Friday Frippery

I have been in battle with a smartass from a fund manager all day
I have $1.92 in the bank
It is raining very hard and has been all week
Crispy isn't happy cos his KISS cover band is changing lineup
Daz is incommunicado or in love, I've yet to ascertain which
Brian is having a long weekend and drinking Vodka
JD is off with the pixies
Grandad is tearing the health system apart
AV is waxing lyrical in her darkroom
DrummerBoy will be Drumming
ClareBear will be partying
Thommo has her day off
TheBoss has gone on a golfing holiday
K8 is playing nursmaid and cleaning windows
Kate is probably knitting and nursing a migraine
Nonny will be up to high jinks
Anonymous will be taking pics
Terrence is probably tipping cows
Wordnerd will be watching the game
Ian preparing his sermon
Ryan is counting down the days till he gets his shiny new 'ute'
TheBenchwarmer will be drinking coffee, lamenting lost love and smoking too much . . .
If I left anyone out, I'm sorry . . .

So to the rest of my bloggy friends . . . . . . . have a lovely weekend wherever you are. It's all good . . COS IT'S TIME TO GO HOME . . . .

And here's a little Aussie band with a song that I like, I just wish I was young enough to go to their concerts without looking conspicuous - Gyroscope with 'Snakeskin' - not quite what someone my age should enjoy . . .but then, I'm a little different.

Obey . . Obey . . . Obey

OK we're all now adults but it's still my house, my mortgage, my rules. (Gawd, I sound like a Dalek " Obey . . obey . . .obey . ." We have had a rule in our house for yonks "Let me know where you are going, who you are with and what time you'll be home."

OK When they were in their teens, I had some control over my younglings and frankly, keeping me informed has become largely habit. By obliging over the years, they have been granted more and more freedoms when their playmates were often not allowed to venture forth. I allowed a 16 year old girl to stay out all night during the Olympics . . .and a 16 year old boy to go camping in the wilds with others of his age simply because they were very good at practicing this little rule.

As they grow older however, they sort of think it's no longer necessary. Their life is their own and theyshould be allowed to do as they please. Not so, says the Dalek master, they must still inform me of their whereabouts so that I sleep at night, don't cook meals for people who are a no show or have nothing in the fridge when there are six for dinner that I didn't know about.

So, the rule stay's chickens, as long as you stay. It's simply good manners to let your parent, flatmate, wife, husband, partner or housemate's know your movements . . . except the bowel kind, that's just nasty.

Kicking the Habit

I am one of those filthy smokers. I have been for years. I only ever smoke half a cigarette which makes it even more silly and expensive and I don't smoke during the day except for the Friday chardy lunch with Thommo. . I have my 'breakfast' of a couple of cigs, two cups of Twinning's Irish. Then, when I come home, I make up for lost time and smoke about 10 fags with a bottle of wine throughout the evening.

I was cajoled as a teen down by the creek in Loyalty road by my newbie friend Kate who told me to 'do the draw back'. Eager to make friends and fit into one of the many schools I attended as a teen, I complied and that was the beginning of a lifelong habit. In those days, you could smoke in restaurants, bars, theatres, at your workstation . . . even in designated smoking rooms in hospitals. Can you imagine? Now you cannot smoke anywhere other than the gaming rooms in hotels (providing they have iceberg ventilation), beer gardens or your own home.

I gave up when I was pregnant . . both times . . .true! Didn't smoke for the duration then startedup again once the babies were born. Ray didn't smoke so why did I? Thommo smoked, TheBoss smoked, Pauly Boy smoked, even TheMerryWidow smoked . . . over the years they all kicked the habit but I plugged on blaming circumstance, stress, hard times, hard work and "Hey I like it . . I only smoke half . . bla bla bla . . .".

Similarly with alcohol. I never drank during the week, just the usual weekend benders or wine with a meal on the weekend. I never drink in the morning and only ever at lunchtime if it's a special lunch. I only drink wine or Champagne. I don't hide bottles under the bed or secret them in whilst nobody's looking but I am what could be described as a 'moderate to heavy drinker' importantly, I rarely get drunk. OK I over do it at Weddings because the booze is free or the occasional Bonfire night - it helps me deal better with cranky Firies.

Seriously, I know my limitations. I gave up completely in the late 80's and lost a shit load of weight (due more to hard work than lack of alcohol consumption I hasten to add), it was fantastic. Looked good, felt better . . then again, crisis after crisis and alcohol became a crutch and while some of the drinks I enjoy, most just pop me into a nice calm place where I can deal with the world, work, loneliness, anger and all those destructive emotions that creep in now and then. It puts me in my happy place and tastes nice to boot. Prozac with flavour.

A deal has been struck. The riot act has been read again by ClareBear and DrummerBoy and I suspect the Fringelet is also in cahoots! They're pretty serious this time. It's about time actually and the timing is just right. Time to put that $12 per packet in my wallet not my mouth. Even the awful warnings that appear on Australian packets haven't prevented me and the dreadful shock ads on TV just prompt me to change the channel. But now its time to stop whining about never having any money begin to save myself. As a drinker, it's about time I learned the word 'moderation' and saved it for a glass of wine with a meal and celebration times.

So, here's the go. I'm off to the outskirts of Melbourne from the 15th to the 21st so I have a few drinkies with the girls on the Great Ocean Road . . they would be disappointed if I didn't show usual form. Then I have a date with the Lovely Lenore and GeekBoy so again, I cannot disappoint in the drinkies department but as the only smoker on the entire trip consumption of nurrels will have to be vastly reduced so as not to offend.

Next step, try to maintain the reduction in imbibing and inhalation through to the 29th November when I go in for the removal of all things within the oestrogen zone and endure, instant menopause after the operation and a 5-6 day stay in the institution from Hell - which by the way costs more than a five star hotel in Europe and I'll bet the food ain't as good!

Satan will pale to insignificance in comparison to my mood I'll vouch. Dante hasn't even seen an inferno like my life from 29th November to the 29th December. Once home, I will become completely dependent on a 20 and 22 year old in terms of lifting, bending, stretching and doing. I will be restricted to 10 minutes exercise a day for the first couple of weeks with no alcohol, no smokes, lo cal diet, no driving! If I can handle that insanity for 4 weeks, I think I will have cracked the addiction code!

Well it's a plan and we all know how good I am at making plans . . . Actually GeekBoy/Arky/Crispy or whatever his nick name is this week, gave up thanks to a nicotine patch, lots of encouragement from the girlf and the motivation to purchase expensive geeky gadgets . My motivation? My trip to Paris next July!

Sometimes I am Serious

Two of the most memorable experiences of my life, the most wonderful, the most intimate were the birth of my two children. Within seconds of the arrival of each, the pain, the puffing, the waiting all faded into obscurity as each little slimy bundle was handed to me. This little miracle made from nothing but pure love (OK and a little slap and tickle). All jokes aside - and I could tell you a few - they arrived perfect, all pieces intact, kicking and screaming . . . healthy, defenseless and the most precious people in my life then and now. Little bundles of noisy leakage at both ends. Hurting them, shaking them, sexually abusing them was and is inconceivable. Even the thought of piercing ClareBear's ears as a toddler or circumcising a four day old son were abhorrant. Why would I mutilate such perfection. I didn't want to change anything about them. Even though they were denied a father at a very young age, they have been raised with love, warmth, respect and honesty which has helped them to become the amazing young adults they are.

Today, A cross-border investigation into a European wide child-sex network led to 92 arrests in eight countries. It involved 18 European police forces and the Australian authorities, Operation Koala led to 40 arrests in Britain, 21 in France, 11 in Spain, eight in Sweden, five in Belgium, four in Italy, two in Iceland and one in Denmark. Using the name of such a cuddly marsupial to challenge such an ugly operation seemed more than disgustingly ironic.

The main suspect was nabbed in Italy, laden with cash and large quantities of paedophilic materials. Italian police arrested him as he was apparently trying to leave for Ukraine, where the vast majority of the victims are from. The news story continued: Often young girls aged nine to 16, the victims were lured into a Ukrainian studio where photo shoots would become increasingly explicit and end with the victims being sexually abused, the investigation found. They were lured with promises of modelling careers in the west. According to Europol, 21 of the 23 victims were from the Ukraine. The other two were Belgian girls whose father forced them to take sexually explicit pictures. He was arrested last year for their rape - his own daughters - He was their FATHER! Over 2,500 clients accessed . . .wait for it . . .
1.5 million paedophilic images by internet. They are as bad as the abusers. Degenerate in every sense of the word. And we want to pass legislation against smacking our kids?

So who are these perverts, these awful downtrodden psychopaths. Surely to abuse children or to watch children being sexually mistreated must be the province of the deranged, the lonely, the sexually frustrated or deficient, the mentally retarded, the outcast . . you think? "Customers come from all layers of society - lawyers, school teachers, students, people with no jobs,"

We're all aware of the focus lately on Catholic Priests abusing positions of trust. Or the odd teacher who inappropriately 'handles' a child but this goes beyond disgusting, beyond imagination, these men, and they are invariably men are worthy of castration and incarceraton. Whether wanking over the internet or perpetrating the acts and recording them on film.

These stories make me sick. They are far too prevolent. How many times must we hear of some 40 year old businessman setting up house in Thailand and keeping young boys for his sexual pleasure. It moved me to tears. These maggots get away with unimaginable pain and suffering inflicted on their victims. What makes these men adore the nubile, the young, the vulnerable?

These predators need to be stopped. Not just those who are actively involved but those who get their jollies off watching little children abused in such a way. At risk of trivialising this, there is obviously a 'thing' about some sexual predators with the childlike form. The smooth skin, the hairlessness, the innocence, the ability to manipulate the betrayal of trust, their vulnerability. I'ts like rape - a crime of passion? Bollox, it's about control and manipulation of the weak. It's revolting. I see this androgenism in models who are portrayed as waifish, asexual beings with a Brasilian wax to make them look like 10 or 12 year olds. Stop it! I'm serious. Stop trying to be something you're not. Beyond the age of 12 you are not supposed to look like a pre-pubescent nymphette. You're supposed to gain body fat, gain shape, grow pubic hair, mature physically. Stop appealing to the perverted sexual desires of twisted men.

I am fortunate to have been raised in a highly moral, loving family, where values about the sanctitiy of the body and sex have been discussed and valued. Where touch was important but it was the stroke of the hair or a bear hug that suspended breathing it was so filled with affection. I have passed these values on to my own children who are highly respectful of their opposite sex and not at all expliotationist. Remember, these little darlings, wooed by the hope of a better life are forgoing all innocence with some slobbering 50 something who isn't 'man' enough to attempt a relationship with a real adult. There are things we can do to prepare our children:

• Be suspicious if an adult seems more interested in spending time with your child than with you.
• Be wary of people who are overly kind, affectionate or loving towards your child or who give your child lots of gifts. Remember, most people have good intentions, so don't jump to conclusions.
• Be very choosy about leaving your child with others. Ask your child how he feels about being cared for by that person. If there's any reluctance . . . don't do it.
• Teach your child about different parts of the body and which are his own private parts. Let them know that it's inappropriate for someone else to touch them there.
• Teach your child to try and get away as quickly as possible from any person who makes him feel uncomfortable or frightened and to then tell people he trusts about what has happened.
• Teach your child never to keep secrets that make him feel uncomfortable or bad. Always listen to your child and trust what he says even if you are shocked by it. Act upon the information so your child feels supported by you.
• Teach your child that adults are not always right. This will help your child if a paedophile tells your child the abuse is okay and not to tell anyone.
• Supervis their internet access and know who they are talking to. Tell them to never reveal their real name or address. Install a Disk Nanny or password so they can't access without your supervision.
• Ensure they are supervised going to and from school or are aware of Neighbourhood Watch safe houses
• Teach your child never to go into public toilets alone. Never let a child under 10 go to the toilet alone.
• Ensure you know where your child is at all times.
• Always answer your child’s questions honestly and at a level that he can understand, even if you are embarrassed.
• Things you teach your child will help, but they will not guarantee your child's protection. Children are not able to totally protect themselves. It is up to adults to do this.
• Love them with every fibre of your being until they are old enough to know the difference between sexual predators and the joy of sex.

Of course, this assumes that you are a caring, cautious, wise and loving parent . . .unfortunately, the parents of many abused children are in fact the perpetrators.

OK. I'll jump off my soapbox now.

I Like To Watch

Purple Moon is a Ginger? What the?

. . . Well I do! I like to watch planes flying overhead while I'm hanging my washing out and wonder what their destinaton will be. I like to watch people at bus stops and stations and make up little scenarios like the time I saw a really well dressed businessman scavenge in a bin to retrieve a newspaper that had barely been opened and commence reading it whilst waiting for his train. I like to watch people in shopping queues at the supermarket, the haggard, the excited, the naughty kids, the glum checkout chicks. I like to watch theatre, street art, concerts. I like to look at paintings, sculpture or even sit in my garden at twilight and watch the green gums turn black against a salmon sky (ooh that was almost poetry). But tomorrow, the only thing the whole country will be watching is the race that stops a nation. And if you don't, you're a stick in the mud!

That's right, on the first Tuesday in November a horse race called the Melbourne Cup, starts at about 3:05pm and the world as we Australians know it, comes to a halt for about 3 minutes while 15 or so thoroughbreds run 2 miles. Whether you're a hard core gambler or a sweep recipient like me . . . it's a phenomenan. In my younger days, it was the excuse for a Ladies Lunch, fashion parade and lots of hilarity . . . now I'm a working girl so it's time out during the work day.

Victorians get a day off (lucky lucky bastards). We do 'lunch' wearing a range of assorted silly hats - yep the Nepalese mountain hat gets a guernsey as do the facinators and silly noggin warmers. Tomorrow, we're ordering in Thai, placing our $1, $2 and $5 bets (big spenders all!) and huddle around the television watching the race.

I don't know who's running . . . I don't really care, I'm usually lucky and manage to win a few bob . . we'll drink Champers, pretend we know the form. Wank lyrical about how pretty the little horses are and what a clever trainer Bart Cummings is then knock of earlyish - or go back to our desks at 4.00 and pretend we're working!

If you're lucky enough to go to Flemington in Melbourne, there are three classes of people. The Car Park silly crowd. They dress up, drink a lot and enjoy the race on the big screen. The terrace serious crowd who don't rate the actual Melbourne Cup but place bets on all the day's races and the "Ooh, look, I have a ticket to a corporate tent" crowd who wear ridiculous hats, show too much cleavage and manage to get their photos on the society pages.

Either way, the cup is a great leveller, they'll all stumble back to the station with their stillettoes in hand, hair bedraggled and their hats lolled precariously on their heads. The ties will have been dispensed and thongs replace the highly polished Julious Marlows as the dishevilled mob begins to feel the effects of too much champagne, too many horses, too much gambling . . . it's a wonder any remember who actually wins the event.

My choice "Purple Moon" - I like the name. Irish horse with an Italian Trainer and Australian Jockey . . who says I'm not multinational! Then again, Tawqeet is being ridden by my maiden namesake. Blue Monday is a really nice name and the way I feel most Monday mornings. Scenic Shot is reminiscent of Phoctober. The Fuzz is just a funny name for a slick racehorse and Sermione is trained by one of the best . . .I just hope Mahler comes last . . .probably one of the most boring classical composers ever! Decisions, decisions . . . I'm really glad it's a sweep! Wanna hear something funny? It's going to be a wet track and the European horses like it dry! What the?

Now, where's my money bags, Goong Pad and Pad Thai? Here's the field (apparently Master O'Reilly and Purple Moon are the favourites thanks to Aussie runners being denuded by the impact of flu!

1. Tawqeet (USA), David Hayes, D Dunn, 57, 3
2. Blue Monday (GB), David Hayes, N Rawiller, 56, 14
3. Blutigeroo, Colin Little, L Nolen, 55.5, 12
4. Gallic (NZ), Graeme Rogerson, S W Arnold, 55.5, 24
5. Railings, Roger James, G Childs, 55.5, 18
6. Efficient (NZ), Graeme Rogerson, M Rodd, 54.5, 10
7. Maybe Better, Brian Mayfield-Smith, C Brown, 54, 7
8. Tungsten Strike (USA), Amanda Perrett, Darryll Holland, 54, 2
9. Zipping, Graeme Rogerson, D Nikolic, 54, 22
10. Black Tom, David Hayes, P A Hall, 53.5, 21
11. Master O'Reilly (NZ), Danny O'Brien, V Duric, 53.5, 17
12. Purple Moon (IRE), Luca Cumani, D Oliver, 53.5, 15
13. Lazer Sharp, David Hayes, B Shinn, 52.5, 16
14. On a Jeune, Andrew J Payne, K McEvoy, 52.5, 4
15. Scenic Shot, Daniel Morton, M J Zahra, 52.5, 19
16. Sarrera, Michael Moroney, S Murphy (a), 52, 23
17. Sculptor (NZ), Peter Mckenzie, Ms L Cropp, 52, 8
18. Dolphin Jo, Terry & Karina O'Sullivan, Ms C Lindop, 51.5, 1
19. Douro Vallery, Danny O'Brien, J M Winks, 51.5, 13
20. Sirmione, Bart Cummings, P Mertens, 51.5, 20
21. The Fuzz (NZ), David Hayes, C Williams, 51.5, 11
22. Eskimo Queen (NZ), Michael Moroney, C Newitt, 51, 5
23. Princess Coup, Mark Walker, N G Harris, 51, 9
24. Mahler (GB), Aidan O'Brien, S Baster, 50.5, 6

Well I guess all's well that 'ends' well - Car Park Punters after the race!

Spookily True

I was just mucking about this morning and did this blogthings quiz but it's scarily accurate.

What Your Handwriting Says About You

You are a laid back person with rather low energy. You aren't lazy... you *are* sensitive and empathetic. You are reserved and not very outgoing. You are deeply thoughtful and introspective. You have a lot of control over your actions and emotions. You are balanced and grounded. You know how to get along well with others. You need a bit of space in your life, but you're not a recluse. You expect people to give you a small amount of privacy, and you respect their privacy as well. You are conservative, old fashioned, and a little stubborn. You are resistant to change. You are a decent communicator. You eventually get your point across, but sometimes you leave things a bit ambiguous.

What Does Your Handwriting Say About You?

More Sharies

Ooops, forgot toshare two essentials:

Where I while away the wee hours . . .


Sort of speaks for itself. Notice cheap glass - I am a basher!

Sharies

These are a few of my favourite things:

French Perfume - can't live without it . . Calvin Klein, Rochas and Chanel - life's little luxuries and I don't care if they make me sneeze . .

Genuine Nepalese hat . . no bonfire night is complete with out ear muffs (ugly African CD stacker optional . . .hey! He's Limpopo, now a part of the family - well the family room anyway . ..) My Faaaaaavourite Hat . . .


Curiosity corner . . desk made by my grandad which houses, Japanese lanterns, Grandamas sandwich set, Delft from Holland, Reindeer from Italy, Camel from Dubai, Glass from Venice, china from well . . .China, picnic basket from England, chess set from Australia, Barometer from Wales, Grandma's Tea pot, Bull Dancer from Crete, Pithoi Pot from somewhere in Greece, Duck from Kellyville, Lava man from Vanuatu and Beer pint which I stole from a pub in Manchester and a lantern from "down't mine . . . ee by gum!"

Hub of the house, where people gather, all the action takes place as well as daubing tiles with stroganoff sauce, merriment and Saturday morning cleaning! Does everyone have a junk basket on their kitchen bench?

Now I ask you . . . would an anal retentive clean freak have a fridge like this? Next week it will also have a "What do do whilst I'm convalescing" Roster affixed. Ok that's a bit anal!

Car Troubles

My car is posessed. I have this problem. If I pull up to a halt a little too quickly and turn everything off at the same time I move into park, it makes a kind of shudder and I know when I try to start it again, there will be trouble. The battery is new so the spark flies. It's regularly serviced so I know the fuel is getting through the line and the plugs work. The starter motor is also new so apart from having to bang it occasionally with my shoe, no worries. She's serviced every 10,000ks, lubricated, greased and valve grinded . . so what's her problem? She gets more attention than I ever did!

I turn on the ignition and it makes all the right noises but doesn't catch. If I do this long enough, the ignition keeps kicking over without the engine catching. I can even remove my key and she persists in her rhythmic coughing alerting my dilemma to all and sundry and the only way to stop it is to disconnect the battery. Once done, I just let her calm down, speak zen phrases or chant a calming 'ohm maddy ohm' mantra to relax the diva then have another go. The NRMA man said it's probably a faulty ignition. My mechanic says it could be the fuel line but without being able to replicate it, difficult to tell. (I'm sure he used to be a Systems Administrator).

Either way, it's bloody embarassing. I sit there like a lame duck usually with two inappropriate B rated videos and a couple of bottles of wine in the seat next to me (why else would I go shopping) while nice people come and ask if I'm alright. Give the old girl a little rest. Turn off the radio and electrics, crank the ignition and off she goes to fight another day.

I don't understand. I've looked after her bones for the last five years. She used to be my Dad's car and was lovingly serviced, shampoo'd and polished at Trivett Classic Cars, her tyres blacked and air freshener installed as part of the service . . . she has nice grey sheepskin covers to protect her leathery skin but lately, has been turned into a delivery vehicle with boxes of folders and letterhead on the back seat and rubbish carelessly thrown about. Ah . . Daz always says I'm slow on the uptake . . .that's it. She's got the shits because the regular pampering has come to a halt. Because of the drought and our inability to use a hose, she hasn't had a shower in a year, nobody lathers her bones other than a panicked rub with dish washing liquid as storm clouds gather then she's left out to face the deluge. (DrummerBoy's idea of exterior detailing). Her tyres haven't been blacked for 5 years and she certainly hasn't been polished. Her paint's chipping and the interior resembles a movie theatre after the crowd has left. To make it worse, I think she heard me watching Top Gear last night and probably got miffed when she heard me commenting on how nice it would be to have a new Saab. That's it, project for this weekend, get the old girl gleaming and maybe she'll behave herself. . . just until February . . . Once Clare's gone, we have a spare! Shhhh . . for crying out loud don't tell her or she'll behave even more badly . . .

Aww c'mon boys . . you didn't think I'd leave you out?

Am I a Hypochondriac?

I'm being very blokey today and feeling sorry for myself. I have a sore throat and a hacking cough. I came home from work. I watched Transformers and the House on Haunted Hill II. I fell asleep on the couch and missed the good bits. My antibiotics aren't working yet. Am I a hypochondriac?

You Are 32% Hypochondriac

You can deal well with being sick - even if your symptoms are a little scary. You're occasionally prone to worry about your health, but only when you have pretty strange symptoms.

Are You a Hypochondriac?

Mars

There is no doubt we're different. And thank goodness. I love men and embrace diversity. Depsite their collective propensity to not realise that empty toilet rolls go in the bin and the toilet seat really should be left down . . .gotta love their bones!

Seems only fair after the Venus post that the girls reveal what they like in a man. And we're not all shallow, not all of the time anyway. I'm certainly not turned on by the incessantly cute yet hapless males in the feminine hygiene commercials or the well oiled and chiselled Armani types in razor blade ads. Sports figures generally leave me cold and a broken nose or angular jaw is not my scene. I can't stand the Beckham types all boofy and beautiful then open their mouths and all that exits is the "Pepsi" squeak.

I've gotta say, I'm a bum girl. Love the glutes . . . I like a bit of 'roundage' and can't stand saggy pockets filled with stuffed wallets. Let me carry your wallet for you darling! Money really is an aphrodesiac.

Faces are important but don't have to be screamingly handsome just nice looking with happy eyes and a willingness to smile. I'm more into personality attributes such as good sense of humour, intelligence, broad general knowledge, good conversation, fairness, and an ability to fix electronic things. As you get older, your priorities change somewhat.

I take notice of hands as well. They don't have to be soft but nails have to be clean. Teeth, also important . . . must be the horse lover in me but I like a man with a good set of his own pearly whites. They don't have to be straight, just well maintained.

Lips . . must have them . . .that's a given.

Not too hairy, not too svelte . . . not keen on facial hair.

Straight talker, no boardroomspeak, no silly games, a WYSIWYG man but gentle with it. Must remember birthdays and anniversaries.

Then again 'shallow me' will settle for buns so tight you can bounce 'em off the walls.

So, my vote for attractive men? I had a crush on (would you believe) Richard Harris when I was in my teens - what was I thinking? that's possibly sharing too much and you're now worried about my complete lack of judgement.

These days . . I like younger men . . . men my age seem to have lost their sense of humour and their humility. They tend to be serious, self absorbed, patronising and set in their ways and are strangely compulsed to remain in the 70's and 80's at all costs. They are reluctant to have their beliefs challenged.

So at the top of the list is someone like Christian Bale, now there's a man! Just that right amount of 'lispage' when he talks and an ever-changing body shape. Not to mention the rubber suit. Hugh Jackman's not bad either . . got those impish good looks and a cheeky smile. Plus he can act, sing and dance . . . I even saw him on a cooking show once so he's the well rounded package. Ahh Nananoo . . . OK not a lot between the ears but he's a killer in a long leather coat. . ."Whoaa . ."

Men my age . . .maybe my Gyno - er maybe not, that's a bit freaky. He's good looking enough but I couldn't deal with what he does for a living, knowing where those well manicured and steady hands have been.

Denzel Washington . . ahh now there's a smile to melt an icy heart!

In the mature stakes . . . I used to like Harrison Ford until he had his mid-life crisis, pierced his ear and affixed a prissy diamond and now looks like a real knob going out with Calista 'hang-on-to-me-in-case-the-breeze-knocks-me-over' Flockhart,

Best Senior heart throb? I can't really go past Anthony Hopkins - seriously spooky and ultimately huggable, he reminds me of my Dad!

What I want . . what I really really want . . .

What I'll get . . .

Venus

Tuesday night is my dread night. The kids are out. The TV is horrendous. I've flicked between Dancing with the Stars on Channel 10, CSI on Channel 7, Terrorist Tuesday on SBS which might have been worth watching if it wasn't for the interference as a legacy of our spring storms and ABC is playing The Bill. Ok I went shallow and settled for the Aussie version of Dancing with the Stars which poses 'celebrities'(dubious use of the word), poncing about in sparkly outfits, shaking ther maraccas and getting their Bon Bon on or off whatever! Tonight was Bollywood night . . God awful. Pretty ballroom dancers in skimpy Indianesque outfits and men who would rather be having a beer with the boys. But . . in the ad breaks, loads of skin care, cosmetics, fashion . . .so it got me thinking . . what do men like? I hear a lot of you referring to women as dogs, eggs and other derogatory comments but really are you so into looks that you fall for Maybelline's glistening lilps which looked so greasy that the chick would simply slide off your face and as if you'd go out with anyone wearing 'don't take home to mother' purple. Kate Moss is an imaciated freckle face who does a great impersonation of a cheap dry cleaner's coat hanger, Megan Gale . . now a real woman but does look a bit like a horse. Rich coming from the tubby mummy I know, but do you blokes like these women with fabulous Pantene hair and glistening lips with beautifully separated eyelashes or are you all looking at their complete lack of tits? What on earth appeals to you. The ads tonight confirmed to me that women do this tortuous stuff to themselves to compete with other women. And since I'm no longer competing, I find it really funny. I have frizzy hair, hate greasy lips, OK I'm partial to a nice Estee Lauder mascara and a bit of bronzer but . . .I just don't get it. Who's hot? Who's not. If I was a man . . .I'd be picking: Scarlet Johansen, pouty and pretty with flawless skin. Kate Blanchette, the sophisticated man's muse. Amy Lee from Evanesence for the Goth beauty . . . Lauren Bacall for the older set . . . so what gets you going guys, lips, eyelashes, blush, boobs or bums . . fishnets and suspenders or Bridget Jones big knickers . . . flanny jim jams or sauce neglege's . . . tarty leather or flouncy frills. If I was a man . . and I hasten to say I am not, this woman would capture my interest as pure, virtuous, natural selection kind of way, she's designed for all the things a woman personifies:


Although I see myself more like this . . .
Ah delusion is a comforting feeling.

Cacophany of Dissonance

I can't stand peace and quiet. Not total quiet. I need music, even background noise of the TV. I love a house full of people and laughter and raucusnous.

However there are some noises that grate on me big time. Late night/early morning revellers shouting loudly, egging my cars and tipping up the sulo bins on their destructive path home from the Tav on Friday nights. Noisy Minors, Cockatoos and Kookaburras at 5.00 in the morning. It's dark, no bird should be cackling away at that time it's too early to get up, too late to doze back off. Or kids 'creeping' around the kitchen in the wee hours trying to be quiet but actually crashing crockery and giggling loudly.

Then there are the mechanical irritations. Builders noise that isn' supposed to start until 7.00am cranking up at 6 on a Saturday morning. Trail Bikes and Pocket Bikes. Chain saws and dune buggies. Burglar and house alarms and late night barking dogs.

But the most insidious noises are the ones you hardly hear . . . the chomping noise that a colleague makes when eating their lunch, che plate chinker and the soup slurper. The habitual sniffer the indiscreet sneezer. Then there's the guy who spends all afternoon sucking the sesame seed from between his teeth and the throat clearer, the stomach rumbler . . . and one of my pet hates - the keyboard banger and without doubt the constant inteference and incessant warbling of TMAPITW! Seems noise upsets quite a few people. Look what I found.

. . .the little anal noises that nobody seems to care about but you.

I Am a Time Lord Baby!

Johnny Dodge has long finished his dinner by the time I’m thinking of knocking off work. Shifty’s snuggled the snugglepot into the cot. South Africa aint that far away from Perth but it’s still yesterday there and Vanilla is plotting her latest novel . . . Pennsylvania is 16 hours behind and just getting home from work when I’m planning lunch.

So just how do time zones work? It’s all about longitude. Think of the earth as a segmented orange, you’re holding the orange so that the segments run from top to bottom. The navel where the orange was attached to the tree in your forefinger, the base of the orange in your thumb. Rotate the orange from left to right, east to west. That’s the effect of timezones.

It seems crazy I know that with daylight saving time, we’re two hours behind New Zealand (bastards get the news first) 16 hours in front of the Eastern US states, 10 hours in front of Western Europe and 9 hours in front of South Africa. Weird, you bet, but there’s something kind of sweet in knowing that while Absolute Vanilla is having breakfast in Capetown, Brianf is finishing his late night Vodka and Water and lamenting the latest baseball loss. Kate has just put down her knitting. Jefferson Davis is posting his last pic and poem and getting ready for bed in the US of A and I’m in me jimmy jams and about start the day. Daz is finishing his last game of Halo for the night. Grandad’s sipping his last drop of cocoa and disposing of the day’s evidence just as I’m cranking up the leaf blower. Grannymar is dusting the bedroom for stray spiders before hitting the pillow. Nonny’s . . .well she’s either being thrown out of a pub or making sure she’s still in possession of her knickers and K8 is away in the land of Nod . . . Anonymous has been up since sparrows fart for obvious reasons. ClareBear and Drummer Boy have just arrived home . . Damian is driving to Melbourne for coffee because . . .well that’s actually got nothing to do with time, that’s just him, apparently it’s worth a ten hour drive to find a decent Barista.

Pretty cool . . . reminds us that we’re in a global village and somehow tenuously clinging to a spinning sphere. And if that doesn’t blow you away, if I flew to New York today, I’d arrive two hours before I left. Yes! Yes! Yes! . . I am a Time Lord! Crank it baby!

Easy out . . World Clocks on your Google Home Page!

A Look at the Yarts And Hedgehogs

Portrait of Clive James by Jeffrey Smart - Brilliant

Clive James once said “Paintings don’t scare people, words scare people . . .paintings are friendly.” Clare Bear once said “I don’t get the point of paintings.” this coming from a Graphic Designer and a graduate of the University of New South Wales College of Fine Arts shocked me a little. I think she was having a bad day. I still have a framed version of her year 10 linograph tryptic on my wall and I love it. It's dark and industrial and yet draws you in.

I love paintings. I particularly love paintings with people in them but I envy the artist. The true artist, the one who is evocative, colourful, interesting, different. One of my top ten things to do before I die (beyond go to Paris) is to spend days wondering around the Louvre or the Hermitage in St Petersberg. I could ensconce myself within these hallowed halls pointing at one and saying “What a waste of canvas - a sheer block of PMS 640! What's the point?” and another saying “God, brings me to tears.” I don’t know what it is about a painting - oddly enough I get the same reaction to some paintings as I do to Barber's Adagiio and bagpipes (and I hate bagpipes). You know that well up in your eyes, heart wrenching, I just have to cry feeling. Then again, I get it whenever I hear The Circle of Life . . .so . . .my little emotional idiosyncracies aside - I wouldn’t give you a cent for a 3 metre canvas drizzled in paint aka Blue Poles but when you understand the complexity of the artist, it all of a sudden makes chaotic sense.

There’s a little known painting in the Art Gallery of NSW Briton Rivière (England, b.1840, d.1920) Requiescat.

Lets face it, by the time we started collecting all the great masters had been raped by the imperialists and all we’re left with is well ‘left-overs’ or generous gifts. This particular painting is a It’s a 19^th century painting of a dead knight, all dressed for burial on a bed with a heavily embroidered bedspread and at his bedside a forlorn hound . . . It is one of the saddest and most evocative paintings I’ve ever seen. I go there just to look at it but haven’t for a long time. It really moves me. I remember when I first saw it, I was about 15 and with my dad, his company were a patron of the gallery so we visited for free and used to go often. It is an extremely loyal painting both in its technical depiction and emotion. I love it. This and the sons of Clovis. Two Frenchmen, punished by their mother for insubordination, she boiled and broke their legs and cast them adrift to await their death as a lesson to others not to go against the will of their parents. Such beauty and brutality. Very emotional.

Evariste-Vital Luminais, Sons of Clovis

But and it’s a big but . . we have some stunning contemporary and 20^th century artists from Sydney Nolan and the members of the Heidleberg school to Arthur Boyd, Margaret Olley and Brett Whitely and a zillion others, too numerous to mention here.

Heidelberg School's Fred McCubbin Bush Burial

Brett Whitely - Arkie Under the Shower

When I first moved to my current abode, we built a shed. It’s actually a double garage up the back. Half was intended for the tractor, the other half for me to start a studio. I've never painted much by the way. I always did Art at school and my major work in year 12 toured the country with Art Express but I always fancied having a bash. It wasn’t to be. The acquisition of horses meant my painting nook was turned into a haystack and tack shed . . .further purchases of motor bikes and tools saw the shed definitely deserve its title.

As I wonder through the plethora of creative blogs available, there are some amazing artists out there, from the cute and kitch to the pretentious and try hard to the considered and careful. Photographers, painters, sculptors, jewellery makers . . . There’s so much talent (and quite a lot of rubbish) But it is something I’m going to attempt. Yummy Mummy yesterday told me of her excitement, nay exuberance at having been accepted into an elite little life drawing class. She charcoals the naked form like no-one I’ve ever known yet her etchings remain hidden in some closet in the Blue Mountains, never mounted, never displayed. She was too shy to give me one that I particularly liked years ago. I bet it's hidden under the bed. I’m a bit like that. I want to paint, draw, create something beautiful, just for me . . . there . . . another thing to do when the apron strings are torn and working full time is no longer a necessity.

Having said all that, the most artistic thing I've ever done is a birthday cake that looked like a Hedgehog and another that resembled a smiling tiger . . .(a mighty fine specimin of a hedgehog I might add! God Bless the Women's Weekly Birthday Party Cookbook)

I really must stop watching Sunday Arts . . it’s doing my head in!

Photo courtesy of www.castwhiskerscakedesign.co.uk
We didn't have digital cameras in the novelty cake days!

Stop laughing . . I mean it . . .you try making chocolatey cakes in the middle of December . . . it's hot! it was a lot more successful than Hickory Dickory who's fondant mice kept melting. Thank God the little angels are more interested in vodka jelly shots these days!

We're Always In Front! (Except for Antarctica and New Zealand and . . .)

New Zealand's had it for a while. Tassie's had it for a month. NT doesn't have it. Queensland won't have it. WA is behind anyway. South Australia, Victoria, New South Wales and the Australian Capitol Territory get it tonight! From 1300 we put our clocks forward. Daylight saving . . yeay. . . . no more noisy minors at 4:ooam and sunlight till late. I just have to remember who's behind and by how much. Estern USA now 14 hours behind, England and Ireland now 1o hours behind. South Africa 9 hours behind. Why we can't get our act together and live in the same timezone, I'll never know, something about cows needing milking . . . and then I found this:

"WE, the people of the broad brown Land of Oz, wish to be recognized as a free nation of blokes, and Sheilas .. We come from many lands (although a few too many of us come from New Zealand) and, although we live in the best country in the world, we reserve the right to bitch and moan about it whenever we bloody like.

We are One Nation but we're divided into many States.

First, there's Victoria, named after a queen who didn't believe in lesbians. Victoria is the realm of Mossimo turtlenecks, café latte, grand final day and big horse races. Its capital is Melbourne, whose chief marketing pitch is that it's "liveable". At least that's what they think. The rest of us think it is too bloody cold and wet.

Next, there's NSW, the realm of pastel shorts, macchiato with sugar, thin books read quickly and millions of dancing queens. Its capital Sydney has more queens than any other city in the world, and is proud of it. Its mascots are Bondi lifesavers who pull their Speedos up their cracks to keep the left and right sides of their brains separate.

Down south we have Tasmania, a State based on the notion that the family that bonks together stays together. In Tassie, everyone gets an extra chromosome at conception. Maps of the State bring smiles to the sternest faces. It holds the world record for a single mass shooting, which the Yanks can't seem to beat no matter how often they try.

South Australia is the province of half-decent reds, a festival of foreigners and bizarre axe murders. SA is the state of innovation, where else can you so effectively reuse country bank vaults and barrels as in Snowtown, just out of Adelaide (also named after a queen). They had the Grand Prix, but lost it when the views of Adelaide sent the Formula One drivers to sleep at the wheel.

Western Australia is too far from anywhere to be relevant in this document. Its main claim to fame is that it doesn't have daylight saving because if it did all the men would get erections on the bus on the way to work. WA was the last state to stop importing convicts, and many of them still work there in the government and business.

The Northern Territory is the red heart of our land. Outback plains, sheep stations the size of Europe, kangaroos, jackaroos, emus, Ulurus and dusty kids with big smiles. It also has the highest beer consumption of anywhere on the planet, and its creek beds have the highest aluminum content of anywhere too. Although the Territory is the centerpiece of our national culture, few of us live there and the rest prefer to fly over it on our way to Bali.

And there's Queensland. While any mention of God seems silly in a document defining a nation of half-arsed agnostics, it is worth noting that God probably made Queensland. Why he filled it with dickheads remains a mystery.

Oh yes, and there's the Australian Capital Territory (Canberra). The less said the better.....

We, the citizens of Oz, are united by the Pacific Highway, whose treacherous twists and turns kill more of us each year than die by murder.

We are united in our lust for international recognition, so desperate for praise we leap in joy when a ragtag gaggle of corrupt IOC officials tells us Sydney is better than Beijing.

We are united by a democracy so flawed that a political party, albeit a redneck gun-toting one, can get a million votes and still not win one seat in Federal Parliament.

Not that we're whingeing, we leave that to our Pommy immigrants.

We want to make "no worries mate" our national phrase, "she'll be right mate" our national attitude, and "Waltzing Matilda" our national anthem (so what if it's about a sheep-stealing crim who commits suicide).

We love sport so much our newsreaders can read the death toll from a sailing race and still tell us who's winning in the same breath. And we're the best in the world at all the sports that count, like cricket, netball, rugby, AFL, roo-shooting, two-up and horse racing.

We also have the biggest rock, the tastiest pies, the blackest aborigines and the worst-dressed Olympians in the known universe.

We shoot, we root, we vote. We are girt by sea and pissed by lunchtime.
And even though we might seem a racist, closed-minded, sports-obsessed little people, at least we're better than the Kiwis."

So there . . . all this from the only country in the world that eats the animals represented on its coat of arms. (mmmm rare Kangaroo in red wine jus . . .)

Diamonds in My Eyes

Many years ago, I worked for a multi-national Direct Selling company that had an in-house art department. They produced more magazines than Vogue, newsletters, packaging, labelling, promotional posters bla bla bla . . . I was priviledged to work in that department doing their corporate copywriting with a host of talented graphic designers, art directors and typographer. They were happy times with the Happy Mondays playing on Fridays and the Gypsy Kings Bombalayaying after lunch.

Times were happy, not because of the money grubbing multi-national but because of the amazing people in the Creative Department. A few of us have kept together and have our long lunches each quarter. This time round, it's been a while but today Overall, Yummy Mummy and her two princesses, and BikerGirl came for lunch. I love a long lunch and one with these three is a treat indeed. They are nature's gentlepeople. Fun, reminiscent, talented and each very different. The Greek couldn't make it sadly, working on a Saturday, that's a bummer! We have no problem connecting after months apart and I love their bones. Biker Girl is doing her instructors course in between racing and work commitments and is all loved up once again which is fantastic. She looks great, happy, pretty, serene. I love her to bits. Overall is busy doing curriculum pieces for the Abu Dabi Educational council and as usual turned up with another novelty T shirt, her hallmark. Although we all want one that says "I'm very important and I'm extremely busy". Yummy Mummy is working on her own designs in greeting cards, TShirts and has a market stall on Sundays in between raising two rambunctious fairies and baking lemon citrus tarts and making the best marmalade I've ever tasted.

As always, the company was great as we lingererd over brie, olive bread and tapanade, tomato and basil bruschetta, chicken filets with basil pesto and a balsamic salad, finished not with my raspberry tarts but with YummyMummy's lovely home made citrus tart and a delicious dollop of King Island Dairy's best. A good measure of the bubbly stuff and great conversation, good company and a shit load of washing up. We reminisced over the Designer who is now working overseas and PurpleGirl with whom we've had no contact for a long time. These girls are salt of the earth, honest, funny, sincere, irreverent and time with them is time well spent. Thanks ladies for a lovely day. Seriously, I don't have a load of 'friends'. I'm a bit of a loner but I can count about 20 people who I seriously care about outside my family and these three are definitely amongst them. Bless you ladies . . .you're diamonds in my eyes.

The only downer is the fact that I don't have a dishwasher . . (being eco friendly has its downside) how four people can make so much washing up amazes me and the fact that I chipped a tooth on a friggin' pecan nut! How do you break a tooth on pecan? Damn my 30 year old fillings. I think I'm paying for Painless Pete's Christmas Holiday!

Take Yer Knickers Off!

No, you're not imagining things, I deleted last night's post. Whilst it was written as only semi-serious and the comments were hilarious, my version events was of course skewed to my way of thinking and perhaps I took a little too much poetic license. I know, it's my blog and I'll rant if I want to but he who was the target of my bile wasn't impressed with my 'version' of events so to keep the peace I have instigated the first piece of self-regulation since the blog's inception. So . . having self-regulated, lets move on:

I grabbed this from the ABC site Friday afternoon:

A campaign is underway to chastise Burma's military regime, not through dialogue or sanctions, but by flooding the country's foreign embassies with women's underwear, an activist said.

A pro-democracy group based in the northern Thai city of Chiang Mai is urging people all over the world to "post, deliver or fling" their undergarments to Burma's international embassies.

"The Burma military regime is not only brutal but very superstitious. They believe that contact with a woman's panties or sarong can rob them of their power," the Lanna Action for Burma group said on its website.

The generals who rule Burma provoked international outcry in September when they violently cracked down on peaceful protesters, killing at least 13 people.

Europe, Australia and the United States led the chorus of disapproval, announcing new sanctions against the regime. Despite the outcry and a United Nations statement deploring the crackdown and urging dialogue, the junta has shown little sign of moving any closer towards democracy or freeing opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi. Those behind the so-called "Panty Power" campaign hope that lingerie can succeed where international diplomacy has so far failed.

"We want to raise awareness first, and we want to target the Burmese government officials, letting them know we are against them abusing their power," said Tomoko, an activist with Lanna Action for Burma.

Tomoko, who goes by one name only, said she had heard that Burma's embassy in Canberra as well as others in Thailand and the United States have been targeted by the Panty Power campaign, which began last week.

"We are sending [the generals] panties as a symbol of putting their power down," she said.

Is that why women throw their knickers at Tom Jones to get him orff the stage?

C'mon ladies, you've been looking for a form of activism that's easy, cheap and possibly effective. If only all inhumanity to man could be solved by chucking a pair of undies. Not to make too light of this, it is actually a concerted effort by those concerned.

I won't be posting my Bridget Jones' best but I am tempted to send a couple of pairs of ClareBear's 'wasteofpegs' to: Burmese Embassy, 132 Sathorn Nua Road, Bangkok 10500.

And for the record, no, that's not me in the photo!

Faeces Fighters

So you think you're privacy is safe on Facebook . . .that only your friends can see you? Not if you write in notes . . there's a glitch that shares your information with anyone. Now there's a more insidious way to capture a new demographic via Facebook . . pitched and personal appvertising. (God I wish I'd thought of that).

Many youngsters and some wannabes like myself are joining social network sites like Bebo and MySpace but the flavour of the month, at least in Australia is Facebook.

I joined mainly to checkout ClareBear on her travels but since she also has a blog, I don’t use it a lot. It seems that since the introduction of the Throw app . . .the one where you can throw sheep, cows, food . . you can even throw poo .

It seems that Facebookers would rather pelt each other with virtual faeces (Daz' fave word) than safeguard their personal information. At least, that's the word from Seth Goldstein, co-founder and CEO of Social Media, a company that enables virtual doo-doo tossing.

Social Media introduced a Facebook application called Food Fight which they creatively call a "Throw app" (rocket scientists these geeks), Typically, the app allows Facebookers to purchase virtual food items and throw them - at virtual friends. It plays off the Facebook "poke", a kind of online hello.(Well hello- o-o haggis!)

But you don't pay real currency for this virtual food. You pay virtual dollars. And you acquire these virtual dollars by giving up personal information. (Did you know that kiddies? I wondered why I had so many $ in my growing gift app.) Food Fight is part of a larger network of tools used for "appvertising". That personal info will eventually be used for marketing purposes.(so if you don’t want to be bothered by virtual junk mail – be careful!)

What happens is the advertisements you receive will not only know who you are but also your friends, your spouse or those you are in a relationship with. Providing an opportunity for ad networks to provide the holy grail: personalised advertising.

An example might be: "Christmas is coming soon and Baino would lov a special gift from Qantas, like a round-the-world-air-first-class-air-fare or a holiday in Vanuatu!” (can’t blame a girl for trying) The thing is . . . all the information is given up voluntarily when you’re on Facebook.

Throwing poo however costs more virtual dollars than a quick chuck of a ruminant - $20 to be exact . . Apparently people are more than happy to pay the premium and the response rate has gone through the roof. There are a lot of people out there throwing poo at each other! It’s surprising how willing people are to give up their personal details for a faeces fight . . . perhaps you'd better put your poo where it really belongs. . . bless you little monkeys!

Spring Is Here, The Grass is Riz . . .

It's getting very nesty here . Spring is here, the grass is riz and there's no doubt where the birdies is. I'm woken at 4:30, yes 4:30 by angsty Kookaburras whose giggle often precedes rain but in this case it's all about sex baby. Then Cheeky Charlies (native minor birds) feeding their cheep cheeps. There are wood ducks nurturing a clutch of 7 ducklings within the safety of my pool fence, although I know that in a matter of weeks, if they've been able to raise three to adulthood, they've done a sterling job. Channel Beak Cuckoos have been and gone, depositing their own eggs in Magpie and Kurawong nests and the silly birds will raise the enormous things without noticing they are not only huge and noisy but bear no resemblence to their good selves.

Hatchlings will soon followed by Kurawongs and Crows chasing the cheep cheeps. The yellow breasted black cockatoos have retreated to the cooler mountains but the Sulpher Crested remain all year round with their rawcus squawks and destructive behaviour trying ever so carefully to mingle unnoticed amongst the Corellas. Early in the morning we can hear the ever shy King Parrots, beautfully emerald with red feathered heads but they are then bullied by Rainbow Lorikeets who's voice is heard long before they're seen. I have no idea how something so colourful can be so well camouflaged among the gum blossoms. Here' they range high and are rarely seen near the ground but the colours on these aggressive little punters are amazing. If you want a decent look at Eastern Coast bird life, take a look at Bird Anonymous blog. She's not much of a talker but her photos speak volumes and she should take part in the Foctober celebrations.

Ah that reminds me of another story; Once upon a time, we had three horses in our back paddock. One, a particularly handsome thoroughbread who was well trained in the art of dressage was on full grain feed to maintain condition. Sadly, he was shithouse on trails. Memories of the track still in his head as soon as he saw a patch of green, he was uncontrollable and wanted to race. Upon his departure to a happier home (no we didn't green dream him - he was sold on to a nice lady in Vaucluse) the mice had inhabited our shed even though the grain feed was no more and gradually became savvy and moved down to the house. So . . being the animal lovers we are, we bought a humane mouse catcher. The mouse goes in after the bait, gets trapped without being squished and we take it over the fence into the wilderness and dispatch it quietly into the grassland. Well, one morning we had trapped two of the little dears . . dutifully walked about 250 metres down the road, found a great spot, good habitat, released the little furballs and within seconds of the mites hitting the ground they were swooped upon by two Magpies and swiftly devoured . . . nature is cruel but maybe a baby bird survived that day thanks to our sacrificial rodents. And my minors in the plant pot . . all three fledged and two are still being cared for . . .awww

The little dude has been stuffed full of Huntsman Spider which took about
15 minutes to digest