

Friday, 25 May 2012

As Triple J says: Watch out! Bad words! Now!

“Swearing, they say, is a human universal. Every language, dialect or patois ever studied, living or dead, spoken by millions or by a small tribe has a certain group of words that are considered swearing.”
Swearing is like all language – fluid. It is never static or stagnant. Language has a wonderful quality of movement that changes and adapts to the world as the world itself changes.
Swearing is by no means a recent thing, some researchers have suggested that humans could swear before they could walk upright as anyone that’s tried to wake up someone with a hangover can attest. Modern day swearing evolved from cursing and profanity and while those are still synonyms for swearing, they once had a different meaning.
Profanity came about by taking holy things and using them in unholy circumstances. God damn it, hells bells… that kind of thing. Things that most of us don’t bat an eyelid over now or even really consider swearing.
Cursing was literally putting a curse on someone. My family is Irish and the Irish have some top notch curses. They are the sinister, ominous counterpoints to the blessings that we hear in every wedding toast. They are sometimes comical, sometimes profane but always clear in intent. “May the cat eat you and the Devil eat the cat.”
Swear words however are words that have become detached from their exact meaning and just sort of float about to add intensity to other more innocent words. What we consider swear words now, in the past weren’t. They were just the literal description of things. Cocksucker, arsehole… etcetera ad nauseam. The Bible uses words that we now consider swearing. Men who “eat their own dung, and drink their own piss” 2 Kings 18:27. For the secular enthusiast Shakespeare is awash with swearing, though most of it is not recognised as such anymore. The oldest traces of human writing include swear words. But, as I said, swearing has grown and changed. It wasn’t really until the turn of the 20th century that one of the most common phrases in the swearers arsenal (fuck you) was recorded and it took about 20 years for “go fuck yourself” to show up. Using “fucking” to emphasise a point was around from the 1890’s and hasn’t really gone out of fashion since. Around the same time the word “motherfucker” was thought up.
So, why this foray into etymology on a chilly afternoon? It’s simple really… I like to swear. I don’t see swearing as inherently bad. I don’t think it’s bad language.
My Mum doesn’t swear. She was into her 40s before she said the word “fart.” She considers it bad language. Sometimes if she’s really quite angry, she’ll say “bugger.” I used to get into trouble for saying “bum.” As I’ve grown up and my vocabulary has increased beyond that of a toddler, I will sometimes swear just for fun. Sometimes it’s to articulate a point, or to emphasise a particular fact but a lot of the time, it’s just because it makes me happy. I swear for the sheer joy of swearing. I attack it with reckless abandon. Swearing is to language what vintage cheddar is to cheese. Stinky and uncompromising, strong and evocative and unapologetic. It’s powerful to be able to stand up and say “Actually, fuck you.” Swearing is an outlet for my creativity. I like radio stations that leave swearing in their songs, I like TV channels that leave swearing in their shows. The conversations in my workplace would be reduced by half if all the swearing was taken out. Swearing is often the only thing that can drag me out of a bad mood. It’s a bonding tool in my world. The more I swear at you, the more I like you. And so, with the best of intentions… Fuck off and leave me alone.

Wednesday, 14 March 2012

"It's not a car Kit. It's a 2 tonne killing machine, and you're driving it, so help us all."

I've never really been one for self transportation. I never learned to ride a push bike, a scooter, a skate board or a motor bike and I consistently fell over on my roller-blades, so I gave up. It took me until I was older than should be spoken of to get my learners permit for a car too.
Husband has bravely volunteered to teach me to drive. Lesser things have ruined marriages. We both feel that we can get through it though.
When I first got my L's, I was taken to a big gravel car park on Beach Road in Sandringham. I wasn't allowed to accelerate. Not even a little bit. Apparently the car idled high enough that it would move itself and I could just steer. Which was awesome, until the hoon spirit over came me and I had a burning desire to travel at more than 2 kilometers an hour.
I was allowed to then drive in circles, accelerating up to 20 kilometers an hour. It was impressive, I tell you. I was overtaking all the parked cars in the car park. Once, I even overtook an old man with a walking stick. It was exhilarating.
After that I got to drive in an estate. You know those ones where all the houses are the same? Kids are supposed to play outside and people jog and smile near the fake water features? Anyway, I was allowed to drive there, doubling my speed yet again to 40. I was a rally car driver! I drove in between a parked car and a parked bus. I felt like I was driving on the death road in South America.
When I graduated to driving on a more road-y road we went to the Docklands and drove around there. There aren't that many cars and it's a feature rich kind of road. Like a fruit and nut chocolate bar versus a plain one. There are traffic lights and speed bumps and pedestrians who are too fucking stupid to realise that they probably shouldn't jump out of a hunk of metal and plastic moving at 50ks an hour piloted by an out of control red head with a sadistic gleam in her eye.
One such night I was driving around the Docklands in a special route that took me around corners and other drivery type things. I had made an executive decision that I was bored with my special learning route, and wanted to deviate. Husband agreed. I missed the turn I had intended to take and ended up driving on a real road. Or, as I call it, The Scary Road. For some reason that night there were an abundance of police cars around and at all times, one was following me. This made me understandably nervous. So, I got lost on The Scary Road, and ended up driving into the city. I almost ended up on Spencer Street, which would have been a disaster. I had to do a U-Turn and I ended up stuck on some tram tracks when I mistook the brake for the accelerator. Then, I got beeped at by an angry man.
Husband was reassuring through all of this. He really is a very patient man.
I'm driving fine now, and no longer hear Husbands dismayed gasps as he says "BIT TO THE RIGHT!" as I'm going along beside parked cars. I do still make jokes that if Husband was ever to form a band, he should call it "Grasping At Doors" after his habit of grabbing the Jesus Handle or the Oh Shit Handle when he thinks I'm not braking fast enough or he thinks I haven't seen something in the road ahead.
When I ask him for advice sometimes on how to execute a particular move, he will feel confident to answer my question of "Ok. So, how do I get to there from here?" with a curt "Left!" and an eye roll, rather than an instruction of how to turn the wheel and when to brake and accelerate.
As I said, Husband is a patient man. He's also a nice man. For example, he wouldn't let me drive over a cyclist that yelled at me on the weekend. I know that I'm a new driver, but I know that I am of the same opinion as a million other drivers on the road. For the majority, cyclists are huge self entitled jerks. Apparently, he thought I didn't see him. Like I could miss his spandex covered sweaty fluro arse. He was so far in my lane instead of over in his ow little bike riding section and apparently a foot of space between my wing mirror and his over inflated ego isn't enough.
I thought you got extra points if you hit the ones with wheels? I could be wrong though. I am only new.

Tuesday, 14 February 2012

Happy Valentine's Day - Does this rag smell like chloroform to you?

I know I’ve spoken about it before, and I don’t doubt that at some point I will speak about it again, but please, for the love of God, put down your fucking iPhone.
Yesterday was Valentine’s Day and whether you’re on the “Snuggly-bear I wuvs you so much, you’re my honey boo-boo for evers!” lobby, or whether you’re riding shotgun throwing flaming bags of dog shit onto couples from the top of the “This is just an excuse for Hallmark to make money! What a bunch of commercialist claptrap, I can’t believe people would buy into this blarney! I am an independent person with very high self-esteem and don’t need a dying flower to cement my belief in myself!” bandwagon, I would like to think that we could possibly agree on one thing: If you are out on a date, leave your fucking smart phone in your fucking pocket.
Husband and I forgo presents and will go out to eat or participate in an activity for days that are special to us. Anniversaries, birthdays, things like that. For Valentine’s Day this year, we went to Gingerboy in Crossley St in Melbourne’s CBD. I’m going to make a little aside here, and say that if you go to Gingerboy and want a cocktail, get yourself a Lustful Revenge. It’s like Ribena and Turkish delight had a baby. An alcoholic baby and that baby is AWESOME. Anyway, there are a million reviews out there and everybody knows Gingerboy is amazing, so you don’t need me telling you how great it is. My point is that out of the completely full dining room, Husband and I win the most romantic couple award. We may win by default, but by God, that counts.
Everybody in the restaurant, apart from us, at some stage pulled out their phones. It was obvious by the bluish tinge on their faces as they furiously tapped at their crotchal region. The couple next to us spent the entire night on their iPhones. I think at some point they were even texting each other. The couple on the other side lasted most of the night until the girl pulled out her phone to tweet “OMG… Why is this so spicy? Why would curry be spicy? It’s inedible!” I know this because she said the same thing out loud, multiple times before sending her food back. Here’s a hint love, if something says chilli crusted, chances are it’s going to be hot.
I thought I had made a silent alliance with a couple sitting adjacent to us who were also sniggering at the texting couple until I glanced back sometime mid-Wagyu beef and they were tapping away at a suspiciously phone shaped object. Honestly, it breaks my heart. A guy in my company gave his girlfriend 12 long stemmed roses, a heart shaped box of chocolates, a fluffy dog toy and a Tiffany & Co ring this Valentine’s Day. My husband gave me the best present of all though, his attention and the gift of his conversation.  

Monday, 6 February 2012

Too lazy to finish a sente....

One of the dangers of being a slovenly creature, like myself, is that when home alone one night and cooking dinner for yourself without witnesses you are liable to make mistakes. Take for instance, this evening. Husband is at dance and I am home by myself cooking stir fry and drinking diet rite Portello directly from the bottle. I put the delicious beverage (with 5% juice - it makes it healthy) down on the bench. When I pick it up and take a swig I notice it's rather thicker and more oystery than normal.
Yeah... That'll be the Oyster Sauce then. That's not even close to Portello.
I know that I could have avoided this entire situation by pouring the damn thing into a glass, but it's just so much effort.
It's the same crushing laziness that leads me to kick my shoes off in the general direction of the designated shoe area, and trip over them time and time again until I give up and finally kick them close enough to the wall that I won't trip on them in the middle of the night. I won't actually bend over, pick them up and move them, I'll just scoot them further with my foot so that they're not such an immediate trip hazard.
It's the same debilitating not botheredness that refuses to let me put things away when I'm done with them. I look at the things on the bench, the flour, the eggs, the sugar and this wave of instant lackadaisical apathy will come over me. It's why there's a soft toy ninja on top of my recipe books. He doesn't belong there, but it's just so much effort to move him.
There's a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle spread on the floor of my study. I haven't even finished the border, but I can't bring myself to sit down and actually do it, nor can I bring myself to pick it up.
My casual attitude to the general neatness of my environment has been a problem for those that live in my vicinity for as long as I've been alive. I maintain that I know where everything is and it's a sort of strata system.
I washed that dress and put it on the pile about 2 weeks ago, therefore it will be approximately 1 meter from the top of the pile, slightly to the left, because the clothes fall that way due to some trick of gravity or the slant of the chair I have placed them upon.
Husband is a neatness freak. Everything has a place. He may not necessarily know where he's put it, but damn it, he put it somewhere and that's where it lives.
My kitchen has a whole bunch of random hooks that things hang off. So does my bathroom. I have a fucking wok hanging from my kitchen window because that's it's spot. Husband has decreed that the wok lives on the right, and the fry pan on the left. I wanted to go for more traditional curtains, but hey, let the man have his fun.
My house, were I to live alone would possibly resemble that of one of those hoarders houses. Not because I have any attachment to the things, just because I can't quite bring myself to put down my sci-fi book, get off the couch and fold towels.
It's something that I know I'm going to have to work on... Just not now, I'm reading this book.

Wednesday, 11 January 2012

It's my hut. Get out.

I just ate an entire bay leaf. Without chewing it. I can feel it lodged in my throat. I didn’t do this on a dare or anything; I was just stuffing ross fil forn into my mouth at my desk on rapid speed and missed that it was in there. I’m a bit all over the place at the moment.
This is my first week back at work after the Christmas break so I still have holiday brain. I went on a cruise, like the 75 year old woman I am rapidly becoming and the boat was a hotbed of disease and subsequently, I came away with a cold that still hasn’t abated as well as an addiction to smoked salmon.
Also, it’s my moon time, so to speak. You know… Tom is here and Auntie Flo is visiting and they’ve taken over the house and gotten the painters in. The river is running red and I’m riding the cotton pony. I’m bleeding out of my lady bits for all those still a bit confused.
I know a lot of ladies have told a lot of stories about this, and I know a lot of guys have covered their ears and gone “LA LA LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I know also, that 90% of guys reading this have already ripped their computers off their desks and thrown them out a window, but for those still with me, thanks.
I know it’s not a commonly touted symptom of making Draculas teabag, but it makes me mushy brained. I have something called secondary dysmenorrhea. That’s a real thing by the way; you can look it up, probably not on Google images though. It makes me more tired and confused than normal. Yesterday, it made me try to dig out my uterus with a spoon. It makes me into the kind of person that eats whole bay leaves and cries at ads for potato chips. The pain it causes is only marginally diminished by the fast inhalation of heavy pain killers and chocolate covered pretzels. I tried to make a good decision today and eat something that wasn’t bad for me, but still tasted like cake. I had a Yoplait F
ormé. It’s fat free yoghurt. The label promised me it would taste like classic cheese cake. It fucking lies. It’s a little pot of lies and disappointment. Doesn’t it know that it can’t lie to me like that? Especially not when I’m so fragile!
A lot of feminists would get on my case if anyone other than my Mum read this blog, (Hi Mum.) but you know what I’d like to see a return of? Menstrual huts. Maybe not for all women, but for women like me? I would be all over that. I am a sad sorry excuse for a person at this time. I have been known to vomit from pain. I cry and I roll around and swear and kick my feet and blame everyone for everything. I work from home and write all emails on my phone from a bed on the floor that I have constructed from a futon mattress and multiple blankets. I want to go to a little hut and do all of this in peace without feeling bad about it. Put in a TV, a well-stocked fridge and every episode of How I Met Your Mother then leave me the fuck alone. Sorry, can’t go to work, I’m in my hut. Sorry, can’t cook dinner, I’m in my hut. Sorry, I can’t attend your gala dinner event celebrating the centenary of your grandmother inventing a new way to make black pudding; I’m in my fucking hut. It doesn’t even have to be a real hut, I’m not fussy. My house would do.
I’d knock myself out with drugs and nap with the dogs, using their tiny puppy bellies as a heat pack. I’d settle for people not asking me questions at this time at the very least. SO MANY QUESTIONS! How are you? How about this weather? How was your weekend? Leave me alone! I want to curl into a ball and whimper in peace while I eat uncooked ramen noodles in the dark and lament why Dylan Moran isn’t really drinking anymore.
You know what, I can’t blog. I’m going to my hut. 

Wednesday, 7 December 2011

A fake surprise wedding.

I have a beautiful accomplice. She is my partner in crime, the Robin to my Batman. I am the Kato to her Green Hornet. She is my aider and abettor, my co-conspirator, my support and the little voice that whispers mischief and “More beer!” in my ear.
Recently we were discussing her wedding. She’s not getting married soon, possibly not ever. She has an amazing partner who is kind and sweet and hilarious and who loves her very much, but it’s just not something they’re considering now. She has said to me though, should the occasion ever arise, that she would very much like for me to be her bridesmaid.
We’ve all watched those awards shows, when the interviewer asks “Do you think you’ll win?” and the actor says, “I don’t care. It’s just an honour to be nominated.” I used to call bullshit on that. I actually used to call bullshit on that loudly, emphatically and more often than not, repetitively. But I kind of see where they’re coming from now. I might never get to be her bridesmaid, because she may not ever get married, but it is an honour to be nominated for the position.
We were wondering whether, if we organised a surprise wedding and just sprung it on him, her partner would flip out and leave, or actually just kind of go along with it. I was betting on going along with it. Especially if we got him liquored up. And as responsible adults, that is, of course what we’d do.
It would be a great adventure. We’d plan tiny dessert treats, we’d go to a hundred different venues and demand to try their menu plans and then run away cackling into the night fuelled by voulevants and sugared almonds. We’d eat fancy layered cakes on the premise of research, and no one could judge us. I would help her plan her day if she wanted me to. I would vote for an icecream truck and a dress of French lace. I would vote for all the crazy shit she wanted to do, and agree with everything that made her happy for her big occasion.
I would say mean things about people who didn’t send back their RSVP cards. I’m pretty well versed in 4th grade insults. Her cousin is a stupid mean jerky spite face until she sends back her RSVP. I will continue to say unpleasant things about her until she sends the card back, at which point I will immediately back flip and say how pretty and funny she is. But if she continues to be a snitty stupid head, I will continue to call her such.
I would endeavour to be a great bridesmaid for her. I would plan her the best damn hen’s night this country has ever seen! On her wedding day I would tweak her veil and give her 2 Valium and some expensive scotch and watch her be kind of smashed but still awesome at the same time.
I would make a killer speech at the reception, one that would make people cry and feel tender hearted. I wouldn’t even get that drunk til after the toasts. I would take off my shoes and be the first one on the dance floor. I would dance. Badly. To Vanilla Ice, and everyone would be like “That chick is fucking weird…” But she’d laugh. She’d smile indulgently, hike up her dress and dance badly too. We’d hug and I’d send her on her honeymoon, with some kind of awkward surprise in her hand luggage for airport security to pull out and question her about.
It’s what friends do.

Monday, 5 December 2011

Friends. No, not the TV show.

Friends are strange things.
I have a few of them. They’re spread all over the place; I collect a handful from every place I go. Some from school, some from work, and some from holidays I’ve been on or restaurants I’ve visited. Some come as a package deal, even though, sometimes you wish you could return half the package. Sometimes one friend will have other friends and then those other friends become your friends too.
I’ve had friends for such a long time that I don’t even know why we’re friends any more. It seems that the only things we have in common now are a multitude of shared trips to the bottle shop to buy orange Bacardi Breezers back in the early 2000’s.
I have friends who are kind, friends who are funny, friends who are giving, who are generous, and friends who dress well. Friends who are talented, humble, precarious, loud, friends who drink too much and friends who think too little. I have friends whose personalities seem far too big to fit into their small frames. I have straight friends, gay friends and friends who haven’t really decided yet.
Inside each one of my friends is a little piece of my heart, and a little piece of my soul. I’m never going to get those pieces back, but that’s ok, because living inside me is a part of them. That’s why, when someone hurts one of my friends, it hurts me too.
Sometimes though, you hold on to a friend for far too long and during those years, they change into something that is no longer your friend. They can be spiteful, and mean, they can be ignorant and cruel and stupid and stiflingly co-dependant, and in those moments, they’re no longer your friend. They’re just a person. A person that you have common experiences with, a shared past with, but not someone who is still looking after you. That’s when you need to stop shovelling their emotional shit and realise that although they once were your friend, maybe they’re not any more.
From time to time, I think about my friends, and it shocks me to realise that they’re separate. They’re apart from me and they have lives that they live outside of the context of our relationship. It might sound stupid, but I’m not always aware of this. But they’re just people. Things go wrong in their lives, just like they go wrong in yours, and sometimes they take it out on you. You need to remember that friends are people too and allow them to have their missteps and their quirks and forgive them when they need to be forgiven, especially when they least deserve it. But when it becomes like that all the time, when they’re pushing you away and telling you that it’s your fault the friendship isn’t the way it used to be, that your job is in the way, or your partner doesn’t fit in, or that your apartment isn’t cool enough for parties anymore, or you’re not accepting of them and their bad decisions that they continually make, without regard to decent advice and good sense and you need to change because “remember when you used to be cool?”, then you need to take a step back and look at them. Really look at them. They were your friend once… you all piled into their car and drove around and listened to bad music. You sat on their bed and cried about how unfair life was. You made pacts that on your 18th birthday you’d get matching tattoos. You made them stupid drawings and wrote them thousands of emails. You stayed at each other’s houses when it was too hard at your own. You watched their heart break when relationships ended. You went on holidays, you had a million conversations over two million beers, and they did the same for you. But now? Now it might be time to let go, because friendships end. A lot of the time, they don’t end spectacularly with a Jerry Springer style fight (is that show even still on?) or with pistols at dawn. No one sleeps with the other ones baby mama, no one turns around and reveals that the other ones Mum was paying them $20 a month to hang out with them, and that they’ve put that money in a high interest savings account and now finally they can afford their own island, next to Richard Branson’s and they don’t need your stupid friendship anymore, and by the way your fringe always looked shit. A lot of the time you just aren’t the people you were anymore, and you know what? In the end, that’s ok. Don’t beat yourself up about it. Don’t spend hours chewing it over, asking yourself, “What could I have done differently?” or “Was it all my fault, should I have sacrificed something for them?” or “Maybe my fringe was shit and I should never have tried to do that Cyndi Lauper look so far after the 80’s…” Sometimes you just need to let go. 

Tuesday, 25 October 2011

It's like fucking Woodstock up in here.

“Heeeey maaan! Wanna have a jaaaaaaaaaam sesh?”
Oh, Stoner Kid from Next Door, that’s lovely of you but, no. It’s 11 o’clock on a Sunday night. I would very much like it if you got the hell off my front step.
Stoner Kid has appeared on our doorstep on more than one occasion with a joint in his mouth wanting to chat and jam with us, usually quite late on a week night. Stoner Kid has also stuck his head over the fence to have awkward pot fuelled conversations with us regarding such subjects as why small boy dog “looks mental” and his upcoming trip to Vanuatu with his mother.
Stoner Kid from Next Door likes to play the drums in the early hours of the morning from his garage. He likes to smoke bongs and then throw the bongs over the fence into our yard. I don’t like this at all.
Stoner kid constructed a hot box in his back yard behind the garage against our fence, out of sight from his parents. Apparently, this was not a sufficient hangout space since recently he has moved into a caravan in the driveway. This caravan is parked directly opposite our bedroom and our front door, approximately 4 feet away in fact. Stoner Kid and Stoner Kids friends like to play drums in the caravan in the early hours of the morning. They like to play guitar and have parties and smoke bongs. I like this less than I like the garage antics.
They have also erected a shade gazebo in front of the caravan to hang out in front of before they sleep in the caravan.
While this is amusing on some level, it’s mostly just annoying. Since Husband and I are real people with real jobs that need to function like adults in the world, this is bothersome to us.
Husband and I wondered if he was allowed to live in the shared driveway so very close to us, so Husband asked the council if this was permitted.
The council did not know, so had to come and stare at the caravan in order to make a decision.
According to Stoner Kids mum (henceforth known as Shouting Woman) this is a grave crime. Apparently, we are not allowed to ask questions of the council. She decided to inform me of this one afternoon.
There was an energetic knocking on my door punctuated by some robust doorbell ringing.
I opened the door to a short, angry, profoundly peroxided woman. Unsurprisingly to you, dear reader, she was in fact Shouting Woman, the mother of Stoner Kid. She introduced herself and demanded to speak with me. I was not completely enamoured of this idea, since I had been about to get in the shower and had only thrown on a very long shirt. I always feel more comfortable being yelled at when I’m wearing a bra and some underwear. Call me crazy, but I do.
She proceeded to berate me for making an enquiry to the council in regards to the Stoner Van.
I was a bad neighbour. A bad, unfriendly neighbour. Lady… Last time I checked this wasn’t Ramsay Street.
Apparently Stoner Kid needs to live in the caravan. Not wants to, needs to. Why, you may ask? And you may, because I certainly did. Apparently, his bedroom has no windows. They’ve been living in a house for 7 years with a bedroom that has no windows. He is apparently, also schizophrenic. Now, while I completely understand that this is in no way his fault, and is a terrible and debilitating disease, I would like to suggest that the first step on the road to mental health is, oh, I don’t know, GETTING OFF THE FUCKING DRUGS, and is perhaps not moving into a caravan in the driveway.
Shouting Woman was true to her name and shouted a lot at me. She shouted that we were bad people. We were old before our time, stick in the mud bad people and if we didn’t withdraw our question to the council they would have to move. Apparently Shouting Lady was a comedian and was on tour a lot which is why we had not met her on any of the occasions Stoner Kid came visiting. I was hesitant to believe this claim as she clearly wasn’t very funny. She made lots of other claims that I also found hard to believe. She said that they were quiet neighbours who never made noise and never created problems.
I would beg to differ. I brought up the fact that Stoner Kid frequently has parties on Friday and Saturday nights that go on into the wee hours and never once had we made a noise complaint. The fact that they can’t put up like Christmas lights like everyone else, but have to put on a full on Poison-esque light display show for 2 months that never gets switched off, and shines directly into all of the windows in our house is apparently a “quiet neighbour” activity. Honestly, I expected Brett Michaels to appear on the roof last year instead of Santa. The fact that they leave all their blinds open all the time and stand in front of the windows staring at me while I wash up is apparently a friendly gesture and isn’t creepy at all. Not even when they’re apparently naked.
I mentioned that Stoner Kid frequently played his drums until 2 or 3 in the morning on week nights also. He similarly came over and knocked on the door wanting to chat when we were already asnooze in our beds.

The previous weekend, I had woken up on Sunday morning with a thumping hangover, as I tend to do. It took me a little while to work out that not all of the thumping was coming from my head, but some of it was coming from the drum kit set up next door.
I mentioned this to Shouting Woman when she said that I couldn’t possibly have heard drumming as Stoner Kid had left his drums in the forest.
Firstly, what? How in the name of all that is good and holy do you leave an entire drum kit in a forest? And secondly, no, I’m pretty sure I know what drums sound like.
She then told me that it was not Stoner Kids drums I had heard but the drums of one of the homeless kids currently also living in the caravan.
Apparently Stoner Kid has Stoner Homeless Kid friends that are now all living 4 feet from my bedroom. They also all play drums.
This is where I tell Shouting Woman that she will need to leave now and stop shouting at me and calling me names because I have better things to do, like shove bamboo slivers under my nails.
Shouting Woman has come over to our house a lot since then. Banging on the door, demanding to talk to us. Writing us letters to tell us how mean we are…  She’s shouted over the fence to Husband numerous times as he’s been working in the garage. Once to tell him that if he didn’t withdraw the question to the council, she would complain about small boy dog, and small girl dog, then adding “It would be a shame if something happened to them.” She’s told us that we’re boring, that we don’t appreciate music, that we have no sense of fun. She’s told Husband that he’s a sad old man. As he’s at least 40 years younger than her, it’s kind of funny. Maybe she could be a comedian after all. 

Friday, 7 October 2011

Sexual Chocolate

Spray tans are fucking retarded. This is not the first time I’ve said this. Anyone who had anything to do with my wedding will know that I hate spray tans. I tried to install someone with a squirt gun of tan remover at every entrance to politely mist all of the orange people. I think people who get spray tans are stupid. However, I also think that people who sunbake are stupid and people who go to solariums are stupid. Just be the colour you are.
This being said, I have a big night of dance performances tomorrow, and everyone else would be a nice shade of terracotta. I decided that I would give the lightest colour of spray tan a shot, just so that my translucent thighs wouldn’t reflect the spot lights.
My friend is bridesmaid in a wedding tomorrow and she is the same caspery see through white that I am. I convinced her to join me in a spray tanning escapade. We discussed it and decided we would feel weird about having a perky leathery painted lady see our bits in all their naked floppy glory, and then apply a coat of varnish to them, so we would go to the automated booth and hope no one had cut a spy hole in it to laugh at us.
My friend went in first and came out looking relatively unscathed. She said it wasn’t bad, just noisy and hot. I was second to go for the privilege. I stripped down in the hot little room after the man explained to me that you have to put the barrier cream over your hands and on the tops of your feet. I stepped into the booth and placed my left foot on the number 1 and my right foot on the number 3 and held my arms like I was a dingle dangle scarecrow. I got sprayed from top to bottom and rotated, then bottom to top and rotate, then put my left hand in and took my left hand out and then put my left hand in and shook it all about. I felt like I was in the person version of Pimp My Ride.
I then towelled off and got back into my loose fitting dark clothing and no bra. It was a uniquely awkward experience. When I arrived home, I grabbed my book and set myself up on the sofa to read for a while. Then I decided to paint my nails. Painting my nails is very relaxing to me. As I had just finished putting the final coat on of a colour I like to call “Who the fuck makes nail polish in this colour green?” I happened to look down. I was sitting cross legged and happy in my own little bubble of nail painting glory, and what do I see? Actually, I have no idea.
I stare at my feet a little longer and still can’t make sense of what I’m seeing. Why are the bottoms of my feet the colour of Tim Tams? I don’t understand. Some days I’m a little slow. Then, I realise... The fucking spray tan. It’s on the floor of the booth. The booth I was standing in with my feet. Now, at this point I am sitting on my sofa and laughing. I am staring at my feet and laughing, like a baby, or a numpty. Tears are running down my cheeks I’m laughing so hard. I go to look in the mirror to see if all of me is a sexy sensual chocolate delight and realise that no, I am still white. I’m white everywhere. Everywhere, that is, except the bottom of my feet. I am in fact, a reverse black person. I’m like Oprah in the negative, a turned about Whoopi Goldberg... It’s always been a secret dream of mine to be black, and now, through the bottom of my feet, I’m finally living that dream.

Tuesday, 4 October 2011

My heart is made of puppies.

I have dogs. A small boy dog came into my life in August of last year. He’s a snorting, snoring, snuffling little flat face. I mean, the poor guy looks like he’s struggling to live.

 He could never survive in the wild. He has dainty little cat feet and is pretty much the strangest dog ever. He’s incredibly sweet and almost freakishly devoted to me, he loves everyone and I can count the number of times he’s barked on my hands. He sits and licks his paws and wipes his face with them. He will sit like a human and scratch his poor empty ball sack with a tiny paw. I think possibly he learned this behaviour from watching Husband do it. He also tries to wee in the toilet if we ever leave the door open, but being 9 inches off the ground, it doesn’t really work out for him. I taught him a bunch of tricks and I make everyone who comes over watch him. He can sit, shake with both hands, drop, crawl, and if you put your fists up and say “FIGHT!” he will box with you. Husband found out that if you lay on the floor with him, he will lick your face for 15 minutes without a break. The dog that is, not Husband. Boy dog has a curly piggy tail and most of the time, is pretty unaware of it. However, if you straighten it out and show it to him, he will chase it madly until it curls up again and he promptly forgets it ever existed.
He loves me more than husband, which makes me incredibly happy. He’s pleasant and fuzzy and warm and is perfectly content to sleep on my stomach while I read. He follows me from room to room and will guard my feet from his position directly on top of them. I don’t ever have to clean up after him, because he’s particular about where he goes to the toilet. He didn’t wee for the whole drive from Melbourne to Sydney, even when we stopped every hour and walked him through grass. When we finally hit our destination, and put down newspaper, you could almost see the look of relief on his little squashed face.
Small girl dog is not so particular. She came into my life in March of this year. She has been nicknamed many things, among them fart-face, little vom-vom and ninja pooper. She is honestly, the most disgusting dog I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. She burps, she farts noxious gases that can clear a room in 10 seconds, poops more frequently than a binge eater with laxatives and eats her food so fast, it makes her sick, so she throws up and then eats it too fast again, so throws it up and then finally manages to eat it the third time. She has been known to eat poop, both her own and that of the small boy dog. You don’t want kisses from small girl dog. She’s lucky she’s so damn cute, or I’d have sold her ages ago. When the dogs took sides, small girl dog took Husbands side, which is ok with me. My special muffin headed dog is elevently three million times better behaved and a whomping great forty seven bajillion times cleaner and less stinky than she is. She’s also stubborn. Oh, is she stubborn! You can call her til your voice gives up and she won’t come unless she wants to. She’ll sit if she thinks there’s food involved. She can shake, but only with one hand and again, only when she wants to and when there’s a possibility of food. You have to tap her leg all the time and say “SHAKE!” but most of the time she tilts her head up and away and ignores you perfectly.

She has an incredible sense of smell and I have found her more than once licking containers inside the recycling basket. She can hear a packet open from the end of the back yard. She’s hard headed and trundley. She’s the boss and she knows it. In the mornings when I wake up and go see them and let them outside she wags her little nubby tail and jumps all over me. If I’m ever sick, she scratches and whines at the door and shoves her head in the gap trying to get to me because she worries. Husband won’t hold my hair back or pat me, but small girl dog will curl up on my lap and  cock her head and give conciliatory licks on the shin.
I love those tiny weird little creatures with my whole heart. I want to squeeze them so hard their little eyes pop out more than they already do. They make every single bad day okay again. When you feel like the world is a shitty place and that you’re struggling just to achieve basic tasks because people seem to be put in your way just to fuck with you, go and get sneezed on by a flat faced dog, watch it chase it’s curly piggy tail. Be jumped on with such joy and excitement it’s barely containable and watch a stocky little bitch wag her nub at you. Cuddle them, get covered in hair and licks and paw prints. Chase them around the yard, teach them a trick, blow raspberries on their warm hairless puppy bellies. Love them, because they love you and I guarantee that if you have something broken inside you, they’ll fix it. 

Monday, 26 September 2011

Kitty Limerance is at None Of Your Business with No One Of Your Concern.

The noise of people determined to have a good time is almost deafening. I'm waiting for dinner at eleven o'clock on a Friday night, which, I'll grant you is late for dinner, but I'm a very busy person. Far too busy to have dinner at a reasonable hour. Just down the road is a pub bar night club type thing and the screams and whistles are pretty much at the level of a grand final football match. Looking around tonight I've seen a lot of people trying really hard to have fun, but very few who actually are. I've seen a lot of girls with blistered feet who can't seem to walk in their shoes, like wounded baby giraffes. All spindly legs and awkward skinny necks. I've seen a lot of guys freezing in their douche bag level v neck tees and no jacket and a whole bunch of people sitting around taking photos of themselves and updating on Facebook about what a great time they're having but not actually talking to the people they're supposed to be having the good time with.
One of my friends posted a photo to Facebook recently, a photo she had taken of herself. In the background, was another friend wholly absorbed in her iPhone. Is she tweeting? Texting? Facebooking? Playing Angry Birds? Updating her Period Planner? Who fucking knows. There were 5 people at that table. 2 of them were taking photos of themselves and the others were tapping away on their phones.
I would like to issue a challenge to the people going out this weekend. Put your Goddamned iPhones and cameras away! Stop checking in at every fucking place you go! I don't care if you've gone from Robarta to Big Mouth to The Saint, to The Metropol to Veludo, then back to Robarta and then to The Vineyard. And for Christ's sake, don't check in at home! Especially not every night.
Stop taking photos of yourselves! Nobody wants to see 106 photos uploaded every Sunday morning that are all of you pulling various stupid faces and saying how ugly you are. If you thought you looked bad, here's a tip: DON'T PUT IT ON THE INTERNET.
People have bemoaned long and loud about how hard it is to meet a guy now days. "Why don't guys approach me? I really want a boyfriend!" How do you expect guys to approach you when you're always taking photos of yourself, or texting the people next to you to say "I love this song!" People who sit in the corner pointing a camera at themselves and clicking away while trying to prove how funny and quirky they are don't make friends. People who get outrageously drunk and cry in the toilets don't make friends. Do I need to explain why?
This doesn't just go for girls either... It applies to guys. And those in between. (7 foot tall drag queen on my tram, twittering, I'm looking at you.)
I don't know why it's so hard to put down your phone, to put down your camera, to put down your fake tan and 7 inch shoes, to put down your check ins and status updates and 140 character limits, and actually go and live your life. I don't know why it's hard to pick up a book, pick up a real conversation or pick up a quiet beer with friends without broadcasting it, but it is.
No man is an island... We're so worried that we're not connecting to people that we're spending so much time reaching out via the internet and our phones that we're actually failing to engage with people in real life and are going the way of Gondwanaland.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to update my Facebook about this sick blog post. 

Sunday, 11 September 2011


Don’t talk to me about jeans. I cannot find jeans that fit all of me. I can find ones that fit around the waist, but are so baggy around my bum and legs, it sort of looks like I’m wearing pilchers with windsocks attached... Even the skinny leg jeans. I can find jeans that fit my bum and legs nicely, but almost cut me in half when I try to button them.
I’m just not the right shape for jeans. Or pants in general, really. I saw a lady at the shops who was wearing jeans that looked like they were made for her, or perhaps she was in some sort of nuclear accident and they became fused to her and are now part of her awesome super hero nature. I wanted to punch her in the face.
Where do you get jeans to fit you like that? How do you make them fit so well everywhere?
Do you wear them in the pool and then sit in the sun? Wear them in the microwave so they shrink like a crisp packet, but your body is there, so it goes to that exact shape? Grow cotton on your waist, so it will trail down your legs like they're some sort of splint and then fashion them into jeans?
Or on your ankles, because cotton probably grows up, not down? I don’t know. I’m not a farmer.
Maybe I should design my own pair of jeans and have someone make them. But they would be an unattractive shape. Like pregnant lady jeans. But without the cute baby bump section. Just a tummy pouch. OH GOD THAT IS THE WORST IDEA EVER. Just forget I said anything.
I know! I’ll get Apple Bottom jeans and turn them around! They’ll be Apple Belly jeans! For those that have no junk in their trunk, but some jelly in the belly.

Wednesday, 31 August 2011

Bad Hair Day


Sunday, 28 August 2011

Waiting for Spiderman.

I am scared of spiders setting up home in my nostrils while I sleep, which is why I have been sleeping on a futon mattress on the floor in the non-Bat Cave bedroom for about 2 weeks now.
Part of our ceiling has decided to make a run for it this last month and is slowly coming away from the rest of the ceiling.
This means there’s about a one inch gap that goes directly into the roof space.
You know what lives in the roof space? Spiders. Spiders live in the roof space. Did you guess spiders?
Shortly after I discovered the gap in the ceiling, I discovered the spiders traipsing through it.
I’m not phobic of them; I would just prefer that they not crawl on my face.
Husband called the nice real estate people and they said that they would send a man to look at the spiderhole.
I thought the Spiderman would come fairly quickly since, you know, there are spiders coming through my roof, but no.  He’s apparently a very busy Spiderman.
He’s probably running around New York City kissing girls upside down and other weird shit like that while I’m sleeping on the floor.
He came to look at the spiderhole one day, but I didn’t see him. Presumably he swung in on a web, stuck to the ceiling and put his face near the hole to see in. Possibly he heard me coming home and scuttled in under the fridge so I wouldn’t see him. You know how spiders are. They’re shy little creatures until they bite you in the eyeball.
He’s due back to fix the spiderhole soon. As early as tomorrow I’m told. I hope he’s happy to seal his furry little 8 legged brethren back into the roof space so they can no longer come through and try to mate with my eyelashes because while husband seems to be enjoying it, like it’s a camping holiday, it also seems as though I’m camping which is probably why I hate it so much.
I’m pretty much ready to move back in to The Spiderman Room regardless of my tiny arachnid friends. I’m tired and sore and I have weird dreams. Perhaps I’ve already been bitten by one of them and this I’m experiencing the radioactive blood change over? I hope not because I look terrible in Lycra.


My Nan passed away earlier this year.
I grew up surrounded by her love and strength and buttered toast fingers.
This weekend just gone, she would have turned 91. I have missed her every day since she's been gone, so I thought I would put up something that I wrote for her and read at her funeral, though if you were there, doubtless you wouldn't have been able to understand me through all the crying.

To Nan,
I want people to know how wonderful you were, how brave, how strong. I want you to know how much I loved you, how much I still love you even now that you’re gone. I respected and admired you so much.

You used to mind me when Mum went out.
You taught me to always sift flour twice when making cakes. I’m too lazy to do that. Maybe that’s why your cakes always turned out better than mine.
You made me scrambled eggs for tea when I was sick.
You listened to my new CD’s with me and pretended you liked them.
You made the best sponge cake out of any of us so we all gave up trying.
You and I used to go to church with Mum. I remember one Sunday we went and you scratched your leg for the whole hour because you felt tickly... even when we got up to get communion. On the way to the car you realised the thing that was tickling you was a grasshopper that had gotten tangled in your petticoat. You set it free and laughed.
We used to play games together until I moved away. You tried to teach me poker, but I could never remember the rules. You used to bet with Anticols and their wrappers, which were worth less. We would play dominos for hours and you never once let me win, because there was no lesson in that. Since you, I’ve never found anyone that could beat me at it.
I’ll never know how you fit such spirit into your small frame. You saw so much, lost so many. Friends, brothers, sisters, your husband, your daughter, but were still the kindest and most patient person I knew.
I’m sorry I wasn’t with you more towards the end, Nan. I let other things get in the way. But I always loved you. Will always love you, and will forever carry a part of you in my heart.
Rest in peace.

Monday, 8 August 2011

Queen of CBF

I do 99% of all the cooking in our house. I’m not complaining about it, I love it. I love to cook and I love to bake. My Grandma is an amazing cook and my Mum can decorate a cake like nobody’s business, so I guess I picked it up from them. My Nan made the best sponge cake in the world and no one can prove differently. I have recipes from my great great grandmother that would stun your tastebuds. They were and still are hardworking women who cook with care and devotion.
I never had a bought cake for my birthdays. My Mum would stay up all hours of the day and night crafting her wonderful creations and my Grandma is notorious for over catering every event and making it all from scratch. Packet cakes were a thing of myth and legend in our house.
While the food we ate was not necessarily gourmet or in line to win any pressure tests in the Master Chef kitchen, it was good food. Proper food made with love and care and potatoes.
Cooking for your loved ones is in my blood. I mean there’s not as much space, what with all the alcohol and stuff, but it squeezes in.
All of that being said, I have lazy weeks. I feel I’m entitled. I work full time, and I have hobbies and, you know... interests and stuff. They take up time. Sometimes, I declare myself the Queen of Can’t Be Fucked, and it’s on those nights when I’m cooking dinner that I find myself thinking of all the things I would rather be eating.
Thing I cooked: Slow cooked char siu pork.

Thing I would have rather eaten: Cereal.
Cereal in the morning is boring. There are 4000 things better to eat in the morning than cereal. But, cereal at night? GENIUS!  I love cereal at night! There is nothing tastier. It’s so easy and convenient! No bowl? No milk? No worries! Grab the box, park yourself on the sofa, and stuff handfuls of it into your mouth.
Thing I cooked: Crispy skin chicken with yellow noodle.

Thing I would have rather eaten: Popcorn.
Oh popcorn, there are no words to describe how much I love your crunchy buttery salty flavours of joy. I love you at the movies, I love you at home, and sometimes I love you in the middle of the night on the way back from the toilet. I especially love you as a meal replacement. When Husband was away on his snow trip, I ate popcorn for dinner 2 nights in a row and was so content, I went to bed with a huge fake butter smeared smile.
Thing I made: Vietnamese caramel chicken.

Thing I would have rather of eaten: An entire loaf of garlic bread.
There are instructions on garlic bread packets. They tell you that you can cook it in the oven or in the microwave. In the oven? For 15 minutes? Bitch, please. That shit is going in the microwave for a minute on high. I will then tear into the scalding first piece and burn my tongue. I will continue eating until the garlic butter can no longer be mistaken for anything other than frozen. Back in the microwave it goes while I hover near the door jiggling in anticipation. Also, it’s Italian. That makes it automatically fancy.
Thing I made: Wantons

Thing I would have rather eaten: Corn chips or pretty much anything that can go straight from the packet and into my open mouth.
Things that can be transferred from packet to mouth with no effing about have got to be the God of lazy foods. Open the packet, pour into mouth. It shits all over hand folding 40 fucking dumplings to impress dinner guests. Next time I have people over, everyone is getting a large bag of some form of crisp. If I like them, they’ll get Red Rock Deli. If I don’t like them, they get Homebrand. You want an entree? Here’s a fun sized bag of Twisties. Knock yourself out.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s dinner time and there’s a PopTart with my name on it.

Wednesday, 3 August 2011

Guilty Shame Spiral

I feel guilty about a lot of things.
Husband attributes this to my family’s Catholicness. Catholics are like the Olympic gold medallists of guilt. And not the Winter Olympics either, the real Olympics.
He seems to find it amusing as he does not possess such an emotion.
Let me give you an example... We will have something delicious. Husband will want my delicious thing. He will ask if he can have it. I will say no. Husband will sit in silence and wait. I will begin to feel guilt. I will feel anger at feeling guilt. Then I will feel shame. Then I will give Husband the thing he wanted.

Husband will be gleeful and will laugh at me. He will point and emphatically declare “It’s because you’re CATHOLIC!” I will feel a sense of loss of my delicious thing.
The guilt is not limited to Husband and delicious things though.
I feel guilty about drinking anything fizzy before midday. I think my Grandma instilled that rule in my head, and now, 6 years after I moved out of home, I will still feel guilty for wanting Coke Zero before lunch.
I feel guilty about calling in sick to work, even when I’m legitimately sick. Especially when I’m legitimately sick... I agonise over the decision. Then I have to ask Husband what he thinks I should do. He usually tells me to go to work. So I struggle around the house, flopping from one room to another trying to get ready until I feel so awful all I can do is lay on the floor. Then I get all torn up inside and have to debate the issue a thousand times again in my head. Logically I know it’s not the end of the world, but my conscience seems to think it is.
I feel guilty about buying anything that’s just for me. If it can’t be used for the house or if Husband can’t share it, down the spiral I go.

I feel guilty about not holding the lift doors open for people even if they’re really far away and I’m running late.
The guilt doesn’t go away within the day though. Sometimes not even in the week... Sometimes it lives in my soul for close to two decades.
When I was a little girl, I was playing out the front of my house. I found a little worm and I put him on my hand. I held him there, and he bit me. I pulled him off and threw him into the gutter and sort of stomped on him. He started to bleed. I felt so bad. My grandfather explained to me that he was a leech and that it wasn’t his blood I was seeing. It was most likely my own.

To this day I think about that little leech and wonder where he went after he got hosed away. Maybe he was a Catholic leech. Maybe he feels guilty about biting me and is wondering where I am today and what happened to me. Probably not though, because leeches are almost certainly smarter than that.