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.

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.

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!

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!