Paperback Writer

2003-01-11T01:08:00.000+10:00

I'VE FREAKIN MOVED, ALL RIGHT? OVER here. Sheesh.

2002-10-28T10:47:00.000+10:00

Hello, and goodbye

Hello, it's Monday.

And, goodbye. I've moved here.

Y'all stop by, now.

2002-10-25T10:44:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-10-24T09:11:00.000+10:00

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?

2002-10-23T14:49:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-10-20T20:42:00.000+10:00

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?

2002-10-18T10:48:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-10-17T12:51:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-10-17T10:35:00.000+10:00

And, of course

Like I needed an excuse to talk about sex:

Which one are you?

2002-10-16T10:28:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-10-15T10:02:00.000+10:00

*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!

2002-10-13T16:22:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-10-11T13:31:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-10-11T10:52:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-10-08T12:28:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-10-08T09:08:00.000+10:00

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!!

2002-10-04T09:35:00.000+10:00

Awwww ...

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

2002-10-03T11:58:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-10-03T11:55:00.000+10:00

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 ...

2002-10-02T09:34:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-09-26T15:42:00.000+10:00

A well deserved cliche

Paperback Writer will be on haitus until late next week.

2002-09-25T11:51:00.000+10:00

Coulda, shoulda, woulda

Before we begin: I’m not writing this to receive murmurings of sympathy or ‘thinking of you’ comments or messages. I’m writing this because this is my space to vent, as I choose.

It’s been a long time since I’ve regretted anything. But something happened this year which I now regret deeply, to the point of wishing it never happened, and I am trying desperately to block it out, to forget. But I can’t. So I am choosing to write about it here in the hope that I can at least relieve some of what has been building up inside me for some time now.

I went to a party a while back, on my own.

(That’s not the thing I regret, by the way)

I went, feeling more than a little apprehensive about going in the first place, and about going on my own.

I nearly didn’t go. I nearly went home (alone! On a Saturday night! Heavens!) to sit in the lounge and drink my troubles away with a beautiful wine glass and a two litre cask of Whatever Was On Special That Week.

I went to this party.

I was half cut when I got there, and considered leaving after a drink and a cursory hello to those I knew. Then someone shoved a vodka martini in my hand and things changed. Things changed even further when someone turned up with a bagful of happy pills and other Class A narcotics.

I know that I could have chosen to say no. I could have refused that extra line, the next beer, the next pill. But I didn’t. I said yes to it all and then courted more, flirted for more, offered money for more. I have replayed the scenes that I remember over and over again in my mind, wishing that I could somehow reverse time and take a different path.

I flirted. With more than one boy. With several. I decided at some stage that it would be a great idea to take my ex-boyfriend into the front room of the house for a deep and meaningful discussion about our relationship, now that it had moved from boyfriend-girlfriend to platonic.

Then we decided it would be a good idea to move it back again and take all our clothes off and have a jolly good time of it all.

This is all deeply intimate stuff, I know. I am taking a deep breath and continuing, however. I know I am risking a lot by disclosing this information, but despite of what I fear, I want something good to have come from this experience.

If, during that front room experience, I had been in better control of my facilities, I no doubt would have noticed that someone had snuck a video camera around the closed door of the room and pressed ‘record’.

But I wasn’t, and I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t know anything about it until a week later, when someone mentioned it to me in passing. In passing. Hey Jen, by the way, we’ve got some pretty damning video footage of you and your ex from the party.

Oh, really? Thanks for letting me know straight away, and offering to delete it. Actually, instead of letting me know, how about you upload it on to your computer and show it to everyone who was at the party, before you mention it to me, in passing.

I could have gone home after that. I should have gone home after that. I wish – oh, man, how I wish – I had gone home after that.

But I didn’t. I chose to stay. Chose to continue partying. Chose to flirt with another boy. Chose to snog another boy, in a room full of people, including the ex-boyfriend I’d just been fooling around with in the front room.

Chose more beer, more vodka, more flirting. Chose more drugs. Chose more snogging.

Much of this I can’t remember. Much of this night is blanked out. I just cannot remember it happening. But apparently it did. I have the scars to prove it.

Now, a considerable period of time after the event, I’ve heard all the whispers about who disapproved of my behaviour, who couldn’t believe I’d behave in such a fashion, who thought I was/am a slut, who admired me for my balls, who never wanted to see me again, who now had no respect for me what-so-ever.

I was out of control at that party. I had no control over myself, over my actions, my decision-making capacity. I allowed myself to become this other person, this person who snogged whoever was nearest, and why? I don’t know why. I don’t even remember most of it.

I feel appalling that this even happened. That I cared so little about myself, that I allowed myself to take part in these things, these acts, these choices; with little heed for consequences. But I was there. That was me. If I could change the course of events of that night.

But I can’t, so now I must live with it.

I feel sick, just sick and rotten inside when I think about what happened. What I allowed myself to do. What I allowed to happen to me. I hate that it happened at all. I wish I could forget.

Lessons? I know that I have a problem with drugs and alcohol. I have a problem with acceptance, and with giving and receiving love. I want things to be different, to be better for me than they are. To live a better life as a result of making better choices.

I don’t like the Jenjen who comes out when I drink too much and party too hard. She’s so hungry and desperate for love and attention, she takes anything coming her way. She seeks anything out, if there’s nothing on the horizon.

I still cry when I look back and see her running around this party, flirting, drinking, snogging. Everyone else can see it. Everyone but her.

And I don’t know what to do with her. For the life of me, I just don't know.

2002-09-23T10:41:00.000+10:00

A letter

Dear Jen,

I’ve noticed that you haven’t been coping so well lately, so I thought I’d send you a few subtle hints just to let you know that I’m SO over the way you treat me.

I thought the sunburn thing last weekend really was the last straw. I mean, did you have to fall asleep in the sun? What would your mother say? It serves you right that a week later you still can’t lift your arms over your head because it’s too painful and your legs are itchy and peeling. I mean, sunburnt armpits? Really, there's little wonder you’re still single.

And you weren’t paying attention, even by that stage, so I whacked a couple of cold sores on your lips. Then gave you a nasty cough. How are you enjoying that green phlegm thing? I amaze myself sometimes, that I can come up with something so impossibly disgusting. Team that with the on-off-on-off head cold thing, and I reckon I’m on a winner, don’t you?

And what’s that? You can’t hear me? Well, that’ll be your middle ear infection, then, won’t it? Yeah, that’s right. The one that woke you up at 2am this morning. Are you enjoying the pain yet?

Hmm. Guess not. I wonder if my message is getting through yet.

By the way, are you coping with those crippling period pains I let rip this morning, when you got on the bus? That’ll learn you for eating so much chocolate and drinking so much coffee when you’ve got PMT. You know what happens, but you persist in doing it anyway.

Jen, I’ve got to tell you, I’m sick of how you treat me, so I’m going on holiday. Do me a favour while I’m gone and go see a naturopath, or a doctor or something.

Hey – and here’s an idea – eat some green vegetables or (God forbid) a piece of fruit once in a while. Go on, I dare you.

Sincerely,
Your body.

2002-09-20T09:35:00.000+10:00

She's baaa-aack

Thank God. Dooce makes a most welcome return to cyberspace.

2002-09-19T16:38:00.000+10:00

The trans-city bus from Camberwell to Northcote will depart in three hours

Hello, and greetings from the Transit Lounge.

I’m waiting for my lift to arrive, and wondering if I’ve done enough cleaning here at Camberwell. Which is bizarre, because the place is covered in dust that hasn’t moved for 20 years, according to local folklore.

The home-owner’s daughter let herself in last weekend (how outrageous … she didn’t knock or phone beforehand … I could have been doing ANYTHING … which I wasn’t, aside from playing Freecell, but that’s not the point) and had a wander about. Checking up on me, I s’pose. She stopped at the wall just inside the family room and said, ‘You know, this place could do with a fresh coat of paint’. It took every muscle in my body to restrain myself from saying ‘No, what this place needs is a really fucking good clean’.

I have learned some fantastic things while I’ve been here.

1. Dusting, while a bothersome chore, is necessary and purposeful. At least once or twice a year, anyway.

2. Do not collect too much stuff. All that will happen is that dust will collect on it and it becomes another thing to clean.

3. If you washed something yourself in the dishwasher, it’s probably clean. If you get it directly from a cupboard, it won’t be.

4. When I get old and have a large, grand old house, I’m hiring a cleaner to keep it spic, span and sparkling.

5. You CAN have too many Wilbur Smith and Tom Clancy novels. They do your reputation no good.

6. Only get the newspapers delivered if you actually intend reading them.

7. There are other interesting and quirky places in Melbourne besides Fitzroy and Northcote (who’da thunk it?).

8. Silence is valuable, golden, and worth relishing when you can get it.

9. If people annoy you, get a dog. Or a cat. Or both.

10. If you don’t use the manchester in your guest linen cupboard often enough, it will get dusty and give your guests hayfever.

11. The definition of ‘soundtrack’ does not include the noises of your housemate having sex. Ever.

12. I really enjoy living on my own, and should aim to make the most of this realisation.

13. Cable TV might seem like a good idea, but 47 channels is really just too much to choose from. It’s easier just to turn the television off and read a book. Preferably not one by Wilbur Smith, Tom Clancy or Dick Francis.

14. You should always check the used by date on stuff in someone else’s fridge. Case in point: last night I checked the fridge and found some yummy looking corn chowder in a plastic sealed container. Just before I opened it, I thought, “Hmmm. Best be checking the used by date on this thing before I open it.” It expired in April 1999. 1999, people. How can you leave a container of chowder in your fridge for three years? So I put it back in the fridge. Hey, I’m just the housesitter. I’m not responsible for safe food handling.

15. Don’t think that helping yourself to a gin and tonic from your host’s very well stocked bar each night will go un-noticed. The gin bottle does not automatically refill itself, more’s the pity.

16. There is such a thing as having a house that is just too big.

That’s all for now, folks.

I’ll report once I’ve returned to the noisy surrounds of Chateau Waterloo.

Ahem.

2002-09-18T11:29:00.000+10:00

And on it goes ...

Well, I gots to tell you, folks, never get sunburnt on your armpits. It hurts like buggery. So, as suggested by some wise women in the comments section from yesterday’s blog, I am going bra-less. Normally this would cause me a great deal of pleasure, but with pain like this, it’s not really all that sexy. Truly, guys, it’s not. I wonder what mentioning ‘bra-less’ is going to do to the hits I get from google? I got one yesterday from someone who wanted photos of Kylie Minogue in stockings. They stayed here 20 minutes.

Anyhoo, now that you all know I’m wandering around sans bra, you may also like to be made aware of the following:

1. People in this organisation have no concept of what a deadline really means. I am getting tired of chasing people up (senior management people) for their monthly reports. Oh, Jenjen, I’ve been away all weekend, I had to go watch my son/daughter/cousin/sister’s adopted Vietnamese baby at his blah-blah carnival/song-and-dance-fest/help at the school fete/buy new shoes for a wedding/compete in a marathon. I don’t care. Basically. They have to write a small report each month. That’s it. It’s not much to ask. It takes about half an hour to do.

2. The blogmeet is on tonight, and I am still debating whether to attend or skip it. I’ve RSVP’d, but the same people are going as last time, and I’ve met them all already. And it’s not that they’re horrible people, but … I’ve met them all already. Besides, I have two giant and horrendous cold sores on my top and bottom lips. This happened at the last blogmeet too. Perhaps these events are connected. Anyone who’s ever had a cold sore before will agree with me when I say that I feel like throwing the nearest paper bag over my head and not emerging from under my doona for five days.

3. Ze lovely Momo is on hiatus until October.

4. Kieran has a job, at last.

5. Sean can’t stop talking about himself like he’s the subject of an on-going news story. And yes, I know there’s a more grammatically correct term for what he’s doing, but I can’t think what it is right now.

6. I have rediscovered the very readable world of Matt at A Bright Cold Day in April. Yes, he’s in Sydney, but he wears my ‘pithy’ tag with pride.

7. House sitting is nearly over, already. I can’t believe how quickly three weeks have gone by. I have come to learn the following: the dogs are cute, but complete wussbags; the cat is perpetually grumpy, and a bully; and while there is a lot to be said for having The Age home delivered seven days a week, one would probably need to actually read the papers to make this service worthwhile.

8. The end. For today, at least.

2002-09-17T10:09:00.000+10:00

Ze weekend

Friday night I finally got to establish beyond a shadow of a doubt that Miss Momo IS REAL. We went to see The Black-Eyed Susans and Died Pretty play at the Prince of Wales in St Kilda. The gig was ace. Momo is ace.

On Sunday, I made the very foolish decision to fall asleep poolside completely bare of any sun protection products. Hence, I was viciously burnt and took yesterday off work. I couldn’t walk, and any contact with fabrics of any kind made me want to vomit, so I thought it would be better to lie in bed in a state of hallucinatory semi-sleep rather than go into work and stare at a computer screen for eight hours, incapable of doing any work.

Today, I am back at work.

I am in pain, people, and let me tell you that you can’t afford to fall asleep in the sun. Nuh-uh.

2002-09-13T11:42:00.000+10:00

Hello, my name is Jen and I have PMT and I'm on deadline

Dear everyone,

I cannot believe the IMBECILIC nature of the people who work here.

When I call and ask to speak to someone, you uneducated, blonde, fake-nailed, bitch-face slurry, don't you DARE leave me on hold for FOUR minutes without any indication of whether the person I’ve asked to speak to is on another call or in the office. If you do, I will hang up and call you back to complain. Loudly. To your boss.

Is it really TOO MUCH TO ASK to get up-to-date proofs around here? REALLY? It is? Well, there’s a surprise.

And hey – you know when I told you that I needed that material by September 9? I WASN’T JOKING. It's called a FUCKING DEADLINE, you moron. Do you want to take the calls from irate readers complaining that they haven’t got their publications on time? HUH? DO YOU?

No. Didn’t think so.

And you know what else? Do I look like a FUCKING SECRETARY to you? DO I? No. Didn’t think so. So don’t waltz in here when I’m BUSY and TELL me to take down some notes. You are an ADULT (although your behaviour may indicate otherwise). You have arms and a brain. Use them.

Oh, and one more thing? When I call and ask to see the material that you SWORE would reach me last week, don’t give me that WOBBLY VOICE SHIT. I’m not buying it, I’m past deadline, and YOU’RE NOT HELPING.

2002-09-13T10:30:00.000+10:00

One day

One day he’s gonna cook me a meal
A big, grand, slaved-over meal
With finely crafted entrees, and beautifully stacked desserts, laden with ruby-red strawberries
He'll pour me a glass of the finest wine, without having to be asked

And one day he’s gonna treat me like a goddess worthy of worship
Rub my feet ‘til I moan from the pleasure of it all
Run me baths filled to the brim with silky water just hot enough,
steaming with the aromas of lavender and ylang-ylang

One day he’ll come home with flowers
Armfuls of roses and gerberas and lilies and sweet, sweet tulips

One day he’ll be interested in my new clothes
caress the newly styled hair on my head
Ooh and aah over the colour treatment

Tell me I’m gorgeous
That I make his life complete

One day.

One day.

2002-09-12T11:24:00.000+10:00

Finally, some sense of it all, and this is all I have to say

Thank you, Matt. A most biting and succinct synopsis of September 11.

And this, from my most favouritist law student, Minderella: "good fucking god, if only we COULD forget."

2002-09-11T14:55:00.000+10:00

That’s Melbourne for you

One of the things I love about Melbourne is that there is always more to discover. I’ve had one of those days today.

A few weeks ago, New Boy and I were zipping around in his car on the way to the mailhouse. We passed by a Salvo’s op-shop, and said to each other, ‘we’ll be back to visit that one day’.

And that day was today.

We sneezed our way through dusty bags of 50 cent bargains, perused the seemingly endless aisles of women’s dresses and coats and lingerie and plates and bed-spreads and men’s three piece suits. Avoided the ubiquitous greasy-haired old man hanging around in the bric-a-brac section.

Didn’t buy anything. We did, however, decide to walk a different way back to work.

Took a turn up to Grey Street, which is considered quite a famous street in St Kilda, so I am told. As we ambled along, in the shy spring sunshine, we came across a shop called The Bitch Is Back. It sells ‘groovy’ 70s furniture. As we continued up Grey Street, we stumbled upon the Sacred Heart Mission op-shop.

What a tremendous discovery. As always, a find increases in its tremendousness the less you were expecting to find. I wasn’t really expecting much.

The op-shop is in an old church hall and they have gone all out on the funk. There is a mezzanine level, which is only open to staff, but from which hangs the most lovely collection of antique umbrellas and parasols. The changing rooms have pink fake leopard skin curtains. The music they play over the loudspeakers is a Jive Bunny Beatles medley. There are rows of beads swinging gently from old rattan bookshelves, and beanies and red velvet hats hanging from the corners of badly framed 1960s prints, hung crookedly on the walls.

The racks were just sufficiently full of colour-clashing combinations of pantsuits and jeans and jumpers and sparkly tops and beanies and denim to make you actually slow down and take pleasure in your looking. At the Salvo’s everything is so tightly jammed on to the racks that I find I just scan along the shoulder lines, looking for interesting fabrics, and only occasionally pull something out. But not at Sacred Heart. The place is warm and inviting, without being cloying or too dusty. You want to take your time. Sit down and have a cup of tea, even.

I nearly bought a dress, and that hasn’t happened in a long time. It was gorgeous! However, I erred on the side of common sense and decided that since frou-frou and frump weren’t in this season, or any time this century, I would keep my cashola safely ensconced in my wallet, and buy food instead.

2002-09-11T10:33:00.000+10:00

Wordnerds of the world, unite!

I have set up a blogring for wordnerds. Send me an email if you wish to sign up!

2002-09-10T09:48:00.000+10:00

A memo

To: All staff
From: Boss in waiting
Subject: Use of coffee mugs
Sent: Tuesday, September 10, 2002

<--------------------------------------------------->

Dear staff,

It has come to my attention recently that some of you are not paying attention to the convention surrounding the use of theme-specific coffee mugs.

As you may well be aware, many staff prefer to use their own coffee mugs brought in from home or bought specifically for use at work. Often these mugs are theme-specific and have sentimental value. Some theme-specific mugs seen in this office include Richmond FC, Felix the Cat, Farside cartoons, Starbucks (God forbid), poorly worded jokes ("You don't have to be crazy to work here ... but it helps") and a few pooncy ones with flowers and fancy handles.

There are several plain, cheap and crappy non-specific mugs the company has begrudgingly made available in the kitchen for general use by low-lifes such as new staff and temps, and by normal staff when their theme-specific mug is in the dishwasher.

Please refrain from using theme-specific coffee mugs that do not belong to you, or Missjenjen will hunt you down and lob bazookas in your general direction.

Back to work, kiddies, back to work.

2002-09-09T09:25:00.000+10:00

Silence is golden, and blissful

Me: Hi guys.

Dogs: [tails go thumpa-thumpa-thumpa]

Me: Did youse have a great day? I know I did.

Dogs: [thumpa-thumpa-thumpa]

Me: Waddaya reckon about dinner tonight? Eh?

Dogs: [sniff-sniff]

Me: Yeah, I think so too. Risotto it is then.

Dogs: [thumpa-thumpa-thumpa]

Me: And what takes your viewing fancy this fine evening on Foxtel, hmm?

Dogs: [wag tails and eye off space next to me on the couch]

Me: Friends? The Bill omnibus? How about some cricket? Footy? Tennis? Bad black and white movies?

Dogs: [snuggle up next to me and look up at me adoringly]

Me: Nah, I’m gonna have to veto that. Let’s just watch some news and see how we go.

Dogs: [sigh]

Me: Well, don’t complain. You’re dogs. I’m human. I have opposable thumbs, and that’s why I’ve got the remote, and why you sleep out the back at night.

Dogs: [sigh]

Me: How bout a glass of vino, to kick things off?

Dogs: [silence]

Me: Wanna play on the internet?

Dogs: [silence]

Me: Okay, well, I’ll just read the paper for a while.

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [silence]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [silence]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [silence]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [silence]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: Ahem.

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [slurp]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [sigh]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: This is a bit blissful, really, isn’t it?

Dogs: [sigh]

Me: I think so too.

Dogs: [silence]

2002-09-06T10:06:00.000+10:00

Creative processing, effective editing, and air hockey

Took part in an interesting exercise last night. Wayne asked me to look over a piece he was writing, and as we are both wordnerds, I agreed to take a look and edit at will, on the proviso that he didn’t belt me with an air hockey puck at any point during the evening.

Wayne is a writer of such talent I could never –even with years of practice – get as good as he is. I don’t think he’d seen anyone edit stuff so close up and so personally before, and he has only really edited academic writing. What I found appealing was that I don’t normally edit fiction, and I very rarely edit an author’s work when they’re sitting right next to me. So it was an eye-opener of an exchange for both of us.

Wayne had written this piece in an unusual style for him, and that particular style is something that I’ve honed my writing and editing skills on.

He said later that he had been very interested to see me work – that I was so fast and made it appear a real skill. It’s gratifying to think that someone thinks I’m skilful at what I do! And there is a real art to editing effectively, and creatively (yes, you can do both of these things). It’s a real buzz for me when it pays off. Note: taking out errant apostrophes and correcting overly verbose paragraphs is not a buzz. Ever. It’s just annoying, and can often lead to me waxing lyrical about the state of the education system today, and how no one appears to value the English language any more.

What I found fascinating was watching Wayne go through the creative process – watching how he took an idea, or a word, or a phrase, and then built on it, shifted it, tweaked it, and then handed it over to me to smooth into the finished product.

It’s a turn on, folks, a real turn on. Nothing sexier than a man who’s into words.

(Hello. My name is Jen and I am a wordnerd).

2002-09-04T13:11:00.000+10:00

Coulda-shoulda-woulda

I could write something, I suppose.

I could write about how I got another sanctimonious email detailing in great depth how disappointing the latest editions of the newsletters were, because stories weren’t printed exactly as the instructions had … instructed.

I could write about how sick I am of receiving emails of this ilk, and how wonderful it would be to just once – just the once, even – receive an email or even a phone call about how good the newsletters are looking, or about how I was doing a good/decent job. Is it that hard to give someone positive feedback?

I could write about how I have a ton of work sitting in front of me, mostly stories that need re-writing because apparently a degree in anything isn’t enough to teach you the basics of spelling, grammar and syntax these days.

I could write about how I lay-byed the most ridiculously expensive set of sheets I’ve ever (almost) bought, on Saturday, just because I could. And for your information, the set cost $199. It was reduced. It’s Egyptian cotton, 400 thread count.

I could write about how comfortable my new shoes are.

I could write about how farken awesome it is living at Camberwell, and about how wonderful it was to lie in bed last night, listening to the rain and wind, and having the house in utter silence.

I could write about meeting someone recently who has intrigued me much, much more than anyone I’ve met in a long time.

But perhaps I’ll just play another game of Freecell, instead.

2002-09-03T10:47:00.000+10:00

Time is on my side

I was 13 and petrified. At 13 I was a complete mish-mash of emotions and hormones, which were very busy racing around a tiny body with braces and big boobs.

You see, I had committed an unthinkable, unforgivable act. I had conducted a faux pas of such a high order, it was unlikely that anyone would speak to me for the remainder of my five year sentence at God Awful Private College nestled smugly in Perth’s inner southern suburbs.

I had lost a watch that belonged to A Trendy Girl.

I was dead meat.

At the 1985 athletics carnival, Amanda had deigned to talk to me between races. She wasn’t a Trendy Girl; far from it, but she was right in the middle of the pecking order. Trendy Girls talked to her, Nerds talked to her, everyone did, really. Even teachers.

She was wearing a Swatch.

Now, if your formative years were in the 80s, then you know what I mean when I start talking about Swatches. In 1985 EVERYONE who was ANYONE owned a Swatch.

I didn't own a Swatch because my family was so damn poor. I had no job, thus no cashola, and my mum was but a humble public servant. Swatches were way, way down the list of Purchasable Items.

So, as I sat next to Amanda between races at the 1985 athletics carnival, I expressed some awe about the presence of this Swatch on her wrist. “Oh,” she sniffed. “That’s not mine. That’s Nicci’s. She lent it to me earlier to wear while she was racing.”

I breathed in deeply. Dare I? I did. “Can I try it on?” I asked, barely believing there could be even a slight chance that she might say yes.

Amanda sighed. She sniffed again, her fingers closing protectively around those oh-so glamorous bits of plastic and finely wired machinery, glancing at me as she did so. “Weeeellll … maybe just for 10 minutes. But DON’T lose it, or Nicci will kill me, and then you.”

I nodded in disbelief.

I strapped the Swatch on to my left wrist, and wished desperately that I had some friends I could show it off to. I didn’t, so I contented myself with just wandering about the oval, stretching a lot, using my left arm.

Sometime later, on the bus back to school, Amanda asked me for the Swatch back. I looked at my wrist and couldn’t believe what I saw.

NOTHING. THE SWATCH WAS GONE.

I checked my bag.

Nothing.

I checked my other wrist.

Nothing.

I checked my bag again.

Still nothing.

I checked my sneakers.

Nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, NOTHING.

I was dead meat.

Sure enough, Nicci and Her Gang were less than impressed. They wanted to know how I was going to compensate for the loss.
What could I say? What could I do?

Then, a flash of inspiration: I would call my mother. She would have an answer.

I used the 20 cent phone up at the quiet end of the quadrangle. I wedged myself into the cubicle as tightly as I could, to take advantage of what little protection the open-aired booth offered me from Nicci and Her Gang, who had me surrounded. I wasn’t going to weasel my way out of this one. Nuh-uh. I was gonna pay, and pay big time.

The 20 cent clunked into the machine as my mum answered the phone. “Mum,” I squeaked. “I’ve lost this watch … I don’t know where it is … what am I going to do?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” my unsympathetic mother snapped. “I’m at work. Why are you calling me here?”

“Muuu-uum, I need HELP. What am I going to do?”

“Well, where’d you lose the damn thing?”

“I don’t KNOW.”

“Well, Jennifer, we can’t afford to buy a replacement, so you’d better work something out.”

“Okay.” [thanks for nothing, mum]

My heart sank as I hung up. NOW what was I going to do?

Nicci moved in. “What did she say?”

“Erm … err … nothing really. I’ll check my bag tonight when I get home, maybe the watch got caught up in some clothing or something.”

“Right, well, I’ll call you tonight to check, then. What’s your number?”

Nicci wrote my number on the back of her hand in neat, girlie script. I knew she would call. And I didn’t like it one bit.

I was trapped and alone – nary a friend in the world who might understand, and a most unsympathetic and cash-unfriendly mother, who was of no help whatsoever.

So I told a teacher. Sobbed out my whole story about how it had been an accident that I had lost the watch. That I had no money and no chance of replacing it, but I was very sorry that it had happened.

Mrs Harvey, who I quite liked, and who I later elevated to Idol Status, called in Nicci and Her Gang to Have a Chat. Nicci looked at me with barely disguised disgust and venom. What kind of low-life was I, calling in a teacher to a schoolyard dispute?

I sat on a school chair: a hunched over, soggy, sorry teenager with braces and big boobs, almost consumed by the relief that came from telling Mrs Harvey and having someone on my side.

Thankfully, my decision to Call In The Big Guns paid off. Mrs Harvey was most sympathetic, probably because she knew about my family and our circumstances, and rather firm with Nicci et al for bullying me and frightening me. She explained to Nicci that losing the Swatch had been an accident. Accidents happen. Perhaps she could explain that to her parents, and if they weren’t happy, then they could call her at the school to discuss the issue.

Mrs Harvey excused the other girls, and looked at me very sternly. “Just before you go, Jennifer,” she said. “One last thing. Don’t borrow people’s watches.”

I squeaked my acknowledgement and ran.

2002-09-02T18:33:00.000+10:00

What is the value of silence?

1. Hearing myself think.
2. Choosing to have no noise at all.
3. Playing music when I want to, and playing it however loudly I like, and then turn it off when I choose, too.
4. Doing as I like, without justifying to anyone what I'm doing, or how long I might take.
5. Taking one's pick of bathrooms, and know that a) the hot water isn't going to run out and b) that there is no queue waiting behind me to use it, either.
6. Being a fair distance from the city: far enough away so as traffic has a relatively low impact, but close enough to still visit friends.
7. Realising that I am free! And I can stay this way!

2002-09-02T09:36:00.000+10:00

The prolific nature of dust in Camberwell

I’m settling in extremely well down Camberwell way.

As I lay drifting off into Ze Land O Nod on Friday night, I thought to myself, “Is that a car I can hear, way down the street?”

And then I thought: “Yes. Yes it is. And that street is a good kilometre away from this house.”

Saturday morning I arose to read the epic letter the home-owner had left for me, which included a detailed list of instructions about dog feeding, putting out the rubbish on Thursdays, taking down phone messages and the like. The letter also mentioned that perhaps I might like to wander down to the front drive each morning to collect The Age, which is delivered Monday to Saturday. “Okay,” I thought. “I could get used to this lifestyle. I wonder if it’s too early to take a sauna?”

Then, after sticking The Buena Vista Social Club on the stereo, and unwrapping The Age, I thought, what I really need now is caffeine. And lots of it. So I headed into the kitchen. I found three plungers (all filthily decorated with dust and grime). Then I looked in the freezer, which is where any self respecting caffeine snob would keep their beans, and sure enough: there were the beans. Unfortunately, they were whole beans, not ground. Which meant that I needed to find a coffee grinder, and fast, because I was getting tetchy.

You know what it’s like when you really want to find something useful in a strange house, and you find everything else but the item you really need? If you do, then you know where I was on Saturday. I checked every cupboard. I found the sugar. I found a mug in another cupboard. I knew where the milk was, because I’d bought it and put it away. I found a teaspoon, in a drawer, but it needed washing. All the dishcloths were so grimy I couldn’t bring myself to touch them, so I just wet the spoon under the tap and dried it on my dressing gown, instead.

But no coffee grinder. I was becoming more tetchy by the minute, and god forbid I sink in to a foul mood on such a gorgeous Saturday morning.

Just as I resigned myself to drinking tea, I spotted an old fashioned coffee grinder up above one of the cupboards. So I began grinding. I began enjoying the smell of freshly ground coffee, and my mouth was truly watering at the prospect of heating up the grounds, placing them into a cup and drinking them, while listening to The Buena Vista Social Club and reading the Saturday Age with the sun shining in.

Then I made the foolish mistake of opening up the little drawer at the bottom of the grinder, to empty the ground treasure into the plunger.

The drawer wasn’t just dusty. It had cobwebs and little dead beasties in it.

I had a cup of tea instead.

2002-08-30T14:34:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-29T15:59:00.000+10:00

Congratulations, and much confetti throwing

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

2002-08-29T11:24:00.000+10:00

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?

2002-08-29T09:27:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-28T16:47:00.000+10:00

Go, Minderella, go

Three minutes. Start to finish: atta girl.

2002-08-28T14:48:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-28T11:48:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-27T13:53:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-27T12:30:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-27T11:04:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-26T17:22:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-25T20:40:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-23T11:54:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-22T10:17:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-21T15:40:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-21T14:34:00.000+10:00

See you all this evening

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

2002-08-20T14:10:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-19T09:18:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-17T18:54:00.000+10:00

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

2002-08-17T18:27:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-17T01:55:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-16T10:10:00.000+10:00

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!

2002-08-14T15:41:00.000+10:00

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?

2002-08-14T15:13:00.000+10:00

All good fame comes to those who wait:

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

2002-08-14T12:40:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-12T15:40:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-12T09:29:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-09T13:46:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-08T09:59:00.000+10:00

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*

2002-08-07T16:57:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-06T17:07:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-06T11:35:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-01T12:55:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-08-01T09:58:00.000+10:00

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.

2002-07-29T13:40:00.000+10:00

Am I gorgeous? Or am I gorgeous?

By popular request *beams* you can now go here and take a look at Bertie-Boop himself. If you run your cursor over the smaller pictures on the left, a larger image will come up on the right.

2002-07-26T11:39:00.000+10:00

Mmmm, eye-candy

Normally I don't post links. Well, not all that often. But this is quite the prettiest site I've seen in a long time. How cool are these fabrics and buttons?

2002-07-25T14:28:00.000+10:00

I got the power

For some reason, I have been paying particular attention to how TV stations market themselves and conduct their brand-recognition campaigns. And I’ve got to say that Channel 10 beats the other commercial channels by a long shot.As far as TV advertising goes – certainly in terms of singing one’s own praises – Channel 10 is whipping the asses of 9 and 7.

The in-house ads feature funky young stars such as Samuel Johnson and Deborah Mailman; the designs and colour schemes have veered away from the more traditional in-house advertising which uses glossy colours and flashy graphics, to using colour sparingly (less is more, sweetie, less is more).

The ads come in varying lengths: 30-second, 20-second, and even five second grabs (the ones where a Channel 10 celeb comes up to the camera and ‘pushes’ the yellow or blue button). The blue and yellow dots are further used in program ads, where a white screen flashes up, and the evening’s programs are shown with their times in a yellow or blue dot. Nice integration.

Obviously the Channel 10 campaign is targeting a younger, early-20s-30s audience than traditional commercial stalwarts such as 7 or 9, but audience ratings (excluding Celeb BB) show a rise in recent months that correlates to the reinforcement of this brand image and recognition of it.

Channel 7 has recently tried to jump the young and funky bandwagon by producing an over-glossy, flashy ad featuring (mostly) Home and Away stars getting ready for their next episode, complete with dance/techno soundtrack and lots of winking. Sorry guys, Channel 10 got in first, and I’m not buying your cheap and obviously hurried imitation.

Having said that, I do give Channel 7 some kudos for their Manchester Commonwealth Games ads. Bass-heavy soundtrack ("I got the POWER"), gritty glimpses of power athletes hard at work doing Australia proud by winning shitloads of medals, plus it comes in varying lengths of time to fit varying programming holes. They get points for using athletes other than Ian Thorpe and Cathy Freeman – while these two super stars of Aussie sport do feature, other, lesser known (so much so I can’t for the life of me think of a single name at the moment) athletes from less popular 'sideline' sports such as weightlifting, hammer throw and diving are finally getting more exposure from mainstream television than they have done in the past.

What do you think?

2002-07-24T15:26:00.000+10:00

Jen's on deadline: a vignette for my readers

[get up from desk, shut door to office. Use speaker phone to ring designer with a mountain of corrections].

Okay, ready to go?

Right.

Edition 6, page 1. Got it?

Okay, par 1, line 2. Delete the comma there. No, the first comma. Okay, delete the second one too.

Par 6, second last line, change the ampersand to a-n-d. I hate ampersands. Hate ‘em.

Is there any spill left? What? Two lines? Okay, merge the last two bullets together and delete ‘procurement of’. Does that buy you enough space? Good.

Okay, page 3.

[silence]

Same edition.

Right. Line 7, column 1, par 3. Lose that abbreviation. And the acronym while you’re at it. That quarter page ad has been moved to a left hand page – give it to page 19, and take the editorial from 19 up to page 7. Should fit.

[boss knocks at door]

Yes Gwen?

I’ve got her on the phone right now.

No, I can’t email that stuff to you. I’m on the phone to the designer. I’m right in the middle of something.

I don’t care if you needed it 10 minutes ago, this copy was s’posed to go to the printers yesterday. We’re behind schedule, so I’m busy. I’ll talk to you later about the September issues. Blame the boss for us being late. He only filed his report with me this morning, and it was due last Thursday.

[turns back on boss, releases steam from ears]

Are you there? Right, as you were. Have you got that pic yet? Dammit. Fuckity-fuckity-fuckity. I’ll courier it over to you this afternoon. Well, it may take you three hours to scan it, but our scanner doesn’t work at all, so you get the job.

Now – what?

You have to go? Why? We’ve just got started.

You have to make a phone call? Okay, call me back.

[two minutes later the phone rings]

Hi, you ready? Good.

Issue 7, page 5. Swap the ads over with the two half page verticals on page 4. Straight swap. How can there be a gap? The ads are all the same size, surely?

I have to go to the toilet. I’ll ring you back.

~ you know the crazy thing? I love being this busy!

2002-07-23T11:24:00.000+10:00

Love in all its shambolic glory

Two weeks ago

Me: [slurring] I love you.

Him: I know.

Me: How come you never tell me you love me? I love you.

Him: You know I do.

Me: [starting to cry] So say it. It’s not that hard.

Him: I love you jenjen.

Me: I mean, if you can’t tell me you love me, what hope have we got? Maybe we should break up.

Him: I love you jenjen.

Me: It’s just that I’ve been here before and I don’t – what? What did you just say?

Him: I love you jenjen.

Me: Really? [sniff]

Him: Truly. Forever.

Me: [sniff] Honest?

Him: Yup.

Me: You know I want to have babies and stuff.

Him: Yup. Me too.

Me: [wailing] Bu-bu-bu-but you said you didn’t want to live with me. That you loved liv-liv-living in your stinky boy house too much.

Him: are you kidding? I’d move in with you in a second.

Me: [sobbing] You said you wouldn’t mo-mo-mo-move in with me because of the cable contract at your place.

Him: [hooting with laughter] We can get cable at OUR house!

Me: You really love me?

Him: I really love you. You know this means that you have to come up to Cairns and meet my mum now.

Me: Okay.

Him: You don’t care that I don’t have a job?

Me: No. You’ll get one eventually anyway.

Him: You don’t care that my hair’s green?

Me: *I* used to have green hair. Why would I care about what colour your hair is?

Him: I think we need to dye it again. It’s all patchy and faded.

Me: We can do that on the weekend.

Him: Okay.

Last Saturday

Him: [slurring] I love you.

Me: [playing up] No, I love you, mate, and it’s not the booze talking.

Him: No, no, I rooly, rooly love you.

Me: I love you too.

Him: Really?

Me: Truly.

Him: No, but I *really* love you. No, don’t squirm away from me. C'mere. Kiss me.

Me: You’re so drunk.

Him: No, no, I’m not. I love you.

Me: How much do you love me?

Him: [slurring] I love all your big bits and all your little bits and all the bits in between. You have to meet my mother now.

Me: I know. You keep telling me that. We’ll go at Christmas time.

Him: Really? Can we take Bertie with us?

Me: Yup.

Him: I love you so much. Can you buy me a drink?

Me: I’m hungry.

2002-07-22T14:24:00.000+10:00

You wanna read some good quality porn?

Do you, punk? Huh? Then you in the wrong place, sunshine.

For true stories as told by a porn store clerk, however, click this. Via Kaymc.

2002-07-22T11:00:00.000+10:00

But I miss her

My poor mummy. Her dog died suddenly a week ago and my mum is most upset. Every day she dreads coming home after work because the dog isn’t there any more. She turns around to call her, and she’s not there. Every day she promises to herself, right, no more tears, life goes on. But she’s still grieving. Sound like someone else we know?

My mum and I have never been emotionally too close. We have a very tempestuous relationship: it’s intense, but not in a particularly good way. So it’s interesting that the death of a pet has brought us together. For the first time, as my mother sobbed to me on the phone about how much she missed Mitzi, and how silly she felt still crying about a dog (“but I miss her”), I felt as though we finally had something emotional in common, something that we could share. For the first time, I was able to say, “I know exactly how you feel” and mean it. Because I do. Nothing hurts like losing a treasured four-legged pal.

I’m on the waiting list for a West Highland white terrier puppy. I’ve decided to buy her a dog that is about as different to Mitzi as you can get. Despite the fact that it’s going to put me about $850 out of pocket (I could buy a bloody car with that kind of money), I know from experience that the best way to get on with things is to get another beastie. And if I’ve paid for it, and said nothing, just send her to the breeders in about eight weeks time, she will get a great surprise. And she won’t be able to say no.

And in other news, Kathryn over at cutlunchtrip is organising Fray Day in Melbourne this year. If you have a story or six worth telling, or would like to get involved, go visit her site via the link on the right.

2002-07-19T10:07:00.000+10:00

International Blog Meetup Day = excellent idea

In a way I’m glad Ericmonkey was sick last night and couldn’t come to the blog meetup. It meant that I was pushed to make the date on my own and be brave and show. Which I did!

And how ace are Melbourne bloggers? Yeah, like, totally! Pixelkitty.net has all the photos from the night, including several containing my beaming face. I think I got particularly happy at the point where the pub started playing Paperback Writer over their stereo system. How cool was that? I revelled in my new-found nerd-dom. Geek-dom. Whatever.

It was fun! And we all agreed that next meetup we won’t be doing any Starbucks. Cocktail bars only, thanks. Tequila and Cosmopolitans, ahoy!

2002-07-18T15:30:00.000+10:00

Just in case ...

Just so's me and ericmonkey don't get confused with the rest of the masses on Collins Street tonight, just so's we can be recognised, I thought I would let you all know that

a) ericmonkey has green hair
b) I have purple specs and a burgundy neck fluffy on

Blogmeet here we come!

2002-07-15T14:36:00.000+10:00

Bathtimes of the ill and toxic

Brrrrr, I'm freezing, I'm going to run a bath.

Geez, it's hot in here. Have you got the heating on?

Okay, it's running. Hot water. Steam. Good. Nice long soak.

[dips toe and retracts in pain]

Owwwww! That's way too hot. More cold.

Aaaahhh, that's good. A little bit more hot.

A bit more cold. Just a splash.

No. That won't do. It's too cold now.

Waddaya mean there's no more hot water?

How can it *all* be in the bath?

So now my bath is cold. Great. I'll get out again, shall I?

Try again when the tank has heated sufficiently.

Good. Fine.

Back to bed for me, then.

2002-07-14T19:23:00.000+10:00

I have the lurgy. It's not pleasant.

2002-07-12T15:02:00.000+10:00

And can I just say ...

It's 'among' and 'while'. Not 'amongst' or 'whilst'. Gah!

2002-07-12T13:19:00.000+10:00

Food, glorious, hot, salty, greasy food

Oh my GOD I’m hungover today. Beers on Brunny street last night *seemed* a great idea, but today? That’s another pint of Tetley’s altogether.

I can only eat one thing with a hangover this gargantuan. Burger King. Awful, I know, but the Junior Wopper (heavy cheese, extra hot, minus pickle) with a side of onion rings is the only way to go.

I brought some microwave popcorn the other day, and today thought I’d try it out before lunch. So I swung off to the kitchen, shoved the bag in the nuko-machine, and waited for the pops to begin.

Within 60 seconds of my arrival in the kitchen, the news had spread around the entire office that I was making and then eating popcorn. People were deliberately walking past my office just to see if it really was true. Quel horrore! Am I radical, or what? I think I’ve shaken my tight-laced colleagues to their very core. Imagine eating popcorn at work! Before noon, as well! Dear oh dear, I daren’t think what might happen if they find out I don’t shave my legs. *gasp* The sky would fall in, I expect.

Naturally, when I returned to the office with a swag brightly advertising the joys of BK to all and sundry, that caused comment too. Didn’t she just eat? Where does she put it all (thighs and tummy, girls, thighs and tummy)? How can she afford to eat out every day? Burger King? It’s a bit early for lunch, isn’t it?

Food, glorious food. It’s a maker and a breaker.

2002-07-10T21:46:00.000+10:00

Chust luff heem

I visit my bottle shop regularly. Not that regularly, mind you, but often enough to get to know the old Polish couple behind the counter, and their Kelpie-cross, Steetch.

They're leaving soon, packing up after 30-odd years in the business to go retire somewhere and not lump kegs of beer and cartons of red wine all over the shop. Go to bed at normal times. Revel in the absence of drunken louts and psychos.

I took Bertie in a few months ago, to meet Steetch, and they became firm friends. The old woman, who's name I still do not know, fell in love with Bertie instantly. Now every time I go into the bottle-oh, she wants to know where he is, how he's doing, is he being naughty.

Bertie is all a bit non-plussed about her affections, but hey - he's not one to knock back some lovin (who is?).

I went in to collect my six-pack of Melbourne Bitter last Thursday, BB toddling along beside me. Naturally, Steetch pushed the swinging door that separates Behind The Counter from In Front of the Counter, so he could come hang with BB. I reckon Steetch gets pretty bored just hanging out with two old people who are glued to the telly and counting down the days until they retire. They did their little dance around each other, tails a-waggin, both whining away in their little doggie conversation.

She came up to the counter and after exchanging cursory niceties with me, proceeded to drag Bertie up on to the bench and gush love all over him. She's *so* into him. What do you feed him, she asked, has he been good? Does he bark much? (Fresh chicken wings, pigs ears, Pal, mince and rice and peas; sometimes; sometimes, I replied).

After I managed to complete the transaction, she grabbed Bertie's head between her two hands, and said, "I luff you. Yes. I do. You're so byootifool. Yes. Yes. You are. Bye-bye, gorchuss."

She returned to her very comfortable seat at the other end of the room, picking up the remote control as she sat. As I walked to the door, I turned to say goodbye, BB in tow, she raised her hand in salutation, and said, "Chust luff heem. Luff heem, won't choo?"

I faithfully swore I would, and stepped out into the cold, windy night.

2002-07-10T11:31:00.000+10:00

Life continues apace

I'm still here. Recovering. Doing better. Still enjoying my hotel-quality sheets, might I say. I am thinking that p'raps I'll go back and get more, but I also want an iBook and a bloody domain. I'm over blogger and ads and stuff.

I walked part of the way to work today. I figured that if I start changing bits of my routine, then I may not get so bogged down in things. So I've been walking to Clifton Hill each morning to catch my bus up St. Kilda way to hang out with junkies, prostitutes and yuppies all day long. Odd combination, yes, but surprisingly, it all seems to fit together. I love living in Melbourne. I feel much more free here than I ever did in Perth.

The walks have been great. I had forgotten how much more you can appreciate about your immediate surrounds when you walk somewhere (or nowhere in particular, which ever takes your fancy). Today I found a little unassuming coffee house that sells the best takeaway coffee I've found yet. This place is on a major road, but from the front you would never guess that it's a little cafe. It just looks like the front of a factory. I'd never seen it before.

Plus it's cold in the mornings, so I get this nice rush of warmth to my fingers and toes once I've been walking for about five minutes, but my nose and ears stay chilly, and my breath fogs up my glasses. I love blowing that 'smoke'.

There are naked trees everywhere.

I can't seem to raise the creative spark to write anything more creative at the minute. I'll be back. When I've more to say.

2002-07-08T13:12:00.000+10:00

These are a few ...

I had a great night's sleep last night. Not least of all because on Saturday I splurged on some white, Egyptian 100 per cent cotton sheets and a shot silk (purple and blue) quilt cover. I got in between those crisp white beauties and thought I had been magically transported into a five-star hotel.

100 per cent cotton sheets: 100 per cent worth it.

I'll never scrimp on manchester or bedding again.

2002-07-07T21:09:00.000+10:00

Reasonings

I've not been well. I thought I could manage without sanity pills, and thought I could cope, but - I confess - I've not been coping well at all. I finally filled my last repeat prescription today, and let me tell you - there would be blood on the streets tonight if I hadn't.

Since I was diagnosed with severe clinical depression over two years ago, I have been on and off the anti-depressant roller coaster, and that in itself is depressing. Some work better than others, some make me tired, others make me not eat for days on end, others mean I get little sleep. And you need to give them a few weeks to kick in properly before the psych will reassess your dosage and/or your medication. And the thought that I am in some way a slave to an American pharmaceutical giant does not impress me.

I thought I could cope, but I was on a very nasty downward spiral this weekend, and thankfully I've caught it in time, this time.

I hate being sick. I really hate it. I have to live with this. It's debilitating, yes. It can be stressful as well, for example, having a tough week at work before or after a heavy counselling session. But I know that I am making the right choice in pushing on with this. I choose not to sit and do nothing, because I know I don't like it, and doing nothing makes it worse. And yet there are still days where I simply cannot get out of bed. It's just too hard. It becomes a self-defeating - and self-deflating - exercise.

I thought I could cope. I thought I'd learned enough. And then I missed a regular counselling session. I cannot do this on my own, just yet. Not yet.

People say, "Oh, just get out and go for a walk. You'll feel heaps better", or "You'll get over it. Chin up." and I try to tell them how desperately that I wish it were that simple. Exercise helps, and I try to incorporate exercise into my day (get off a tram stop earlier to and from work). But it goes deeper than that. I am not feeling sorry for myself, not at all. I am surrounded by blessings - beastie, partner, loving friends, job, home, bloggage, family, culture, etc etc. And yet I cannot shake this deep and very painful black sadness that sits inside my chest. I can only just stem my paranoia, but not stop it altogether.

But I want things to be better than this level of better. I get very tired trying to fight this thing off all the time, keeping it at bay.

I can't afford to get sick-sick.

To ring ze counsellor tomorrow: there. A small goal. I have his number. All I have to do is pick up the phone and call. It's not insurmountable.

2002-07-06T14:24:00.000+10:00

Housekeepage

We've found the house and get this - the real estate agent rang *us* to see if we were still interested. We're in.

I have had a hair cut.

The bastard has given me a mullet/mohawk cut. I'm washing it out.

And as for Momo, she's freakin out. Over there. In the links column. Go on. Go visit.

2002-07-04T15:55:00.000+10:00

A few items of note

Ericmonkey has bought me some fucking beautiful furniture - classy, groovy old 60s side tables and glasses and plates and stuff. His generosity knows no bounds, and will be duly acknowledged post haste.

Bertie-Boop is in at work with me today. My boss suggested it as a way to make me feel better, what with all this editorial committee hoo-ha that's been going on lately.

The final episode of Kath & Kim is on tonight (ABC, 9pm) and it's the wedding episode. I'm hanging out to see Kim as the hornbag bridesmaid, Kath in her 'Bo-Peep style' wedding outfit, and Kel in his grey tux with 'dusk rose' style waistcoat and matching cumberbund.

It's fucking cold. And windy.

I have a busy weekend planned. Footy tomorrow night, and I shall no doubt torture myself by watching my hapless Tigers go down to blasted Carlton. Saturday I'm having a girlie sleepover thing happening in Richmond. And on Sunday, I'm off to see Circus Oz.

Plus, We of Chateau Waterloo are on the move. SuperAnge put in an application on an apparently 'fully grouse' property in Northcote today. It's big (good) with a bungalow out the back. I've seen the outside and I'm impressed so far. SuperAnge and I look for the same thing in houses, so I trust her judgement on this. The market is good at the moment, if you are looking to rent. Summer is a nightmare, so we are trying to get going now, while the going is good.

Rob is in pain. Go pay your sympathies.

2002-07-04T11:51:00.000+10:00

OH! OH! OH! OOOOHHHHHH!

Ew, ew, ew, and eeeeewwwwwww, for good effect.

Mental note: be in shower or other non-listening space when loud housemate has loud sex in the mornings before attending work.

2002-07-02T16:35:00.000+10:00

And another thing

The BossBoss mentioned that a rather fiery letter to the editor (which, might I add, was approved and re-approved three times by the BossBoss’s Boss) was printed in the July newsletter, and had subsequently caused an absolute uproar among the readership concerned.

BossBoss then used this as one reason why the committee is needed – to oversee, approve and water down letters to the editor and opinion pieces, to avoid political backlash.

Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I worked in a country where the press was ‘free’ (relatively speaking, anyway)? What’s wrong with an article or opinion piece sparking debate? Is that not a valuable part of living in a country where speaking your mind is actively encouraged?

Letters to the editor and opinion pieces, in my definition of editorial policy, are edited *only* for space and clarity. I may remove a sentence if the writer has written the same thing in a previous paragraph, and I certainly correct spelling (that’s organiSation, thanks) and remove errant apostrophes here and there. But that’s it. It’s not for me to change the meaning of writer’s letter. Rather, an important part of my job is to make it read as well as it can. That's a part of the art of editing. Yes, it's an art. And yes, it's fucking hard work, too.

So what are the newsletters for, if not to spark debate and new ideas among the profession? Are they a mere vehicle for some people’s agendas in the organisation? I’m afraid I think the answer is yes, and I don’t know if I want to be a part of this, not least of all because my part in this editorial committee process is immediately devalued by its very existence, and reduces down to Editorial Minion, at the beck and call of others Who Know Better.

And if the publications are getting censored by this editorial committee, which the readership knows nothing about, mind you (I think they have every right to know, myself), then what kind of a place am I working in? What place do I keep in this farcical, red-tape laden piece of bureaucracy? What do I stand for? Can I stand by and thus implicitly approve this dictatorial information processing?

Where’s my drink?

2002-07-02T15:19:00.000+10:00

Once again, my job has just got that little bit harder

I’ve been in a shang-hai-blitz-kreig meeting sprung upon myself and my boss by the BossBoss.

We gets told that a newsletter editorial committee has been established to discuss the placement of stories, and whether stories are pulled or kept in, and various other newsletter issues. I will be required to attend two meetings a month, at which I will need to present a story listing for each newsletter, rationale behind each story’s placement and page layouts including the placement of advertising.

Where was I when all these moves were afoot?

I have lost even more control over my babies.

Have you seen my cup of vod- er, coffee?

Having to attend to this new editorial committee means I will have to justify *every* *fucking* editorial decision I make, to everyone from the CEO down to branch presidents. Do I have time to do this? Explain why some stories get placed towards the back, others towards the front, and some not at all because they’re submitted too late and/or they’re so crap I can’t even read them? Try to explain why no, all the ads can't get put together in the two middle pages (*snicker* ... AS IF)?

Quite clearly, the answer to that is yes, I will. And of course I have time to do this.

Where’s my drink?

2002-07-01T15:21:00.000+10:00

Blog meeting

Hey folks - on this very topic: I ticked the box for us to meet at Starbucks on Collins. I hate Starbucks, but I didn't really think the other places were very appropriate. I guess we can start there and tally-ho elsewhere. More info on the meet up is here.

2002-07-01T13:39:00.000+10:00

Why barking dogs can start wars

Bertie-Boop made a new friend recently – Rufus, he of loud deep barks from t’other side of our fence. Rufus (who, along with his nameless companion, get *very* bored in their backyard) found an easy way to connect with Bertie – by digging a hole under the fence. So he dug on his side, and Bertie dug on his side. It could only be fate that the two tunnels should meet.

They did.

Rufus would religiously maneuvre his generous head and one shoulder and paw underneath the fence and chat to BB in the morning. And again at lunch time. Then they’d have a little afternoon soire, and a brief chat before bed time. BB would meander over to the meeting point each morning after his ablutions and generously hump Rufus’ head, then dig around Rufus’ head some, to make the hole bigger. Occasionally he would pop next door for a visit, concerned The Nameless One was missing out on the action.

Initially I was concerned for BB’s safety, as Rufus is an extraordinarily big dog, judging by the size of his noggin. But they love each other. They’re pals. Plus the barking from Rufus’ side had stopped since the tunnels met, so I couldn’t complain.

Ericmonkey and I went next door to talk to the neighbours about the hole, how we might make it bigger, or even have joint puppy visits every so often. Hey - it's all about communing with your fellow beings on the street and getting the beasties to join in too (now, don't take that the wrong way). The neighbours were never home when we went over, so in the end we gave up.

Two days later, a pile of bricks was stacked on the other side of the fence, closing over the hole. Nothing was said. The barking has returned.

I am going home today to remove said bricks, because I am tired of my mornings starting like this:

Open bedroom window.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!

Swear violently while looking for bazooka.

Adjourn to kitchen.

Light stove. Put coffee pot on gas ring.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!

Mutter under breath about neighbours respecting each others’ space.

Open bathroom door.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!
BARK! WOOOF-WOOF-WOOOOOOF-BARK!

Sit on toilet. Consider moving house.

Return to kitchen. Turn off gas ring. Pour coffee.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!

Open back door for Bertie-Boop.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!
BARK! WOOOF-WOOF-WOOOOOOF-BARK!
BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!
BARK! WOOOF-WOOF-WOOOOOOF-BARK!

Thump down back stairs with kitchen rubbish. Add to green silo bin.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!
BARK! WOOOF-WOOF-WOOOOOOF-BARK!

A word of advice: WALK YOUR DOGS YOU LAZY NEXT-DOOR BUMS! Getting a second dog does not alleviate the boredom and bad barking habits of the original dog, it merely equals two bored dogs that don't get exercised. Ever. I've never seen those dogs. Not ever.

P'raps I shall pop in and suggest that I have Rufus and The Nameless One over for an afternoon of doggie partying, or *gasp* even a walk to the park with BB and myself.

Poor things. As much as I hate Rufus barking at every move I make, and The Nameless One joining in, I feel so sorry for them being stuck in that back yard all the time.

2002-06-29T11:08:00.000+10:00

Where's my patience mojo?

I have none left, I decided this morning. Either that, or I'm over suffering fools gladly, lazy bums, empty promises, slobs and manipulators.

I am writing this after doing a good two hour stint of housework in the kitchen (I'm too exhausted to even contemplate the remainder of the house. And my room? I'm sleeping on the couch tonight. I'll face my room tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. Or maybe never. I haven't decided yet. Where's my drink?), mind you, so it's not really surprising that I'm like, totally over sharing houses with lazy bums. I love Dave-oh-Housemate dearly, but fuck me. DO SOME DISHES ONCE IN A WHILE, YOU LAZY BUM.

Can you tell I have PMT as well?

Where's my drink?

I spent last night getting sloshed at home and coming to the realisation (sheesh, I'm just having lil realisations all over the shop at the minute, aren't I? Lucky, lucky me. Have I got PMT, or what? Where's my drink?) that I think I'm getting the flu. I've got that nasty drippy thing happening at the back of my throat and a very dry, sore cough. Any recommendations, nurse?

By about 10.30 I also realised that no, ericmonkey wasn't going to call, even though I can't begin to tell you the amount of times we've been through the discussion about arranging to do something, and then calling if you're not able to make it. It's not about me wanting to know where he is at every minute of the day: it's about common decency and respect for each other's time. I don't care what he does with his days, particularly (natch, I'd rather he spent them with me, but that's just my personal opinion) - but there are plenty of other things I could be doing with my time other than waiting around for him to call/turn up.

Like play video games and get drunk at home.

Where's my drink?

2002-06-28T10:07:00.000+10:00

Ear muffs, anyone?

Well, I thought I could handle winter. Feh, I shrugged. This isn't cold. I can take it. You people don't know the meaning of cold. I've lived through two European winters.

Today, I am munching on my words. It is fucking freezing. And wet. And windy. A classic winter's day, really. I didn't want to leave the front verandah this morning, let alone walk up the hill and to the tram stop to get to work. Even the dog refused to go outside for his morning ablutions (and let me assure you, he *loves* his outside morning ablutions).

I noticed a few gals wearing ear muffs and I have resolved to get myself a pair.

Now, on to the exciting stuff.

SuperAnge and Daniel-san got back from their trip to Perth a couple of nights ago. They got in at one (in the a-m), and sure enough, I was up at 2, then at 3, and then again at 4. THEY'RE JUST SO FUCKING LOUD. Especially when they are interacting in the same room. I love them to bits, but Jesus. SHUT UP ALREADY.

I came to the realisation that I cannot live with this noise any longer. I am going on a major, major savings regime so I can get my own joint asap. Shannon said that she sacrificed a large portion of her salary so that she could live in her own place, but for the sake of her sanity, it's worth it.

And I'm inclined to agree.

So, I am steeling myself for six to eight weeks of home-cooked meals and drinks at home, no clothes buying (weeeeeeeelllll .... maybe only if the items are *really* cheap and I *really* *need* them. Like earmuffs, for example) and no impulse spending. I'm counting down the days already.

While waiting to meet a friend in yet another of Melbourne's hidden away little funky bars (The Sahara Bar on Swanston. It has no shop front. It's a skanky doorway and a flight of stairs, but beyond that is a wee gem), I contemplated my game plan in terms of what things I would need to move into my own pad.

I have a fridge, and a bed, so that's sorted. I have a semi-couch, and a book shelf. And then I thought, well, hang on. The budgetting will continue once Chateau Missjenjen is established, so that means drinkies must be bought in bulk. What will I need? One carton of beer (cheaper by the carton), one bottle of gin and one of vodka (cheaper by the bottle than by the serve in a swanky bar), one cask of red and one of white. Oh, and some mixers. And some limes. And a bar fridge. What about some funky bar stools?

Sanity, that little bastard, finally kicked in, and said: Hellooooooo? What about a wardrobe? What about a washing machine, and a table and chairs?

Fuck that bastard.

Now get me a drink.

2002-06-27T09:44:00.000+10:00

Why not?

Well, according to a research report published in today's Sydney Morning Herald, this is why men choose not to get married these days.

1. Men can get sex without marriage.
2. They can enjoy the benefits of having a wife by cohabiting rather than marrying.
3. They want to avoid divorce and its financial risks.
4. They want to wait until they are older to have children.
5. They fear that marriage will require too many changes and compromises.
6. They are still waiting for the perfect soul mate, and she hasn't appeared yet.
7. They face few social pressures today to marry.
8. They are reluctant to marry a woman who already has children.
9. They want to own a house before they get a wife.
10. They want to enjoy single life for as long as they possibly can.