Hello, and goodbye

Hello, it's Monday.

And, goodbye. I've moved here.

Y'all stop by, now.

Three things I know

1. Repeatedly jabbing the crosswalk button will not make the lights change any faster.

2. Mirrors work both ways. The bus driver can see all his passengers in his mirror, ergo, all his passengers can see him picking his nose and eating its contents as he waits for the lights to change.

3. Playing a CD in-store REALLY FUCKING LOUDLY will not make me want to buy that CD.

I have a dream

Well, I *had* a dream. That’s more correcter. And I’d be curious to know what you folks make of it.

I don’t normally talk about dreams, because to be honest I couldn’t think of anything duller than hearing about someone else’s crazy internal antics from the night before. People always seem to tell me their dreams in the most convoluted and yawn-inspiring manner possible, so I’ll try and keep my own regaling fairly straight and simple.

Here goes.

What would it mean to you if you dreamt of a reunion – a very passionate and loving reunion – with the one true love of your life, the person whom you probably still love more than any member of your family or any other person in your life?

Imagine a dreamplace so real, and so intensely felt that in your mind you literally scrabbled back into it in a panic, as your body tried to wake you up to start the day. Imagine that you felt a deep, deep sadness when you did actually wake up, because you weren’t in that place with this person any more.

Would you take that dream, in which you and this person became truly melded as one, in which all was forgiven, all mistakes explained, assumptions and misgivings cleared; in which you remember the taste of the other, the smell, the touch of their hands, the weight of their body, as a sign of some sort?

Given that this person has been on your mind fairly constantly since you saw them last (over a year ago), and has remained there despite your valiant efforts to forget and move on, what could this dream mean?

Any ideas?

Please sir, can I get off now? My stomach hurts

I’d like to get off the deadline bus, sir, if I may. It’s nearly 3pm and I’ve not eaten yet. My day has been taken up with heated policy debates about editorial philosophy and guidelines and correcting the penned babblings of over-qualified ninnies. One minute it was 8.30am and the office was quiet and the next thing I was in a shouting match at 2pm over who was the *real* editor and NO I COULDN'T LET YOU SEE THE STORY BEFORE IT GOES TO PRESS BECAUSE NOT LEAST OF ALL IF I DID THAT FOR YOU I'D HAVE TO DO IT FOR EVERYONE, AND THEN I WOULDN'T HAVE ANY TIME LEFT FOR MY JOB, FUCK YOU.

*HARUMPPHHH*

Is it five o’clock yet?

*sigh*

Where’s my beer?

Is putting a correct sentence together really rocket science? Apparently, sir, it is, as it’s far, far too difficult a task for these boffins that surround me and give me ulcers and hernias.

If I’m already doing two things at once at great speed, is it okay to swear at the phone when it rings and then not answer it?

Did I ask about my beer already?

Am I allowed to make the receptionist cry when she fucks up an urgent courier booking at possibly the most crucial point of the production schedule?

What about shutting the door to my office rather abruptly with my very chatty boss on one side of it, and me on the other? Is that cool? Is it jiggy?

How 'bout if I really let loose and tell her to get the FUCK out of my office when I'm clearly on the phone working with our publisher, and that's it's SO NOT OKAY to come bustling in and stand over me and interrupt what I'm doing? Flip her the bird? Shall I?

And one last thing. When will it be okay to demand a pay rise? Tomorrow? Yes. I thought so too.

Anyone? Anyone?

I'm very, very tired of Paperback Writer's aesthetics. I'm also very, very tired of looking for another template, and not having any luck. It goes without saying that I am beyond tired of trying to learn CSS and html and getting nowhere.

So I'm prepared to pay, people, and I'm happy to admit that I know close to zero about templates, coding and various other snazzeries that adorn some of your own blogs. So what I'm looking for is someone Out There who's prepared to design me a new look for PBW.

You may select one of the following three prizes for your efforts: a kilo of chocolate, a carton of beer, or a few games of pool paid for by my sweet self and at which I will graciously lose and possibly buy you a beer as well. Obviously if you live overseas, we'll have to come to an arrangement, but don't let that put you off.

Of course, there will be eternal kudos, my thanks and admiration, and a link to your own blog, if you have one.

Any takers?

Total link sluttage

Ala Monsieur Pigfucker , I present an entry full of links. I don’t do this very often, so make the most of it.

I'm only going to mention the Bali thing twice, and it's here:

Crikey on how the media handled of the Bali bombing: here.

How you thought Crikey handled the media coverage:
here.

Not before time: the first awarded compensation for a stolen generation survivor.

Get ready to shit your pants: Red Dragon is coming.

See what happens when your suburb has a stupid name: Routine traffic stop goes "horribly wrong".

It’s here. So close, and yet still so far away.

I want one. Eventually.

It’s a mystery. A big, well written mystery.

And for your diary:

The Datsuns

Well, we all know how I feel about these lithe, gorgeous rock gods. New Zealand’s own socks-off-rockers are here, as is their first album, which sold out in Melbourne this week. Playing at The Tote on October 25-26, don’t miss it.

Lime Spiders

Hopefully devoid of their Sydney smack habits, the Lime Spiders are here for one last gasp at the Hifi Bar on November 16.

KISS this, bitches

KISS will give a press conference on Monday, and announce their tour which will feature the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra. The tour is to celebrate KISS’s 30th anniversary. Tickets are on sale now, don’t miss out. Ageing rockers are no longer a dime a dozen.

Waif for me, baby

Although slightly folky, I won’t be missing The Waifs when they hit the Hifi Bar on November 8-9. Album out now; the song about London is on high rotation and deservedly so.

Tindersticks

Tindersticks – who are ace, and mint, play here on November 16 at The Corner Hotel in Richmond. Be there or be bereft of a fantastic experience.

Ricky Skaggs

If you loved the O Brother Where Art Thou? soundtrack as much as I did, get yourself to the Palais on January 30 next year to see Ricky Skaggs and his band Kentucky Thunder. Various Australian bluegrass performers will also be in attendance.

It's been real, Geoff. I dunno how you do it every day and make it read so well. Damn you and your talent.

Poetry

Seen sticky-taped to the front of a wilting bunch of lilies, left on the steps of the Victorian Parliament House:

I AM FUCKEN SORRY I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU I AM 6

Brilliant.

And, of course

Like I needed an excuse to talk about sex:

Which one are you?

Bits and bobs

1. I missed out on the Morrissey gig last night, unlike some people. Moz looks older, judging by the photos. Podgier. Still Mozza, though. I do have a small second chance, however: I can always rock up at whatever ugly park they've stuck Livid in this year, fight my way through all those disgustingly sweaty and obnoxious teenagers towards the end of the night, and see if I can get in for free, or for $20, or some such. It worked at The Big Day Out a few years back, when I got to see The Prodigy for free. That was so long ago, The Prog played on the smallest of the four stages.

2. The Datsuns are coming! The Datsuns are coming! I had my first quintessential Australian moment watching these young, lithe rawk gods. Did I mention they were lithe, young, and utterly gorgeous rawk gods?

This epiphany of Australian-ness took place at The Espy Hotel, late on a hot Friday night in early December, a few years ago. I was in the Gershwin Room, wearing Blundstone boots, a Bonds T-shirt, carrying a pot in one hand, a jug of beer in the other and claiming that with a name like The Datsuns, this rawkin' band had to be Australian. How much more Australian could I get, particularly when I claimed an NZ product as one from my own, bigger and better country?

Missies Momo and Pea will be in attendance along with my sweet self. If there are any other takers, make yourselves known and we'll work something out. We are going to the Saturday gig (26/10), but I suspect that I may just have to attend the Friday night gig as well. I may have to check on the state of my ears, however. I'm getting old; they ring all the time. I shall be buying the album this week, and possibly looking at getting one of their flyers made into a T-shirt. I tell you, these guys are going to be big.

3. In other news, I have done more ironing over the past three days than I've done over the past three years. SuperAnge has made off with her clothes rack (how bloody rude, eh? Bitch moves out and takes her stuff with her. I mean, really. Pffffft.) so my glad rags are sprawled senselessly all over the floor of Le Boudoir au Amour at present, and shall remain so until I can afford to buy/steal/borrow something on which to hang them. I've ironed clothes for work every day this week.

The horror, the shame.

The shame, the horror.

*sigh*

As usual, I agree with everything she says. About the sex, that is. Not law school.

Ever since I turned 30, my hormones have done a complete U-turn. It used to be that when it came to sex, I could take it or leave it. Since I've turned 30, it's pretty much been on my brain constantly. My sex drive is getting out of control, and I really have no means by which I can alleviate this particular pain. I mean, I'm single, and the dog's away (that's a JOKE, people). Thankfully I have not yet turned to shagging my housemates. That would be breaking the golden rule of house-sharing: thou shalt not shit on thine own doorstep.

But I mean, really. What has nature done to me? I've turned from shy, coy little old me into a raving sex maniac. Crikey!

Two days is never enough

Why do weekends seem to get shorter as I get older?

I have to tell you that I had a fantastic day yesterday. After finding my summer pants - for which I was prepared to pay up to $300 for if they were right - for only $10 (YES), and then a pair of Italian leather shoes for $25 to wear to a wedding reception, I figured things were kicking off to a good start. As minderella so aptly puts it: KER-CHING.

I decided to wear my lusciously, thoroughly gorgeous red and gold cheong sam to the said wedding reception last night. I'd just like to publicly thank Natto for giving that dress to me, because last night I was on fire (ker-TZING!) wearing it. It's one of those dresses that changes you as soon as you step into it. I stand taller in that dress. Flirt more. Laugh more. Walk prouder. Have more confidence. Best clothing decision a friend has ever made for me, that one.

After the wedding reception, Daniel-san (who, as SuperAnge's partner, was a most excellent escort for the evening) and I headed off for a quick *ahem* visit to a couple of parties in Richmond. I very, very nearly didn't get to the second one, but I'm glad I did. It was a warehouse party in East Richmond (near the Great Britain Hotel on Church Street). I haven't been to a "rave" as such for years, so I was a bit sceptical of going. We got there early (read: 12.30am) and I considered walking straight out again and just going home. But no!

Hey - shove a glass of champers in one hand and a couple of happy pills in the other, and there you have it - one mighty find time was had by all. Naturally, everything was fantastic - the music - the decor (loads of queen-sized bed bean bags everywhere) - the big spunk sitting next to me begging me to hold his hand so he could tell me once again how utterly gorgeous my legs looked in my dress, and could he please, please, please feel them. He did work experience at Countdown, and got to hang out with Molly Meldrum.

Six or seven hours later, I contemplated finally going home. I've only just walked through the door.

It's nearly 4.30pm on Sunday arvo.

*sigh*

If only every day life got that good. I could be on a winner.

Fartage, matrimony and a glass of red, thanks

I know what I’m looking for. So *parp* sue me.

Before I begin, a note: I don't care about height, weight, shoe size, eye colour, geographic or genetic origins, hair colour, facial hair (although I'd prefer a man who keeps his nose and ear hair clipped nicely), clothes sense (mullets and ug boots are excluded from this) or even music taste, particularly. So, as if I *parp* couldn’t get any clearer, here’s what I’m *parp* looking for in a fella:

Please, please, please, for just once, can he be a good kisser? I don’t know where my ex-partners learnt to snog, but it *parp* sure as hell wasn’t from me.

Yes, there is an element of basic mechanics to sex. But there is also an art to it, fellas, an art. Kiss me like you are an artist that wants to explore me, not an apeman with a direct line to intercourse nirvana. And kiss me like you mean it. Not like *parp* you’re going through the motions to get to the stuff YOU like. I have experienced both ends of the Tongue Man spectrum (too much, none at all) and the best is somewhere in the middle. My tonsils are *parp* happy where they are, thanks, but by the same token I don’t want to have to waste time looking for yours in the black hole that is your mouth.

[brief tangent] And as an aside, what is this thing guys have about taking your hand and putting it on their dick, while you're snogging and/or getting all hot and heavy? What is that? Excuse me, I know where it is, and if I want to touch it, I will, thanks all the same. If any guy out there can give me a decent answer to this question in 25 words or less, you'll get a special Missjenjen present. Youse know *parp* where to find me. [/brief tangent]

And while we’re on the topic of spectrums, I know which side I prefer when it comes to choosing between a giant banana and a lipstick. And I think I’ll *parp* leave that right where it is. Technique makes a difference, but bulk is best.

Ahem.

*parp*

How bout some conversation?

*parp*

An educated man, that’d be *parp* nice. And before you get the hump and start calling me an education snob, I’m not asking to see their MBA or PhD in quantum physics before I’ll let them take me out for dinner. At the bare minimum, all I ask is that he is open to, and interested in, learning – any kind of learning will do.

Hey – if doing up Toranas and learning the entire *parp* history of its engines back to front is his thang, fine by me. Quantum physics or astral travel? Bring it on. The finer art of cascading style sheets or rearranging the charkas? Okey dokes. How to make a three-deck DJ turntable thingie sound ace? Excellent. Socio-economic impact of the Paul Keating years? Sure, whatever rocks your boat and *parp* pops your buttons, baby.

*parp*

Let’s see, what have I covered? Snogging, dick size, convo, and education. Right, what else?

Non-smoking. Aint no *parp* negotiating on that.

I think he’s just got to be real, baby. Just real. I can’t imagine being with someone that I can’t fart in front of. (yes, I know that’s bad grammar, but hey – it’s Friday, I’ve been sick and … hang on, why am I justifying this to you?) No pretension. Just straight up, honest and loving. Be a man about it, isn't that how the song goes?

*parp*

Oh! That’s the other thing. To really get my juices on the hop, make me laugh with your wit and pithy humour (that isn’t racist, sexist or any other kind of ‘ist’), particularly when you show no qualms about taking the piss out of yourself. Go on. I dare you.

*parp*

And while all these things are great, if he’s not interested in one day having kids and *gasp* *shock* *horror* even living together, then I’ll just catch him on the upside. I’m not saying I want to have kids tomorrow or next week, but I’ve given myself until 35 to pop a little sprog out to keep my mother happy, and I’m already 30. You do the maths.

*parp*

Ahem.

And one more thing? *parp* If we go out somewhere, and I reckon you’re just about all right and maybe I want to see you again, can you please not get all persnickety about who bought the last round of drinks and who paid for the taxi and who paid for the mains and who paid for dessert and who’s turn it is to cough up next. I really, really hate nitpicking over money. Be a *parp* goddamn gentleman and let it ride. If you get the meal, I’ll get the drinks. If you get the coffees, I’ll get the cakes. Don’t be getting all accountanty on me.

And in other news, I think my guts are returning to normal. I have farts again. That can only be a good thing.

Drop a dress size by Saturday!

The ideal way to do this is to get gastro and not eat.

True. I’ve lived this experience all week. Not only have I dropped those three or four kilos from changing my diet, but I’ve dropped an extra three or four kilos of pure muscle by urging anything inside my digestive tract to leave it ASAFP.

And, while deciding whether to stick one’s head or one’s succulent backside over a toilet may not be particularly pleasant, the satisfaction of fitting into dresses that wouldn’t do up two weeks ago (and hadn’t done up for more than a year, might I add) surely makes up for that discomfort.

Yes, it’s tough being a woman.

Confessions of an inner Britney

Ala Dooce , I confess to the following:

1. I loved 90210. Tiffany-Amber is such a bitch.

2. I copped all of Australian Temptation Island and couldn't move throughout. Clinton is such a cockhead. Really.

3. I bop along to Britney Spears. I particularly enjoyed 'Slave 4 U' and that new one she put out for the Austin Powers movie. There. I said it.

4. My first ever concert was John Cougar Mellencamp. He's such a rock god.

5. I used to own a necklace/bracelet set of that coloured coral stuff strung together on fishing wire that everyone wore back in about 1985. Mine was pink. The only other option was blue.

6. I love Survivor, but not the shitty Australian version, which sucked major ass (they only went to South Australia, for fuck's sake!).

7. I have been enjoying Search for a Supermodel, mostly for the perv factor (well, you wait until YOU hit 30 and see how you like all those raging hormones). Phwoar. Just having re-read that, let me make the pertinent point that this year the competition is open to females AND males.

8. Yes. It's true. I read Women's Dag. IT'S JUST FOR THE CROSSWORDS, ALL RIGHT?

9. And yeah, okay, sometimes I read New Weekly as well.

10. I am happy to pluck all of my housemate's clean clothes off the line, except for underwear. I just don't touch underwear. My housemates', at least. Bizarre, huh?

11. I talk to the dog ... all the damn time.

12. I have imagined getting married to each of my past boyfriends, right down to what song we'd play as Our Song, what I'd wear and what style of wedding I'd have. Usually this has made the break-up process come along a little more smoothly than if I had just left it to fate or philanderers.

13. If I'm using someone else's computer, I usually check the browser history to see where they've been. It's proven to be most fruitful (there's no point lying about the dating services now, Dave-oh-Housemate) in the past.

14. There was this one time? At band camp? When I ... no, no, I didn't. I can't play the flute.

What? The?
On Friday, I broke up with a guy I had been seeing on a casual basis since Ericmonkey and I finished.

[brief tangent]
Him: you’re so pushy and demanding. Are you going to over-analyse every. single. thing. that I say to you? Well? Are you?

Me: You’ve obviously got a lot of issues to deal with.

Him: You’ve got issues too, you know.

Me: I know, and this is not a competition to see who is more or less fucked up than the other person. Besides, I’m in therapy for mine. You clearly need it. I think we should just leave this here.

Him: Can I just say one last thing?

Me (mutter-mutter-mutter): Be my guest.

Him: You’re very talented. You should run with that.

[/brief tangent]

On reflection, I was pleased to note that this fellow exhibited many characteristics of each of my previous SOs. For example – he had Terry’s chattiness and vigour (but thankfully not his ability to hold knives to people’s throats), Kenny’s height and kindness, and Chris’s big, big eyes and commitment to a cause. His determination.

After regaling my best friend in Perth with this information, she commented that I sounded very happy about the whole thing and that it seemed like this last relationship had been a ‘wrap-up’ of sorts. That my regulation pattern in terms of the men I seek out to date was finished.

Which was exactly what I thought.

Sitting on the tram on Sunday morning, getting closer and closer to food poisoning (that’s why I didn’t blog yesterday – I was far too busy deciding which end of me to stick over a toilet bowl), and reflecting on what had taken place over the weekend, I felt – and as corny as this sounds, it’s true – free.

In some strange, relationshippy kind of way, I felt free at last.

HOORAY!!

Awwww ...

Congratulations to Looby-Lu and Big-P on the arrival of their healthy daughter Amelia Joan, yesterday. Hurray!

Horses and courses

Some friends of mine are over from Perth to complete a course in neuro-linguistic programming (that thing I mentioned a while ago about people using different systems to communicate – “That sounds good” is something that a person who processes things as auditory would say). This course is apparently a bit special because one of the original ‘founders’ of NLP has come over from America to conduct part of the course.

He beats his wife.

I know this because two people have confirmed that they were witnesses to two separate occasions of assault during the three days he’s been in Melbourne.

On the first occasion, it was apparently his wife’s fault that they were running late for the course (because, of course, he is incapable of setting an alarm clock or taking responsibility for time keeping himself), so he punched her on the arm, hard, twice, while lambasting her for not getting them up earlier so they could be on time. The person who related this story to me was more concerned about the fact that he doesn't take personal responsibility for things than the fact that this man beats his wife.

On the second occasion, my friend witnessed this man punch his wife in the head. In the head, people. He punched her. In the head. For what, I don’t know. That doesn’t really matter.

This friend, who is a doctor of Chinese medicine, then proceeded inform me that this man had a medical condition that led him to beat his wife. A medical condition. It’s hormonal, my friend explained, and I’m treating him for it. And not only that, but she hits him, too, so it seems it’s a two-way street.

My deathly look and subsequent silence was broken by his awkward laugh as he said, ‘Oh well, it’s horses for courses, really, isn’t it?’.

(As an aside, can anyone explain to me what exactly ‘horses for courses’ really means? I mean, really?)

I could not meet his comment – clearly uttered to break the bad vibe in the car this morning – with any one of my usual stable of silence fillers (‘mmm-hmmm’, or ‘yes, yes … it’s a bit like that, isn’t it?’ or even ‘Yeah. I guess so’). I just couldn’t justify what my friend had said, or how he had in turn justified this man’s actions in beating his wife.

This perspective (because the female beats the male it makes it okay for the male to beat the female) makes me decidedly uncomfortable. I don’t like it. Why is it okay? It’s not okay for anyone to hit anyone.

And besides, you cannot assume a level playing field. Sure, they might hit each other, but if the man is decidedly bigger and stronger than her, then it’s hardly an equal physical contest is it? Where does that leave the female? Are they in a boxing ring? No. They are in a marriage.

It’s not okay to beat your wife. Ever.

It’s not okay to beat your husband. Ever.

It is not hormonal. It is a state of mind. If you are angry, and you want to hit someone, find a better way to deal with your anger.

There's a bun in the oven

No, not me, silly. It's Loobylu's baby! It's due for delivery today. Yes! Today! Anyone who has been reading Claire's online journal will know the journey she and Big-P have been through. I wonder if it's been born yet ...

She's baaaa-aack

Well, I’m here - safe, well, and rested. Thanks to everyone who sent hugs and messages of support. It meant a lot to me.

I am sans Bertie, as Ericmonkey has taken him up to Cairns. I’m still not sure how I feel about this, but it’s a bit late now.

SuperAnge is moving out this week. She and Daniel-san have found a house down the road. Last night at Chateau Waterloo they made dinner. At half-past midnight.

A run down of my activities over the past five days:

Sleep.

Reading of new books.

Watching the AFL Grand Final parade through the city.

Visiting a geeky comic book shop on Elizabeth Street for the first time. I was the only woman in the store. There was a WHOLE SHELF of Tintin. A whole shelf. I nearly wet my pants.

More sleep.

Going to a very ‘chi-chi’ party in some artist’s warehouse in Fitzroy. Very Fitzroy, this party. And I got hopelessly drunk.

Saturday. Australia’s biggest day in sport. The AFL grand final. After starting my drinking frenzy just after midday, I ate my fill of the ‘all you can eat’ BBQ and watched the game with some friends in front of a BIG screen at a secret funky North Fitzroy venue. Entertainment included the cliché skolling game (a skoll for every footy cliché) and taking the piss out of the on-field entertainment. Of course, there was also the obligatory footy kicking lark in the street at half-time.

I got home just in time to realise that I had drunk so much I’d be pushing it to make it through a full episode of The Bill. So I ordered take-away. And after The Bill, I slept.

I must have been drunk: I didn’t even contemplate blogging.

Sunday I devoted to my favourite activity – sitting quietly in a café, drinking coffee, nibbling on cake and watching the world pass by. I love doing that.

The remainder of my time was spent doing Nothing In Particular, other than walking Bertie-Boop, reading trashy mags and doing the odd load of washing here and there. Some lounging about. The odd afternoon snooze here and there.

I touched a computer once in the time I was on hols, and that was only to do some banking.

I’m well rested, and I’ve had a good chance to reassess things in my life, and take a fresh look at how I approach things.

I’ve started being kind to myself. That’s a good thing. And surprisingly easy, and pleasant, too.

I’ve rearranged my eating habits on the advice of a nutritionist. As a carbo addict, my diet has been heavily biased in that general direction (mmmm … potatoes … toast … chippies … pasta … rice). Over the past week I’ve addressed that overbalance and the difference in just a week has been fantastic. I’ve got an absolute SHITLOAD more energy. I’ve lost about five kilos, mostly of bloat, and mostly off my gargantuan tummy. And for some reason, I feel taller. Looser. More fluid. Less stiff.

I like feeling this tall. The air smells nice this high up.

It’s good to be back.