Thursday 20 December 2007
Public Notice
I'm about to leave for England. The Stationery Cabinet is now closed for business. Apologies for any inconvenience.
Tuesday 18 December 2007
Blighter's Rock**
Now, I realize my blog hasn’t exactly been overflowing with quality material this past two weeks. This is because I’ve been busy at work, and anyway, all I can think about right now is my imminent trip to England for Christmas, and I don’t think anyone else is going to be as blown away by my shopping plans as I am, so it’s best not to write anything.
I hope to have way more to blog about once I’m on the road. Already, I’m researching synonyms for ‘freezing’ and ‘exhausted’ in preparation so I can maintain the rich literary style you’ve come to expect from me. According to The Blog Readability Test you need a high school education to understand this blog, and I’d hate to let standards slip. Wouldn’t want just any old man and his dog reading this.
So yes, Christmas lunch on Wednesday afternoon, then take-off on Thursday morning. I can’t wait!
**Can you figure out what I mean by this?
I hope to have way more to blog about once I’m on the road. Already, I’m researching synonyms for ‘freezing’ and ‘exhausted’ in preparation so I can maintain the rich literary style you’ve come to expect from me. According to The Blog Readability Test you need a high school education to understand this blog, and I’d hate to let standards slip. Wouldn’t want just any old man and his dog reading this.
So yes, Christmas lunch on Wednesday afternoon, then take-off on Thursday morning. I can’t wait!
**Can you figure out what I mean by this?
Tuesday 11 December 2007
Puss in Boot
Yesterday was my first ever visit to a vet. The cat had a cut paw, so we borrowed the neigbours’ (her real owners’) cat carrier and made an appointment. Or at least, we made an appointment after The Man made a big fuss about how we had to find a vet who voted Green because patronising a Liberal vet would be supporting someone who was against us, and despite it being first thing on Sunday morning he called some high ranking member of the Green party to ask them to recommend a vet. Apparently, shopping ethically is part of his new plan to revolutionise the social fabric of Australia. After I’d finished sighing, I asked him if that meant we could only go to cinemas, petrol stations, supermarkets, toll roads etc owned by Green or Labor voters, out of consistency. He seemed pretty excited by this idea.
So, once that production was over, the next hurdle was to actually find the cat. I found her sitting high on a wall at the end of our block. She meowed in recognition, but didn’t move. I trotted back home and came back with a bowl of her leftover canned salmon. I waved it up to the wall, going “oooh, smelly fish, lovely!”. She looked a lot more interested this time, standing up, stretching, wandering along the wall to follow me when I pretended to be going back home. But would the damn cat actually come down? It turned out she was toying with me. The Man turned up too, and there we both were, in front of passers by, going “Come on Kitty! Lovely smelly fish for you! Mmmmm! We wish we were eating smelly fish!” etc. She did everything – peering down, blinking alertly, lying down on her side and reaching out her paw – everything except come down off the wall. In the end The Man came back with the ladder and grabbed her.
I’ve never heard our docile kitty yowl like that before, but I think she suspected a visit to the vet was on the horizon, after the arrival of the cat carrier. This girl who happened to be passing actually looked terrified. I was quite terrified myself, as enraged kitty’s paws raked through my FIRST TIME ON Jigsaw top.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, kitty has three staples in her little paw and a big red bandage that looks like a boot – very cute. She also had a bottom temperature reading, to my horror. Call me naïve, but at first when the vet whipped out her thermometer I had this vague thought ‘How is she going to get that under kitty’s tongue?’. Now I know why we needed the ladder to get her down off the wall. I bet I was nearly as traumatized as she was.
So now she’s at home, recovering delicately, and shooting us mournful looks. The Man is going round pulling his hair out and complaining that they were too rough with his darling moggy. Honestly, men.
So, once that production was over, the next hurdle was to actually find the cat. I found her sitting high on a wall at the end of our block. She meowed in recognition, but didn’t move. I trotted back home and came back with a bowl of her leftover canned salmon. I waved it up to the wall, going “oooh, smelly fish, lovely!”. She looked a lot more interested this time, standing up, stretching, wandering along the wall to follow me when I pretended to be going back home. But would the damn cat actually come down? It turned out she was toying with me. The Man turned up too, and there we both were, in front of passers by, going “Come on Kitty! Lovely smelly fish for you! Mmmmm! We wish we were eating smelly fish!” etc. She did everything – peering down, blinking alertly, lying down on her side and reaching out her paw – everything except come down off the wall. In the end The Man came back with the ladder and grabbed her.
I’ve never heard our docile kitty yowl like that before, but I think she suspected a visit to the vet was on the horizon, after the arrival of the cat carrier. This girl who happened to be passing actually looked terrified. I was quite terrified myself, as enraged kitty’s paws raked through my FIRST TIME ON Jigsaw top.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, kitty has three staples in her little paw and a big red bandage that looks like a boot – very cute. She also had a bottom temperature reading, to my horror. Call me naïve, but at first when the vet whipped out her thermometer I had this vague thought ‘How is she going to get that under kitty’s tongue?’. Now I know why we needed the ladder to get her down off the wall. I bet I was nearly as traumatized as she was.
So now she’s at home, recovering delicately, and shooting us mournful looks. The Man is going round pulling his hair out and complaining that they were too rough with his darling moggy. Honestly, men.
Saturday 8 December 2007
Yay for Christmas!
Huzzah for the Christmas season! Even when I’m not at boozy work lunches, my boss is and I can skip home early.
Leaving me free to prepare for Christmas. I’ve just finished all my cards, with labels all printed out by mail merge. Well, I am the queen of stationery!
I’m beginning to get a bit nervous about my trip to England. How can I say this…I’m a bit scared of my family, to be honest. They’re all a bit…strange and moody. The worst thing is my parents. They haven’t accepted The Man and my relationship, for reasons I might go into one day (though not now, as too much angst is Not Christmassy). So every time I visit them, I have to make sure his name doesn’t trip off my tongue accidentally, and in every story I tell, ‘we’ has to be replaced with ‘I’ so a family scene doesn’t ensue. My brother’s girlfriend doesn’t understand this and is all ‘talk it through with your parents, Sprite, you and your parents have to face your issues’.
But seriously, you don’t talk to my parents.
Basically the only safe topic these days with my mother is shopping, and since I plan to do plenty of that, we should be ok. I’m so organised, I’ve already contacted the freight companies to arrange shipping back to Australia for my excess baggage. Well – I have been saving up for the big trip, you know!
So yes, looking forward to it…but I’m also looking forward to coming back!
Leaving me free to prepare for Christmas. I’ve just finished all my cards, with labels all printed out by mail merge. Well, I am the queen of stationery!
I’m beginning to get a bit nervous about my trip to England. How can I say this…I’m a bit scared of my family, to be honest. They’re all a bit…strange and moody. The worst thing is my parents. They haven’t accepted The Man and my relationship, for reasons I might go into one day (though not now, as too much angst is Not Christmassy). So every time I visit them, I have to make sure his name doesn’t trip off my tongue accidentally, and in every story I tell, ‘we’ has to be replaced with ‘I’ so a family scene doesn’t ensue. My brother’s girlfriend doesn’t understand this and is all ‘talk it through with your parents, Sprite, you and your parents have to face your issues’.
But seriously, you don’t talk to my parents.
Basically the only safe topic these days with my mother is shopping, and since I plan to do plenty of that, we should be ok. I’m so organised, I’ve already contacted the freight companies to arrange shipping back to Australia for my excess baggage. Well – I have been saving up for the big trip, you know!
So yes, looking forward to it…but I’m also looking forward to coming back!
Wednesday 5 December 2007
I Lost My Lunch!
I prepared today’s lunch last night whilst watching television. It took me a long time, but it was worth it in the end because it all looked so delicious.
I made a box of chopped fruit, as always. Then I made up a box of crispy chopped salad, with herbs and olive oil. Yum. Then I took a little plastic container with two sections. In one section I put rice; then I shelled some prawns and put the prawns in the other half of the box, with a slice of lemon. I threw a couple of ‘fun’ sized Mars bars into the bag as a final touch.
Then this morning I left it all on the bus.
I made a box of chopped fruit, as always. Then I made up a box of crispy chopped salad, with herbs and olive oil. Yum. Then I took a little plastic container with two sections. In one section I put rice; then I shelled some prawns and put the prawns in the other half of the box, with a slice of lemon. I threw a couple of ‘fun’ sized Mars bars into the bag as a final touch.
Then this morning I left it all on the bus.
Tuesday 4 December 2007
A Crackin' Good Time!
I was happily making myself scarce from work on Friday afternoon when a colleague appeared at my elbow and asked me if I had anything planned for the weekend – as colleagues do.
“Well actually, I do” I trilled. “I’m going to the ballet to see ‘The Nutcracker’!”
“Oh really? That’s wonderful!” he cried. I was a bit taken aback by his enthusiasm, but pleased.
“Yes, and we were really lucky to get tickets as it was all last minute, and they were supposed to have sold out,” I continued. “I’ve never seen the Nutcracker before, so I’m quite excited.”
“So, how long are you going for?” he asked, eagerly.
“Err, what do you mean?”
“How long will you be in Bali?”
So that explained the enthusiastic interest – though you have to wonder why he never asked me about this mystical nutcracker, that had enticed me all the way to Bali to see it. Some kind of new religion, perhaps?
So anyway, I realize the ballet isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But on with the review:
The company was the Australian Ballet, dancing at the Opera Theatre, in the Opera House. How they managed on the shoe box-sized stage I can’t imagine, though the fact that there were never more than about ten people on stage at any one time must have helped! There were some great touches; I almost wished I was a child again. Remote controlled mice running across the stage made everyone laugh, and when the tree grew and dancing mice jumped out of the fireplace…I came over all six years old! The scenery really did make the stage look lovely.
The principals danced well, though I’m not so sure whether I liked the corps de ballet. They were technically competent, but seemed to lack artistry – for example, those beautiful head lines that make a dancer so beautiful you want to be her, not just think “well, that was clever.” There’s a good reason I go to ballet three times a week at risk of my right hip falling off. Ballet should look so good you just have to do it yourself, and I don’t think those girls had that. But maybe I’m being ignorant and too harsh. After all, there’s a reason some dancers stay in the corps and others are promoted to soloist – that extra something is a dancer’s ticket out of the corps de ballet.
When the interval came round I decided to go to the toilet – bad idea. I could see a crowd rushing to the ladies’ and I couldn’t rush to get near the front of the queue because this annoying little girlie was skipping slowly down the steps in front of me, holding on to her mother’s hand. Damn little girls! I was tempted to plough her down, but you’ll be pleased to hear I didn’t. So I ended up queuing for more than half the interval, just for the sake of a quick toilet visit.
On the way out of the toilets I saw a woman who looked like Nicole Kidman, still in the queue. I didn’t think twice about it as a moment later, I found the Man and he was waiting for me with a glass of gorgeous red wine, bless him! But then, just as I was trying to down my red wine as fast as possible without passing out from alcohol shock (the warning bell had sounded), the Nicole Kidman look-alike reappeared from the ladies’, and it actually was her. A woman asked her for her autograph as she was climbing back up the steps to re-enter the theatre.
I couldn’t tell you very much about her because I studiously looked away, as I thought it was pretty mean to stare. And frankly, a bit unfair to ask her for her autograph when she was trying to enjoy an afternoon out with her son. There was hardly anyone around at that point as most people had gone back in for the second act, so it would have been pretty obvious if I had stared. (The Man did, as he is unworried by the finer niceties of etiquette. And later he started babbling about how he really quite likes Nicole Kidman, even though I know she annoys him!) I did however nearly bump into her in my haste to put my empty glass down and get back to my seat!
The other celebrity sighting was David MacAllister, if he counts. He’s the Artistic Director of the Australian Ballet, and he was in the audience. “These are good seats, you know” The Man said, smugly. “What do you expect? We’re mixing with the best here.” I suggested that Daniel Craig might be our next sighting. In his swimmers. Mmmmm. It would almost be worth turning 30 for that. (Did I mention, the ballet trip was the last of my birthday celebration events).
So, Advent is upon us, and my trip to England for Christmas suddenly draws near. This month is going to be hectic.
“Well actually, I do” I trilled. “I’m going to the ballet to see ‘The Nutcracker’!”
“Oh really? That’s wonderful!” he cried. I was a bit taken aback by his enthusiasm, but pleased.
“Yes, and we were really lucky to get tickets as it was all last minute, and they were supposed to have sold out,” I continued. “I’ve never seen the Nutcracker before, so I’m quite excited.”
“So, how long are you going for?” he asked, eagerly.
“Err, what do you mean?”
“How long will you be in Bali?”
So that explained the enthusiastic interest – though you have to wonder why he never asked me about this mystical nutcracker, that had enticed me all the way to Bali to see it. Some kind of new religion, perhaps?
So anyway, I realize the ballet isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But on with the review:
The company was the Australian Ballet, dancing at the Opera Theatre, in the Opera House. How they managed on the shoe box-sized stage I can’t imagine, though the fact that there were never more than about ten people on stage at any one time must have helped! There were some great touches; I almost wished I was a child again. Remote controlled mice running across the stage made everyone laugh, and when the tree grew and dancing mice jumped out of the fireplace…I came over all six years old! The scenery really did make the stage look lovely.
The principals danced well, though I’m not so sure whether I liked the corps de ballet. They were technically competent, but seemed to lack artistry – for example, those beautiful head lines that make a dancer so beautiful you want to be her, not just think “well, that was clever.” There’s a good reason I go to ballet three times a week at risk of my right hip falling off. Ballet should look so good you just have to do it yourself, and I don’t think those girls had that. But maybe I’m being ignorant and too harsh. After all, there’s a reason some dancers stay in the corps and others are promoted to soloist – that extra something is a dancer’s ticket out of the corps de ballet.
When the interval came round I decided to go to the toilet – bad idea. I could see a crowd rushing to the ladies’ and I couldn’t rush to get near the front of the queue because this annoying little girlie was skipping slowly down the steps in front of me, holding on to her mother’s hand. Damn little girls! I was tempted to plough her down, but you’ll be pleased to hear I didn’t. So I ended up queuing for more than half the interval, just for the sake of a quick toilet visit.
On the way out of the toilets I saw a woman who looked like Nicole Kidman, still in the queue. I didn’t think twice about it as a moment later, I found the Man and he was waiting for me with a glass of gorgeous red wine, bless him! But then, just as I was trying to down my red wine as fast as possible without passing out from alcohol shock (the warning bell had sounded), the Nicole Kidman look-alike reappeared from the ladies’, and it actually was her. A woman asked her for her autograph as she was climbing back up the steps to re-enter the theatre.
I couldn’t tell you very much about her because I studiously looked away, as I thought it was pretty mean to stare. And frankly, a bit unfair to ask her for her autograph when she was trying to enjoy an afternoon out with her son. There was hardly anyone around at that point as most people had gone back in for the second act, so it would have been pretty obvious if I had stared. (The Man did, as he is unworried by the finer niceties of etiquette. And later he started babbling about how he really quite likes Nicole Kidman, even though I know she annoys him!) I did however nearly bump into her in my haste to put my empty glass down and get back to my seat!
The other celebrity sighting was David MacAllister, if he counts. He’s the Artistic Director of the Australian Ballet, and he was in the audience. “These are good seats, you know” The Man said, smugly. “What do you expect? We’re mixing with the best here.” I suggested that Daniel Craig might be our next sighting. In his swimmers. Mmmmm. It would almost be worth turning 30 for that. (Did I mention, the ballet trip was the last of my birthday celebration events).
So, Advent is upon us, and my trip to England for Christmas suddenly draws near. This month is going to be hectic.
Tuesday 27 November 2007
I'm not kidding
How good was the election? It went with a swing at my house!
The house looked beautiful on the evening. The weather was awful in the morning, then cleared up just perfectly for the party. It really was everything I could have wished for. There was a great atmosphere. It was like when sports lovers get together for a big match, only more electric. And when Maxine McKew came on and made her rapturous speech, we cheered and let off party poppers and lit sparklers (The Man is always prepared like this). RESULT!
Now, did anybody else notice the strange disparity between the score on TV the score on the internet at the beginning of the internet? Now, I was pretty out of it, I admit, as I was drinking wine rather rapidly at the same time as running around trying to be a hostess (The Man assures me I’m not very good at the latter) but I’m pretty sure the ABC had the opposite score on the TV to what was on the internet. Consequently, half the party spent the first couple of hours thinking Labor was losing. It was kind of a downer. But it made the victory all the sweeter!
I don’t mind admitting I felt a bit dodgy on Sunday. For some reason I’d forgotten to regulate my alcohol intake during the party. Then around 8 am, a pair of kookaburras broke the morning calm with raucous, chimp-like screeching. I am not the only one on our street (as I discovered at a post-mortem, hangover party) who woke up with a start, thinking that someone had just heard the news of the election and had taken to the street, laughing!
So it looks like our palm tree has new tenants, a kookaburra couple. No more sleep for me.
So anyway, I was all delicate on Sunday, and as luck would have it, two of the Man’s friends came to stay with us from overseas, bringing their young toddler with them. Now, I’m not saying this is a bad kid, not at all, but boy, you don’t want to have a weak stomach with a young child around. I can’t tell you the number of sweetly putrid smells I inadvertently inhaled in its vicinity. And I don’t know how they keep up with the child, it’s constant high maintenance. In goes another nail in the coffin of my maternal feeling!
The final straw was at dinner last night. We were in a pub having steaks and what-not. I was on the corner of the table next to the child and got to witness first-hand the slimy food smeared all over the (mercifully paper) table cloth, dropped on the floor, and the constant whinging for food so that the poor mother couldn’t eat in peace.
So, we were all sitting around a table eating our steaks, and hoping she’d eat enough that she wouldn’t feel compelled to put unspeakably disgusting things from the floor in her mouth when we’d finished, when suddenly the toddler scrunched up her face in distress and started shifting around in her seat.
“Aww, poor thing, she’s been having trouble all week” cooed the mother. Then, turning to the Man and myself, “She’s doing a number two” she announced, cheerfully. I was so aghast, I couldn’t even react – luckily. Call me a snob, but I don’t usually sit down to dinner with people who are straining for a shit. I’m not used to it. It was the ultimate horror of the evening! "I'll change her when she's finished" continued the mother, happily. I asked her how she could tell when she was finished. "By the smell!"
Nice.
So last night I pretty much set aside any remaining desire I might have to have kids.
Disclaimer: I should re-assert here in the interests of fairness that this isn’t an unpleasant child. She’s actually quite nice, I believe, as children go. It’s just that…euwwww.
The house looked beautiful on the evening. The weather was awful in the morning, then cleared up just perfectly for the party. It really was everything I could have wished for. There was a great atmosphere. It was like when sports lovers get together for a big match, only more electric. And when Maxine McKew came on and made her rapturous speech, we cheered and let off party poppers and lit sparklers (The Man is always prepared like this). RESULT!
Now, did anybody else notice the strange disparity between the score on TV the score on the internet at the beginning of the internet? Now, I was pretty out of it, I admit, as I was drinking wine rather rapidly at the same time as running around trying to be a hostess (The Man assures me I’m not very good at the latter) but I’m pretty sure the ABC had the opposite score on the TV to what was on the internet. Consequently, half the party spent the first couple of hours thinking Labor was losing. It was kind of a downer. But it made the victory all the sweeter!
I don’t mind admitting I felt a bit dodgy on Sunday. For some reason I’d forgotten to regulate my alcohol intake during the party. Then around 8 am, a pair of kookaburras broke the morning calm with raucous, chimp-like screeching. I am not the only one on our street (as I discovered at a post-mortem, hangover party) who woke up with a start, thinking that someone had just heard the news of the election and had taken to the street, laughing!
So it looks like our palm tree has new tenants, a kookaburra couple. No more sleep for me.
So anyway, I was all delicate on Sunday, and as luck would have it, two of the Man’s friends came to stay with us from overseas, bringing their young toddler with them. Now, I’m not saying this is a bad kid, not at all, but boy, you don’t want to have a weak stomach with a young child around. I can’t tell you the number of sweetly putrid smells I inadvertently inhaled in its vicinity. And I don’t know how they keep up with the child, it’s constant high maintenance. In goes another nail in the coffin of my maternal feeling!
The final straw was at dinner last night. We were in a pub having steaks and what-not. I was on the corner of the table next to the child and got to witness first-hand the slimy food smeared all over the (mercifully paper) table cloth, dropped on the floor, and the constant whinging for food so that the poor mother couldn’t eat in peace.
So, we were all sitting around a table eating our steaks, and hoping she’d eat enough that she wouldn’t feel compelled to put unspeakably disgusting things from the floor in her mouth when we’d finished, when suddenly the toddler scrunched up her face in distress and started shifting around in her seat.
“Aww, poor thing, she’s been having trouble all week” cooed the mother. Then, turning to the Man and myself, “She’s doing a number two” she announced, cheerfully. I was so aghast, I couldn’t even react – luckily. Call me a snob, but I don’t usually sit down to dinner with people who are straining for a shit. I’m not used to it. It was the ultimate horror of the evening! "I'll change her when she's finished" continued the mother, happily. I asked her how she could tell when she was finished. "By the smell!"
Nice.
So last night I pretty much set aside any remaining desire I might have to have kids.
Disclaimer: I should re-assert here in the interests of fairness that this isn’t an unpleasant child. She’s actually quite nice, I believe, as children go. It’s just that…euwwww.
Saturday 24 November 2007
Just Do It - Vote Howard Out!!!
Just got out of a meeting about Customer Service. An hour of blabbing on about how it’s important to improve customer experience and do things better. Like, duh. It was all ‘journey’ this and ‘in flight’ that and ‘dropping the ball’. What a bunch of wankers I work with. Speak fucking English! How about we have a new slogan: ‘Just Do It’. (Or ‘For Fuck’s Sake, Just Do It). God forbid we actually DO something.
So, election time is nearly here. I don’t mind telling you I am super excited about our party! I’ve spent a lot of valuable working time making up fun posters to decorate the house with. My favourite is an image I lifted from www.crikey.com.au, of John Howard and Kevin Rudd smiling and holding up a placard together. I’ve doctored it so it reads ‘Welcome to Sprite and The Man’s Election Party!’. My Liberal neighbour has vowed to turn the hose on us and says it will be funny when Labor loses. I told him he’d better hope not, because when our party turns into an angry mob his house will be the first place we visit!
I really, really, really hope that the Liberals lose this election. My favourite scenario is that they lose by three seats – John Howard’s, Costello’s and sneery old Abbott’s. What a pleasure it would be to see their arrogant, rude selves humbled. I also want to see the Liberal supporters proved wrong, as they’re all convinced the country will ‘fall apart’ if Labor gets in. Well excuse me, that’s what a lot of people said at the 1997 election in England when the Conservatives were on the verge of a huge defeat, and no, the new Labour government didn’t stuff up the country. (Though they did their best – but that’s politicians for you). This guy at work says I don’t know anything about Australian history, so I don’t know how Labor can be, blah blah. It’s true I know very little about Australian history, but I do know some world history and that works just as well if you make analogies.
Bloody election. Two separate sets of people aren't coming to our party because of weddings, and they're annoyed that nobody's going to be paying attention to their wedding because the results will be coming in. And I can't have a celebration of ME on Saturday to mark my birthday. Even my birthday card from The Man had a reference to John Howard's knees in it, and he'd written 'The Year of Kevin '07' on the corner of the envelope. I mean, come on! What's that got to do with ME?
Anyway, I hope our election party will be fun and that lots of people will come! Have a good weekend everybody, and don’t forget to Vote Howard Out!
Thursday 22 November 2007
Happy Birthday to Me
It’s my birthday today. I got the angst out of my system yesterday so I don’t really mind today.
My boss gave me a bottle of wine – he’s very sweet – and is taking me to lunch.
The movie last night was ok. At the beginning I was determined not to follow it and to fall asleep pointedly, but in the end I got into it and it wasn’t too bad. The worst moment really was in the trailers, when I said, jokingly, of some hopelessly chick flick, “Now this is what we should have come to see!” The Man said “Really? You should have told me. I’m not really bothered about seeing this film, you know.” For a split second there I nearly lost it, but I kept it together and was a real lady about it. I’m so mature now at my age.
We didn’t stay out that late – not by normal people’s standards - but I was too tired to prepare my usual trough of fruit to take to work with me the next day. The two fruit flies that live on my desk will be disappointed when their 10:30 pears and apple slices don’t show up. I work on the fourth floor, and of course none of the windows open, but somehow these fruit flies always turn up whenever I open my fruit box. I don’t know where they go between feedings; maybe they’re nesting behind my files. I’m getting kind of fond of them. Lately I've taken to giving them their own portion on a piece of tissue, though this is partially to divert them from floating around my head.
My boss gave me a bottle of wine – he’s very sweet – and is taking me to lunch.
The movie last night was ok. At the beginning I was determined not to follow it and to fall asleep pointedly, but in the end I got into it and it wasn’t too bad. The worst moment really was in the trailers, when I said, jokingly, of some hopelessly chick flick, “Now this is what we should have come to see!” The Man said “Really? You should have told me. I’m not really bothered about seeing this film, you know.” For a split second there I nearly lost it, but I kept it together and was a real lady about it. I’m so mature now at my age.
We didn’t stay out that late – not by normal people’s standards - but I was too tired to prepare my usual trough of fruit to take to work with me the next day. The two fruit flies that live on my desk will be disappointed when their 10:30 pears and apple slices don’t show up. I work on the fourth floor, and of course none of the windows open, but somehow these fruit flies always turn up whenever I open my fruit box. I don’t know where they go between feedings; maybe they’re nesting behind my files. I’m getting kind of fond of them. Lately I've taken to giving them their own portion on a piece of tissue, though this is partially to divert them from floating around my head.
Wednesday 21 November 2007
Birthday Blues
Depressing times. Tomorrow is my 29th birthday. The last time I will ever in my life have a birthday and still be young. I’m so sad when I think about it. I don’t want to lose my youth. Being young is the only thing that makes it ok that I haven’t done the things I wanted to do. Being young is part of who I am. Sob.
I don’t think I’ll be doing anything special tomorrow. The Man is going to touch practice as usual, and I’m going to ballet. The Man has taken today off touch so that we can do something birthday-ish, but I’m not very excited, seeing as how all we’re going to do is see a movie he’s forgotten to ask me if I want to see. And I don’t want to see it. It’s the new ‘Elizabeth’ – ‘Elizabeth I II’ or something like that. For God’s sake, what’s with all this trilogy crap? It’s a costume drama not a sci-fi thriller. I know nothing about this film but I assume it will be about three hours of Cate Blanchett grimacing and straining worthily against tight corsets, big music that critics describe as 'sweeping', and significant historical stuff. A bloody educational film which the Man will go into raptures about afterwards, and give him an excuse to needle me about the British Empire, as if I care. Then he'll go on about how he must read up on that period of history because it's so interesting. I feel like I've lived the whole evening already! I don’t have the heart to say I don’t want to go. Sometimes I feel like I’m always raining on his parade. But that’s a woman’s job, isn’t it?
Of course, it could just be a front for a big birthday surprise! I'll get there expecting to see a hideously long, self-righteous film where you Learn Stuff, and instead he'll be like, 'surprise!'. A nice dinner, and then a funny movie where you don’t have to think, and then ice cream and cake, and lots of presents!
Birthdays just aren’t what they used to be.
Every birthday I’ve had for the past few years, I’ve told myself I’m mourning my lost time, but at the same time, it hasn’t felt real. It’s feeling realer now. Twenty nine! Let my last year of youth begin.
That’s enough feeling sorry for myself. I want to leave something for my turning 30 post!
I don’t think I’ll be doing anything special tomorrow. The Man is going to touch practice as usual, and I’m going to ballet. The Man has taken today off touch so that we can do something birthday-ish, but I’m not very excited, seeing as how all we’re going to do is see a movie he’s forgotten to ask me if I want to see. And I don’t want to see it. It’s the new ‘Elizabeth’ – ‘Elizabeth I II’ or something like that. For God’s sake, what’s with all this trilogy crap? It’s a costume drama not a sci-fi thriller. I know nothing about this film but I assume it will be about three hours of Cate Blanchett grimacing and straining worthily against tight corsets, big music that critics describe as 'sweeping', and significant historical stuff. A bloody educational film which the Man will go into raptures about afterwards, and give him an excuse to needle me about the British Empire, as if I care. Then he'll go on about how he must read up on that period of history because it's so interesting. I feel like I've lived the whole evening already! I don’t have the heart to say I don’t want to go. Sometimes I feel like I’m always raining on his parade. But that’s a woman’s job, isn’t it?
Of course, it could just be a front for a big birthday surprise! I'll get there expecting to see a hideously long, self-righteous film where you Learn Stuff, and instead he'll be like, 'surprise!'. A nice dinner, and then a funny movie where you don’t have to think, and then ice cream and cake, and lots of presents!
Birthdays just aren’t what they used to be.
Every birthday I’ve had for the past few years, I’ve told myself I’m mourning my lost time, but at the same time, it hasn’t felt real. It’s feeling realer now. Twenty nine! Let my last year of youth begin.
That’s enough feeling sorry for myself. I want to leave something for my turning 30 post!
Tuesday 20 November 2007
I'm Back
How do you know when you’re bored in a meeting? When you’re praying for a family emergency to give you an excuse to leave. That is how boring my entire week was last week.
Yes, I know I’ve been offline for a while. It was a special time at work. Three days of presentations in the accursed PowerPoint and coma inducing boredom. You know the sort of thing. The seconds passed like ice ages. At one point I was almost expecting an Epiphany of some sort, like in those religions where you empty your mind of all things and meet God.
Yes, I spent last week in the company of the dullest people on Earth.
I am still in recovery. Hopefully there won’t be any long-term psychological damage, but it maybe a while before I’m back in my old blogging routine.
Yes, I know I’ve been offline for a while. It was a special time at work. Three days of presentations in the accursed PowerPoint and coma inducing boredom. You know the sort of thing. The seconds passed like ice ages. At one point I was almost expecting an Epiphany of some sort, like in those religions where you empty your mind of all things and meet God.
Yes, I spent last week in the company of the dullest people on Earth.
I am still in recovery. Hopefully there won’t be any long-term psychological damage, but it maybe a while before I’m back in my old blogging routine.
Saturday 10 November 2007
Climate Change and shit
Boy, am I sick of the rain. It’s been raining every day here in Sydney for days now. The rain can’t even be bothered to fall now. It just hangs there in a haze; trillions of tiny droplets of sogginess floating in the atmosphere, waiting for people to get out off buses so it can ruin their hair and dew up their coats. People at work keep making cracks about how I must be feeling at home, being English, etc etc. I try and explain that no, I actually don’t like depressing weather. I am a climate refugee. If I was still in England I might be a suicide by now.
By the way, climate (change) refugees are going to be the new big issue pretty soon. I know this because I went to a talk about politics and the environment at the University of New South Wales the other day. (Just because I think ‘Dark Lover’ is a rollicking good read, doesn’t mean I’m completely stupid). Our brave leaders want to keep us busy obsessing over Islamic terrorists whilst we destroy our environment. And then in ten years’ time, thousands of displaced islanders are going to get very angry over how we fiddled while their islands sank (please excuse the confused metaphors) and decide to get even. Even now, you can see displaced Pacific Islanders in Sydney. Their islands are sinking! And Australian politicians – John Howard, *spit* *spit* - smugly tell the us they don’t intend to do anything to reduce carbon emissions, because it might harm the glorious economy and the middle class would have to exist on one BMW per household instead of two. Tell that to the Islanders - I wonder how sympathetic they’d be.
The Man had a big shock this morning. The kitty had left him a special gift in his wardrobe, on a clean shirt. No, not a dead something. A gift of the fecal variety. He discovered when he reached into the dark bowels (heh heh) of his wardrobe for the shirt and found himself clutching something squishy. Gruesome! The incident lends itself to lots of funny jokes (funny to me) but it's also disturbing, because now we have to wonder if she’s crapped anywhere else, somewhere worse, like on my clothes. I am fearful for the sanctity of my lily-white underthings! All wardrobe doors and drawers will remain firmly shut from now on.
Actually, I must admit to being a bit perplexed as to how it got there. I know, I know, I can do the maths – kitty treats + cat bottom = squishy surprise. I just don’t understand when. Two mornings ago we did indeed discover her asleep in the Man’s wardrobe. And very cute she looked, too. A year ago he’d have gone mad, but I think the Man was struck by how adorable she looked, curled up cosily on his shirts, fast asleep. It was quite the ‘awwwww’ moment. Now I’m assuming she couldn’t have done the dirty deed then, because since when do cats relax in their own faeces? The Man reckons she did it last night, to punish him because he wouldn’t let her sleep there again. But that makes no sense either! Surely she couldn’t have opened the door, climbed in, crapped, climbed out, and closed the door after herself. Are cats really that clever? And that strong?
I bet you thought the title of this post contained gratuitous swearing, didn’t you?
By the way, climate (change) refugees are going to be the new big issue pretty soon. I know this because I went to a talk about politics and the environment at the University of New South Wales the other day. (Just because I think ‘Dark Lover’ is a rollicking good read, doesn’t mean I’m completely stupid). Our brave leaders want to keep us busy obsessing over Islamic terrorists whilst we destroy our environment. And then in ten years’ time, thousands of displaced islanders are going to get very angry over how we fiddled while their islands sank (please excuse the confused metaphors) and decide to get even. Even now, you can see displaced Pacific Islanders in Sydney. Their islands are sinking! And Australian politicians – John Howard, *spit* *spit* - smugly tell the us they don’t intend to do anything to reduce carbon emissions, because it might harm the glorious economy and the middle class would have to exist on one BMW per household instead of two. Tell that to the Islanders - I wonder how sympathetic they’d be.
The Man had a big shock this morning. The kitty had left him a special gift in his wardrobe, on a clean shirt. No, not a dead something. A gift of the fecal variety. He discovered when he reached into the dark bowels (heh heh) of his wardrobe for the shirt and found himself clutching something squishy. Gruesome! The incident lends itself to lots of funny jokes (funny to me) but it's also disturbing, because now we have to wonder if she’s crapped anywhere else, somewhere worse, like on my clothes. I am fearful for the sanctity of my lily-white underthings! All wardrobe doors and drawers will remain firmly shut from now on.
Actually, I must admit to being a bit perplexed as to how it got there. I know, I know, I can do the maths – kitty treats + cat bottom = squishy surprise. I just don’t understand when. Two mornings ago we did indeed discover her asleep in the Man’s wardrobe. And very cute she looked, too. A year ago he’d have gone mad, but I think the Man was struck by how adorable she looked, curled up cosily on his shirts, fast asleep. It was quite the ‘awwwww’ moment. Now I’m assuming she couldn’t have done the dirty deed then, because since when do cats relax in their own faeces? The Man reckons she did it last night, to punish him because he wouldn’t let her sleep there again. But that makes no sense either! Surely she couldn’t have opened the door, climbed in, crapped, climbed out, and closed the door after herself. Are cats really that clever? And that strong?
I bet you thought the title of this post contained gratuitous swearing, didn’t you?
Thursday 8 November 2007
Nomance and Cold Turkey
I have a shocking revelation to make.
I’m an avid reader of romance novels. In fact, I rarely read any other kind of fiction!
God, that was hard. It feels like such a shameful thing to admit! I don’t know anyone else who reads them, or at least, not who will admit to it. I mean, I know of lots of romance readers, and while away many a happy hour on this website, getting book recommendations and cackling away at the comments. But I don’t know any actual women who admit to loving romance novels. So I guess it’s something I should be embarrassed about.
Especially humiliating are the covers of these books. I can’t count the times I’ve been in Borders, reading the blurb on the back of a book, and thought “Hmm, sounds suitably racy. Yup, I’ll take it!” then flipped it over to discover a smouldering, topless hero on the front, all biceps and six pack and bronzed, oiled flesh, and steely stare that says “I’m coming to get you and you're gonna like it.” All very nice, of course, but seriously, how can I take such a thing to the counter and buy it? Even sandwiched between ‘The Economist’ and Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation, it would still be embarrassing. I imagine a knowing smirk on the assistant’s face as he scans the barcode and asks me if I wanted a bag to put it in. It’d be easier to buy if I had a bag on my head. And imagine reading such a thing on public transport. I don’t think I need to elaborate, the problem is obvious. Someone should start a business making false covers to put over embarrassing book covers, so you can pretend you’re reading a hardcore spy novel or something.
For the purposes of taste, I way prefer those romance covers that have pictures of overblown bouquets of flowers on them. Unfortunately, those books are normally about family sagas spanning four generations, and everyone in the family is female and never has any sex except with their distant cousins, and has secret babies and quilts a lot. Geez, I’m not reading something like that, life’s too short.
I don’t know why I’m addicted to romances. I don’t even like most of them. In the ones I end buying (on the basis of non-embarrassing cover/no great-great-grandmothers or quilting bees in the storyline) the female character is normally an American who talks like a cowboy – very irritating – and has ‘a great ass’. Shudder. The hero is always very keen to have children so he can take them to baseball games. Double shudder. And if you’ve ever been to the romance section of a bookshop (yeah I know, pretend you’re looking at the science fiction) you’ll find that, inexplicably, at least half of them are about vampires. What the hell is that? What’s wrong with women? Vampires and werewolves. Honestly. I may not know why I like romances but I do know why I’m embarrassed!
So, it’s a struggle to find a good one. And I’m not sure it’s such a good thing when I do – it makes me depressed about my own life. If only real relationships could be like a good romance! I get kind of down about my own at times. Normally I’m ok - I mean, I’m lucky to have a man I genuinely love, and I’m comfortably off, and I don’t live in England, thank God. So life should be perfect, right? Ok, so we haven’t had sex since like, April, but I’m MATURE now. Mature married couples are supposed to have a dead sex life, right? (Maybe too much information?...err, sorry.) But then I have these wake-up-in-the-milddle-of-the-night-knowing-with-sudden-clarity-that-everything’s-all-wrong-and-I’m-not-that-far-off-thirty-moments, and I can hardly breathe with panic. But hey, doesn’t everybody?
Maybe it’s time to lay off the romances for the sake of my inner peace. It is best not to raise expectations. The best advice I could give any girl is forget the handsome prince. Your happy ending is never coming. Princessy toy advertising makes my skin crawl because it’s inducting girls into the belief that our hero – ‘the one’ – is out there, and we owe it to ourselves to find him. It’s such crap, and I wish I’d never grown up thinking that, because I’d probably be happier now, less worried about the holes in my relationship and not hooked on the pathetic fantasies in romance novels.
I’m feeling so listless at the moment. But don’t mind me, I’m just withdrawing from caffeine. That’s right, I’ve decided to caffeine-proof my life! I’m down to one caffeinated drink per day, tea or coffee, and I’m finally listening to the people who’ve told me diet coke is the worse poison than Bindeez beads. (which by the way we’ll be serving up at our election party – they sound trippy!) The idea is that my complexion will become all peachy and glowing, I’ll have lots more energy, and of course the best bit: random beautiful women will stop me in the street and ask me for ‘my secret’. I’ll keep you posted.
Well, I can’t sit here working hard at my job all day! I have to meet a friend at the MacBogan Centre for lunch.
I’m an avid reader of romance novels. In fact, I rarely read any other kind of fiction!
God, that was hard. It feels like such a shameful thing to admit! I don’t know anyone else who reads them, or at least, not who will admit to it. I mean, I know of lots of romance readers, and while away many a happy hour on this website, getting book recommendations and cackling away at the comments. But I don’t know any actual women who admit to loving romance novels. So I guess it’s something I should be embarrassed about.
Especially humiliating are the covers of these books. I can’t count the times I’ve been in Borders, reading the blurb on the back of a book, and thought “Hmm, sounds suitably racy. Yup, I’ll take it!” then flipped it over to discover a smouldering, topless hero on the front, all biceps and six pack and bronzed, oiled flesh, and steely stare that says “I’m coming to get you and you're gonna like it.” All very nice, of course, but seriously, how can I take such a thing to the counter and buy it? Even sandwiched between ‘The Economist’ and Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation, it would still be embarrassing. I imagine a knowing smirk on the assistant’s face as he scans the barcode and asks me if I wanted a bag to put it in. It’d be easier to buy if I had a bag on my head. And imagine reading such a thing on public transport. I don’t think I need to elaborate, the problem is obvious. Someone should start a business making false covers to put over embarrassing book covers, so you can pretend you’re reading a hardcore spy novel or something.
For the purposes of taste, I way prefer those romance covers that have pictures of overblown bouquets of flowers on them. Unfortunately, those books are normally about family sagas spanning four generations, and everyone in the family is female and never has any sex except with their distant cousins, and has secret babies and quilts a lot. Geez, I’m not reading something like that, life’s too short.
I don’t know why I’m addicted to romances. I don’t even like most of them. In the ones I end buying (on the basis of non-embarrassing cover/no great-great-grandmothers or quilting bees in the storyline) the female character is normally an American who talks like a cowboy – very irritating – and has ‘a great ass’. Shudder. The hero is always very keen to have children so he can take them to baseball games. Double shudder. And if you’ve ever been to the romance section of a bookshop (yeah I know, pretend you’re looking at the science fiction) you’ll find that, inexplicably, at least half of them are about vampires. What the hell is that? What’s wrong with women? Vampires and werewolves. Honestly. I may not know why I like romances but I do know why I’m embarrassed!
So, it’s a struggle to find a good one. And I’m not sure it’s such a good thing when I do – it makes me depressed about my own life. If only real relationships could be like a good romance! I get kind of down about my own at times. Normally I’m ok - I mean, I’m lucky to have a man I genuinely love, and I’m comfortably off, and I don’t live in England, thank God. So life should be perfect, right? Ok, so we haven’t had sex since like, April, but I’m MATURE now. Mature married couples are supposed to have a dead sex life, right? (Maybe too much information?...err, sorry.) But then I have these wake-up-in-the-milddle-of-the-night-knowing-with-sudden-clarity-that-everything’s-all-wrong-and-I’m-not-that-far-off-thirty-moments, and I can hardly breathe with panic. But hey, doesn’t everybody?
Maybe it’s time to lay off the romances for the sake of my inner peace. It is best not to raise expectations. The best advice I could give any girl is forget the handsome prince. Your happy ending is never coming. Princessy toy advertising makes my skin crawl because it’s inducting girls into the belief that our hero – ‘the one’ – is out there, and we owe it to ourselves to find him. It’s such crap, and I wish I’d never grown up thinking that, because I’d probably be happier now, less worried about the holes in my relationship and not hooked on the pathetic fantasies in romance novels.
I’m feeling so listless at the moment. But don’t mind me, I’m just withdrawing from caffeine. That’s right, I’ve decided to caffeine-proof my life! I’m down to one caffeinated drink per day, tea or coffee, and I’m finally listening to the people who’ve told me diet coke is the worse poison than Bindeez beads. (which by the way we’ll be serving up at our election party – they sound trippy!) The idea is that my complexion will become all peachy and glowing, I’ll have lots more energy, and of course the best bit: random beautiful women will stop me in the street and ask me for ‘my secret’. I’ll keep you posted.
Well, I can’t sit here working hard at my job all day! I have to meet a friend at the MacBogan Centre for lunch.
Tuesday 6 November 2007
Monday Morning Grumps
Sorry, today's post is some rantiness that's souring my system. It is Monday, after all.
Is it just me, or has the late 30’s/early 40’s age group completely taken over the media or what? It feels like everything on TV is aimed at them. I’m talking about pop stuff like reality TV, drama series, quiz shows, etc etc, (most of which I don’t watch anyway). Every time you switch the television on it’s full of forty year old women giggling like girls, and smarmy guys in the middle of their mid-life crisis, trying to impress them. Where’s my generation? Take ‘The Farmer Wants a Wife’, for example. (And yes, I watch it. It is not something I’m proud of.) It’s a dating show, for God’s sake. Why are these women so old?
I’m dreading work next week. Some members of the ‘team’ are coming to Sydney from interstate and we’re having three days of bonding and shit. We have been invited to spend the day with some of our ghastly partners, AND PLAY GOLF IN THE AFTERNOON. Jesus, why the hell is it always golf? Why do business people love golf so much? Why can’t it be something that I like? How I’d love it we all went to the ballet as a team bonding session. Come to that, in my utopia, instead of getting to the office on Monday morning and banging on about the rugby results, everyone would be chatting about dance class and the performances they’d seen. I guess the no-one considered me when then world was being designed. Anyway, next week I have two ‘team’ dinners – meaning that I don’t get home until some stupid time – and did I mention, GOLF. Actually, after three hours of corporate wank about value adds, takeaways, drivers and bottom lines, the golf will probably be the highlight.
Is it just me, or has the late 30’s/early 40’s age group completely taken over the media or what? It feels like everything on TV is aimed at them. I’m talking about pop stuff like reality TV, drama series, quiz shows, etc etc, (most of which I don’t watch anyway). Every time you switch the television on it’s full of forty year old women giggling like girls, and smarmy guys in the middle of their mid-life crisis, trying to impress them. Where’s my generation? Take ‘The Farmer Wants a Wife’, for example. (And yes, I watch it. It is not something I’m proud of.) It’s a dating show, for God’s sake. Why are these women so old?
I’m dreading work next week. Some members of the ‘team’ are coming to Sydney from interstate and we’re having three days of bonding and shit. We have been invited to spend the day with some of our ghastly partners, AND PLAY GOLF IN THE AFTERNOON. Jesus, why the hell is it always golf? Why do business people love golf so much? Why can’t it be something that I like? How I’d love it we all went to the ballet as a team bonding session. Come to that, in my utopia, instead of getting to the office on Monday morning and banging on about the rugby results, everyone would be chatting about dance class and the performances they’d seen. I guess the no-one considered me when then world was being designed. Anyway, next week I have two ‘team’ dinners – meaning that I don’t get home until some stupid time – and did I mention, GOLF. Actually, after three hours of corporate wank about value adds, takeaways, drivers and bottom lines, the golf will probably be the highlight.
Thursday 1 November 2007
Happy Halloween!
Another year, another Halloween rolls by. It’s always been one of my favourite events of the year, dating to back to my bewildered early childhood years in the American community in Saudi Arabia. The Americans really do take their Halloween seriously! And I earnestly applaud that. Any tradition that requires you to go from house to house, collecting sweets, then taking them home to horde and gorge on in private is a tradition for me, to be sure!
When I was little, every year around late September, my mother would ask me what I wanted to be for Halloween. It was always a fairy or something like that (I was that kind of girl). My mother would then look through the bits and pieces of clothing and fabric we had around the house, and make me a costume. My brothers would be cats or policemen or vampires. I have no idea how my mother did it; it’s one of her skills I didn’t inherit as I grew up. I can cook, I can clean, I know how to bank my money, but sewing is one of those mysterious abilities I never seemed to absorb.
Finally the day would arrive! Lessons at school were cancelled for the afternoon. We’d assemble excitedly after lunch, wearing our costumes, and the Halloween parade would begin. The whole Elementary school was involved. Mothers lined the street outside the school, and there’d be a few fathers too, men who worked shifts at the oil refinery. There was lots of cheering, laughter and clicking of cameras as the children paraded by. There’d be the shy little kindergartners and first graders, tiny little things in the sweetest little costumes. Older children would swagger with bravado or try to act cool (a little difficult with an audience of mothers going “Awwww! Look at THAT one! How cute!” There were always lots of witches and at least one coke vending machine (yes, you read that correctly).
After the parade, there’d be a party in your classroom. Sometimes there’d be bobbing for apples, and a mother or two would turn up a really sweet cake. The classroom would be decorated with the Halloween artwork we’d been working on. It really was fun. And we knew we had trick or treating to look forward to in the evening. The official trick or treating times were decided by someone in the community and published in the community newsletter ahead of time. There would just be time to go home after school, change out of your costume, do a bit of homework, have dinner, then put the costume back on again and meet your friends.
It was always a nice evening in Saudi Arabia on Halloween, warm, sometimes a bit too warm if you were wearing a very elaborate disguise. It felt a little awkward knocking on the first couple of doors, but soon the ice was broken and you’d be running around the neighbourhood, your plastic pumpkin getting heavier and heavier with loot! As darkness fell, the people switched on their porch light, often shaded with a plastic, pumpkin-shaped cover so that it glowed orange. Many Americans went further and had hollowed out pumpkins lit up on their front doorsteps. Or they’d dress up and sit out on the front lawn with their neighbours, and try and scare you as they handed out treats. Even the air smelled different at Halloween. The scent of flowers carried on the warm air, and it seemed like the smell of burnt sugar, too.
As you ran around the compound, patches of darkness in the distance would move and glow sticks flicker, and you’d know it was another group of children doing the rounds. Sometimes they’d shout directions, if they’d been to a particularly prolific area!
Eventually, the porch lights would be switched off, and tired and overburdened with sugar, we’d return home for the important business of sorting our sweets, swapping with siblings the things we didn’t like until a mutually satisfactory arrangement was reached. Primitive optimal utility at work!
As an adult, I continued to enjoy Halloween in Saudi Arabia almost as much as when I was a child. My mother and I would walk over to the school on Halloween to watch the parade. It was pretty good because we knew lots of the children. For trick or treating, I’d have decorated the front of the house with fake cobweb from the community shop, complete with black plastic spiders. What a great look! I dressed up as a witch too, and parked myself at the front door with sacks of sweets. I even made vanilla fudge. It was such a hit the first year that I made it every year, the day before Halloween, wrapping it up in little packages in wax paper when it had set. It was so much fun, seeing the kids in their costumes, especially the shy little toddlers. Sometimes I wouldn’t even recognise them, until the mother hovering in the background called out hello and identified them for me. How funny!
So I went to Woollies this lunchtime and bought some bags of ‘fun size’ chocolate bars (would be more fun if they were bigger). Tonight I’ll be waiting expectantly at my front door, in my witch outfit, waiting for the children to come, like some sad, childless, baby-stealing madwoman. It’s a bit disappointing to me that Halloween hasn’t taken off outside America. I shouldn’t bother, I know. After all, I’m the first to cry ‘cultural imperialism’ every time we pick up yet another unfortunate American tradition. I guess I associate Halloween with good times and can’t let go.
Have a spooky Halloween, everyone!
When I was little, every year around late September, my mother would ask me what I wanted to be for Halloween. It was always a fairy or something like that (I was that kind of girl). My mother would then look through the bits and pieces of clothing and fabric we had around the house, and make me a costume. My brothers would be cats or policemen or vampires. I have no idea how my mother did it; it’s one of her skills I didn’t inherit as I grew up. I can cook, I can clean, I know how to bank my money, but sewing is one of those mysterious abilities I never seemed to absorb.
Finally the day would arrive! Lessons at school were cancelled for the afternoon. We’d assemble excitedly after lunch, wearing our costumes, and the Halloween parade would begin. The whole Elementary school was involved. Mothers lined the street outside the school, and there’d be a few fathers too, men who worked shifts at the oil refinery. There was lots of cheering, laughter and clicking of cameras as the children paraded by. There’d be the shy little kindergartners and first graders, tiny little things in the sweetest little costumes. Older children would swagger with bravado or try to act cool (a little difficult with an audience of mothers going “Awwww! Look at THAT one! How cute!” There were always lots of witches and at least one coke vending machine (yes, you read that correctly).
After the parade, there’d be a party in your classroom. Sometimes there’d be bobbing for apples, and a mother or two would turn up a really sweet cake. The classroom would be decorated with the Halloween artwork we’d been working on. It really was fun. And we knew we had trick or treating to look forward to in the evening. The official trick or treating times were decided by someone in the community and published in the community newsletter ahead of time. There would just be time to go home after school, change out of your costume, do a bit of homework, have dinner, then put the costume back on again and meet your friends.
It was always a nice evening in Saudi Arabia on Halloween, warm, sometimes a bit too warm if you were wearing a very elaborate disguise. It felt a little awkward knocking on the first couple of doors, but soon the ice was broken and you’d be running around the neighbourhood, your plastic pumpkin getting heavier and heavier with loot! As darkness fell, the people switched on their porch light, often shaded with a plastic, pumpkin-shaped cover so that it glowed orange. Many Americans went further and had hollowed out pumpkins lit up on their front doorsteps. Or they’d dress up and sit out on the front lawn with their neighbours, and try and scare you as they handed out treats. Even the air smelled different at Halloween. The scent of flowers carried on the warm air, and it seemed like the smell of burnt sugar, too.
As you ran around the compound, patches of darkness in the distance would move and glow sticks flicker, and you’d know it was another group of children doing the rounds. Sometimes they’d shout directions, if they’d been to a particularly prolific area!
Eventually, the porch lights would be switched off, and tired and overburdened with sugar, we’d return home for the important business of sorting our sweets, swapping with siblings the things we didn’t like until a mutually satisfactory arrangement was reached. Primitive optimal utility at work!
As an adult, I continued to enjoy Halloween in Saudi Arabia almost as much as when I was a child. My mother and I would walk over to the school on Halloween to watch the parade. It was pretty good because we knew lots of the children. For trick or treating, I’d have decorated the front of the house with fake cobweb from the community shop, complete with black plastic spiders. What a great look! I dressed up as a witch too, and parked myself at the front door with sacks of sweets. I even made vanilla fudge. It was such a hit the first year that I made it every year, the day before Halloween, wrapping it up in little packages in wax paper when it had set. It was so much fun, seeing the kids in their costumes, especially the shy little toddlers. Sometimes I wouldn’t even recognise them, until the mother hovering in the background called out hello and identified them for me. How funny!
So I went to Woollies this lunchtime and bought some bags of ‘fun size’ chocolate bars (would be more fun if they were bigger). Tonight I’ll be waiting expectantly at my front door, in my witch outfit, waiting for the children to come, like some sad, childless, baby-stealing madwoman. It’s a bit disappointing to me that Halloween hasn’t taken off outside America. I shouldn’t bother, I know. After all, I’m the first to cry ‘cultural imperialism’ every time we pick up yet another unfortunate American tradition. I guess I associate Halloween with good times and can’t let go.
Have a spooky Halloween, everyone!
Saturday 27 October 2007
Doing the Rounds
I know I’ve been quiet lately. I’ve been pretty under the weather all week. I took the day off on Wednesday to do some medical stuff. On Tuesday I managed to trap my fingers in a bin, punch myself in the face with my desk phone and spill the soil and water from a plant all over my desk, so I was probably due a sanity day. I spent it doing the rounds at various medical establishments.
First, I went to the dentist to have my teeth cleaned. It was my first visit to this dentist and I liked him. He said I take very good care of my teeth, and I know I do, but it’s always nice to hear from the professionals! Particularly as dentists always say stuff like “Oh my goodness, there’s so much crowding in here!” which is always humiliating. Actually, he did say that. But I talked over some options with him for braces, so I might be going ahead with that after Christmas, if there’s any money left after my trip to England.
It was good to hear that. I actually went to an orthodontist a few months ago. I decided that now I’m all grown up and earn money and stuff, I was finally going to do something about my teeth so that I wouldn’t have to be embarrassed about going to the dentist any more, and could smile like Burt Reynolds. It was a bit of a disaster. There was this ghastly woman; I’m not sure exactly what her job was; I don’t think she was the receptionist or a nurse. She seemed to run the place and even rule the orthodontist himself, on sheer willpower. ‘Publicist’ is the closest thing I could think of. She was all gushy and pushy, and whatever the orthodontist said – when he could get a word in – she repeated, only with three times as much force and gushiness.
The upshot of the visit was that I was going to have a couple of teeth knocked out in the bottom row then an operation to move my lower jaw forward after the braces. It would be great, she said. I could take my year’s holiday allowance from work and spend it recovering from this major jaw operation!
I backed slowly out of the office, smiling (with my hand covering my mouth, of course!) and never went back. I decided I would continue to live with my teeth the way they are. But the thing is, I felt a lot worse about them after I’d been to this orthodontist, having seen the very unflattering 3D pictures, heard the words ‘cross-bite’ and ‘overhang’ flying around over my head and the gushy woman going “I can’t believe you can even close your mouth with teeth like that!!” (I should point out that they’re not that bad. I mean, I’m not a freak or anything). There's nothing like the sound of a thoughtful "Hmmmmm" coming out of a dentist's mouth to make my spirits plummet.
This new dentist looked faintly surprised when I told him about the jaw operation thing, and said it was pretty old-fashioned to go around knocking teeth out and doing operations, not unless it was a really extreme case. So thank God for that!
On Wednesday I also went to the local clinic, finally, about my rash. But I got this weird guy who certainly didn’t look like a doctor, didn’t speak much English, and appears to have been told by someone that in the West, you don’t have to worry about etiquette – anything goes! I think he was trying to be cool. But he creeped me out and I felt distinctly embarrassed when he told me to take down my jeans. Then he told me he was referring me to a dermatologist, blah blah blah (indecipherable talking), which is great, because obviously I can take day after day off from work to hang around in doctors’ surgeries. Guess I’ll have to cure myself. Back to Google search!
Finally, I visited a physio who’d been recommended to me, but she turned out not to be a physio at all, but something a lot more hippy, and she referred me on to someone else. Sigh. The most notable thing about that visit is that I got lost on the way there and ended up in a mental hospital!
First, I went to the dentist to have my teeth cleaned. It was my first visit to this dentist and I liked him. He said I take very good care of my teeth, and I know I do, but it’s always nice to hear from the professionals! Particularly as dentists always say stuff like “Oh my goodness, there’s so much crowding in here!” which is always humiliating. Actually, he did say that. But I talked over some options with him for braces, so I might be going ahead with that after Christmas, if there’s any money left after my trip to England.
It was good to hear that. I actually went to an orthodontist a few months ago. I decided that now I’m all grown up and earn money and stuff, I was finally going to do something about my teeth so that I wouldn’t have to be embarrassed about going to the dentist any more, and could smile like Burt Reynolds. It was a bit of a disaster. There was this ghastly woman; I’m not sure exactly what her job was; I don’t think she was the receptionist or a nurse. She seemed to run the place and even rule the orthodontist himself, on sheer willpower. ‘Publicist’ is the closest thing I could think of. She was all gushy and pushy, and whatever the orthodontist said – when he could get a word in – she repeated, only with three times as much force and gushiness.
The upshot of the visit was that I was going to have a couple of teeth knocked out in the bottom row then an operation to move my lower jaw forward after the braces. It would be great, she said. I could take my year’s holiday allowance from work and spend it recovering from this major jaw operation!
I backed slowly out of the office, smiling (with my hand covering my mouth, of course!) and never went back. I decided I would continue to live with my teeth the way they are. But the thing is, I felt a lot worse about them after I’d been to this orthodontist, having seen the very unflattering 3D pictures, heard the words ‘cross-bite’ and ‘overhang’ flying around over my head and the gushy woman going “I can’t believe you can even close your mouth with teeth like that!!” (I should point out that they’re not that bad. I mean, I’m not a freak or anything). There's nothing like the sound of a thoughtful "Hmmmmm" coming out of a dentist's mouth to make my spirits plummet.
This new dentist looked faintly surprised when I told him about the jaw operation thing, and said it was pretty old-fashioned to go around knocking teeth out and doing operations, not unless it was a really extreme case. So thank God for that!
On Wednesday I also went to the local clinic, finally, about my rash. But I got this weird guy who certainly didn’t look like a doctor, didn’t speak much English, and appears to have been told by someone that in the West, you don’t have to worry about etiquette – anything goes! I think he was trying to be cool. But he creeped me out and I felt distinctly embarrassed when he told me to take down my jeans. Then he told me he was referring me to a dermatologist, blah blah blah (indecipherable talking), which is great, because obviously I can take day after day off from work to hang around in doctors’ surgeries. Guess I’ll have to cure myself. Back to Google search!
Finally, I visited a physio who’d been recommended to me, but she turned out not to be a physio at all, but something a lot more hippy, and she referred me on to someone else. Sigh. The most notable thing about that visit is that I got lost on the way there and ended up in a mental hospital!
Friday 19 October 2007
Macquarie Park Shocking Centre
I’ve just got back from the odious pit of boganity that is the Macquarie Shopping Centre. It’s an artificially lit, subterranean nightmare of a place, so unsettlingly disordered, I imagine Satan couldn’t do better if he tried to recreate in Hell one of those horrifying labyrinths you get trapped in in nightmares. In addition, the people clutter up the escalators instead of standing on the left, and I just hate that!
Anyway, I’m extra pissed off with the place today. I was wandering around this lunchtime, wondering if I’d ever find the Post Office in time to queue for half an hour and get back to work before my lunchbreak ended, not quite at the tears of frustration phase, but you know, close, when this young woman standing next to a stall accosted me and asked me if I’d ever been to Israel. I said “What?”, all confused and distracted. She said, “I think we might have met before…I am Israeli. Have you been to Israel?” My heart sank as I was sucked into this horribly contrived conversation about where we might have met; I say contrived because I realized about three seconds in that it was simply a ruse to get me talking so that she could sell me something expensive that I didn’t want.
She asked me how long I’d been in Australia, was it because of A Man? – ooh, how lovely! – etc etc. Did I meet him here? No, in Saudi Arabia – oh my gosh, how exciting! And I’d never been to Israel? Why ever not? She hopes to visit Saudi Arabia sometime soon! (I’d love to see an Israeli Jew get a visa for that, ha ha ha – nice to see the Arab-Israeli conflict has left some minds unscathed). I was forced into this girly, mock-intimate chat about my life, even though I frankly find it boring to go over for the millionth time the very unremarkable story of how I came to Australia to someone who I know doesn’t give a shit anyway. I also find it rude and intrusive. And there was something kind of creepy about this girl.
So I should have walked away, but I always feel I have to maintain at least a pretence of politeness, even through gritted teeth. She ignored my plea of “I’m in a hurry. Could you tell me where the Post Office is?” and gushed “But first, I have something very special for you!” Defeated, I went over to her stall and underwent a hand scrub with some Dead Sea salt scrub. It was actually pretty nice.
Then she said “Come close, I am going to tell you a very special secret.” There was something a bit psycho about her, so I was almost intrigued. Giggling coyly, she whispered something about how when I’m in the shower with my boyfriend, ‘playing games’, (chess? Cluedo?) we can rub it on each other, especially our ‘intimate bits’. Apparently he’ll love it.
Now, maybe this is something that all the kids are up to these days. Maybe scrubbing your sensitive private areas with salt whilst frolicking in the shower is the latest In Thing. Maybe everyone’s doing it. But I can tell you I was feeling distinctly uncomfortable about receiving sex tips from a nastily ingratiating stranger, especially since it was taking so bloody long and all wanted to do was get to the Post Office before she decided she’d invested too much time and free samples on me to let me leave alive with wallet. It’s not a nice feeling, as you’ll know if you’ve ever been reluctantly sold at by a fake friendly person.
And she did indeed get rather shirty when I told her I wasn’t going to buy it. Apparently it was a special offer, half price at $75 for one day only, blah blah blah. I said I was saving like crazy for my trip to England (true) and she told me I should buy one for me and one for my mother for a Christmas present. I told her I didn’t get paid until tomorrow, so she said I should buy it on credit. Then she asked me if I have many nice cosmetics at home, and I said I love Lush. She said that Lush is so expensive, if I buy that, I should buy her stuff. I was beginning to think I could see flames in her eyes and could almost hear a chainsaw being revved up.
Fleetingly I considered giving in and buying some just to get her off my back and wipe the barely concealed fury off her face. I mean, how bad could it be? It was pretty nice stuff, and I could always try tackling the Man in the shower, salt scrub in one hand, chess set in the other , and rubbing him with it to see what happened (he’d probably recoil in terror, poor sweetie).
It would have been easy to give in, and I’ve always been a bit spineless where bullies are concerned. But I am getting a bit better these days, so I simply said I wasn’t going to buy anything really politely about thirty times and left. Of course if I were perfectly Karmically evolved I’d have refused to be drawn in right from the beginning, leaned in really close to her face and screamed, “I said WHERE’S THE POST OFFICE, BEEATCH?!!”, foam and spit splashing everywhere then gone up to her cosmetics stand and thrown it over. But you know, small steps.
My only consolation is that she looked pretty peeved. I hope she felt as annoyed as she looked!
Anyway, I’m extra pissed off with the place today. I was wandering around this lunchtime, wondering if I’d ever find the Post Office in time to queue for half an hour and get back to work before my lunchbreak ended, not quite at the tears of frustration phase, but you know, close, when this young woman standing next to a stall accosted me and asked me if I’d ever been to Israel. I said “What?”, all confused and distracted. She said, “I think we might have met before…I am Israeli. Have you been to Israel?” My heart sank as I was sucked into this horribly contrived conversation about where we might have met; I say contrived because I realized about three seconds in that it was simply a ruse to get me talking so that she could sell me something expensive that I didn’t want.
She asked me how long I’d been in Australia, was it because of A Man? – ooh, how lovely! – etc etc. Did I meet him here? No, in Saudi Arabia – oh my gosh, how exciting! And I’d never been to Israel? Why ever not? She hopes to visit Saudi Arabia sometime soon! (I’d love to see an Israeli Jew get a visa for that, ha ha ha – nice to see the Arab-Israeli conflict has left some minds unscathed). I was forced into this girly, mock-intimate chat about my life, even though I frankly find it boring to go over for the millionth time the very unremarkable story of how I came to Australia to someone who I know doesn’t give a shit anyway. I also find it rude and intrusive. And there was something kind of creepy about this girl.
So I should have walked away, but I always feel I have to maintain at least a pretence of politeness, even through gritted teeth. She ignored my plea of “I’m in a hurry. Could you tell me where the Post Office is?” and gushed “But first, I have something very special for you!” Defeated, I went over to her stall and underwent a hand scrub with some Dead Sea salt scrub. It was actually pretty nice.
Then she said “Come close, I am going to tell you a very special secret.” There was something a bit psycho about her, so I was almost intrigued. Giggling coyly, she whispered something about how when I’m in the shower with my boyfriend, ‘playing games’, (chess? Cluedo?) we can rub it on each other, especially our ‘intimate bits’. Apparently he’ll love it.
Now, maybe this is something that all the kids are up to these days. Maybe scrubbing your sensitive private areas with salt whilst frolicking in the shower is the latest In Thing. Maybe everyone’s doing it. But I can tell you I was feeling distinctly uncomfortable about receiving sex tips from a nastily ingratiating stranger, especially since it was taking so bloody long and all wanted to do was get to the Post Office before she decided she’d invested too much time and free samples on me to let me leave alive with wallet. It’s not a nice feeling, as you’ll know if you’ve ever been reluctantly sold at by a fake friendly person.
And she did indeed get rather shirty when I told her I wasn’t going to buy it. Apparently it was a special offer, half price at $75 for one day only, blah blah blah. I said I was saving like crazy for my trip to England (true) and she told me I should buy one for me and one for my mother for a Christmas present. I told her I didn’t get paid until tomorrow, so she said I should buy it on credit. Then she asked me if I have many nice cosmetics at home, and I said I love Lush. She said that Lush is so expensive, if I buy that, I should buy her stuff. I was beginning to think I could see flames in her eyes and could almost hear a chainsaw being revved up.
Fleetingly I considered giving in and buying some just to get her off my back and wipe the barely concealed fury off her face. I mean, how bad could it be? It was pretty nice stuff, and I could always try tackling the Man in the shower, salt scrub in one hand, chess set in the other , and rubbing him with it to see what happened (he’d probably recoil in terror, poor sweetie).
It would have been easy to give in, and I’ve always been a bit spineless where bullies are concerned. But I am getting a bit better these days, so I simply said I wasn’t going to buy anything really politely about thirty times and left. Of course if I were perfectly Karmically evolved I’d have refused to be drawn in right from the beginning, leaned in really close to her face and screamed, “I said WHERE’S THE POST OFFICE, BEEATCH?!!”, foam and spit splashing everywhere then gone up to her cosmetics stand and thrown it over. But you know, small steps.
My only consolation is that she looked pretty peeved. I hope she felt as annoyed as she looked!
Thursday 18 October 2007
Birds of the Eastern Suburbs and Their Calls (or Bastard Birds That Wake You Up in the Morning)
Yes, I live in the Eastern Suburbs, though I don’t own an SUV and I don’t dress half my age. I realize I’m compromising my anonymity somewhat by admitting where I live, but don’t come a-stalking. I’m a cop’s sister now, as my brother proudly called me in the middle of some quality sleep to inform me last night.
So, to the birds. It’s quite a cast of characters. Leading lights include:
1. Cockatoo
Call: ‘ARAAAAAARK! RAAARRRR! EOOORRRAAARRK!’
Not very pleasant first thing in the morning. Cockatoos for miles around home in on the large palm tree in my back yard. They love to peck at the trunk and pull it apart. On many a still summer’s day the silence has been broken by an abrupt thump as a large branch falls to the ground. If you step outside and look up, there is inevitably a cockie smirking back down at you with a distinctly challenging air.
A mutual friend tells me that our neighbour secretly hates our palm tree. He is terrified that it’s going to collapse one day, squashing his house and his yuppie renovations. But the cockatoos only peck at the loose bark, not the actual core of the tree. Maybe he thinks the entire trunk is riddled with cockatoo tunnels?
2. Alarm Clock Bird
Call: ‘Bip-bip. Bip-bip’.
Nowhere near as loud as the cockatoo, this bird is nevertheless just as annoying in its own subtle way. It wakes you up slowly, as you gradually become aware of a hotel alarm clock-style, insistent beeping in the distance. It is IMPOSSIBLE to have a nice, civilized lie-in with this bloody bird politely indicating it’s time to get up.
I’ve no idea what species this bird really is or what it looks like. I can’t help wondering if it’s a reincarnation of my grandma. She was incapable of letting people sleep in too. 7 am on a holiday and you’d be woken by the floorboards on the landing outside creaking cautiously and a quavering voice saying “errrrr…Sprite? It’s seven o’clock!” I would of course reply, “GRANDMA! I’m TRYING to SLEEP!” Grandma: “Oh, that’s ok, love! No need to get up.”
Further sleep would be an act of iron self-discipline, accompanied as it was by crashing pots and pans from the kitchen and hideously cheerful local radio turned up loud. Then, “Sprite? It’s just pipped eight.” “GRANDMA I DON’T CARE WHAT TIME IT IS! I’m TRYING to SLEEP!” “That’s all right, love, I’m just telling you so you know. You don’t have to get up.”
Poor grandma, I do miss her. Perhaps next time I’m tempted to hunt down Alarm Clock Bird at 6:15 am and smack it on the snooze button, I’ll think of her and forgive.
3. Minor Third Bird
Call: ‘TOOOOwit? TOOOOwit?’
This one woke me up this morning. I worked out the interval (a minor third) for old time’s sakes, just exercising my musical listening skills from the days when I used to take music exams. At the end, the examiner would make you sing notes and recognize chords played on the piano. It was called ‘aural tests’, and God, how I hated them. I don’t know what an augmented fifth sounds like and I never did. I used to get so confused when practicing that sometimes I couldn’t even distinguish between fifths and octaves. For anyone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about, all you need to know is, that makes you look really, really stupid.
Minor thirds are quite interesting, actually. They can be heard all the time in folk music, at least in the West. It’s like, whenever people spontaneously compose tunes, they always seem to be in a minor key with minor thirds as a key feature. I’m talking about people who have no formal musical training – it seems to come naturally to people. Football chants too; they’re often built round a falling minor third. So I was intrigued to hear cheery little Minor Third Bird doing his thing. Could it all Mean Something? I’ll leave it to the experts to research. It all belongs to the murky world of the physics of music, I’m sure.
4. Rainbow Lorikeets
Call: ‘Squiggilit! Quiggle krrrrllll splitt!’ (or something like that. It is hard to transcribe bird sounds in English script.)
All very high pitched, like somebody washing windows enthusiastically. The Man has special penchant for these birds. He is happy to shoot out of bed in the middle of dream sleep as soon as he hears them trilling away outside, crying “The birds are waiting for me!” He runs outside in his sleepwear, doling out bread soaked with lavish spoonfuls of honey.
So last year we were pretty excited to see ‘The Parrots of Telegraph Hill’, a gorgeous film/documentary, very sweet, about an eccentric man who lived in a San Francisco park and basically befriended a flock of wild parrots. It certainly had a profound effect on the Man, who now fancies himself as the Sydney version, and I think he secretly hopes he will become famous and have a film made about him. Shortly after we saw the film he decided he wanted to name our lorikeet visitors. “Sprite, what shall I call this one?” He’d ask, nonchalantly. “How about you don’t bother?” I’d say, bundle of fun that I am. In the end, he seems to have lost interest in naming them and becoming an official eccentric bird man, as we only ever get two lorikeets feeding in our yard. They are an aggressive couple and won’t let any others come and share their honeyed treats, cruelly thwarting the Man’s dreams of stardom!
Wednesday 17 October 2007
The Countdown Begins
Finally, the election has been called. At last, I get to send my groovy PowerPoint invitation to everyone I’ve ever met, in order that they may admire my skills.
So now, the massive house clean begins. Both fridges have wet themselves in fear. (Or maybe because the Man accidentally turned one off overnight and I left the other freezer door ajar). Dove shit has been scraped off the floorboards, the wooden blinds have received their first wash since they ceased to be trees, and spider populations have been rehoused.
But there’s so much more to do! Here’s my rough working list:
1 Put sofa cover through the washing machine
2 Clean the toilet (after purchasing toilet cleaner. Our existing stuff is probably out of date by now)
3 Collect human hair balls from all corners of the house.
4 Vacuum and mop the floors.
5 Polish the kettle and toaster. I love that job. I love seeing the metal sparkle and shine, and I especially enjoy the fumes!
6 Have fight with the Man
7 Dust
8 Remind the Man that the ‘Good Housekeeping’ team are not expected to attend and do an inspection
9 Sweep deck
10 Have a HUGE fight with the Man
11 Clean the barbie – a job that probably involves cockroach killer/a professional pest control company
12 Put up fairy lights
So many things to do. If it were up to me I’d do the basics and then abandon the job on the basis of, it will be dark most of the time so the guests won’t notice the questionable hygiene of our abode. Unfortunately the Man can be a pedantic little monster when it comes to preparing for guests, and if I appear calmer than him he will get really pissed off.
By the way, in case you were wondering, the dove flew away a couple of weekends ago. We left the back doors wide open, and it sat in the pot plant for a while, looking vacant but obviously plotting, because suddenly it shot out in a flurry of beating wings. We last saw it hopping aimlessly about on a neighbour’s roof. I hope it’s having birdy fun, wherever it is.
I was a bit worried about the dove, because later that afternoon there was a minor hurricane and plague of giant moths. I was in the CBD at the time. The Telstra building was just coated in Bogong moths. It was so gross. Then the wind whipped up and I had to duck and dodge them as they shot through the air. Thank God the plague seems to be nearing the end, and we won’t have to suffer any more stupid ‘humorous’ comments from people going “You do know you can eat them, don’t you?” It was ok the first time, but there’s only so much girly giggling I can do without the aid of alcohol.
Suppose I’d better do some work now.
So now, the massive house clean begins. Both fridges have wet themselves in fear. (Or maybe because the Man accidentally turned one off overnight and I left the other freezer door ajar). Dove shit has been scraped off the floorboards, the wooden blinds have received their first wash since they ceased to be trees, and spider populations have been rehoused.
But there’s so much more to do! Here’s my rough working list:
1 Put sofa cover through the washing machine
2 Clean the toilet (after purchasing toilet cleaner. Our existing stuff is probably out of date by now)
3 Collect human hair balls from all corners of the house.
4 Vacuum and mop the floors.
5 Polish the kettle and toaster. I love that job. I love seeing the metal sparkle and shine, and I especially enjoy the fumes!
6 Have fight with the Man
7 Dust
8 Remind the Man that the ‘Good Housekeeping’ team are not expected to attend and do an inspection
9 Sweep deck
10 Have a HUGE fight with the Man
11 Clean the barbie – a job that probably involves cockroach killer/a professional pest control company
12 Put up fairy lights
So many things to do. If it were up to me I’d do the basics and then abandon the job on the basis of, it will be dark most of the time so the guests won’t notice the questionable hygiene of our abode. Unfortunately the Man can be a pedantic little monster when it comes to preparing for guests, and if I appear calmer than him he will get really pissed off.
By the way, in case you were wondering, the dove flew away a couple of weekends ago. We left the back doors wide open, and it sat in the pot plant for a while, looking vacant but obviously plotting, because suddenly it shot out in a flurry of beating wings. We last saw it hopping aimlessly about on a neighbour’s roof. I hope it’s having birdy fun, wherever it is.
I was a bit worried about the dove, because later that afternoon there was a minor hurricane and plague of giant moths. I was in the CBD at the time. The Telstra building was just coated in Bogong moths. It was so gross. Then the wind whipped up and I had to duck and dodge them as they shot through the air. Thank God the plague seems to be nearing the end, and we won’t have to suffer any more stupid ‘humorous’ comments from people going “You do know you can eat them, don’t you?” It was ok the first time, but there’s only so much girly giggling I can do without the aid of alcohol.
Suppose I’d better do some work now.
Friday 12 October 2007
Life in the Desert Kingdom
Lately I’ve been enjoying Daisy’s blog, Saudi Stepford Wife. Daisy is an American living in Saudi Arabia with her Saudi husband. I can’t remember now how I found her blog – probably in one of my stalker moods, looking for long-lost expat friends. As a former resident myself, I get a thrill reading about the daily goings-on of folks in the good ole KSA (Kingdom of Saudi Arabia).
Lately Daisy’s had this weirdo souring up her comments section. I suppose it’s inevitable when you blog from Saudi Arabia about Saudi Arabia, but it bothered me all Friday. I could understand it if she was bitching about the country (a favourite pastime of expats in the Kingdom) but this lady writes with such respect and affection for the country and its people. She describes herself as a feminist and certainly she comments on the not-so-good side of life there, and supports reform, but I honestly can’t see why any sane person would be driven to fevered ragings and throwing fatwas all over the place, not even hardcore religious conservatives. I guess the key word there is ‘sane’. Now if it was me, I’d be whingeing about the boredom, the lack of career opportunities, the way anything you ever want to do is always so bloody difficult over there, the insane laws, etc. But Daisy’s blog is upbeat, happy and dignified. I suspect she is a wiser woman than I will ever be.
By the way, if anyone’s interested in life as an expat in Saudi Arabia, I heartily recommend reading My Desert Kingdom by Jill Koolmees. (Though it seems to be out of print now so you’ll have to do a ridiculous amount of searching in secondhand bookshops and ebay to find it). I would be relieved if everyone would read this book before they are tempted to ask me, “Did you ever see anyone get their head chopped off? Did you have to live in a tent? Did you ride around on camels?” (Answers: no, no and no). Forget extreme accounts of royal harems, beheadings, floggings etc written by undercover journos – valid as these experiences may be for some people – this is a realistic account of the reality of life for the many ordinary westerners who go over there to work. That is not to say that her experiences were dull – far from it – but they were quite normal to someone who’s lived over there. I spent the entire book utterly absorbed, crying “I remember that!” and “The Khobar Barbershop singers! I’ve seen them in concert!” with indescribable joy.
I read it a few weeks ago now, but a few things especially stick in my mind. The author had just spent a difficult few months adjusting to her new life in to Saudi Arabia, yet when she returned to Melbourne for a short holiday, she felt restless and out-of-place, like she didn’t fit there any more. She found herself looking forward to returning to the Kingdom; her body was there in Melbourne but her mind wasn’t. I know that feeling, but I’ve never seen it described so eloquently before. However lonely and isolated I felt in Saudi Arabia (and I was so lonely at times I’d be embarrassed to tell you how much), when I went to England for holidays I couldn’t help wishing it was time to go back! (After I’d done all my shopping, I should clarify.) I felt like I didn’t belong there any more. The pace of life was all wrong. The accents sounded funny. I didn’t understand references to the latest in popular culture – and I didn’t care. I just wanted to get back to the quiet country where everything runs upside down, inside out. Guess that explains some things about me.
I also enjoyed the bit where she took a short trip to Dubai to visit friends from home. She recounts a conversation with them where she and her husband tried to tell them about some of Saudi Arabia’s weirder aspects. But to everything they said, the friends refused to believe them. “And the corruption is incredible! At every level!” Jill said.* The friends just countered that we in the West have corruption back home too. I can’t remember where the friends were from but I’m betting they were English. The English middle classes refuse to admit that England isn’t the lowliest country in the world – they think it makes them sound sophisticated. Anyway, my point is, the author encapsulated really well how difficult it is to try and explain Saudi Arabia to people who haven’t been there. You feel helpless to get your ideas and impressions across adequately.
One of Jill’s Australian friends (female) wrote to tell her she was stopping over in Riyadh on a short business trip. She suggested that Jill come over and stay for a couple of days and they could ‘paint the town red’. Hahahahahahahahaha! How I laughed. That is funny on so many levels.
So, clearly I loved the book. Have I lost you? I guess I’d better sign off now and enjoy my reminiscences alone!
*I'm just paraphrasing.
Lately Daisy’s had this weirdo souring up her comments section. I suppose it’s inevitable when you blog from Saudi Arabia about Saudi Arabia, but it bothered me all Friday. I could understand it if she was bitching about the country (a favourite pastime of expats in the Kingdom) but this lady writes with such respect and affection for the country and its people. She describes herself as a feminist and certainly she comments on the not-so-good side of life there, and supports reform, but I honestly can’t see why any sane person would be driven to fevered ragings and throwing fatwas all over the place, not even hardcore religious conservatives. I guess the key word there is ‘sane’. Now if it was me, I’d be whingeing about the boredom, the lack of career opportunities, the way anything you ever want to do is always so bloody difficult over there, the insane laws, etc. But Daisy’s blog is upbeat, happy and dignified. I suspect she is a wiser woman than I will ever be.
By the way, if anyone’s interested in life as an expat in Saudi Arabia, I heartily recommend reading My Desert Kingdom by Jill Koolmees. (Though it seems to be out of print now so you’ll have to do a ridiculous amount of searching in secondhand bookshops and ebay to find it). I would be relieved if everyone would read this book before they are tempted to ask me, “Did you ever see anyone get their head chopped off? Did you have to live in a tent? Did you ride around on camels?” (Answers: no, no and no). Forget extreme accounts of royal harems, beheadings, floggings etc written by undercover journos – valid as these experiences may be for some people – this is a realistic account of the reality of life for the many ordinary westerners who go over there to work. That is not to say that her experiences were dull – far from it – but they were quite normal to someone who’s lived over there. I spent the entire book utterly absorbed, crying “I remember that!” and “The Khobar Barbershop singers! I’ve seen them in concert!” with indescribable joy.
I read it a few weeks ago now, but a few things especially stick in my mind. The author had just spent a difficult few months adjusting to her new life in to Saudi Arabia, yet when she returned to Melbourne for a short holiday, she felt restless and out-of-place, like she didn’t fit there any more. She found herself looking forward to returning to the Kingdom; her body was there in Melbourne but her mind wasn’t. I know that feeling, but I’ve never seen it described so eloquently before. However lonely and isolated I felt in Saudi Arabia (and I was so lonely at times I’d be embarrassed to tell you how much), when I went to England for holidays I couldn’t help wishing it was time to go back! (After I’d done all my shopping, I should clarify.) I felt like I didn’t belong there any more. The pace of life was all wrong. The accents sounded funny. I didn’t understand references to the latest in popular culture – and I didn’t care. I just wanted to get back to the quiet country where everything runs upside down, inside out. Guess that explains some things about me.
I also enjoyed the bit where she took a short trip to Dubai to visit friends from home. She recounts a conversation with them where she and her husband tried to tell them about some of Saudi Arabia’s weirder aspects. But to everything they said, the friends refused to believe them. “And the corruption is incredible! At every level!” Jill said.* The friends just countered that we in the West have corruption back home too. I can’t remember where the friends were from but I’m betting they were English. The English middle classes refuse to admit that England isn’t the lowliest country in the world – they think it makes them sound sophisticated. Anyway, my point is, the author encapsulated really well how difficult it is to try and explain Saudi Arabia to people who haven’t been there. You feel helpless to get your ideas and impressions across adequately.
One of Jill’s Australian friends (female) wrote to tell her she was stopping over in Riyadh on a short business trip. She suggested that Jill come over and stay for a couple of days and they could ‘paint the town red’. Hahahahahahahahaha! How I laughed. That is funny on so many levels.
So, clearly I loved the book. Have I lost you? I guess I’d better sign off now and enjoy my reminiscences alone!
*I'm just paraphrasing.
Tuesday 9 October 2007
In My Dreams
Last night I had an erotic dream about my boss (though we weren’t actually having sex, thank God). Doubly disturbing, this is the second time I’ve had an indecent dream about him. I'm feeling kind of grossed out.
Now I should clarify, my subconscious has good taste. My boss is actually quite a handsome man. I don’t use the word ‘handsome’ very often, but in his case it’s justified. And he always smells nice. I also like and respect him quite a lot, even though he’s a businessman and I can’t conceive why anyone would want to spend most of their life discussing figures and business deals and talking in stupid business jargon.
Anyway, just because he’s successful, wealthy and attractive with a good personality does not mean I want to dream erotically about him (I’m serious). We have a cordial but businesslike relationship – he’s my boss, for God’s sake – and I don’t want to even think about crossing that line, not even in the privacy of my mind. He’s too old for me! He’s married with children! He’s my boss! IT’S JUST WRONG! Yuck yuck yuck! Surely I should have a choice about who I fantasize about? I feel like my subconscious mind has just violated me!
I wish I knew what my mind is trying to tell me. Surely I don’t have a secret repressed crush on him. I don’t feel like I do. I mean, I’ve just happily admitted that he is an attractive man. So I’m not repressing anything. And I genuinely don’t want to imagine having sex with him, otherwise I’d have enjoyed the dream! What is going on?
Shudder.
Note: I was just checking the spelling and grammar of this post before publishing when he came up behind my desk to ask me something. Oops. Then I had to try really hard not to laugh.
Now I should clarify, my subconscious has good taste. My boss is actually quite a handsome man. I don’t use the word ‘handsome’ very often, but in his case it’s justified. And he always smells nice. I also like and respect him quite a lot, even though he’s a businessman and I can’t conceive why anyone would want to spend most of their life discussing figures and business deals and talking in stupid business jargon.
Anyway, just because he’s successful, wealthy and attractive with a good personality does not mean I want to dream erotically about him (I’m serious). We have a cordial but businesslike relationship – he’s my boss, for God’s sake – and I don’t want to even think about crossing that line, not even in the privacy of my mind. He’s too old for me! He’s married with children! He’s my boss! IT’S JUST WRONG! Yuck yuck yuck! Surely I should have a choice about who I fantasize about? I feel like my subconscious mind has just violated me!
I wish I knew what my mind is trying to tell me. Surely I don’t have a secret repressed crush on him. I don’t feel like I do. I mean, I’ve just happily admitted that he is an attractive man. So I’m not repressing anything. And I genuinely don’t want to imagine having sex with him, otherwise I’d have enjoyed the dream! What is going on?
Shudder.
Note: I was just checking the spelling and grammar of this post before publishing when he came up behind my desk to ask me something. Oops. Then I had to try really hard not to laugh.
Saturday 6 October 2007
Roamsome Dove Part III - Update
I got home from ballet class last night (hobbled home actually) to find the dove perching high up on the window ledge. Let me explain: We have full length windows at the back of the house. On top of the windows is a ledge, then from the ledge, more windows go up into a triangle, as our ceiling is not flat, it’s pointy. (I’m good at explaining house stuff, aren’t I? And I’m not even an estate agent.) Anyway, now that you’ve got a clear picture of where the dove was perching, you’ll appreciate that it must be making good progress in its flying skills. I just can’t get over how happy I am it didn’t die!
The Man and I are coming to the conclusion that our dove is a baby. It’s hard to tell with birds as the babies grow as big as their parents so quickly. But its wings seem a bit too short, so I guess its feathers haven’t grown to their full length yet. It could have been the runt of a litter that was taking its first flight, and that would explain why it was sitting in the road, unable to fly, while cats closed in on it.
Talking of cats – it’s taking me ever longer to get ready in the mornings. This morning I let the cat in, then shut it up in the front room with some food. It cried at the door for ages, but I’m not happy with the way it’s roaming free now that it’s baby bird season. So I ignored its plaintive cries, poor thing. Then, while the cat wailed, I let the bird out of its box and checked that it was happy and well fed. Meanwhile, cockatoos and parrots screeched outside, hoping for seed. It’s a wonder I get out of the house at all!
The Man and I are coming to the conclusion that our dove is a baby. It’s hard to tell with birds as the babies grow as big as their parents so quickly. But its wings seem a bit too short, so I guess its feathers haven’t grown to their full length yet. It could have been the runt of a litter that was taking its first flight, and that would explain why it was sitting in the road, unable to fly, while cats closed in on it.
Talking of cats – it’s taking me ever longer to get ready in the mornings. This morning I let the cat in, then shut it up in the front room with some food. It cried at the door for ages, but I’m not happy with the way it’s roaming free now that it’s baby bird season. So I ignored its plaintive cries, poor thing. Then, while the cat wailed, I let the bird out of its box and checked that it was happy and well fed. Meanwhile, cockatoos and parrots screeched outside, hoping for seed. It’s a wonder I get out of the house at all!
Thursday 4 October 2007
Fun on the Weekend
Now all the drama of the day is over, I am free to ruminate over the happenings of my action-packed weekend!
Highlights/lowlights include:
1. Endless football games on TV all Saturday
I think it might have been rugby, but what do I know. All I know is that The Man assured me they were all of vital significance in the nation’s sporting history, thus we had to have men running around chasing a ball across a field on our TV screen all day. I didn’t mind, though, because while the Man can be a little overbearing at times, sport on TV throws him into a trance during which I could get up to anything and he won’t notice. I took the opportunity to cook up a storm. I made a huge pan of vegetable soup, naan bread and banana muffins. This was accompanied by an inevitable giant mound of cleaning, the dark side of any baking endeavour. I was so exhausted by the end of the day I needed to be carried to bed by a buff young warrior*. (But I wasn’t – I had to hobble there myself).
2. Being chased round and round the car by a pelican
On Sunday, the Man and I drove down to Nowra and the surrounding area for the day, and had lots of tourist fun, including seeing a steam train. (We got out to watch it pass at a level crossing and its whistle nearly blew us away). On our way back we stopped for fish and chips.
This shop stands alone in a little car park, overlooking a stretch of water. I don’t know if it’s a river or something – I never notice stuff like that – it’s just water that isn’t the sea. The Man first took me there three years ago, when I’d first arrived in Australia. We bought fish and chips, then drove the car round to the car park at the back to eat them. Within minutes, the car was surrounded by a whole flock of seagulls, mostly airborne, and a hopeful looking pelican. Ours was the only car in the car park – can’t think why. We threw titbits out of the windows to our friends outside. I was terrified for most of the ordeal, especially when the pelican tried to poke its beak in through the open window! I wished that we had bought the birds some fresh fish, instead of feeding them greasy, deep fried fish and chips. I’ve been wishing that ever since, and finally on Sunday I got my wish.
So we bought a bag of chopped, raw fish along with our fish and chips, and drove to the car park behind the shop, just like last time. Once again, we drew a hungry crowd. The seagulls crapped all over our car and a mournful looking pelican tried to jack open the window with its beak. As I cowered inside, the Man told me he couldn’t believe what a wimp I was being, after I’d spent the afternoon excited about going there. Just to shut him up, I agreed to get out and feed them before they completely destroyed our vehicle. That’s when the pelican chased me round the car, screaming (me), its eyes rolling and lower beak billowing in the wind like a sinister pink balloon. I escaped by throwing the Man the bag of fish and jumping into the car. Scary.
3. Road and Supermarket Rage
The next day, I had my weekly driving lesson with my beloved. I was all happy and enthusiastic after last week’s lesson where I finally found some confidence. I couldn’t wait to drive aimlessly round and round my suburb again!
Everything was fine until about five minutes into my pointless, 15 kph circuits of our block. I got to this very narrow street to find a cyclist coming towards me. I freaked out a bit. The Man told me to pull further in to the left, but since I have no idea where the car ends, I didn’t, and ground to a stop instead. I reasoned that stopping might make me look like an idiot, but it was better than having to pay for street full of parked car doors to be repainted and I couldn't possibly injure the cyclist from a staionary position. The cyclist managed to get past me then hollered, “Move over, you cunt!”
Now, people don’t normally yell at me like that, so I was a bit shaken, but started driving again. The Man told me he agreed with the cyclist, and started lecturing me about my driving and telling how crap I was. My eyes started to fill with tears to the point that I realized I was even more of a danger to the public than I usually am behind the wheel, and I pulled over and started crying. Driving lesson over.
Is it actually acceptable to scream abusively at learner drivers for offenses such as driving slowly during off-peak traffic times? Or am I really such a bad driver? I don’t feel like learning to drive any more.
So then we went to Aldi. It was closing but I ducked inside, willing my face to stop being all blotchy from crying, because it’s embarrassing, and the Man waited for me in the front of the store. I was just paying for my bread when I heard this big, irrationally angry man shouting something at one of the assistants. The Man, who was standing about two metres away from the big, irrationally angry man (B.I.A.M.), told him in a mild voice that the shop had just closed, and that was why he couldn’t bring a trolley in.
“WAS I TALKING TO YOU?” yelled B.I.A.M.
“Give him a break” said my guy. “How would you like to work here?”
“I DON’T WANT TO WORK HERE!” said B.I.A.M., who evidently had a B.A. (Hons) in Missing the Point.
“They’re not letting anybody in.”
“I’M NOT JUST ANYBODY!! WHY DO YOU CARE? DO YOU KNOW HIM?”
“He’s my cousin” lied the Man, probably thinking how smart he was.
The store manager asked B.I.A.M. to leave, and he did (taking his child in its push chair with him) bellowing “LET’S TAKE THIS OUTSIDE!” To my relief, the Man ignored him and stayed in the shop, while I glanced at my change and wondered if I’d deliberately been short changed. I’m sure I gave the assistant a $20, not a $10. I’d had enough fights for one day so I let it go.
So we went home, both feeling chagrined and brought down a peg or two. The Man was seething, as I knew he would be, and grumbled that if he wasn’t short and lightly-built, the B.I.A.M. wouldn’t have dared talk back to him, and how he wished he could morph into a seven foot Maori at will and pulverise people. He always gets like this when he’s been in an altercation. You can see where the market is for all those movies were the nerd unexpectedly turns into super-hero and has vengeance on anyone who ever bullied him.
I know it’s mean but I was glad The Man got yelled at too. So now we were even. And in between fantasies in which I reversed over the cyclist, shrieking “I’m an incompetent learner driver in possession of a powerful car, so don’t piss me off!** Ahahahaha!!!!”, I reflected that it’s important not to lose your temper with people because it might upset them more than you envisioned.
*My taste in trashy romances has overcome me once again.
**It does surprise me how willing people are to honk and shout abuse at learner drivers. Don’t they know how much danger they are in? Do they not understand I only have a thin grasp of which is the brake pedal and which is the accelerator? Has it not occurred to them their vehicle/body only remains intact by virtue of my 100% concentration on the job? ‘L’ does not stand for ‘Victim’. It stand for ‘may accidentally maim you or total your car due to inexperience and incompetence. So watch the fuck out.’
Highlights/lowlights include:
1. Endless football games on TV all Saturday
I think it might have been rugby, but what do I know. All I know is that The Man assured me they were all of vital significance in the nation’s sporting history, thus we had to have men running around chasing a ball across a field on our TV screen all day. I didn’t mind, though, because while the Man can be a little overbearing at times, sport on TV throws him into a trance during which I could get up to anything and he won’t notice. I took the opportunity to cook up a storm. I made a huge pan of vegetable soup, naan bread and banana muffins. This was accompanied by an inevitable giant mound of cleaning, the dark side of any baking endeavour. I was so exhausted by the end of the day I needed to be carried to bed by a buff young warrior*. (But I wasn’t – I had to hobble there myself).
2. Being chased round and round the car by a pelican
On Sunday, the Man and I drove down to Nowra and the surrounding area for the day, and had lots of tourist fun, including seeing a steam train. (We got out to watch it pass at a level crossing and its whistle nearly blew us away). On our way back we stopped for fish and chips.
This shop stands alone in a little car park, overlooking a stretch of water. I don’t know if it’s a river or something – I never notice stuff like that – it’s just water that isn’t the sea. The Man first took me there three years ago, when I’d first arrived in Australia. We bought fish and chips, then drove the car round to the car park at the back to eat them. Within minutes, the car was surrounded by a whole flock of seagulls, mostly airborne, and a hopeful looking pelican. Ours was the only car in the car park – can’t think why. We threw titbits out of the windows to our friends outside. I was terrified for most of the ordeal, especially when the pelican tried to poke its beak in through the open window! I wished that we had bought the birds some fresh fish, instead of feeding them greasy, deep fried fish and chips. I’ve been wishing that ever since, and finally on Sunday I got my wish.
So we bought a bag of chopped, raw fish along with our fish and chips, and drove to the car park behind the shop, just like last time. Once again, we drew a hungry crowd. The seagulls crapped all over our car and a mournful looking pelican tried to jack open the window with its beak. As I cowered inside, the Man told me he couldn’t believe what a wimp I was being, after I’d spent the afternoon excited about going there. Just to shut him up, I agreed to get out and feed them before they completely destroyed our vehicle. That’s when the pelican chased me round the car, screaming (me), its eyes rolling and lower beak billowing in the wind like a sinister pink balloon. I escaped by throwing the Man the bag of fish and jumping into the car. Scary.
3. Road and Supermarket Rage
The next day, I had my weekly driving lesson with my beloved. I was all happy and enthusiastic after last week’s lesson where I finally found some confidence. I couldn’t wait to drive aimlessly round and round my suburb again!
Everything was fine until about five minutes into my pointless, 15 kph circuits of our block. I got to this very narrow street to find a cyclist coming towards me. I freaked out a bit. The Man told me to pull further in to the left, but since I have no idea where the car ends, I didn’t, and ground to a stop instead. I reasoned that stopping might make me look like an idiot, but it was better than having to pay for street full of parked car doors to be repainted and I couldn't possibly injure the cyclist from a staionary position. The cyclist managed to get past me then hollered, “Move over, you cunt!”
Now, people don’t normally yell at me like that, so I was a bit shaken, but started driving again. The Man told me he agreed with the cyclist, and started lecturing me about my driving and telling how crap I was. My eyes started to fill with tears to the point that I realized I was even more of a danger to the public than I usually am behind the wheel, and I pulled over and started crying. Driving lesson over.
Is it actually acceptable to scream abusively at learner drivers for offenses such as driving slowly during off-peak traffic times? Or am I really such a bad driver? I don’t feel like learning to drive any more.
So then we went to Aldi. It was closing but I ducked inside, willing my face to stop being all blotchy from crying, because it’s embarrassing, and the Man waited for me in the front of the store. I was just paying for my bread when I heard this big, irrationally angry man shouting something at one of the assistants. The Man, who was standing about two metres away from the big, irrationally angry man (B.I.A.M.), told him in a mild voice that the shop had just closed, and that was why he couldn’t bring a trolley in.
“WAS I TALKING TO YOU?” yelled B.I.A.M.
“Give him a break” said my guy. “How would you like to work here?”
“I DON’T WANT TO WORK HERE!” said B.I.A.M., who evidently had a B.A. (Hons) in Missing the Point.
“They’re not letting anybody in.”
“I’M NOT JUST ANYBODY!! WHY DO YOU CARE? DO YOU KNOW HIM?”
“He’s my cousin” lied the Man, probably thinking how smart he was.
The store manager asked B.I.A.M. to leave, and he did (taking his child in its push chair with him) bellowing “LET’S TAKE THIS OUTSIDE!” To my relief, the Man ignored him and stayed in the shop, while I glanced at my change and wondered if I’d deliberately been short changed. I’m sure I gave the assistant a $20, not a $10. I’d had enough fights for one day so I let it go.
So we went home, both feeling chagrined and brought down a peg or two. The Man was seething, as I knew he would be, and grumbled that if he wasn’t short and lightly-built, the B.I.A.M. wouldn’t have dared talk back to him, and how he wished he could morph into a seven foot Maori at will and pulverise people. He always gets like this when he’s been in an altercation. You can see where the market is for all those movies were the nerd unexpectedly turns into super-hero and has vengeance on anyone who ever bullied him.
I know it’s mean but I was glad The Man got yelled at too. So now we were even. And in between fantasies in which I reversed over the cyclist, shrieking “I’m an incompetent learner driver in possession of a powerful car, so don’t piss me off!** Ahahahaha!!!!”, I reflected that it’s important not to lose your temper with people because it might upset them more than you envisioned.
*My taste in trashy romances has overcome me once again.
**It does surprise me how willing people are to honk and shout abuse at learner drivers. Don’t they know how much danger they are in? Do they not understand I only have a thin grasp of which is the brake pedal and which is the accelerator? Has it not occurred to them their vehicle/body only remains intact by virtue of my 100% concentration on the job? ‘L’ does not stand for ‘Victim’. It stand for ‘may accidentally maim you or total your car due to inexperience and incompetence. So watch the fuck out.’
Wednesday 3 October 2007
A Visit from the PM
I’m exhausted already. It’s taken me two hours to get to work. I got into the city and realized I’d forgotten my security pass. So I had to go back home to get it. And it’s such a hot day!
It’s a good job I did go back for it. Today the PM is visiting our humble premises to schmooze with the execs and kiss babies that will doubtless be borrowed from the childcare centre. I had to check my bag when I arrived to make sure the man hadn’t secreted some remotely-detonating TNT in it. I mean, I know he loves me and all that but I’m not sure he would sacrifice me for The Cause.
There are some demonstrators out on the street outside my window. Everyone in the office came over to this side of the building to peer out at them. This big, rather uncouth guy said ‘they’ should put the water cannon on them and blow them all away. It’s funny how much anger there is against dissenters. I wonder if I’d feel the same way if people were protesting against a government I supported. I don’t think so. I mean, the demonstrators outside our office are pretty harmless looking people. And surely, anyone who supports John Howard does so on the basis of greed (‘it’s the Economy, stoopid’) rather than any actual principles, so it’s hard to understand why they get so irate at the opposition.
It doesn’t look like I’ll actually get to see the PM. We plebs have to watch the event broadcast internally on the TVs in the building. It’s a shame because I brought my camera. The Man wants me to do a humorous photo-story for our election party.
It’s a good job I did go back for it. Today the PM is visiting our humble premises to schmooze with the execs and kiss babies that will doubtless be borrowed from the childcare centre. I had to check my bag when I arrived to make sure the man hadn’t secreted some remotely-detonating TNT in it. I mean, I know he loves me and all that but I’m not sure he would sacrifice me for The Cause.
There are some demonstrators out on the street outside my window. Everyone in the office came over to this side of the building to peer out at them. This big, rather uncouth guy said ‘they’ should put the water cannon on them and blow them all away. It’s funny how much anger there is against dissenters. I wonder if I’d feel the same way if people were protesting against a government I supported. I don’t think so. I mean, the demonstrators outside our office are pretty harmless looking people. And surely, anyone who supports John Howard does so on the basis of greed (‘it’s the Economy, stoopid’) rather than any actual principles, so it’s hard to understand why they get so irate at the opposition.
It doesn’t look like I’ll actually get to see the PM. We plebs have to watch the event broadcast internally on the TVs in the building. It’s a shame because I brought my camera. The Man wants me to do a humorous photo-story for our election party.
Friday 28 September 2007
Yuck!
I’m a bit grossed out and disturbed.
I have a rash on my lower right leg. I’ve had a slight rash there for quite some time, but lately I’ve noticed it spreading, so I thought I should do something about it. But who has time to go to the doctor? Ok, I have time – let’s face it, I don’t actually do anything at work – but I don’t know if I can be bothered to sit around at the clinic for hours with annoying, waiting room people, to see a doctor who looks bored to see me and disappointed I don’t have a really jazzy disease. So I did the modern thing and surfed the Net. Nothing like a bit of self-diagnosis!
The thing is, descriptions of skin ailments aren’t terribly helpful without pictures. And the pictures! I swear for every ailment, they’ve chosen the wrinkliest, saggiest old men with the most advanced cases of skin festeration that they could find. Trust me, my rash doesn’t look anything like those pestilences. It’s just an innocent little pink thing!
I don’t trust those pictures. I picked up scabies once in Thailand; I had a few raised white bumps with black dots in the centre, on my wrist and creeping onto my forearm. Not nice. But it looked NOTHING the hideous, hideous photo of rotting humanity I found on the Internet.
I hope nobody in the office was watching the computer screen over my shoulder. Rumours could fly and I’d soon have a whole wing of the office to myself.
I have a rash on my lower right leg. I’ve had a slight rash there for quite some time, but lately I’ve noticed it spreading, so I thought I should do something about it. But who has time to go to the doctor? Ok, I have time – let’s face it, I don’t actually do anything at work – but I don’t know if I can be bothered to sit around at the clinic for hours with annoying, waiting room people, to see a doctor who looks bored to see me and disappointed I don’t have a really jazzy disease. So I did the modern thing and surfed the Net. Nothing like a bit of self-diagnosis!
The thing is, descriptions of skin ailments aren’t terribly helpful without pictures. And the pictures! I swear for every ailment, they’ve chosen the wrinkliest, saggiest old men with the most advanced cases of skin festeration that they could find. Trust me, my rash doesn’t look anything like those pestilences. It’s just an innocent little pink thing!
I don’t trust those pictures. I picked up scabies once in Thailand; I had a few raised white bumps with black dots in the centre, on my wrist and creeping onto my forearm. Not nice. But it looked NOTHING the hideous, hideous photo of rotting humanity I found on the Internet.
I hope nobody in the office was watching the computer screen over my shoulder. Rumours could fly and I’d soon have a whole wing of the office to myself.
Wednesday 26 September 2007
Roamsome Dove Part II - Final Destination
It turned out the dove actually was in the house after all – I KNEW IT!!! It takes more than a small bird to pull a fast one on me.
I discovered it the next morning as I was checking my e-mails. The cat had finally managed to stir herself from the back of the house where she’d been comatose for the past 12 hours or so, strolled in, and miaowed at me. Then she cocked her head at a funny angle, hunkered down low to the ground and started stealthily creeping towards the sofa. I knew something was up so I dumped her outside the room and looked under the sofa. It took my eyes a minute or so to adjust to the darkness, but there the dove was, stashed all the way back to the wall - while we were at work on Friday it had evidently walked all the way from the back to the front of the house. Pretty good for a sick bird. The most remarkable thing about this is that the cat had had the run of the house all night, but hadn’t realized the bird was there. Bless that cat’s slothfulness! Clearly this is a dove with nine lives. So that was two down.
Disaster struck later on Saturday. The Man and I returned from shopping to find feathers and drops of blood all over the floor. We had left the dove in a box on a chair. The bird had managed to jump out of the box, but it got stuck between the bars of the chair and struggled frantically. I don’t know how much damage it did to itself, but I don’t think it was good.
Three lives down…poor thing. It must feel like one of the kids in ‘Final Destination’, being stalked by death (and before you think, 'doves don’t watch TV’ – think again. This one has no choice).
It’s Tuesday and the dove is still with us, and there have been no more near-death experiences (except when the man took it out of the box to change the newspaper lining, and dropped it splat on its back – poor little bugger). We moved it to a better box, and the Man threaded a twig through the holes in the box, to serve as a perch. It’s eating, and is less docile now than it was on Saturday afternoon, which is a good sign. This morning as I was filling the kettle I heard a faint ‘hooo, hooo’ sound, like the sound of someone blowing gently across the rim of a bottle. The dove was singing! (Either that or it had spotted another dove outside and was crying weakly “Help! Help!” But I prefer to think it was singing). Interesting, because although our back yard is often full of doves, I’ve never heard their song before.
I'll be keeping you updated!
I discovered it the next morning as I was checking my e-mails. The cat had finally managed to stir herself from the back of the house where she’d been comatose for the past 12 hours or so, strolled in, and miaowed at me. Then she cocked her head at a funny angle, hunkered down low to the ground and started stealthily creeping towards the sofa. I knew something was up so I dumped her outside the room and looked under the sofa. It took my eyes a minute or so to adjust to the darkness, but there the dove was, stashed all the way back to the wall - while we were at work on Friday it had evidently walked all the way from the back to the front of the house. Pretty good for a sick bird. The most remarkable thing about this is that the cat had had the run of the house all night, but hadn’t realized the bird was there. Bless that cat’s slothfulness! Clearly this is a dove with nine lives. So that was two down.
Disaster struck later on Saturday. The Man and I returned from shopping to find feathers and drops of blood all over the floor. We had left the dove in a box on a chair. The bird had managed to jump out of the box, but it got stuck between the bars of the chair and struggled frantically. I don’t know how much damage it did to itself, but I don’t think it was good.
Three lives down…poor thing. It must feel like one of the kids in ‘Final Destination’, being stalked by death (and before you think, 'doves don’t watch TV’ – think again. This one has no choice).
It’s Tuesday and the dove is still with us, and there have been no more near-death experiences (except when the man took it out of the box to change the newspaper lining, and dropped it splat on its back – poor little bugger). We moved it to a better box, and the Man threaded a twig through the holes in the box, to serve as a perch. It’s eating, and is less docile now than it was on Saturday afternoon, which is a good sign. This morning as I was filling the kettle I heard a faint ‘hooo, hooo’ sound, like the sound of someone blowing gently across the rim of a bottle. The dove was singing! (Either that or it had spotted another dove outside and was crying weakly “Help! Help!” But I prefer to think it was singing). Interesting, because although our back yard is often full of doves, I’ve never heard their song before.
I'll be keeping you updated!
Saturday 22 September 2007
Roamsome Dove
Somewhere in my house a dove is most probably roaming free. No idea where it is – it could be behind the washing machine, under the bed, on a bookshelf, etc. It could be stashed at the back of a kitchen cupboard.
The worst part of this is the ‘probably’. It’s the uncertainty.
Two days ago the Man rescued this dove from the road on his way home from work. He doesn’t know what had happened to it before he came on the scene, but it was unable for some reason to fly away, and local cats were closing in on it. He put it on a cardboard box lid, put the lid in a big basket, and covered the whole thing up with a towel.
By this morning it had been in the box for two nights. When we lifted the towel, it sat motionless, staring with beady eyes. We weren’t sure if it had touched the food we’d given it – it didn’t even seem to have changed position for the whole time it was there. But I felt it was a good sign that it had survived this far; I think that injured birds die overnight.
I reckoned it was time that we took it outside to see if it would fly away. I called up the Man this afternoon from work, and asked him if he would try it when he got home from work. He gets home a lot earlier than I do and I thought it was best to try it early, while it was still fully light. He said he would.
When I got home this evening, the cat was sitting outside. I wondered if the Man was coaxing the dove out of its box in a delicate operation, and had put the cat out for obvious reasons. Rather than barging in, I decided to call him first.
“Hi, Sweetie. I’m standing outside,” I trilled. “Did the bird go?”
“Ummm, I’m not sure” was the hesitant reply.
“How can you not be sure?” I said, impatiently.
“Well…it was there in the pot plant this morning, and when I got in, it was gone.”
Pause. Only my darling Man could think that was a normal sentence. Sometimes you have to prod him gently to get something intelligent out of him. I took a deep breath.
“Ohhhhhkaaaaaaay. What was it doing in the pot plant in the first place, Darling?”
“I wanted to see if it would fly around!”
“And, when was it in the pot plant?”
“This morning when I went to work.”
“So you let it out, and didn’t put it back in the box…?”
“Well, it just…disappeared.” He replied, sounding bemused.
“So, has the dove been flying around loose in the house all day while we’ve been at work?”
“I don’t know…”
Deep breaths, Sprite, deep breaths.
“You knew about this when I called you this afternoon to talk about letting it go, and you didn’t see fit to mention that a WILD, LOUSE-RIDDEN BIRD HAS BEEN FLYING AROUND OUR HOUSE ALL DAY?” I grated.
“I didn’t want to tell you because I thought I might find it!” (like a small boy)
The weirdest thing is that he doesn’t think it’s at all weird that we’ve lost a DOVE in our house.
We’ve searched for it high and low. The only trace of it is two feathers near the fridge. The Man’s theory is that it flew out through the window in our room. The only thing is, this convalescent dove would have had to have negotiated its way through the house to the bedroom, noticed the slightly open window near the ceiling, flown up to it and squeezed through the hole. Unlikely? Maybe, but I guess no more unlikely than any of the hiding places that it could be in since we searched the house.
I just don’t know what to do about the cat now. Do we force her to stay outside, just in case the dove is somewhere inside? It would be so awful if we woke up tomorrow to be presented with the bloody corpse of the bird we had rescued. On the other hand, it would be pretty sad if we left our home comforts-loving kitty outside for days and the dove isn’t even here. I’m also worried that in a few days we’ll notice this putrid stink, and find the bird dead down the back of a piece of furniture.
Well, all I can do is assume it got out through the bedroom…and keep checking the shadows for a silent, beady-eyed presence.
Thursday 20 September 2007
Party Politics
I’ve been on the edge of my seat this week, ever since Sunday when John Howard threatened to resign.
The thing is, the Man and I are planning to have an election party on the day of – you guessed it – the election. Actually, it could be described more accurately as an ‘Out John Howard’ party. So you can see we attach a certain importance to Howard actually fighting the election. We could have an ‘Out Liberals’ party, I suppose, but the venom many of us feel towards John Howard personally would add that extra je ne sais crois and encourage an enthusiastic turn-out.
Besides, I spent AGES of company time working on a multi-media PowerPoint invitation (with sound and flashy text effects) and I will be crushed if I can’t send it.
So, I was pretty pleased to hear about their improved opinion poll results this week. Overjoyed, even. Wouldn’t it just serve me right if they ended up winning the election? Noooooo!!!!
The thing is, the Man and I are planning to have an election party on the day of – you guessed it – the election. Actually, it could be described more accurately as an ‘Out John Howard’ party. So you can see we attach a certain importance to Howard actually fighting the election. We could have an ‘Out Liberals’ party, I suppose, but the venom many of us feel towards John Howard personally would add that extra je ne sais crois and encourage an enthusiastic turn-out.
Besides, I spent AGES of company time working on a multi-media PowerPoint invitation (with sound and flashy text effects) and I will be crushed if I can’t send it.
So, I was pretty pleased to hear about their improved opinion poll results this week. Overjoyed, even. Wouldn’t it just serve me right if they ended up winning the election? Noooooo!!!!
Tuesday 18 September 2007
Driving Him Crazy
Last night I had a troubled dream in which I was driving out-of-control in a city somewhere, lurching around the road and shocking the drivers and pedestrians around me.
Actually, it was only a slightly exaggerated version of my driving lesson yesterday afternoon. My subconscious obviously took it to heart. The Man is my driving teacher. He morphs into this cruel, judgemental drill sergeant type immediately before my driving lessons and turns back into his normal, mild(er) self immediately after. Coincidence?
Here’s a short extract of what a stowaway in our car would have heard at around 4:00 yesterday afternoon:
Me: Sooooo…the parking lights are here, normal beam is here…what’s this thingy?
The Man: WE DID THIS LAST LESSON! That’s for full beam!
Me: Ok, ok! I’m just reviewing to make double sure.
The Man: Look, just drive. Pull out now…
Me: I need to adjust the mirror. Wait – how do I adjust the mirror again?
The Man: Pull out.
Me: Ok, checking the mirrors…
The Man: YOU’VE GOT TO BE CONFIDENT! JUST PULL OUT! God, I’m missing the rugby for this…YOU DIDN’T LOOK!!!!!!!
Me: I was going to but you upset me!
The Man: This isn’t a game, you know. Driving is life or death. Now take the next left…You swung out too far again! That’s SUCH a bad habit, you need to break it now. That’s how old people drive.
Me: I think it’s because I was worried about that car sticking out on the corner…
The Man: I don’t want you to talk about it. I want you to do it right FIRST TIME. The road is no place for mistakes. One mistake and you’re dead. It’s about getting from A to B SAFELY. Next left.
Me: I think that was better this time! Don’t you think it was better?
The Man: Well it ought to be. Go faster now.
Me: Ummm…there are lots of cats on this street.
The Man: Turn right here.
Me: That was a good turn, wasn’t it?
The Man: Then left. SLOW DOWN!!! This is a dangerous bit, it’s so narrow here.
Me: Uhhhhh…there’s a car ahead. Oh my God, what do I do!
The Man: Pull in. DON’T PANIC!!!!
Me: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I don’t know where to gooooooooooooo!!!!
The Man: PULL IN!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!
Me: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!....Phew.
The Man: I can’t believe you! You shouldn’t panic like that! Keep your foot over the brake!
Me: I did! I do! Ooooooh…there’s a car behind us!
The Man: IT’S OK. Just keep going and don’t slow down! I’m so nervous now.
Me: Me too. Who has right of way here? Should I let him go?
The Man: No, you can go. He looks like an arrogant bastard. The people who live round here think learners like you shouldn’t be on the road. Actually, you shouldn’t be.
Me: (Lovingly) So, are you enjoying your Sunday drive?
The Man: Stop slamming your foot down on the brake like that. Honestly, you’re always going on about how good you are at ballet –
Me: (Really hurt) Hey, I never say that!
The Man: - so try and apply those coordination skills to something useful.
Me: I’m getting tired now. Can we stop?
The Man: Ok. Maybe the game will still be on.
I’ve only had three lessons so far. He’s so hard on me. Before I’d had any lessons, I used to dream about getting in a car and driving around fairly competently, dodging the police (I was unlicensed even in my dreams!) Now I have horror dreams of hurtling down narrow suburban streets threatening the property and personal safety of all around me. The Man’s lessons must be damaging me psychologically.
Other news this weekend: My friend and I went to Kirribilli House on Sunday. Apparently it’s only open to the public one day a year, or more rarely. It’s SO nice. I would love to live there. The décor is pretty bad – really old person; it made me quite nostalgic for my granddad – but the tableware was first rate! I experienced a sudden, powerful urge to go shopping for crystal wineglasses and silver salt cellars. Lovely! It wasn’t all fun, though. There were two houses, the Admiralty House and Kirribilli House, and for each we had to queue for about an hour, under the surprisingly hot sun. We spent a lot of money on drinks from the boy scout stall. (I guess I don't begrudge them the money. Who can say no to a darling, enterprising little boy scout? If I ever have sons, I definitely hope they’ll be scouts!) But we got our picture taken with the Governor-General. Just as it was being taken, this idiot old man came up and introduced himself, so in the picture, the Governor-General is actually looking away from us. It looks like we've been superimposed or something.
It was a tiring day, but as my friend said, it’s good that we went, and it means we don’t have to do it again!
Actually, it was only a slightly exaggerated version of my driving lesson yesterday afternoon. My subconscious obviously took it to heart. The Man is my driving teacher. He morphs into this cruel, judgemental drill sergeant type immediately before my driving lessons and turns back into his normal, mild(er) self immediately after. Coincidence?
Here’s a short extract of what a stowaway in our car would have heard at around 4:00 yesterday afternoon:
Me: Sooooo…the parking lights are here, normal beam is here…what’s this thingy?
The Man: WE DID THIS LAST LESSON! That’s for full beam!
Me: Ok, ok! I’m just reviewing to make double sure.
The Man: Look, just drive. Pull out now…
Me: I need to adjust the mirror. Wait – how do I adjust the mirror again?
The Man: Pull out.
Me: Ok, checking the mirrors…
The Man: YOU’VE GOT TO BE CONFIDENT! JUST PULL OUT! God, I’m missing the rugby for this…YOU DIDN’T LOOK!!!!!!!
Me: I was going to but you upset me!
The Man: This isn’t a game, you know. Driving is life or death. Now take the next left…You swung out too far again! That’s SUCH a bad habit, you need to break it now. That’s how old people drive.
Me: I think it’s because I was worried about that car sticking out on the corner…
The Man: I don’t want you to talk about it. I want you to do it right FIRST TIME. The road is no place for mistakes. One mistake and you’re dead. It’s about getting from A to B SAFELY. Next left.
Me: I think that was better this time! Don’t you think it was better?
The Man: Well it ought to be. Go faster now.
Me: Ummm…there are lots of cats on this street.
The Man: Turn right here.
Me: That was a good turn, wasn’t it?
The Man: Then left. SLOW DOWN!!! This is a dangerous bit, it’s so narrow here.
Me: Uhhhhh…there’s a car ahead. Oh my God, what do I do!
The Man: Pull in. DON’T PANIC!!!!
Me: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I don’t know where to gooooooooooooo!!!!
The Man: PULL IN!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!
Me: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!....Phew.
The Man: I can’t believe you! You shouldn’t panic like that! Keep your foot over the brake!
Me: I did! I do! Ooooooh…there’s a car behind us!
The Man: IT’S OK. Just keep going and don’t slow down! I’m so nervous now.
Me: Me too. Who has right of way here? Should I let him go?
The Man: No, you can go. He looks like an arrogant bastard. The people who live round here think learners like you shouldn’t be on the road. Actually, you shouldn’t be.
Me: (Lovingly) So, are you enjoying your Sunday drive?
The Man: Stop slamming your foot down on the brake like that. Honestly, you’re always going on about how good you are at ballet –
Me: (Really hurt) Hey, I never say that!
The Man: - so try and apply those coordination skills to something useful.
Me: I’m getting tired now. Can we stop?
The Man: Ok. Maybe the game will still be on.
I’ve only had three lessons so far. He’s so hard on me. Before I’d had any lessons, I used to dream about getting in a car and driving around fairly competently, dodging the police (I was unlicensed even in my dreams!) Now I have horror dreams of hurtling down narrow suburban streets threatening the property and personal safety of all around me. The Man’s lessons must be damaging me psychologically.
Other news this weekend: My friend and I went to Kirribilli House on Sunday. Apparently it’s only open to the public one day a year, or more rarely. It’s SO nice. I would love to live there. The décor is pretty bad – really old person; it made me quite nostalgic for my granddad – but the tableware was first rate! I experienced a sudden, powerful urge to go shopping for crystal wineglasses and silver salt cellars. Lovely! It wasn’t all fun, though. There were two houses, the Admiralty House and Kirribilli House, and for each we had to queue for about an hour, under the surprisingly hot sun. We spent a lot of money on drinks from the boy scout stall. (I guess I don't begrudge them the money. Who can say no to a darling, enterprising little boy scout? If I ever have sons, I definitely hope they’ll be scouts!) But we got our picture taken with the Governor-General. Just as it was being taken, this idiot old man came up and introduced himself, so in the picture, the Governor-General is actually looking away from us. It looks like we've been superimposed or something.
It was a tiring day, but as my friend said, it’s good that we went, and it means we don’t have to do it again!
Saturday 15 September 2007
Identity Crisis!
After a coffee date with a friend on Wednesday, during which I repeatedly told her I wouldn’t join Facebook because I thought it was lame and loserish, I joined Facebook.
I’m not sure why I did it. I didn’t actually think about it. But at some point during my day of boredom at work yesterday, I found myself on the page signing up. The part of the conversation where my friend stressed how much time you can waste on there without realizing must have swayed me subconsciously. Plus I am mildly interested in stalking people I once knew, and of course, like everyone, ex-boyfriends.
I even gave Facebook my real name, despite misgivings. You have to submit a first and last name, as I discovered, and I couldn’t be bothered to invent a fake one.
Once I’d joined, I did a search on people with my last name. It’s an unusual surname – from my expertise in obscure hamlets in the Yorkshire dales, I have deduced that my lineage originated in a swamp in North Yorkshire - and I’d always assumed there were only a handful of us in existence, and all closely related to me. Imagine my shock and horror when I discovered there’s a girl with my exact name – first, middle and last – living it up in London.
It’s like a personal intrusion! Like someone else has my life! A name is so personal – it really is your main source of identification if you think about it – and becomes part of who you are. Especially as I thought I was the only person in the world called that. I spent most of my life (pre-Internet) thinking that my close family were the only ones with our surname, so it’s a shock to discover not only people I’ve never heard of with my last name, but another Sprite, no less!
She could commit crimes and people would think it was me! I wonder if she’s ever done searches on the Internet and found me and had the same thoughts.
She looks a bit like a party animal from her picture. You know, the kind of person who is sozzled and twirling a wine glass in every picture and has about 8,000 ‘friends’, also sozzled, wine-glass carriers. I’m not sure she is up to the responsibility of carrying my name.
It’s freaky, and I’m…troubled.
That’s all. My employers actually gave me some work to do today so I don’t have time to hone and tone this post into the usual perfection.
I’m not sure why I did it. I didn’t actually think about it. But at some point during my day of boredom at work yesterday, I found myself on the page signing up. The part of the conversation where my friend stressed how much time you can waste on there without realizing must have swayed me subconsciously. Plus I am mildly interested in stalking people I once knew, and of course, like everyone, ex-boyfriends.
I even gave Facebook my real name, despite misgivings. You have to submit a first and last name, as I discovered, and I couldn’t be bothered to invent a fake one.
Once I’d joined, I did a search on people with my last name. It’s an unusual surname – from my expertise in obscure hamlets in the Yorkshire dales, I have deduced that my lineage originated in a swamp in North Yorkshire - and I’d always assumed there were only a handful of us in existence, and all closely related to me. Imagine my shock and horror when I discovered there’s a girl with my exact name – first, middle and last – living it up in London.
It’s like a personal intrusion! Like someone else has my life! A name is so personal – it really is your main source of identification if you think about it – and becomes part of who you are. Especially as I thought I was the only person in the world called that. I spent most of my life (pre-Internet) thinking that my close family were the only ones with our surname, so it’s a shock to discover not only people I’ve never heard of with my last name, but another Sprite, no less!
She could commit crimes and people would think it was me! I wonder if she’s ever done searches on the Internet and found me and had the same thoughts.
She looks a bit like a party animal from her picture. You know, the kind of person who is sozzled and twirling a wine glass in every picture and has about 8,000 ‘friends’, also sozzled, wine-glass carriers. I’m not sure she is up to the responsibility of carrying my name.
It’s freaky, and I’m…troubled.
That’s all. My employers actually gave me some work to do today so I don’t have time to hone and tone this post into the usual perfection.
Wednesday 12 September 2007
Drought at Work
I am so bored at work at the moment.
Don't get me wrong - in principle, I'm not unfulfilled being the office dogsbody/bottom feeder. As long as I have plenty going on, I’m ok with being the dumb brunette who photocopies the agendas and stuff. I don’t mind underachieving as long as it keeps me busy. But seriously, I have so little going on right now, all I do all day is surf the net. It’s destroying my eyesight and making my shoulders chronically tense.
Every now and then throughout the day I do a roll call of my body parts to check everything’s still answering to HQ. It’s a bit like travelling Economy class. I’m probably at risk of Deep Vein Thrombosis. I should wear pressure bandages to work (is that right?), or take an aspirin every morning to thin my blood.
The highlight of my week so far has been attending a presentation on something really boring, as a representative of my team. It’s kind of laughable that I got volunteered to be a rep for this. I have no clue what the business is about – I don’t care either so avoid learning anything – and my boss volunteered me because he didn’t give a shit and couldn’t spare anyone valuable. So I sit in at these meetings with all these grey, faded people who are about 70 years older than me, and secretly read under the table. (It’s like being back at school.) My boss gets to feel all noble that he’s given me something more than photocopying to do, and I pretend that I really appreciate the opportunity to ‘find out more about the business’. (That’s the phrase I always use. And I fawn a bit while I’m saying it.)
I shouldn’t complain about my cushy, do-nothing job. It’s just that I sometimes feel like everyone’s forgotten I exist! Surreal. I really need to get myself enrolled in some further study, to make good use of this time, before my boss notices how under-utilized I am and loads me up with work. And it’s not like I never do anything - sometimes I’m snowed under. Just not at the moment.
Moral of the story: don’t take an arts degree.
Don't get me wrong - in principle, I'm not unfulfilled being the office dogsbody/bottom feeder. As long as I have plenty going on, I’m ok with being the dumb brunette who photocopies the agendas and stuff. I don’t mind underachieving as long as it keeps me busy. But seriously, I have so little going on right now, all I do all day is surf the net. It’s destroying my eyesight and making my shoulders chronically tense.
Every now and then throughout the day I do a roll call of my body parts to check everything’s still answering to HQ. It’s a bit like travelling Economy class. I’m probably at risk of Deep Vein Thrombosis. I should wear pressure bandages to work (is that right?), or take an aspirin every morning to thin my blood.
The highlight of my week so far has been attending a presentation on something really boring, as a representative of my team. It’s kind of laughable that I got volunteered to be a rep for this. I have no clue what the business is about – I don’t care either so avoid learning anything – and my boss volunteered me because he didn’t give a shit and couldn’t spare anyone valuable. So I sit in at these meetings with all these grey, faded people who are about 70 years older than me, and secretly read under the table. (It’s like being back at school.) My boss gets to feel all noble that he’s given me something more than photocopying to do, and I pretend that I really appreciate the opportunity to ‘find out more about the business’. (That’s the phrase I always use. And I fawn a bit while I’m saying it.)
I shouldn’t complain about my cushy, do-nothing job. It’s just that I sometimes feel like everyone’s forgotten I exist! Surreal. I really need to get myself enrolled in some further study, to make good use of this time, before my boss notices how under-utilized I am and loads me up with work. And it’s not like I never do anything - sometimes I’m snowed under. Just not at the moment.
Moral of the story: don’t take an arts degree.
Tuesday 11 September 2007
APEC Protest - An Eyewitness Account
It’s finally all over. The politicians have gone, the roads are re-opening, the word ‘APEC’ can no longer be overheard in the office any more, like it never happened.
I went to bed at 8:30 on Friday night, not feeling very well, and the next morning I still felt a bit off. But no way was I going to miss the protest!
What can I say? It was weird. Grim-faced police were everywhere, in military formation. It was like something from old Nazi footage, or rare film glimpses into despotic Asian regimes. Of course I’d been expecting the heavy police presence but knowing is not the same as experiencing something for yourself.
As some of the news channels reported, there was an upbeat, almost carnival atmosphere, at least at the beginning when we rallied round Town Hall. There were all your usual demo types – the hippies young and old, students, shaven-headed lesbians, wacky hair people, drummers (they were good!) etc. Lots of average looking people too, including the Man and me, and old people. We covered the street outside Town Hall as well as the Town Hall area itself. There were heaps of police looking on, and huge police van/bus type things blocking off the road towards Circular Quay. No-one seemed too bothered. It was your standard protest atmosphere. Several speakers addressed the crowd but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I think the speakers were facing in the opposite direction to me, or maybe I was just too far away. It went on for a while – at least an hour – and I was certainly ready when we finally started moving. I felt like a ripple of excitement went through the crowd.
So it was a pretty upbeat group that started up the road towards Hyde Park. Expressionless police lined the streets on either side of us. Thousands were there. The Man stopped walking and started watching the march instead, and I had a go at him, saying we should be marching, not standing still (yup, that’s the kind of person I am!). But it turned out to be a good choice because then we got to see the sights! One group drew to a halt near us and pulled out a US flag. Then a lighter. I admit to feeling a thrill of horror – why? Social conditioning I guess – and I thought surely he can’t be going to burn it. (I can’t say I’m a big fan of flag burning. It seems a bit pathetic, like the ferals you see on television, burning the US flag in the Middle East. I might support their cause, but seriously, have some class!) Anyway, they drew a crowd in about two seconds flat so that I could barely see what was going on, but yes, they did burn it, though it fizzled rather flamed. And I was feeling so defiant and provoked by the police that I was glad they had burned it, and I hoped that shitty police commissioner was appalled.
There was another drama when this group of black-suited young guys carrying signs saying stuff like ‘Billionaires for Bush’ (ok, I don’t remember what it was exactly but they’re on one of the news videos on the internet) were doing a bit of question and answer with the crowd on the fringe, parodying the pro-Bush camp and pantomiming their delight in war and exploitation. It was all a satire, and I think everyone realized this, except for a policewoman who I heard saying into her radio ‘We’ve got a situation here.’ The police took away the guys’ signs.
Yeah, we have a situation – an IQ-deficit in the state police. But the guys refused to be goaded. Seriously, what do the police think? That we're animals?
Once we were nearly at the end of the march (and it wasn’t a long route) I looked back. There were heaps of people at our end of the march, only a smattering of people in the middle, and lots at the back – moving back the way they came, towards the police vehicles. Something was up. I assume now that the crowd was pulling towards the arrests and stuff that you might have seen on TV. Anyway, there was no way I wanted to go anywhere near it the crowd was getting ugly.
The atmosphere was tenser at this point. The threat of violence was in the air –but on the part of the police, not the protesters.
Now I’m not the most observant of people, and it took me a minute or two to realize that we’d come to the end of the march and were confronted with a row of robo-cop style federal police. I was pretty tired by then. I wasn’t sure which way everyone else had gone. I could see some people jumping up the bank of the park and picking their way through the flowerbeds, but I thought that could hardly be the official route. We couldn’t go back, obviously, and continuing up the road on the other two sides was out of the question because the robo-cops had it sealed off. So we dithered for a while, not knowing what to do.
Finally we climbed up into Hyde Park, and set off towards David Jones. Because I needed a fruit juice and some scone-type refreshment after all that excitement! The road was lined with more feds, facing outwards towards the park, staring straight ahead. Now I do believe I’ve already intimated that I’m not the sharpest cookie, and I was all for lighting out across the road there and then – after all, there was no traffic! The Man had to gently point out to me that the police were not going to let us across. We’d have to go round. I guess they were afraid we’d start a 2-person riot in the middle of the road! Ahead of us, two old ladies were shouting at the police how disgusting it all was, and what a waste of money.
We walked the gauntlet, the two of us and several other people, and collapsed into David Jones with relief. “So this is how they get people to go to David Jones” said an English tourist ahead of us.
After our refreshment, we tried to leave the way we came, but it turned out they’d locked that door (I’d like to point out that NOTHING was going on in the street outside) so we had to use the side door. The police wouldn’t let us back along Elizabeth Street, so we used a parallel street a couple of blocks down. When we were level with the crossroads where the march had finished, there was an alarming sight – a line of policeman was pushing towards the scattered people. A policeman was standing on a vehicle yelling at people. It was not nice. I felt a thrill of fear and thought the long hoped-for (by the police) riot must have ensued. I later found out from the news that the police had simply decided they were going to use heavy-handed tactics to force people out of Hyde Park – a place they had every right to be – but in the end, they’d given up and people had dissipated naturally.
I went home feeling proud to have been part of that peaceful march. I didn’t know then about the arrests, but let’s face it, in a crowd that size, they were marginal and it was a peaceful demonstration. I was elated, and was sure that we’d all been vindicated and the public would now have to start asking the police some hard questions about their behaviour that day. Imagine my outrage when I listened to the seven and nine news later that afternoon and heard their excited, alarmist reports about attacks! Violence! Arrests! Injuries! Pictures of people with blood running down their faces! Mayhem! I was like, seriously, were these reporters even in the same city as me? I will never trust the media again. Pictures CAN lie in their own way.
SBS and the ABC did, I feel, provide fair coverage of the event. There were some scary pictures of violence and arrests that may or may not have been deserved (and I'm being charitable to the police here). Fair enough, it happened, show the pictures on the news. I don’t expect them to devote 5 minutes of coverage showing people doing nothing but marching, when there were other noteworthy events. But there’s no need to blow everything out of proportion just to boost your ratings. It was PEACEFUL, and the police should be ashamed of themselves for their pathetic macho display. I didn’t know whether to laugh – all this for little me and some girls with flowers painted on their faces? – or cry. I think two German guys said it all (on a video on the internet) when they said something to the effect of “in Europe, we don’t bring out riot police and water cannons unless we attend to use them”. I bet a lot of the police out there on Saturday were fulling hoping to use them.
Roll on the election!
I went to bed at 8:30 on Friday night, not feeling very well, and the next morning I still felt a bit off. But no way was I going to miss the protest!
What can I say? It was weird. Grim-faced police were everywhere, in military formation. It was like something from old Nazi footage, or rare film glimpses into despotic Asian regimes. Of course I’d been expecting the heavy police presence but knowing is not the same as experiencing something for yourself.
As some of the news channels reported, there was an upbeat, almost carnival atmosphere, at least at the beginning when we rallied round Town Hall. There were all your usual demo types – the hippies young and old, students, shaven-headed lesbians, wacky hair people, drummers (they were good!) etc. Lots of average looking people too, including the Man and me, and old people. We covered the street outside Town Hall as well as the Town Hall area itself. There were heaps of police looking on, and huge police van/bus type things blocking off the road towards Circular Quay. No-one seemed too bothered. It was your standard protest atmosphere. Several speakers addressed the crowd but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I think the speakers were facing in the opposite direction to me, or maybe I was just too far away. It went on for a while – at least an hour – and I was certainly ready when we finally started moving. I felt like a ripple of excitement went through the crowd.
So it was a pretty upbeat group that started up the road towards Hyde Park. Expressionless police lined the streets on either side of us. Thousands were there. The Man stopped walking and started watching the march instead, and I had a go at him, saying we should be marching, not standing still (yup, that’s the kind of person I am!). But it turned out to be a good choice because then we got to see the sights! One group drew to a halt near us and pulled out a US flag. Then a lighter. I admit to feeling a thrill of horror – why? Social conditioning I guess – and I thought surely he can’t be going to burn it. (I can’t say I’m a big fan of flag burning. It seems a bit pathetic, like the ferals you see on television, burning the US flag in the Middle East. I might support their cause, but seriously, have some class!) Anyway, they drew a crowd in about two seconds flat so that I could barely see what was going on, but yes, they did burn it, though it fizzled rather flamed. And I was feeling so defiant and provoked by the police that I was glad they had burned it, and I hoped that shitty police commissioner was appalled.
There was another drama when this group of black-suited young guys carrying signs saying stuff like ‘Billionaires for Bush’ (ok, I don’t remember what it was exactly but they’re on one of the news videos on the internet) were doing a bit of question and answer with the crowd on the fringe, parodying the pro-Bush camp and pantomiming their delight in war and exploitation. It was all a satire, and I think everyone realized this, except for a policewoman who I heard saying into her radio ‘We’ve got a situation here.’ The police took away the guys’ signs.
Yeah, we have a situation – an IQ-deficit in the state police. But the guys refused to be goaded. Seriously, what do the police think? That we're animals?
Once we were nearly at the end of the march (and it wasn’t a long route) I looked back. There were heaps of people at our end of the march, only a smattering of people in the middle, and lots at the back – moving back the way they came, towards the police vehicles. Something was up. I assume now that the crowd was pulling towards the arrests and stuff that you might have seen on TV. Anyway, there was no way I wanted to go anywhere near it the crowd was getting ugly.
The atmosphere was tenser at this point. The threat of violence was in the air –but on the part of the police, not the protesters.
Now I’m not the most observant of people, and it took me a minute or two to realize that we’d come to the end of the march and were confronted with a row of robo-cop style federal police. I was pretty tired by then. I wasn’t sure which way everyone else had gone. I could see some people jumping up the bank of the park and picking their way through the flowerbeds, but I thought that could hardly be the official route. We couldn’t go back, obviously, and continuing up the road on the other two sides was out of the question because the robo-cops had it sealed off. So we dithered for a while, not knowing what to do.
Finally we climbed up into Hyde Park, and set off towards David Jones. Because I needed a fruit juice and some scone-type refreshment after all that excitement! The road was lined with more feds, facing outwards towards the park, staring straight ahead. Now I do believe I’ve already intimated that I’m not the sharpest cookie, and I was all for lighting out across the road there and then – after all, there was no traffic! The Man had to gently point out to me that the police were not going to let us across. We’d have to go round. I guess they were afraid we’d start a 2-person riot in the middle of the road! Ahead of us, two old ladies were shouting at the police how disgusting it all was, and what a waste of money.
We walked the gauntlet, the two of us and several other people, and collapsed into David Jones with relief. “So this is how they get people to go to David Jones” said an English tourist ahead of us.
After our refreshment, we tried to leave the way we came, but it turned out they’d locked that door (I’d like to point out that NOTHING was going on in the street outside) so we had to use the side door. The police wouldn’t let us back along Elizabeth Street, so we used a parallel street a couple of blocks down. When we were level with the crossroads where the march had finished, there was an alarming sight – a line of policeman was pushing towards the scattered people. A policeman was standing on a vehicle yelling at people. It was not nice. I felt a thrill of fear and thought the long hoped-for (by the police) riot must have ensued. I later found out from the news that the police had simply decided they were going to use heavy-handed tactics to force people out of Hyde Park – a place they had every right to be – but in the end, they’d given up and people had dissipated naturally.
I went home feeling proud to have been part of that peaceful march. I didn’t know then about the arrests, but let’s face it, in a crowd that size, they were marginal and it was a peaceful demonstration. I was elated, and was sure that we’d all been vindicated and the public would now have to start asking the police some hard questions about their behaviour that day. Imagine my outrage when I listened to the seven and nine news later that afternoon and heard their excited, alarmist reports about attacks! Violence! Arrests! Injuries! Pictures of people with blood running down their faces! Mayhem! I was like, seriously, were these reporters even in the same city as me? I will never trust the media again. Pictures CAN lie in their own way.
SBS and the ABC did, I feel, provide fair coverage of the event. There were some scary pictures of violence and arrests that may or may not have been deserved (and I'm being charitable to the police here). Fair enough, it happened, show the pictures on the news. I don’t expect them to devote 5 minutes of coverage showing people doing nothing but marching, when there were other noteworthy events. But there’s no need to blow everything out of proportion just to boost your ratings. It was PEACEFUL, and the police should be ashamed of themselves for their pathetic macho display. I didn’t know whether to laugh – all this for little me and some girls with flowers painted on their faces? – or cry. I think two German guys said it all (on a video on the internet) when they said something to the effect of “in Europe, we don’t bring out riot police and water cannons unless we attend to use them”. I bet a lot of the police out there on Saturday were fulling hoping to use them.
Roll on the election!
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