Yes, of course you can buy me lunch

Or: Jenjen visits the mailhouse

Me: Hello, Jenjen here. Pleased to meet you.

Her: Hi Jenjen, I’m Claire, pleased to meet you also. Cup of coffee?

Me: Sure, why not.

Her: Okay, well, look, now you’re here, let me explain what happens when your publications reach us here at the mailhouse.

Me: Mm-mm.

Her: First off we print off an EDP bag and then we take it over to blah-blah-blah-blah and then it moves on through blah-blah-blah-blah. Come on down and I’ll show you the printing room.

Me: Hmm-mm.

Her: So once the data reaches blah-blah-blah-blah-blah, then it goes blah-blah-blah. Now, if we can just head over to this section …

Me: [silence]

Her: … and over here as you can see we have blah-blah-blah and blah-blah in the blah-blah-blah.

Me: Yes. Of course.

Her: Mind your head there.

Me: Yes. Thank you.

Her: Excuse me.

Me: Okay.

Her: Right, so moving on to this blah-blah-blah section, you can see we run this particular XCGB version 3.1 machine that means blah-blah-blah and does blah-blah blah, all of which results in you receiving a better product.

Me: Yes.

Her: Would you like another cup of coffee?

Me: No thank you, I’m fine for the moment.

Her: Well, what my colleague and I do in this process is blah-blah-blah-blah, so when you call us and ask for blah-blah, we just run on out to the floor and do it.

Me: Hmm-mm.

Her: And of course, you know that Australia Post has this blah-blah-blah role and I tell you this for free, if we ever got caught doing blah-blah-blah-blah-blah, we’d be dead ducks. There’s 68 mailhouses in Melbourne, so we have to keep ahead of the competition.

Me: [silence]

Her: Do you have enough time to stay for lunch?

Me: Well, if you’re paying, and it’s not a ham and lettuce sandwich at the local caf, of course, I’m more than happy to stay for lunch.

Her: Good, I’ll ring and book a table at our best outer suburban restaurant.

Me: Excellent. I hope they serve wine there, because I haven’t understood a single thing you’ve told me over the past 40 minutes, and I’m strangely consumed by the desire to get very, very drunk, very quickly.

Her: I’ll be right back.

Me: Good.

Congratulations, and much confetti throwing

As gorgeous on film as she is in words: Mrs and Mr Dooce.

One way or t'other

Do I allow Bertie-Boop to head up north with ericmonkey for an unspecified period of time, possibly up to three months, including the Christmas period? Or should I be selfish and keep BB with me?

Hmm? Hmm?

I am not a housewife, dammit

Dear Jen,

The office manager has informed me that you have thus far neglected your kitchen duties this week. You should know by now that when it is YOUR turn to clean the kitchen in the afternoons, you are to load the dishwasher and remember TO TURN IT ON.

Otherwise, you will get a most officious email from me, the CEO, not from the office manager, about how you should remember to clean up.

Seeing as on this occasion you have neglected to clean up for the whole of this week, even though today is only Thursday, and you have only forgotten to clean up on one afternoon so far (and as you well know someone cleans in the morning as well), I insist that you make arrangements with the office manager to take her weekly shift in the kitchen next week. Thusly, you will have done two weeks solid kitchen duty cleaning up after the pigs in this office.

I hope you have learned your lesson, and in future will remember TO TURN THE DISHWASHER ON after you’ve loaded it.

Sincerely,

The Boss-boss.

Go, Minderella, go

Three minutes. Start to finish: atta girl.

My mother has a phone

My mum has one of those phones with caller ID. I have grown more comfortable as time passes by to the fact that she knows who it is when I call her.

There is a darker side to having caller ID. It means that she knows when The Dickhead calls. Which he does, regularly, despite the fact that Mum and he divorced in 1985, just after my 13th birthday.

He still calls.

Not to talk to me.

Not to talk to her.

Just to call.

Just to let her know he’s still around.

Just so she won’t ever forget.

The other week, after another crank call, Mum mentioned in passing that The Dickhead (her pet name for him) had sent her a parcel. I was almost too horrified to ask what might be in it, but I did.

He’d sent her a package containing slides of their wedding, which took place when I was four. There was also a copy of the service. Miscellaneous photos of her. Me. Us, together, pretending Happy Families. No letter, no explanation.

So he knows where you live, then, I asked tentatively.

Oh yeah, she said, he calls all the bloody time! He never says anything, just breathes and huffs and puffs and carries on, and then hangs up.

I’m just curious, I replied, but are you keeping a record of these calls?

Nah, she scoffed, don’t be silly! He’s just being a dickhead. To make a fuss will play right into his hands. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

I asked her how many times he’d called over recent years. Over the past five years. I nearly died when she told me how often he’d called her. Never once saying a word.

I asked her: Mum, did you know that in most states of Australia calling this often constitutes harassment at best and stalking at worst? You got divorced 17 years ago. This is harassment.

She had never seen it that way before, and promised to keep an extra tight watch on stalking-like activities from The Dickhead.

The next call, I said, you get on to the police and report it. You do not have to put up with this bullshit.

After she scolded me for swearing (something only WHORES do, if you have Scottish parents), she dug her heels in and ummed and aaahed about what to do the next time he called.

Still not wanting to get him angry, after all these years. She may not be angry enough to do anything about it, but I am.

I am.

The Young Gun

We have a new bloke at work. He’s taken on the challenging Marketing and PR manager role, recently vacated by she of ‘Daaaaaaaaarling, you’ve got a giant hole under your arm there! Talk about getting some fresh air!’ fame.

My boss and I have had some good chuckles about The Young Gun before he started. “He’s very keen,” my boss muttered, her voice laden with cynicism. “We’ll soon knock that out of him,” I glibly replied. "Yes," giggled Boss, "the new BOY is rather too excited for my liking."

The Young Gun started work on Monday, three weeks before his contract stipulated he should begin working here. That’s how keen he is. Stuff the three weeks holiday. He’s here. And he’s raring to go. He smiles at everyone. Cracks the odd joke at opportune moments. Yunno. New person kinda stuff.

We got the proofs in this morning for the September issues. He’s very keen to take a look. We have a chat while we flick through the phosphorescent pages and comment about how the dyes make your fingers smell funny. It's actually part arsenic, which immediately made me run for my rubber gloves before I plowed through the pages to look for mistakes.

He was asking about production costs. We chatted a bit about layouts, changing to a four column spread in the new year, that kind of thing. Then he wanted to know how much we paid our designers. It’s 50 bucks a page, I told him.

The eyebrows went up.

He couldn’t believe it. So I showed him an older publication, produced before my time, which cost $115 per page. He couldn’t believe that either, and began making rather loud noises about investigating a New Relationship with another DTP.

Whoah, there, Young Gun, I said. It’s a $50 per page publication because that’s all we can afford.

But we can do better than this, he insisted. I think you should go visit about four different designers and play them off each other to get an even better product, at less cost. They don’t need to know what we already have.

The advertising coordinator and I looked at each other with weary and jaded eyes. How long, exactly, was it going to take to stomp the enthusiasm from this boy?

I explained to him that yes, I understood where he was coming from but the point of the matter was that all the cost centres and production analysis had been done, more than once, and that was why we have the designer we have.

We must seem like such old, worn-out bags to Young Gun.

Poor Young Gun. It won’t take long around here before he's renamed Old and Weary Gun That Can't Be Bothered Shooting, or some such, instead.

Salacious? Moi?

The other evening, after SuperAnge and I had been to see Black Chicks Talking, the documentary by the fabulous Leah Purcell, based on the book of the same name, we hit the bookshops. While Carlton is famous for row upon row of Italian restaurants, it is also well known for catering to a literary type crowd. Readings - a name synonymous with Quality Reading Material among the literati - is located on Lygon Street, and directly opposite it, in the arcade that houses Cinema Nova, lies Andrew's Bookshop. It's a stall, really. There's no walls, so by definition it's not really a shop. Per se. But that's probably just a matter of semantics.

As we wandered the small arcade after the film and approached Andrew's Bookshop, me clutching my almost-finished copy of Black Chicks Talking, I could see the black cloud fast approaching my horizon: No New Book To Read. To me, this is a state that warrants immediate rectification. I panic. I break out in cold sweats. I start buying trashy magazines. I read other peoples' books over their shoulders on PT. It's not good. I Must Always Have another book to read, lined up in the queue, ready to go once the pages in my hand are done.

Most of the time I have a fair idea of what I'm looking for in a New Book. I'm coming out of a biography phase at the moment. This phase would've gone for much longer but I got very tired of looking for contemporary Australian biographies and finding only morose World War I and Vietnam War historical sagas. So I'm between phases at the moment, and I can assure you that it makes choosing the Next Book To Read very, very difficult. At times, twixt phases, I have selected a book purely on the basis of whether I thought the cover was funky or whether the typeset they used was one that I liked.

Anyhoo, after spending a pleasant half an hour looking through the cookbooks, the morose biogs, the hardbacks (which I refuse to buy on principle, as they only cost a dollar more to make than a paperback and yet they cost a gazillion times more), the self-help section, the Bargain Bin and the New Releases, I found this.

On the front cover, this book advises me to turn off the TV, switch off the mobile and settle in for a damn good read (or words to that effect). Yeah, right, I snorted. It's hardly going to tell me to buy it and put it away out of reach for ten years to gather dust, is it?

But, sure enough, the seedy and very salacious world of Peyton Place dragged me in. And I'm sitting here at work, wondering how I might possibly be able to read it this afternoon without getting busted by my boss, because I've reached a really, really good bit and I want to know what happens. It's rare to find a book this good. The last un-put-down-able book I read was A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth. And hell, I was glad to finally put that thing down. It weighs a ton.

PP was written in the 50s by Grace Metalious. The book was denouned by all, but especially by the Literati and the Government, which accused Grace of trying to bring down the nation by encouraging youngsters to masturbate and sleep with their stepfathers. The book sold over two million copies and has been reprinted several times. Grace put it thusly: "If I'm a lousy writer, then an awful lot of people have lousy taste."

Indeed.

Mental note to self:

When people tell me that they like my hair, they are not paying me a compliment. They are merely telling me that they like my hair.

All things stringy and green

My mother is Scottish. For those of you who are also blessed/cursed with Celtic parents, you will know what I mean when I declare this. For those of you who aren’t, and don’t, count your blessings.

Having Scottish parents means that you are brought up in a very particular (and some might say peculiar) fashion. Here I give you some Scottish Parenting Top Tips for ensuring your child will attend therapy later in life.

1. Work comes first. Happiness, fun and frivolity come way, way, WAY down the list of life priorities. For example, my mother doesn’t muck about in her garden. Oh no. She WORKS in it. My mother’s hobbies are NOT cross-stitch, or Scottish country dancing. She WORKS at those things. They are not designed to be fun. They are vocational activities designed to fill up time until one goes to WORK for MONEY.

2. Nice girls don’t. The list of things that nice girls don’t is endless, and can vary depending on which area of Scotland one’s parents originated from. According to my family, nice girls do NOT wear second hand clothing from the op-shop, wear black, wear trousers all the time when one could be wearing a Nice Blouse or a Nice Floral Flock, swear, yell, make a fuss or GOD FORBID talk about problems. This leads nicely into Tip #3.

3. Problems do not exist. You feel sick? Rubbish. You’re all right. Get back to work. No friends at school? Oh well. Never mind. You’ll be all right. What are you crying for? Don’t be stupid/silly/an idiot. Nothing to cry about.

4. Spend as little as possible on as much as possible. To this day, my mother cannot understand why I choose to buy yummy expensive things like good wine, cheese, food and dinners, and great clothes and music when I could easily make my own wine, cheese, food, eat at home every night, make my own clothing and sit in silence. It’s frivolous, see? Why buy the expensive cans of dog food that the dog will actually eat, when you can buy ten cans of the home brand for half the price? And yet, this does not apply to clothing. Op-shop clothes that are very cheap are not okay; but by the same token anything I buy that costs more than $20 per item is considered Throwing Good Money After Bad (“You could make that for half the price” is a phrase I still hear on a regular basis). When shopping, our family always bought six of any item on special. My mother's hall cupboard is FULL of toothpaste, packs of toilet paper, mutlipacks of soap, deodorant, anything on special - she's got it. Lots of it. Save pennies, pounds look after themselves. Ahem.

5. Sex exists only for the purpose of making babies, and will be entered into at no other time. Sigh. I don’t think I need to explain this one any further. Yes, I am in therapy.

6. A meal is not complete without meat. And one may not leave the table until everything – and by everything, I mean EVERYTHING – on one’s plate has been consumed. This includes every last soggy stalk of grey, over-boiled broccoli, limp stringy carrots and stringy, bitter green beans. Vegetarian meals are incomprehensible. There must always be a lamb chop, fillet of fish or some roast chicken on the plate to ensure a full meal occurs. No, I am not a vegetarian, although I was one for about two years. My mother nearly ex-communicated me. I have many, many memories of sitting at a cold dining room table on my own until 10 or 11 o’clock at night, not able to go to bed because I hadn’t eaten that last string bean. I hate beans.

Rip, rip woodchip, turn it in to paper

Or, a lesson in using capital letters to express irony or sarcasm

I’ve been scouring the real estate websites today trying to establish if there is any chance of giving life to my pipedream of Finding One’s Own Home With No One Else In It. Not much luck so far, given that I do have a wee beastie (cross out the flats, studios, apartments and villas) and my budget is rather constrained - that is to say, I don't have a spare $500 a week to live in a two-bedroom weatherboard cottage with an outside toilet. Next to a laneway. Out near Tullamarine.

As far as I know, SuperAnge has just paid her last month’s rent, and for most of this period I am intending to live the Camberwell life as fully as possible. With any luck, our friendship can be restored to its Former Glory with some much needed time away from each other.

Someone tells me there are markets down Camberwell way. Can anyone confirm this, preferably someone with a car who wouldn’t mind taking me to this alleged Armegeddon of second hand goods?

And in other news ….

Carla (she of Clifton Hill wine shop and Mechanically Separated Chicken fame) made me blog of the day on a website somewhere. I have no energy to find the url to post here right now. It’s nearly 5.30pm and I’m fading fast.

I have an ‘appointment’ tomorrow evening, which should be ... Nice.

That is all.

Them’s called swings and roundabouts

Had a blue with SuperAnge tonight. It’s been brewing for a while, but really the thing this morning has pretty much pushed me over the edge. As it turns out, I’m proving to be rather selfish, intolerant and tiring to live with. Apparently, I huff and puff a bit too much for some people. P’raps they fear that I will blow the house down.

Sorry. I had to get that in.

Apparently, people aren’t allowed to be silent and must greet others every time they see them with a cheerful hello. No silent withdrawals allowed, regardless of whether you are in the mood to chat, capable of drawing your thoughts into coherent sentences, or p’raps just too keen to enjoy whatever silence you can.

Apparently, it’s really insulting to even mention the fact that other people are too loud while they are in this small cottage with thin walls, and even more so when one is in one’s room. Apparently, anything goes in there.

Apparently, the fact that I give feedback that states quite clearly that I am finding living in a small house with 1.5 VERY LOUD PEOPLE very hard to deal with at this point in time is not appropriate.

P’raps I really should be living by myself, because I SWEAR TO GOD, walking the streets tonight instead of being at home is looking like the preferred option. I CANNOT BELIEVE that I am in such a state of stress IN MY OWN HOME. I’ll stop using caps intermittently, now. Promise.

There’s an offer of housesitting in Camberwell on the table at the moment – the only proviso being that I feed two dogs and a cat. But hey – big four bedroom house all to myself, with the odd visitor – sounds like UTTER FUCKING HEAVEN to this little black duck at the minute.

Maybe my trouble stems from the fact that I’m primarily an auditory-based person. In the world of psychotherapy-speak, this means that my primary means of communication and absorbing information is through my hearing. P’raps I’m just more sensitive to noises than most. Possibly, but that’s not really the point.

[Just as an aside, and if you weren’t one of my many admirers at the recent blogmeet spellbound by my explanations of neurolinguistic programming and auditory, visual and kinetic systems, let me fill you in. Most people communicate and filter information primarily through one of these three ways. You can often spot an auditory person, because they will say things like “That sounds good.” Now, a visual person would probably tell you: “I see what you’re saying.”. And a kinetic person is more than likely to snort: “This doesn’t feel right to me.”. Do you get where I’m going with this?]

Anyhoo, SuperAnge is a visual person. Lemme give you an example that will perfectly illustrate how this can create problems. We were playing pool and discussing between shots the difficulties we both have sinking balls in middle pockets. I said to her that “I just need to hear a different voice when I take those shots. One that says, you will sink this, you will sink this.” And she said, “I just imagine that the pockets are bigger.”

See what I mean?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am all for difference. Spice of life and all that.

I am, however (I was trying not to start this sentence with a ‘but’, after making a positive statement about supporting difference, but could only manage a ‘however’) also a big fan of accepting one’s limitations, realising that p’raps others are becoming affected by what is happening around them, and then possibly making modifications to one’s behaviour to accommodate.

I have talked many a time on this blog about my journey with therapy and my personal growth that is resulting from it. It’s a good thing – not always easy – but I know that good things don’t come from easy change. Good things come after pain, difficulty, stress and often making distressing choices that are in the best long-term interest of yourself or someone close to you. And more often than not, fear plays a bit part in that transition to better things.

One of the biggest lessons I have learned is that everyone has issues. Everyone has a journey. That to me is what life is about. That is where differences and spices of life come into it. Issues are often a deeply personal journey. That’s cool too. Not everyone can cope with being as loud and as forward as I can be when I have a problem (I HAVE A PROBLEM HERE! WHO WANTS TO HEAR ABOUT WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? NO ONE? OKAY, I’LL JUST TALK ABOUT IT ANYWAY!). I also very strongly believe that when your issues begin to negatively affect the people around you, including those you love, it’s time to acknowledge that there is a problem and it’s also probably time to get professional help.

There are only so many times that you can thrash out things with your mates before a) they get sick of hearing about it [‘hearing’ about it, see? Auditory = me] or b) you get sick of thrashing it out and getting the same response, which usually never helps in any constructive way.

I have watched this pattern occur time and again with many friends of mine, and many partners of those friends. It’s a rare occasion that I do actually feel that it’s my place to say or do anything, in a constructive fashion, at any rate. Occasionally I have been known to blurt out that perhaps therapy might be a good idea, but only through the utter frustration of seeing someone I know and love go through the same pattern of pain over and over and over again. Whether that has actually HELPED the person concerned, I dunno. Never really stuck around to find out, methinks. Just stuck it to them and left. On reflection, that’s probably not a nice thing to do.

Where was I going with this? Actually, I’m not sure.

Ah yes, that’s right. Taking a look at what’s around you.

And looking around me reveals that I so like, totally need some individual, really big amounts of personal space at the moment. Aside from having The Triffids’ ‘Wide Open Road’ on my brain for the past seven days, I am also presently entertaining the fantasy of pissing off to some hidden away hotel in Fiji or Thailand somewhere and lying by a beach BY MYSELF and reading novels for hours on end for at least a two week period. With a lovely young man with well-rounded buttocks at my beck and call, should I require yet another Pina Colada.

It’s sounding really FUCKING GOOD at the minute, kiddies, really fucking good.

And in other news, my site is one of the best places to find information about Young Talent Time and Tina Arena, and also for information including pictures about friends sleeping over in the nude for free.

Them’s the breaks, I guess. Them’s the breaks.

Why are after work drinks such a good idea at the time?

Me: I’m hung over and I’m hungry. Waddaya got?

Him: Egg and bacon panini?

Me: Toast it baby. Toast it real good.

Him: I haven’t heard that song for years.

Me: Whatever. What else ya got?

Him: Juice?

Me: Make it an apple, watermelon and kiwifruit. And fuck it, gimme a strong latte, one sugar, as well.

Him: You ARE hungover.

Me: I am, and there’s still six working hours in the day left. Help me.

And a good time was had by all

[from the studio] Are you ready to go?

[Gin Palace live feed] Yup. Wait, my ear piece is falling out. Hold on. Gimme five.

[studio host] … and we cross now live to the Gin Palace, where a collection of Melburnians have gathered for a monthly phenomenon known only to a select few as ‘Blogmeet’. How are things down there tonight, Missjenjen?

[Gin Palace] Well things are on a roll tonight, down here, Barry. About 20 bloggers have gathered here at the Gin Palace and let me tell you, they know how to talk technical and sink back the beers. Who have we got here? Sean, is it? And what site do you run?

Well, Missjenjen, I know you don’t care – being IDC Week and all – but my site’s called Sonata for Unfinished Yelling. It’s way cool. There’s a duck on there and everything.

I’ve heard you do a mean cryptic crossword, am I correct?

[laughs modestly] Weeeeellllll, let me just say I’ve done one or two here and there.

Thanks Sean.

What’s your name, funky gal?

Pixelkitty. I’m the host for the evening. I’ve got a special page on my site specifically for the meetups.

Every month are they?

Yeah, we’re thinking maybe a barbecue next time. And some of us are off to see Deb Conway.

Thanks Nat. You’re a great host.

And who have we got here? Andie? Oh, sorry, Andrew. Ohhhh! Null device! Fantastic! What brought you here tonight?

Well the last meetup was at Starbucks. At least this one is in a bar. Can I take a photo?

Sure Andrew.

Thanks. Want to play Scrabble sometime?

Love to.

And who’s that over there swilling Chardonnay and charming all the fellas? It can only be –

- Kathryn. Cutlunchtrip! I’ve just moved house! And I accidentally bought an iMac on eBay yesterday!

Accidentally? I hope it works!

And you are?

Stu. Shehaal. How’s things?

Good thanks. What are you up to?

Oh, you know. Kicking back. My shirt says ‘freak’ in the style of the Ford logo.

Yeah, it does. Cool. You’re off to see Deb Conway, I believe?

Sure am – can I have a CC and coke, please?

Talk to that guy . His blog is yellow and he’s buying everyone drinks. Can you get me a vodka-dry, with a twist of fresh lime, while you’re at it? Thanks.

Vlado! How are you? Coping well tonight?

Yes thanks. Enjoying the harem atmosphere.

Hello, you’re a late comer. What’s your blog called?

Mechanically separated chicken. I haven’t done enough homework on everyone’s blogs. They’re all cool to meet, though! Hey, are you from Perth, by any chance? Hello? Missjenjen? [to friend] where’d she go?

[big smile from the Gin Palace front door] Of course, Barry, there are several others here that I just won’t get time to talk to because I’m too busy getting drunk and chatting amongst friends. And that glasswear FELL into my bag. It’s back to you in the studio.

Look out! Reflections about urination politics ahead!

"This begs the question: Why not stand back a little bit? Simple. WE CAN'T. We have our PENISES OUT IN PUBLIC. If ever there were a time for insecurity, it is now."

Not my desk. He's funny, and you should go there now.

Personally I prefer to wait until the staff toilets are empty before I enter.

See you all this evening

I'll be the gal in the corner sucking back several of these.

I Don't Care Week

I am pleased to announce that this week is I Don't Care Week. This means that I can eat any foods I like as none will be fattening or make my PMT worse. Chocolate has no calories, nor do chips or a giant slice of home-made lemon tart from the tiny bakery down the road.

I Don't Care Week also means that I start work as late as 9.30pm, and no one will ask any questions.

IDC Week also entails many, many bouts of retail therapy, none of which will affect my bank balance in a negative way, but result in bountiful bargain hunting, and each item lovingly purchased will make me look like the stunning minx I really am.

Hangovers do not exist during this seven day period, and all alcoholic beverages are free of charge.

Thank you ... no, really, thank YOU

It's Monday and the business end of the week.

Many thanks to all who posted hugs and sympathetic murmurs and who gave real hugs and beers and support over the weekend. I needed all of it, and I really appreciate all of it, too.

Saturday night, as you can probably gather from the three entries below, was rather drunken and blurry. But hey - that's what you're s'posed to do when you break up with someone. You go shopping. You eat chocolate and yummy sweet things. Then you get drunk with your buddies and curl up with the dog.

Now it's the start of another week. I'm okay. I'm on deadline this week.

And I'll be bright, happy and cheerful - ie, my usual self (*snort*) - at the blog meet on Wednesday.

Tender is the night

Well I spoke to a man who says he's done it all
and the only thing that pleases or excites him now
is hurting, hurting then hurting some more
There's someone I want to forget tonight
Don't you want to forget someone too?
I left him, and I can leave you too

Baby let's go out tonight
It will all turn out all rIght I'm sure
Don't want to drink at home again tonight
So let's go out
Let's go out tonight
It's getting dark earlier now
But where you are it's just getting light
Where you are it will just be getting light

Here I am

I'm sitting watching the sun fall behind the DAndenogns.

Wearing black (iunside and out).

Listening to The Triffids at very loud volumne ("it's a wide open road. it's a wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide open roooooooooaaaaaaaad").

Swilling cheap red wine everywhere.

Squashing that loneliness right outta my mind. Gotta squash that pain right outta my mind.

It wasx going to happenb. I knew it, he knew it. And now it
's happened. its'f rothe best.

CAn't spell nor care for grammar.

Plans? What plans?

Ericmonkey and I are splitsville.

We parted amicably on the basis that we want different things, at different times, at better to acknowledge that now, rather than in three years time with a baby and a mortgage in tow.

I am feeling rather strange, as this event only occurred about one hour ago.

I'm pretty sad. I feel like my mojo is pretty well fucked.

I know that in my heart, we weren't soul mates, and we didn't connect on a deep, intimate level. And that is really what I am looking for. I want security in a relationship. I want babies. I want to live with my partner. Maybe even get married one day.

Maybe one day it will happen. I don't know.

At the moment I'm just sad. Not terribly lonely as I have the Bertie-Boop type action and good friends around me. But sad, nonetheless.

An update

It looks as though we will be making use of a friend's Kombi van while said friend is visiting India over Christmas.

Studio-au-go-go!

Indecision is my middle name

Buy the Kombi Van and drive up north with ericmonkey over Christmas and New Year?

Rent fab huge studio in Fitzroy to live in with Bertie-Boop and ericmonkey, with a few others renting studio space?

Which?

All good fame comes to those who wait:

Melbourne bloggers - including moi - get a damn fine plug here.

You’d be amazed at what you can do when you have to

At age 11, I was firmly entrenched in the pre-pubescent gangland known as Girl Guides. I had my sash. I had the badges for helping old ladies to crochet nana rugs. But more than any other badge, more than the cycling or rafting or creative poetry badge, I wanted my first aid badge.

One week, our Guide leaders introduced a gruff, wrinkly old dude to our little troupe, who was there to teach us the principles and practice of basic first aid. He was gruff. He was old. He did not appreciate hesitation or silliness from us 11-year-olds. I wonder now if he had an armed forces background.

Anyhoo, we went through the principles of banging on someone’s chest and shoving air down their gullet and then we took a break and went for a walk through the local park. A shout echoed through the pine trees and across the monkey bars:

“HELP! Someone’s injured!”

We ran as fast as our little legs would take us to the site of the accident. Sure enough, there was a girl! Collapsed right outside our Guide House! She wasn’t breathing, and there was blood everywhere! What ever were we to do?

Gruff Man wanted someone to help. Who would help the girl in trouble? Anyone? Anyone?

I stepped up to the challenge. I’d listened. I knew what to do. I wanted that damn badge. I knelt beside the girl. I moved her into the recover position. I kinked her head back so I could clear any vommy (eeewwww) from her mouth.

Gruff Man barked: “No! That’s all wrong! Move out of the way! Does anyone here know what they’re doing?”

I stood back in shock. I had been certain, absolutely certain that I knew what I was doing. But here was the adult telling me otherwise.
My confidence shattered somewhat that day and I haven’t touched first aid since, even though afterwards I quickly realised that the girl in the accident was just pretending, and the whole thing was a set up.

Recently I got volunteered to be the first aid officer at work, and I confess to feeling rather terrified that I would be responsible for an entire office worth of potential injury.

At the start of my recently completed first aid course, our instructor told us: “It will all seem a bit overwhelming – but don’t worry – when you need to use it, you will remember and you will cope.”

I never thought I would have to use my first aid training … and I also thought, given my past experience, that I wouldn’t be able to cope, either. That was until yesterday, when I witnessed and assisted at a pretty hardcore vehicle accident.

The girl I helped was extremely distressed and in some pain. Lots of shock. Big bump on the noggin and a sore neck. The car was a complete wreck.

I asked what her name was and whether she could squeeze my hands, so I would know she was okay (test basic responses to stimuli). I turned the ignition off, turned the car lights off and the hazard lights on (ensure safety of self and victim). I talked to the girl non-stop, while simultaneously calling out to others to please call an ambulance and the fire service (the front of the girl’s car was so badly damaged I couldn’t open the driver door to attend to her properly). I didn’t want to alarm her about the fact that she was trapped so I just wound down the window and leant in, talking to her all the time.

I asked her if there was someone I could call for her, to let them know she needed help. Her mobile phone rang. A guy was on the other end, wanting to know where she was. It wasn’t her boyfriend. It was the man she had been on her way to sell the car to.
She was supposed to be leaving the country today.

I kept a hold of her hands. Checked her pulse (racing). Kept guiding her through her breathing, to concentrate on slowing down and getting air right down into her lungs. She was shivering and trembling (shock) so I found her a shawl and threw it over her. Kept holding her hand. Kept her in the present.

As I finally drove off, after watching the very professional and patient ambos load her on to a stretcher, and after the emotionless Boys In Blue took down my details, I felt like I was in shock too.

I really can do first aid. I can help.

BITE ME, GRUFF MAN.

Poooooo-ie!

I’ve talked before about my distaste for public toilets. I just have no willingness to share the personal noises and smells of my workmates.

I got trapped this afternoon. Picture the scene, if you can bear it.

I’m in busy mode: this means I stride around the office, looking thoughtful, busy and occupied (of course, I am none of these things, but they don’t need to know that). In the course of my pre-occupied striding this afternoon, my legs carried me swiftly to the ladies loo and into the only unoccupied stall.

I was trapped. I was in there. Trapped in the depths of some stenchy quagmire radiating from the stall next to me, before I had the chance to pull up my pants and get the funk out of there. Jesus. I think there should be a law: no refried beans, tacos, chickpeas, curries or other stench-making foods should be consumed the evening before coming to work.

I have never peed so fast before, not even that one time where I had a few too many beers and had to get to the bathroom really quickly, lest I peed my pants and the target of my lustful actions that fine eve not find me quite so attractive.

See, here’s the thing: if I had peed at a normal rate (gassing myself in the process, but that’s by the by. Run with me on the hypothetical, here), I would have probably come out of the stall the same time as The Stench Maker. And who wants to face up to the mirror knowing the person next to you has been making some serious stench and noise on the toilet?

Not I, my friends, not I.

Words are a powerful weapon

-----Original Message-----
From: Snarky bitch [mailto:snarky.bitch@elsewhere.com.au]
Sent: Monday, 12 August 2002 8:07 AM
To: Missjenjen
Subject: August edition

Dear Jen,

I have just received the August editions of the newsletters and I am very disappointed.

I'm saddened that you did not produce the newsletters exactly as I envisaged them, despite my never having communicated this vision to you.

For important reasons that I don't want to tell you about, it is vital that the newsletters are printed exactly as I want them.

I find myself disenchanted that you took the decision to write, edit and publish these newsletters without appearing to bow down before me and take it up the arse – ooops, I mean, without consultation from me.

Regards,
Snarky Bitch From Hell.

-----Reply-----

To: Snarky bitch [mailto:snarky.bitch@elsewhere.com.au]
Sent: Monday, 12 August 2002 8:10 AM
From: Missjenjen
Subject: August edition

Dear SB,

Please refrain from sending me bellyache emails all the time. I’m sick of hearing from you.

Each month– for some unknown and rather ungodly reason – I expect you to find something positive in the newsletters. And each month, I walk away from my job increasingly disillusioned and disappointed by your apparent lack of ability to see the true quality of my work.

In future, please refrain from using any or all of the following terms in your correspondence with me: disappointed, disillusioned, unhappy, ashamed, let down, disheartened, saddened or frustrated.

We slave our guts out to publish this motherfucker on time, so please do not whine to me about how the newsletters do not meet your impossibly high expectations.

Unfortunately, at this point in time, I do not have extra sensory perception. I am still working on getting my certificate this year, so hopefully by the time January rolls around, and I will have somehow by the grace of God managed to work a full year here, I will be in a much better position to know exactly what it is that you will be whingeing about way in advance.

Kind regards, (*flipping you the bird*)

Jen.

Pretty, pretty

I am addressing
and undressing
you, fine thing
with this only tongue
I have that curls
the miles to
you tugs at your
buttons and leaves
I hope you undone
and answering say
you love me and
I am just a touch
from come to me.

Tramspark. Go there now.

Paaaaaaaaper! Get your morning news!!

We get The Age and The Australian delivered to our friendly fluorescent kitchen facilities each working day. The kind, giving people in my office generally leave the interesting sections like business and sport (YES, that's sarcastic) on the kitchen table for others to amuse themselves at lunch time, and abscond with the interesting bits like the NEWS sections and the TV guides.

The Greedy Bastards make off with the cool sections like The Green Guide and The Australian's Media before I've even made it out of the lift in the morning. This morning included. This maketh me not happy, particularly after my debacle at the local bottleshop last night, but that's another blog entry.

I trawled each fuzzy-walled cubicle, feeling increasingly bureaucratic every time I pounced on a workmate and snarled, "Have YOU got the Green Guide, by any chance? Some mongrel's made off with it. Those papers are there for everyone to share."

Ahem.

Hello, my name is Jen and I have nothing better to do at work.

*walks away whistling*

Sssshhhh ... it's okay

I have chocolate. That is good.

I have a closed door to my office. Also good. Boss cannot get in and blab for hours about The Good Ole Days at the ABC/Herald Sun/when the media alliance was known as the Australian Journalists Association ("all they do now is whinge and bitch about pay rises. I told them where they could stick their alliance - you don't need them either." - weeeeeeelll with an attitude like that, how bouts I just keep my membership topped up for a while yet, hmmm?).

I have enough money in the bank to buy beer after work. Excellent. Need. Beer. Mmmmmm, beer.

I will be getting a nice chunka cashola back from the tax department from the last financial year. Also, in the scheme of things, quite excellent. Repeat after me: "do not spend the money. Save it for Christmas. Save it for anything. Do not spend the money."

Bertie graduated from puppy school. We received his certificate of achievement in the mail yesterday. Good. Not bad for a little terror in the midst of some awful adolescent tsunami of male dog hormones. We've had to move all the cushions up above Bertie level. He has been enjoying humping them a little bit too much. It's not a pretty look.

No, no, no, no: which part of this word don't youse lot get?

NO, I cannot spend two hours working out which of the story ideas you sent me months ago have been used in publications since. Look in the newsletters yourself.

NO, I won't justify to you why some stories have been used and others not. A) I don't have the time or the inclination; and B) I don't have to justify my job to you. I was hired for my experience and skills base. Youse lot have got to learn to trust me.

NO, I do not accept that letting you know which stories have been used and why will help you to generate new story ideas. New leads do not - and should not - necessarily depend on what has already been published. And you all get my fortnightly email in which I practically beg for story ideas and information. You all have the production schedule. You all know when your material is due.

So ner.

About bloody time

Oh we're from Tiger land
A fighting fury
We're from Tiger land
In any weather you'll see us with a grin (HEY!)
Risking head and shin (HEY!)
If we're behind then never mind
We'll fight and fight and win
For we're from Tiger land
We never weaken till the final siren's gone
Like the Tiger of old
We're strong and we're bold
For we're from Tiger (YEEEELLLLLLOW AND BLACK)
We're from Tiger land.

STOP PRESS

Jen makes major find in St Kilda

I just found eight Tintin comics in mint condition . Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a hold of them these days? Tintin was my fave read as a child. I have an entire collection back at my mum's place, which I am quite sure my kids will love to read one day.

I am happy. That is good.

Ho-hum

The days roll on ... and over ... and away. Tomorrow is my one year anniversary of arriving in Melbourne, and I can't believe that a year has slipped by already.

This weekend my old pool competition partner is in town from Sydney. He's a sociologist, and he studies and teaches the sociology of AFL. How cool is that? So we are off to a few games (although as he is a Carlton fan, I *won't* be convinced to go to tomorrow night's house o' horrors at the Gee). I haven't seen Ian for nearly seven years, and when we chatted on the phone the other night, it was as though I'd seen him yesterday.

Ericmonkey and I are off to Cairns for Christmas. His mum is paying for the tickets. We head up on the 19th of December, and we are going to buy a van while we are up there and then take about two weeks to drive back down to Melbourne. I guess I should do something about transferring my WA licence, lest I be arrested on a technicality.